ROOM EIGHTEEN
“And talking about dark! You think dark is just one color, but it ain't. There're five or six kinds of black. Some silky, some woolly. Some just empty. Some like fingers. And it don't stay still, it moves and changes from one kind of black to another. Saying something is pitch black is like saying something is green. What kind of green? Green like my bottles? Green like a grasshopper? Green like a cucumber, lettuce, or green like the sky is just before it breaks loose to storm? Well, night black is the same way. May as well be a rainbow.� Toni Morrison (Song of Solomon)
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ROOM EIGHTEEN - ISSUE X
T H E
D A R K
I S S U E
CONTENTS BARRETT SMITH - 4 MIKE STEVENSON - 6 QUADAJA HERRIOTT - 8 SARAH HIRSCH - 9 ELLEN COHEN - 10 GENEVIEVE KULES - 13 ASIA ALSTON - 14 SARAH HIRSCH- 16 TRÉSEAT LAWRENCE - 18 KHAT PATRONG - 20 ASIA ALSTON - 22 MALIA WILLIAMS-HAYNES - 24
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BARRETT SMITH
JUST ANOTHER WORD Behind the ticky tacky houses and just beyond the branded water tower was an old railroad track. She liked to sit with her toes on the warm rocks and watch freight trains go by. They never seemed to follow a schedule. Sometimes, if she waved hard enough, the engineer would blow the whistle back at her. “‘eeey,” a man with a few days worth of stubble and an exploding backpack ran from behind her, he moved to grab her shoulder but caught himself, backed up and put his hands up “barefoot Clarksville girl.” She laughed, “I guess that’s me.” “Can I tell you a poem? For being a beautiful barefoot Clarksville girl?” “Of course” she blushed, she was into this, into this unkempt man and his unchecked energy. “Clarksville, my home. Will never be my home.” He laughed at himself, or at Clarksville. It was an ugly laugh. “Born in Chicago, I was grown in Clarksville but the wind never left my veins they have lots of molds, here, they try to make you square they don’t know, I’m a lumpy wheel man they try to make you root, here they don’t know Proud Mary keeps on rollin’” She applauded the broken rhythm of his poem. The complete absence of rhyme and prosody. He blew her kisses. “Come with me” She took his dirty hand, “I’m hitching down to San Antonio.” She imagined eating tacos and smoking weed under a railroad bridge with him, in the same dirty school uniform she was wearing now, hair untrimmed.
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“I want to,” she said. “I promise I won’t touch your no-no parts unless you pay me.” Now, she imagined opening her mouth for a tall San Antonio man in snake skin boots. She wondered how much that would make her. What she could buy with it outside of this little town. The train started to pass. The engineer blew his whistle at them. She imagined a truck driver forcing himself on her. She held a polished switchblade in her hand and she pressed it to him and locked eyes with the fear in his. She cut off his dick. Kept it. From city to city. “I want to,” she said again “It’s perfectly safe.” “I can’t.” The man was starting to get antsy as the train, and the opportunity continued to pass. “Why not?” He was facing the train now. “I guess...I have too much to lose.” He laughed and jumped onto a ladder, she ran beside him. “What your name?” She shouted. He was still laughing that ugly laugh, “Call me Bobby. Bobby McGee.” He climbed up to the top of the dirty freight car and waved. The train went under a tunnel and he made an ‘oops’ face at her before ducking and disappearing.
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MIKE STEVENSON
A LOVE LETTER TO DAD I always hated you. I could have listed ten ways I would easily kill you myself. But, still, in that moment, standing there next to my mother and your other son, I couldn’t help but feel cold. It was raining and I didn’t bring an umbrella, so I felt every raindrop land and slip down my arms and my back. I tried to focus on you, six-feet beneath my loafers. Fuck you. It was supposed to be a nice day that day. My mother said so. I heard my mother cry. Unlike you, I heard her crying through the thin walls between our bedrooms. She was only getting worse. She would rub her swollen knee and I could see her yellowing eyes polished with tears. Fuck you. Unlike you, I saw my brother trying to be a man. I always stood with my feet together, my shoulders sagging at an angle and my head down. If only you saw how high he held his head. If only you saw the look on his face when he came home from football games or track meets with a medal or a trophy. His son is just as amazing as he is. It must have skipped your generation. He searched and searched for the answer to what it meant to be a man. Having a son did not make him a man (as you know). Taking care of my mother did not make him a man. He was never taught what that title meant. Unlike me, his manhood was never in question, nor was his reliability. Everyone knew that our mother got it right with him. We both knew. Once, my brother and my mother got into an argument. She wanted more help around the house. He wanted more help with the baby. A door was broken off the hinges, my brother stood in the living room, fists balled so tightly it looked like his hands would tear at the knuckles. I put my hands up. “Calm down,” I said. “Go take a walk, alright? Take a walk. Calm down.” He cried. He left. He cried while he was gone. My mother made her way upstairs, curled up on the ground and sobbed. I held her. Between her trembles she said, “it was only me. It wasn’t supposed to be only me. I did the best I could.” I picked her up and carried her to bed. I put the blanket over her and told her to take a nap. She cried herself to sleep at three in the afternoon. Fuck you. You lived unforgivably. You weren’t there while you were alive and even when you were dead, you waited for the dirt to shield your shameful face from the people you left behind. Fuck you. I wondered what you smelled like. I wondered how they fit you in the coffin. I remember when my mother told me you had a heart attack at work. You hit the gravel at the zoo and they rushed you to the hospital. I laughed. You deserved it. You used to make my brother walk to elementary school and you would drive past him, silent. You deserved to be under us, covered in dirt.
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The rain stopped. The hired men finished shoveling dirt into the grave and made sure it was flat. Their boots sloshed in the fresh mud and they joined the congregation, hats and heads pointed towards you. They knew nothing about you. They did not know that you had left us all to fend for ourselves, that we were the only people who would mourn you. The only people willing to overlook your constant betrayal. Fuck you. They did not know how I felt about it, the rage and resentment I felt for years at my single-parent household. I couldn’t even look at them. One of the men touched my shoulder with a calloused hand. I always thought it would have been different if you died when I was born. It would have been different if you had been driving to work on a rainy day, lost control of the car and found God in the seconds before the car wrapped itself around a tree. It would have been different if you had taken a quick trip to the corner store the same time a fatherless boy from around the way decided to empty the register. It would have been different. I wanted it to be different. We all did. I hated you for never knowing me. Never teaching me. I grew up not knowing how to fight, not knowing how to treat a woman, not knowing what it meant to be a man. I had to hear, years later, “if you have to ask yourself what a man is, you aren’t a man.” I slid from under the gravedigger’s hand and walked away. I did it with no effort at all. Fuck you, Nate. If you taught me anything, it was how to leave someone.
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QUADAJA HERRIOTT
CALIFORNIA Little girls don't get fleshed fathers. They get half imagined men, silhouettes, pictures, stories, a joke, broken jewelry. They get a breeze, something that has come but gone. Yea, it's too cold for you here. The sharpness of the wind broke your heart long before any man could. But it did not make the others hurt any less. It did not make you any more. You’ll grow up and think you’re fixed. You’ll grow up thinking you are content. And when your five year-old comes home and tells you he's going to California, it should not bother you. The boy is beginning to learn geography and its location in relation to where he lives is breathtaking. He, the five year-old, did not imagine his New York, that is so big to him, is so small on a piece of paper. He, the five year old, did not imagine anything could be so far away. He, the five year old, did not imagine you were so far away. You put the dish down, turn off the faucet and say: “There is no California.” And your hair strands fall faster than they should. And with his need to travel, you see your five year-old becoming a man. One who will break you too. “California is not a place,” you tell him. “So you can't go,” you tell him. Because he is not allowed to break your heart. And he will cry because his big brother told him “It's a pretty cool place, man.” And he sees things. And he wants to go very very far. And not be in a place that’s so small.
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SARAH HIRSCH
SULFUR & SWEAT The dirt of the waiting room walls reminded her of the dirt of a man. Lilah’s swinging feet didn’t quite touch the plastic red tiles. Her father moved to stop her legs. But stopped. Then grimaced. She saw his retreat and kicked her feet harder as she counted the number of dirty bricks in the wall. Fourteen...fifteen...sixteen… The man sitting in front of Lilah on the bus that morning smelled like sulfur and sweat. She could not think of a man that didn’t smell like sulfur or sweat. The combination overwhelmed her. So she imagined the sweet smell of babies and the days when she was a toddler, rolling around in laundry still warm from the dryer. Fresh. Thirty-three...thirty-four...thirty-five...She was twelve. But looked fourteen. Too old to still be kicking the seat in front of her. She touched her belly and drew circles around her navel. Thirtysix...thirty-seven...thirty-eight… Her mother was thirty-eight when she reached down for her good hoop earring that fell out on the Turnpike. And a truck driver with meaty hands and sweaty palms went too fast. After forty-seven bricks, she stopped counting. Lilah started to sing. Loudly. Her mother had never had the heart to tell her that she, well, couldn’t. Her father had never noticed. Until now. The young woman across from them was staring. The man to the father’s left grunted with contempt. After three renditions of the same song, each louder and shriller than the one before, the woman that signed them in came towards the father. Please. Control your child. She spit when she talked, drawing attention to a mouth covered in cracked orange lipstick. Traffic cone shade. The father could only look at his fingernails. He picked at the dirt. Lilah had never seen her father so silent. Not since the buzz of cicadas drowned out all sound at her mother’s funeral. She wondered if it would hurt. They sat in the waiting room of the clinic for a long time. Three bus rides long. When their name was called, the father did not stand up. Lilah reached out for his hand to pull him along behind her. He grimaced and held his ground and began to pick at the dirt under his fingernails. Lilah looked at the doctor’s face and finally understood why her father was being so silent. She cried afterwards. Lilah felt like a trashcan in the evening after pick up. Empty. Lilah had always wanted someone to play with. Lilah had always wanted her baby dolls to be real. Soft. To rest their head on her thigh. Comfort her like a newly warm towel. Lilah remembered the roughness of her father’s hands. She could not shake the feeling that some of the dirt under his fingernails was stuck inside her. She cried harder. The first thing Lilah would do once she got home was grab a handful of her father’s week old wet clothes, throw them in the dryer and stick her head inside when it stopped. 9
ELLIE COHEN
AUTISTS In U.S. History they are taught a lesson on the war in Vietnam. He is excited. This is his strong suit. When he gets the chance, he raises his hand. Every time he raises his hand, someone in the class rolls their eyes. He is very aware of it, as is the teacher who tries to give the students a look without his noticing. But he is aware of that too. The teacher calls on him and he begins to delve into the technicalities of the land mine used around the perimeters of warzones in Vietnam. He knows a lot about the subject and he goes on and on about the American M14s and how they weren’t as effective as the Vietnamese MBV-78A1 or the Type 58 & Type 59, the Chinese copy of Russian POMZ-2 and POMZ-2M AP mines, and Leo Wackler up front says shut up already. The teacher ignores it and thanks him for his contribution, using it to segue into the next slide of the PowerPoint. He ducks his head and hunches his shoulders - his usual position. The other kids snicker at him before scrambling to take the next set of notes. They don’t know it, but he is aware. He knows they think he’s some kind of retard, but he isn’t. He knows too much. He feels scorned and that thing in the back of his head that makes him hunch says to push the limits. To make himself visible. Push the limits. Create fear. He hurls his mechanical pencil in front of him and it lands on the back of Leo’s head with a satisfying smack. Leo turns around and glares at him. He’s one of those knuckle dragger football men, the one that girls flock around despite his IQ being subhuman. Leo’s face turns beet and Leo begins to stand but his teacher lifts him by the arm out of his chair and hurries him out before he can be pummeled. The teacher walks him to the social worker and feels the need to reprimand him for his action but knows he can’t penalize him for it, so he says nothing. He is scared to. The perimeter is set. He touches her arm in the hallway once. She is slightly behind her two friends because the hallway is too narrow. He taps her arm very suddenly and her pretty blonde head snaps around. She forces a smile through a wince, caught off guard. Hello Alex, she says. Hello, he says. He does not make eye contact and she takes the chance to look at her friends in a pleading way. I’m reading that book you’re reading, he says. She grimaces. She has seen him 10
peeking at her around corners and has heard that he paws through her stuff when she isn’t looking, picking up her books and thumbing through them, scanning her notes and examining her handwriting. She’s creeped out. He has pushed it too far. Her friends begin to pull her away, trying to save her from the situation, and she gives him a rushed goodbye. The back of his head makes him twitch again and he rushes to the bathroom and slaps the shell off of the soap dispenser. It is very easy to find dangerous things on the Internet. There are the easy things like drugs and illegal imports and guns with the serial number sanded off and leaked government files, but by far the most dangerous thing the Internet offers is the ability to find a community. The search term ‘bomb tutorial easy’ turns up 36,504,276 results in 4.04 seconds. Another click brings him to a PDF of the Anarchist’s Cookbook. Two more and he’s on a fan forum for the Columbine shootings. And at first it seems grotesque, all these people teeming around these two killers, but it starts to come together. Most of them are a lot like him. Some of them are angrier; some of them are more scared. They talk about guns. They talk about the people they hate at school. They share tales of conquest, making Drano bombs and leaving them in the cafeteria where there were no cameras, getting suspended for stabbing kids with a pen. But they didn’t get it like he did, because they were scared. They had something to hold them back. That’s why he was so important. Like the Columbine shooters, he was a nobody. They weren’t meant to be stopped because nobody gave a shit about them. If they were important, people would have watched them better, would have seen it coming. But nobody watches the nobodies. They were a message, a sign, a catalyst for a better, more fearful future. One where they pay attention. Most of the people on there were more scared than he was. He wasn’t scared at all. He counts everything. It helps him keep a handle on his surroundings, maintain control. There are thirty-four steps to the four front doors of the dingy brick building his school was housed in, and three steps inside them to get the security desk, which took, on average, around two minutes if he was late and thirty seconds if he was early. One hundred and nine steps to his locker, three more to hers and an extra thirty-four to Leo’s. Numbers are comforting to him because they are a universal constant. The formulas used to 11
find mass and do quadratics would never change and neither would the number of steps at the school. Thinking about the plan like a formula would have made it easier, but it would have defeated the point. This was not a display of control. It was a display of the lack there-of. He likes to play a game of chance with himself. He boards the bus on Tuesday morning at 8:34. The bottle of Drano sloshes around in his backpack as the bus lurches. He says to himself that if there is a god, the Drano will spill. The Drano does not spill. The line to the security machines is long. The gun in his bag is hidden, but not terribly well. If there is a god, the security guards will see it, sound their alarm, and take him to the office where they will wait for the authorities. When he is next in line he lowers his eyes, puts his bag through the x-ray bag inspection machine and walks through the metal detector. It beeps. The security guard pulls the gum from her mouth and twists it around her finger. He keeps walking. Further ahead in the hallway, Leo is speaking to her. The thing in the back of his head throbs with anger. If there is a god, she will see me coming towards them. He takes one step, then two, and he’s walking fast and his footsteps echo through the halls. Their eyes do not stray from each other’s faces. He takes the gun out of the side pocket in his bag. If there is a god, he tells himself, she will see what’s in my hands. The gun is to Leo’s head. He cocks it. She leans over and her eyes widen.
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GENEVIEVE KULES
THE MOTHER She sits on the quilted blanket draped over the white armchair; it’s draped over the chair to hide the stains. But that doesn’t stop the occasional waft of cat pee from passing under her nose. Just yesterday she swore to them she wouldn’t drink, so she painfully poured out the rest of the white wine. Maybe he will smile when he walks through the door this evening, but she’s doubtful. As the TV spits advertisements for laundry detergent at her, she stands up, walks into the kitchen, and opens the fridge. But what she’s looking for isn’t there. What she has found there, every night for years, is not there. She closes it and goes to the cabinet to get a glass. She hears the front door open and an argument walk in. She fills the glass with ice water and walks over to the door. They say it smells good. They stop arguing when they see her. They say it smells good. It’s broccoli and pasta and heated up sauce, but they seem excited and hungry. The girls move toward the food, dropping their bags and shoes and coats on the floor. She can hear the ice hit the sides of her water glass; the condensation on the outside forms heavy drops that roll down the sides. The door slams shut and blurs and she takes a step backwards, takes a deep breath, and moves into the kitchen to serve herself some dinner.
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ASIA ALSTON
hendrix / had the dirty, down low blues 'hendrix / had the dirty, down low blues hair began to grow on his chest that summer that’s what happens when you become a man, that’s what he said. as we stretched our bodies across our mother’s old blanket, the one we used for picnics, and it was our fifth concert of the summer, we promised to make it our thing. i pulled at the hair on his chin, bringing his face closer to mine. both of our eyes wide, we smiled at each other. he stuck his tongue out and let it run across my bottom lip. i laughed, pushed his face away from mine. and he fell back on the blanket, resting his hands behind his head. “you’re disgusting.” we always placed our blanket next to a tree. 1. for shade purpose. and 2. he would help me climb the tree, climbing up after me, and we would have the best view of the park. the music sounded way better in the tree, where we were literally floating above it. i swung my legs from the second branch to the sounds of a new indie band, that i would later add to my ipod. “kill & run, kill & run. i’m one of the dirty guns.” he kissed the bottom of my barefoot. i looked down at his smiling face. his tight curls seemed to loosen with the breeze, his face was softer than i had remembered. he mouthed the words, “i close the door, silent call for you, what have i done to you.” his face began to weaken. i climbed down the tree, and sat next to him. i grabbed his hand, and held tight, so tight. i let my head fall on his shoulder and listened to him hum the melody. there we were, in our tree, above everything else. lifting my head from his shoulder, i looked into his face. he smiled at me, his white teeth showing between his full lips, and he kissed my forehead. i wanted to pause in that moment, our fifth concert in the park, when we were sure our love would last forever. i pulled his hand into my lap, and put my palm in his palm. i made our fingers touch. we both had little scars on our thumbs. parallel lines of the same direction, they were from our first concert where i used a razor blade to draw blood, & pressed my thumb hard against his. that way we were connected 14
1. physically before the physical, and 2. because love was the only consequence. and now we sat in our tree. “how long are you suppose to keep a promise?” he looked at me as he deeply contemplated the question, he stared into my eyes, searching them as if somehow i had the answer. “how long are you suppose to keep a secret?” and then his face broke completely. he climbed down the tree, and before i could follow, he was weaving through the crowd of people. he disappeared, he was gone. 'hendrix / had the dirty, down low blues ; pt 2 he had came home from college that summer & his beard had began to grow full. he carried a suitcase up the stairs and hugged mother. and then he hugged me. i buried my face into the crook of his neck and took a deep breath, remembering the scent of his skin. he still smelled like those summer nights at the park, like the music in our tree. he pulled away from me and dragged the suitcase into the house. mother closed the front door and headed to the kitchen. "you want to help with dinner?" i didn't and so i shook my head and went up the stairs. i knocked on his bedroom door, he was inside unpacking. "hey you. can i come in?" i poked my head between the crack of the door, he looked at me with eyes that made me melt. "yeah sure." i sat on his bed, indian-style, the hair on his face made him look older, more attractive. “did you miss me while you were away?” he stopped unpacking, leaving messily folded clothes hanging out of the suitcase, and sat next to me on the bed. he looked at his fingers, particularly at his thumb, where the scar was beginning to fade. he held his jaw tightly and looked me squarely in the face. “i heard about your girlfriend in college. but you don’t love her like you love me, right?” he closed his eyes and relaxed, what seemed to be, every muscle in his face. “of course i don’t love her like i love you. you are my sister. you love your siblings differently.” he kept his eyes closed, his dark eyelashes fluttering.
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SARAH HIRSCH
PERFUME She walked around the house at night because someone had to keep watch. Make sure the windows do not crack. Chairs do not walk. Walls do not crumble. The wanderer never found what she was looking for until the sun peaked between skinny trees. Until they were awake. She listened to NPR for her parents, who could not hear. They could not hear because they were still in the space between dreaming and waking, the time when you slowly start to remember everything the night had swallowed. In the car on the way home she would tell her father what he missed. Then he, would tell her mother. It was during this time that the house was the most beautiful. When it began to thaw in warm light. The girl relaxed her shoulders. She would notice in an hour that she was holding them again, and remind herself to let them go. She waited on top of her bed. Fingers played with the edge of the deep purple pillowcase. Cold. When the girl awoke, she did not remember falling asleep. She looked at the clock. The rest of the hour went by slowly. She counted the seconds like a prisoner counted days. She relaxed her shoulders. As she opened her door, she heard the beep of the alarm being disarmed, the door slamming and the rusty creak of the recliner being reclined. The father never locked the bedroom door in the morning, when there was no one inside. The light pink of her mother’s bathroom, the color of sand on beaches with crystal blue water and fish with funny names, hit her the way it always did - like strong wind. She sat at the edge of the tub next to the window and listened to the sound of snow falling from tree branches, too heavy for the leaves to hold. The air was lighter here. And the girl could not help but breathe in that lightness. It carried the girl to her mother’s jewelry drawers. With a ring on every finger the girl started to go through the earrings. Her favorite was the pair of yellow starfish. She can’t remember ever seeing her mother wear them. She pushed the post through the thin layer of skin that grew to cover the hole. She flinched. The girl wanted to pick out a few necklaces, adorn her thick hair with barrettes and pendants because the girl didn’t know what a pendant was, but she watched Time too closely. She didn’t have much Time left before her father realized that the rest of the world was awake, meaning on the road, meaning he would be late for work. Again. She sprayed herself with her mother’s perfume. Just enough so that it would go by unnoticed. So her mother would never know that her daughter wanted to remember what she smelled like.
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She floated back to the bathtub, full of the light, pink sand air and traced the bathtub’s edge like it was a lover’s eyelids. Piece by piece she removed her clothes. Careful not to get her bra, new, no clasp with a back of navy lace, stuck on the starfish. With only the rings and the little sea creatures for company, the girl sat down in the tub that was next to a huge window that revealed a forest of skinny trees, heads bent as if in greeting. The girl nodded back to them. Twenty-three minutes left. No. Twenty-two. She looked down at her breasts. Pink. Perky. The girl closed her eyes and watched herself grow old. She watched them swell. Then sag, from eighteen years of holding a child’s heavy head. She moved her fingers down the length of her body until she was stopped by her toes. The soles were soft. Small. Like her father’s. She let Time go. Her feet began to wrinkle. Harden. Puff out like a balloon from standing up for so long. From carrying the house on stiff shoulders. Eyes steady. No sideway glances for soft ground, a place to rest. Fear of falling, of meeting a fallen branch with her toe or sinking a whole foot in a puddle of mud, kept her eyes straight. Kept her back straight. The girl’s mind usually ended here. When her mother reached the creek, her toes digging into the soil that was frozen with snow. She stood in the spot that was always warm. Warm, even when it was cold. This time. The girl was distracted by the Silence. The snow outside had stopped falling. Stopped making music with the ground. She was left alone with thoughts that were too loud, in an attempt to keep the Silence from creeping in, from wiping its hands clean on the walls of her skull. The girl fell asleep. Six minutes left. Until her father would find her. Until he would stand still, speechless, not understanding his daughter’s love. Until he would decide that the door to the bedroom would, from now on, always be locked. It would only take her until the next morning, to forget what her mother smelled like.
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TRÉSEAT LAWRENCE
ARYN We were standing by the lockers. I was thinking about calculus while Aryn complained about her grandmother. She was always pissed at her grandmother, and because we were best friends I was forced to listen. Friendship thrusts things upon you. We listen to them cry, fuss and showoff. And Ayrn makes showing off look easy. Even as we stood in the school hallway, and she talked about her grandmother believing Ayrn’s life revolved around her, her arms danced and her every inflection seemed purposeful, as if searching for a melody. And I hated it. She segued from detesting her grandmother to adulating her boyfriend David. I don’t know how she managed to change the topic without a skip in her sentences, but it was quite masterful. She is going to the movies with David tonight, she said, and asked if I remembered. She does not trump me in looks, but she has the lead on a lot of other things. Boys see something in her and while I love boys, they are perhaps the one thing that I could hear Aryn talk less about. She gets the cute ones; the guys that could only have one dimple on their face and still remain attractive to fifty plus girls. I wish I could be that imperfectly perfect. David seemed to be able to hold her attention more than other past boyfriends and would have her in fits of laughter. “Speak of the devil,” she said and I turned and there he was, all six-foot two and two hundred and thirty-five pounds of pure ass-hole and, hell, as cliché as it sounds ass-holes are indeed attractive... “Hey babe,” they kissed, and I stood behind Aryn as I usually did and leaned against the locker that was next to hers. “So are we all going to the movies tonight? Let me know,” said Aryn. “Yeah, it’s cool with me,” said David. Aryn looked at me. “You coming?” I stumbled out a “Sure?” but it was more of a question than anything else. Aryn was a little too excited about the whole arrangement. Our little group relationship was already awkward. When Aryn wasn’t about David would be in my ear and I was beginning to really like him. It was more than an adrenaline rush now. She yanked my arm and we made our way into the cafeteria. “You know, I’m glad you and David are friends,” she said. Except our friendly ways could not be trusted. “Yeah he’s cool, good guy,” I replied. It was around 7:30, Aryn told me that David and her would pick me up around eight. My stomach was bubbling. David and I hung out but, unless it was in school, it was never really with Aryn. I relaxed a little after 8:05, since they were going to be late. I toyed around with the new denim skirt I decided to change in to. What was I trying to be sexy for? Aryn would be there. It was already going to awkward enough. My phone began to buzz 18
and I knew it was Aryn so I didn't pick up. After locking my front door I began to walk down my porch steps. I looked at the red Honda Civic and something wasn't right. The passenger and back seat were empty. Aryn wasn’t in the car. Did she know? Had he told her about us? My heart rate accelerated. I got to the car and before I sat down I asked, “Where is Aryn?” “She couldn't make it, had to take care of her grandma or some bullshit.” “We'll I shouldn't be here then, and you know that. Why didn’t she text me and tell me?” “Hey, hey, calm down. I thought you’d be glad.” “No, no. I shouldn’t. This is bad.” I was pissed but I didn't get out of the car. I rode along with him back to his house. I’d been there plenty of times. We never did anything beyond kissing. I’d always told myself kissing was okay. I guess. I sat on his couch. His parents weren’t home; they were really never there. My stomach was still queasy from earlier. They’d been plenty times we’d seen each other without Aryn’s knowledge, but this time I felt like shit. Aryn didn’t deserve this. She’d literally break into millions of pieces. I let him kiss me as usual, he pulled me close to him and my uneasy stomach settled. I took his hand and put it under my denim skirt. He asked, “Are you sure?” “Don't bitch out on me now.” My phone started to ring. It was Aryn. I shoved his hand away and sighed, “Fuck.”
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KHAT PATRONG
ALCHEMY She would comfort herself with the thought that one day there would be some one that left the toothpaste open, and it would be her duty to close it and place it back where it belonged. But, for now, the only comfort she has is in washing her towels, placing them in the dryer and then neatly folding them to return them to the closet by the bathroom. She does this on an almost daily basis but, since it was Thursday, she decided it fit to get a glass from the cupboard and pour herself some white wine. She liked white because it was easy to clean. She was offered Malbec once, while out on a date with a colleague. His hand lingered a bit when he passed her the glass. First, there was the sound of her lips making a tiny pop and the glass hitting the ground. It was followed by the liquid glugging as it settled into the carpet, burrowing itself into the fibers as if it were a virus spreading through a system. She apologized, took her purse and left. She kept apologizing while she drove herself home. Her colleague remained just a colleague after that. She let the white wine, a cheap Chardonnay, reach the brim and carefully sat down in the sofa with the glass in one hand and her favorite photo album in another. Each page turn was followed by a long swig of the wine. She let it sit on her tongue before allowing it burn its way to her stomach. She smiled when she felt it. She let herself linger on a photograph. Her smile grew wider as she leaned closer to the picture. A slosh of wine crept over the rim and fell onto the photograph. The smiling version of herself, so long ago. The photograph was taken ten years ago. It was the summer she graduated high school. The summer she thought she would be comforted by the chime of a text early in the morning, by a boy that she thought fancied her. Fancied the way her face was set like stone but rippled like water whenever she smiled or laughed a laugh that rose up from her bellybutton. She thought she would be fancied that summer. But there were no laughs that were brought up from the pit of her stomach. Only Envy. An Envy that buried itself inside and made itself comfortable. After long nights with her friends and their current boy toys she would tuck herself in and let that Envy have its way with her; its delicate but thick fingers stroking the tiny curls of her baby hairs (Envy was sometimes delicate with her.) She would get up frustrated and feel dirty and feel the need to clean her bedroom until she was satisfied. She would that Envy sitting on her chest as she collected trash and threw dirty clothes in the bin. And when she was tired and ready she would climb into bed, where the Envy would still be waiting for her. She would be invited to parties back then. She would dress accordingly and 20
would always make sure that she was smiling. She learned that her stone-like face repelled the opposite sex. She would loosen up after her first drink or after a few hits from a shared blunt. All of this alchemy to turn what was stone into liquid. She wanted to be liquid, she wanted to slip into whatever container she needed to, to run into the cracks in the pavestone, to fit through the tightest of seams. The parties were full of pointless small talk and feigned laughter and on one occasion she found herself coming down from a high and helping a friend with what to say in response to a boy’s text message. She felt sick about it. She gave advice that she hadn’t yet had a chance to apply. Yet. That is what the Envy on her kept telling her. That she would have her chance to ask her girlfriends for advice. That people would stop thinking of her as a lesbian or simply asexual because of her choice in shoes. She believed in this Envy and, because of this, it grew stronger to a point where, at night, it seemed to stand on her chest and would not allow her to get up from her prone position in order to clean. She wanted to clean. To be clean. Envy pulled her closer. She took another careful sip on the Chardonnay before sitting back in the sofa. And she recalled the memory behind the photo. When she tried the doorbell but realized that the music inside was too loud. So she tried the doorknob and let herself inside and followed the music towards the basement and down the carpeted steps. Someone she once knew, but cannot place now, greeted her and a red cup was put her hand. She finished it and smiled when she felt it. Her insides grew warm and then unbearably hot, a heat that spread to her limbs. During a conversation she found herself sweating and while the person was talking she closed her eyes and suddenly found the music. Felt the bass for the first time. After dancing, she felt nauseated. She found a corner and threw up. A camera flashed. She passed out. She leaned forward and started to laugh at the memory, spilling the white wine on the picture. She looked at the younger version of herself, placid and perspiring and she laughed some more. She looked at the way her face was calm and how the cup in her hand was tipped over spilling a red liquid. And if she looked closer she could find a collection of Jolly Ranchers settled at the bottom. She felt the swell of something familiar rise in her chest again and wiped the tears that began to well. She felt the Envy return. She looked down at the album in her lap knowing she shouldn’t look at such thing, knowing what memory had the capacity to do to her. And the swell was so strong now that it was as if Envy itself sat beside her on the sofa, removing the album and the wine from her hands and setting it on the coffee table. The back of her head lay on top of the back of the couch and she stayed like that for a little while. Then she got up, threw whatever wine remained in the kitchen sink, cleaned the glass and then rinsed it. She did this three times over before placing the glass in the dishwasher. She got the towels out of the closet and put them in the washer. She set to cleaning the rest of the kitchen all the while the Envy, that was once on her chest but now in the room, watched her closely, waiting for her to settle down so that it could escort her to the bedroom. 21
ASIA ALSTON
my protection gone / he told me i was too pretty to be there with them, that i didn’t quite fit in with those “fast-tail girls” or the older lady with her brand new black eye, or the couple strung together by that faithful heroin needle. he said i was too pretty to be there, assuming that if you’re in a STD clinic, then you must have a STD, or at least, there’s a strong possibility. as if being pretty was the ultimate protection, proven to be more effective than a condom or simply, abstinence. i could only smile, and say thank you, as i filled out the paperwork that was handed to me by a clerk, who, to herself, was guessing what i would be diagnosed with. “no obvious cuts or wounds. her clothes are clean, doesn’t seem like a runaway. she’s definitely not from this neighborhood... well, it’s something that’s curable, i’m sure of that.” because bad things only happen to bad people, and if you weren’t a bad person, then it wouldn’t be as bad for you. and so, i had little to worry about here. if anything managed to get past my favorable looks, my morality would sure fight it off. because that’s how things seemed to work here, at least that’s how things worked in the waiting room, the clinic walls were dingy, purposefully i suppose. so that way the dirt that we carried was in no comparison to the dirt that clung to those walls. excellent intention, except when it fails. because the longer you wait for your 22
last name to be called, the more you began to blend right in, as the “hot pants” girls soon became transparent, and the older woman skin appeared to be so flawlessly even, i could feel the dirt clogging my pores, and i began to wonder if i still was pretty. my protection gone/ i began to fit right in. and it was like he could read my mind, the same man, asking “are you nervous?” but not in the way you would describe the fidgeting addict on the other side of the room, nervous. but as if i was a little girl, preparing to perform in my first dance recital. as if, the worst thing that could happen is i miss a few steps, with the slight disappointment of my dance instructor, maybe my mother.
23
MALIA WILLIAMS-HAYNES
STUFFED ANIMALS AN EXTRACT Trey (7) gets home from school. Sonya (9) is packing to go to her father’s house for the weekend. Trey stops in Sonya’s bedroom door on his way to his room. Hey Trey, can you help me close this bag?
Sonya
(Sonya is holding a duffle bag overflowing with stuffed animals) No, you have to take some stuff out of it. Not if you help me close it. (Trey walks into the room)
Trey Sonya
Trey Why you taking so much stuff anyway, you don’t have nothing at your dad’s house? I do, but I need all this stuff too.
Sonya
Trey You don’t need those stupid stuffed animals. (Trey walks over and snatches the bag from Sonya and empties it onto the bed) It’s not even any clothes in here. Why’d you do that? Because you don't need all that stuff. Why are you always messing with me? I'm not. I'm trying to help you.
Trey Sonya Trey Sonya Trey
Sonya No you're always messing stuff up when I have to go to my dad's house you're just mad that my dad loves me and yours doesn't. My dad does love me.
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Trey
Sonya Then why doesn’t he ever come to pick you up? Because, he’s busy. Do you even know his name? Duh, I know his name. Then what is it? I don’t have to tell you. That’s because you don’t know him. Yes I do.
Trey Sonya Trey Sonya Trey Sonya Trey
Sonya Then how come he never comes to pick you up? Trey I told you, he’s busy (Sonya starts to put the stuffed animals back in her bag) He’s gonna come pick me up one day.
Trey
Sonya if your dad wanted to pick you up, he would have done it already, every other weekend like my dad does. Your dad doesn’t love you. Trey Just because he doesn’t come see me all the time, doesn’t mean that he doesn’t love me. Then what does it mean?
Sonya
Trey It just means that he’s waiting for the perfect time to come pick me up. And when will that be? I don’t know, soon though. So, he’s not coming.
Sonya Trey Sonya
25
Trey Whatever. He is coming. (Trey sits down on the bed and watches Sonya put her stuffed animals back in her bag) Trey What do you do at your dad’s house anyway? Sonya I don’t know, we do different stuff every weekend. Stuff like what?
Trey
Sonya Well, sometimes we go to the movies, or we go to the mall or something. But I usually just stay home or watch TV. So what’s the point of going? What do you mean?
Trey Sonya
Trey If you just watch TV all the time, why do you like going so much? You can watch TV here. It’s not the same here. How is it different?
My dad’s not here. So?
Sonya Trey
Sonya Trey
Sonya When I’m here, you’re always hogging the TV and bothering me and being annoying. When I’m with my dad I can watch whatever I want and be by myself. (Sonya struggles to try and zip the bag) Trey Do you think, one weekend maybe I can go with you to your dad’s house? (Sonya stops zipping) Of course not. Why not?
26 26
Sonya Trey
Sonya Didn’t you hear me, I go there to get away from you and mom, if you’re there it would be like staying here. I wouldn’t bother you. Of course you will, you can’t help it.
Trey Sonya
Trey No I won’t, I promise I won’t bother you. I won’t even talk to you. Why do you want to go so bad anyway?
Sonya
Trey I don’t know, I just want somewhere to go too. Sonya Well, I guess you’ll just have to wait until your dad comes to pick you up. Trey Do you think, one weekend maybe I can go with you to your dad’s house? (Sonya stops zipping) Of course not. Why not?
Sonya Trey
Sonya Didn’t you hear me, I go there to get away from you and mom, if you’re there it would be like staying here. I wouldn’t bother you.
Trey Sonya
Of course you will, you can’t help it. Trey No I won’t, I promise I won’t bother you. I won’t even talk to you. Why do you want to go so bad anyway?
Sonya
Trey I don’t know, I just want somewhere to go too. Sonya Well I guess you’ll just have to wait until your dad comes to pick you up.
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T H E D A R K I S S U E