MONTAGE a r t s
j o u r n a l
Spring 2015
Editor-in-Chief
Jessica Sung
Poetry & Drama Editor
Angela Nostwick Prose Editor
John Milas
Editorial Assistants
Carolyn Aiello, Kelsey Barry, Andie Bernard, Vivien Bui, Randi Clemens, William Doeckel IV, Brittany Frost, Aaliyah Gibson, Jamie Hahn, Ava Holz, Michelle Hsieh, Linda Ji, Joseph Krause, Xiaomeng Li, Sarah Lullo, Megan Nutt, Brittany Peterson, Sean Ryan, Daniel Seeder, Natalie Taylor, Jade Tyson, Jill Whitman, Alexander Wong Faculty Advisor
Matthew Minicucci Design
Jamie Hahn, Angela Nostwick, Jessica Sung, Alexander Wong Cover Art
“Bus Boy” by Justine Adeboyejo
Copyright © 2015 by Montage Arts Journal. All Rights Reserved.
Montage Arts Journal is a literary arts magazine created by undergraduate students at the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign. Visit montagejournal.tumblr.com for submission guidelines.
MONTAGE a r t s
j o u r n a l
CONTENTS JUSTINE ADEBOYEJO | Show Stopper page 6
MITCH HEALY | The Man with Jesus Hands pages 7-8
KRYSTYNA SERHIJCHUK | Paul page 9
KRYSTYNA SERHIJCHUK | Mancini page 9
NOELLE AFRICH | Untitled page 10
SAM KENDRICK | Wednesday page 11
ALEXANDRA ANDERSON | James Dean page 12
MARIEL FECHIK | Thrift Store Still Life page 13
NATALIE CZARNOTA | Untitled page 14
MARGARET TELTHORST | The Pretty Fallacy pages 15-18
ANA VICTORIA FLEMING | Red Sash page 19
JUSTINE ADEBOYEJO | Cloud Coverage page 20
WILLIAM JARAMILLO | To a Cup of Coffee page 21
MARGARET TELTHORST | What Eve Called Paradise page 22-23
NOELLE AFRICH | Ballerinas in the Forest page 24-25
JUSTINE ADEBOYEJO| Bus Boy page 26
AKANIMOH EKONG | Pussy footin pages 27-28
NOELLE AFRICH | I ATE 103 STUFFED ANIMALS FOR BREAKFAST page 29
NOELLE AFRICH | Why Did We Draw This? page 30
NOELLE AFRICH | Six feet of earth makes us all equal page 31
PREEN DHILLON | Kensington Gardens pages 32-35
WILLIAM JARAMILLO | In Other News page 36
ANA VICTORIA FLEMING | Dragon Tear page 37
NATALIE CZARNOTA | The Early Flower pages 38-39
STEPHANIE GUERRERO | Park Guelle Mural page 40
MARGARET TELTHORST | Sandpaper Tongue page 41-45
JACK GEIST | Mixtape pages 46-47
LIAM BURNS | Signal Clearance pages 48-54
NOELLE AFRICH | Chainsaw page 55
KRYSTYNA SERHIJCHUK | Ulyana page 56
KATHRYN POLKOFF | They Still Fight page 57
JACK GEIST | Some days I wish I had never kissed you because page 58
JUSTINE ADEBOYEJO | The Cape’s Edge page 59
CONTRIBUTOR BIOS page 60
THE MAN WITH JESUS HANDS
Mitch Healy
There was once a man named Francis who had wounds on his palms like the ones Christ had. My grandmother called them the stigmata and said it was a miracle. When I was around 10 or so my grandma took me and my cousins to meet the man. He lived in a small town in Upper Michigan not too far from my grandparents’ farm. The man named Francis had a long story that me and my cousins listened to on an audio tape during the forty minute ride there. My grandma said he might become a saint. We got to the house and it looked like any other house in the smalls of Michigan. It was a small two story with faded blue siding and white trim. A nice looking older couple dressed in sweaters greeted us warmly at the door and led us to a line inside. The inside of the house was as warm as the couple. Pictures of kids, grandkids, and Jesus lined the walls and small ceramic figures sat quietly on the shelves. We waited in a line of Michigans, old people and fat Catholics, some wearing collared shirts and church shoes, while others wore baseball caps and jeans. Me and my cousins wore our church clothes. I kept my eyes busy on the rows of holy pictures and merchandise for sale: candles, calendars, and rosaries. Then as we got farther in line, we saw the man named Francis around the corner turning into the living room. He was an old man with thin gray hair and glasses. He wore a buttoned up flannel tucked into khakis. The man named Francis looked tired and straight ahead. His hands were bandaged and resting on his lap. My grandma said that his scars opened up and bled every night and my cousin asked if it hurt and my grandma said yes and that it was a good thing. We were about ten feet away from the man and I couldn’t look away from his bandaged hands. A rusty brown bled through the white wrapping at the centers of his hands.
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And then we approached him. My grandma introduced me and explained my difficulties with diabetes and how I don’t like going to school that much anymore. His eyes met mine and I said my name and we shook hands. His hand was very warm and the wrapping around his hand was a very soft cotton. The man with the Jesus scars put his hands on my head and my grandma and cousins all put their arms on my shoulder and back. The man named Francis said a prayer with his hands warm on my head, and my cousin threw up in his hands and held it. The man finished his prayer and we shook hands again with more eye contact and my cousin threw away his vomit and my grandma bought a picture of Jesus as a carpenter in a rugged wooden frame. My mother later hung the Jesus picture over my bed. Three years later the man named Francis died and two years after that I took the picture of Jesus in the wooden frame down.
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Untitled by Noelle Africh
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WEDNESDAY
Sam Kendrick
This man would be embarrassed to be wearing makeup at his funeral; I think about it: a big Midwestern man with a mustache wearing makeup. What would his friends say? The wife gave me a picture of him on a Harley, smiling with a cigarette. I clip it to the neck of the metal scissor-neck lamp. “Make him look like this,” she asks. He is giving a thumbs-up in the photo, so I entertain the thought of propping him up with that exact thumbs-up. “You did ask for it.” His skin is just too firm to work in foundation, so I choose to airbrush it and I then set the shadows just right. It’s pretty close to how I’d do my own eyes. I drain inky blood from his jugular and I think about his wife, the woman who didn’t want me to see her husband in his feeble and naked form. This man puts me back in high school when I told everyone about med school and surgery, but now it’s more like I’m doing the makeup before our senior performance of Oklahoma! I’m backstage with Mike Schutz and he doesn’t want the makeup, but I put it on him anyways – “Are you almost done, Jenny?” I can hear him say. When I’m done I bring the wife back to see the man ready for one last performance. He’s ready to be watched and boxed in a hole.
KENDRICK | 11
James Dean by Alexandra Anderson
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THRIFT STORE STILL LIFE
Mariel Fechik
We’re in the hot, still, humming kitchen with its low-set, ticking ceiling fan making shadow bars on the banged up table and those lights are flickering again, I swear. A single bead of sweat drips down the nape of my neck and you wipe it away with one thumb pressed behind my ear and I don’t know why you had to have those goddamned peach pits for eyes or why you keep that bowl of them stashed behind the sugar canister where I knock them over every time I reach for a paring knife. Your silence makes the heat swell. Even the refrigerator talks to me, gurgles and spits like a baby. The linoleum squeaks when I adjust in my chair, peeling my skin from the plastic like a wrapper. My mama’s linens pucker in the dampness and I’m starting to catch a whiff of molding produce and compost, and just a touch of honeysuckle. What a stirring portrait.
FECHIK | 13
THE PRETTY FALLACY
Margaret Telthorst
Imagine you’re twelve. You go to a Catholic school because your dad is Catholic. Your mom is not, but that doesn’t matter. You go to a Catholic school because your dad wants you to, and you are too young to understand that religion can feel like the swelling of a bruise as it reappears in the same place on your body, again and again, as you throw your fist against it to make it go away. You are walking up the stairs from Wednesday’s Mass when Ms. McDonough grabs you by the arm and pulls you from the crowd. “I need to talk to you,” she says. She tells you that the other teachers have been commenting on the length of your skirt. You wear a red and black plaid skirt to school every day. It is the standard item of dress code worn by the girls at St. Charles when they get to middle school. She says she wanted to be the one to tell you, not a male teacher. “I don’t want them to get the wrong impression about you,” she says. You nod. You grew up with two sisters and a self-esteem that had taken a couple good beatings over the years. It had bruised you on the inside and sometimes you wince when you look in the mirror or flip through the pages of your older sister’s Cosmo. You want to be everything that you’re not, and this comforts you more than accepting the fallacy that you are enough. You were excited when you graduated from the dim elementary school hallways to the high ranks of middle school, because you would finally be allowed to wear makeup to school: a tool you could use to alter yourself. “Excessive makeup” was prohibited. “Excessive” was defined by the school specifically in the student rulebook. No eye shadow. No eyeliner. No lipstick or lip gloss. No nail polish. No earrings that dangled past the earlobe. No hair dye, highlights, or hairstyles that could be “distracting” or “obnoxious.” Middle school girls were allowed to wear non-excessive makeup that coincided with the rulebook. Honestly, you had been sneaking makeup in the mornings before school as soon as fifth grade rolled around. Every day before your mom hauled you off in her Ford Explorer you would sit on a tiny stool in your bathroom and carefully apply powder to your baby skin. One day, your dad walked into the bathroom to discover you holding the brush up to your face in the harsh fluorescent lighting and stormed out of the room to find your mother. She knew. She had given you the powder when you began breaking out and told you to use it in moderation. You heard him yelling and her assuring him it was nothing drastic. He didn’t bring it up again but you felt his disapproval when you climbed into the car and you couldn’t understand why it was such a horrible thing. You remember the first day of middle school well. You were thrilled. You rose early to don your white polo shirt and red and black plaid skirt, bouncing as you
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pulled your shorts up underneath. You put on dangly earrings with blue and orange stones that your momma had bought you on a business trip to Cincy. You styled your short hair with a brown flowered headband. You applied mascara and lipgloss. At your first communion, your godmother, Aunt Didi, had given you a thin necklace with a tiny gold cross hanging from its center. Before you left for school that day you fastened it around your neck. It glimmered in the shallow groove of your collarbone and in that moment you felt pretty. And then that day at lunch a bunch of kids sitting at the table behind you turned around and called your name. “Are you wearing makeup?” You said yes. They turned back around and laughed. You went back to your peanut butter and honey sandwich and tried to force their faces off your back. You didn’t understand. Now you’re in seventh grade, and you get in trouble on a day-to-day basis. Morning after morning, you walk into school within the hoard of your classmates, and one teacher in particular curls her vulture hand around your arm and calls you out. “You’re wearing too much makeup.” “Take that off.” “I don’t want to have to ask you this again.” She tells you to go to the bathroom and wash it off. You walk to the bathroom but never do, and eventually when she takes notice she begins escorting you. Each morning she sinks her shoulders into the pink bathroom wall and crosses her arms as she watches you scrub your face in the mirror. She makes you take off the blue and orange earrings your mom gave you. “You are a distraction to the class.” You tuck them into the pocket of your skirt. You don’t understand. In eighth grade you are defiant. You wear all the eyeliner you want and your shirt is perpetually un-tucked: a major offense. You are called to the principal’s office one day after algebra and prescribed a one-day suspension for your repeated transgressions. You sit in the office with your hands folded in your lap and he says to you: “You are a nice, pretty girl. I don’t understand why you are doing this.” You say nothing but decidedly dig your nails into your forearm. When you leave you stare at the tiny half-moons engraved into your skin and leave your shirt untucked for the rest of the day. You understand. But you don’t. By ninth grade you have escaped to public school and are fed into the unforgiving mouth of standard high school life. You are thrilled. You make a friend in
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your geography class who is loud and reckless and you are attracted to the way she demands attention with her brashness. You two become a force to reckon with. You spend your weekends sneaking vodka from her parents’ liquor cabinet and you grow close as you poison your bodies with cheap booze and indulge in the chance to escape the malignance of sobriety. And you fool yourself into a fallacy of happiness, until one day an older boy at school shows an interest in your friend, and one night later you are at his apartment chugging cheap vodka with no chaser and watching as he leads her to a bedroom at the end of the hall and she is stumbling and you are panicking and she is fourteen and you rise to stop her when a guy grabs you from behind and whispers in your ear: “Don’t worry, he’ll take care of her.” There are things you come to understand after that night. Like what it means to have an absence of something between your legs where others have a summit. How this nothingness implicates you as both an invitation and an exclusion. The feeling of a hole that sculpts you from the inside out, whittling you onto a track that is determined long before you step into a room, before you even open your mouth or put on your clothes or walk around in one way or another that somehow manages to beckon “come here” without you saying a word. How your breasts can be more powerful than your brain, and when you finally realize this and use it to your advantage you become forever a slut, an attention whore, a conniving bitch, a dirty cunt; convicted for simply harnessing the only power that you have been deemed worthy of possessing. You understand these things all at once. But there are some things you can only understand with time, with experience, with the repeated weight of deterrence as it presses against your defiant body; defiance guaranteed by simply being born. But now you are in college. You have escaped your hometown to a progressive institute of knowledge. Things are bright here, and hopeful. You register for classes on contemporary social issues and gender and power. You jump into a pool of minds brimming with thoughts like yours: angry minds, excited minds. You proclaim yourself the dreaded F-word, feminist. Your guy friends ask you about your classes and they laugh when you tell them. “Women’s Issues? What kind of a discipline is that?” You retort, “You know why they don’t have a men’s issues class?” Another says, “Yeah, because we don’t complain about shit.” Your throat chokes in anger but you realize the terrible double bind you have fallen into, for becoming angry about their misunderstanding of feminism only further perpetuates the idea of the angry, feminist bitch. And you still want to be pretty, remember? Don’t you still want to be desired? But how can you be pretty and sweet and strong and fierce? How can you wear heels out to the bars but still
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rise with anger when you get catcalled on the street? How can you manage to be lusted after and respected when you open your mouth? How can you be everything all at once? How can you be anything? Now imagine one last thing. You are about to have sex on your tiny dorm bed. The window is open and sweat is forming and you realize, suddenly, with a definitive certainty, that you do not feel like doing it. It would not be your first time. There have been others. And you don’t really have a reason, so you tell yourself to go on with it, when finally you are on your back and the condom is on and you close your eyes and feel, all at once, the swelling of the bruise flowering on your body as you furiously punch it to make it go away. And you say: “I’m sorry. I just can’t do this.” You hold your breath and bite down on your tongue when you hear: “I understand.” He lies beside you and holds your hand and suddenly you want to cry but don’t know why, and the breeze from the window hurts your lungs and you shrink inward trying to understand why you suddenly feel like the bruise on your body has just been makeup all along and nothing nothing nothing makes sense. Then, in the stillness of the night as he is sleeping beside you, the weight of reality hits that never before in your life have you been able to decline sex without facing a wave of anger or the quiet perverseness of guilt. And you have never before known this foreign kindness of accepting “no” that you realize should have always been your prerogative. So you press your face into the mattress and cry, silently, for the fallacy that you have been harboring all these years in the flicker of the golden cross around your neck and the pink bathroom walls and the blossoming of the bruise you carry around everywhere you go that lives in the empty space between your legs. Tell me, do you know the feeling of nothingness that defines you and reduces you all in a single swish of your hips? I cannot imagine.
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Red Sash by Ana Victoria Fleming
FLEMING | 19
William Jaramillo
TO A CUP OF COFFEE
Seeping light between slight shades, the sky is yawning smoke like train stacks but since it’s 2015 now, it’s vapor huffing out of concrete cigarettes, which is not the same as an electronic cigarette; but I’m digressing around the block as snow flakes resemble fallen ash around my scarf. Had this been 1956, one would be liable to believe that we were in a Cold War film, but despite what the thermometer reads, I don’t think this is what they quite had in mind. Had I been clever enough, I would’ve bought a stock of Cuban cigars beforehand and threw them in a time capsule humidor. I’d light a fire and wait for reopened diplomatic channels (oh! how I’ve missed you). Someone asked me for the time, and I didn’t have the heart to give it to them. Like a green light with no cars, being a pedestrian, life can be thrilling. My apartment reminds me of a Soviet block. Concrete cubes, sub-cubicles, doors and knobs complete with walls of varying shades of white with broken chains to ceiling fans and alarm clocks blinking alternating currents of 12 o’clock, then nothing. But I think it’s time to wake up. I’m living in a dream.
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WHAT EVE CALLED PARADISE
Margaret Telthorst
When the apple fell down from the tree And into my ripe fingers They say the light drained out of Eden In a steady trickle, God’s blood Releasing itself from the sky In veins We now call lightening. And when I held it to my lips And my teeth cut through the flesh They say streams ran black Polluted with betrayal And the waters coursed dark With the knowledge of my impurity. Now They call me “sinner” A word laced with disgust For the current of my hips And the emptiness between my legs The slow torture of contempt Like a knife twisting in a tunnel of flesh Or the dying animal Writhing in the Serpent’s mouth. But I am no animal Gasping for life And I never wanted this immaculate world If I walked into the Serpent’s mouth It’s because I did so willingly Because I looked at this paradise and decided I did not want this unbroken land I did not want this pervasiveness they call “Perfection.”
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Now They call me “slut” And bury my sisters In their casted stones But we never wanted this thing they call “Paradise.” And we never asked To be wrought from a Man’s rib. They say that I am blemished By the rebellion in my blood But how could it be That the diverging mind Is a mark of deviance? Tell me how it is That the hole carving up From the moon of my pelvis Can only render me Incomplete. Now I know That day in Eden I did not paint the skies dark I did not siphon the waters black. I only gave voice to the rebellion That trickled down Between my thighs I only gave way to the want that cried out In the glistening red drops As they silently hit the ground.
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Ballerinas in the Forest by Noelle Africh
AFRICH | 25
PUSSY FOOTIN
Akanimoh Ekong
That’s what I was doing. Jerry McCollum gave me The Eye and now I was pussy footin. Belly out booty squeezed eyes bulged watching him watch me watch him. I was pussy footin and everybody could see. See me seeing him scratching his ball sack sagging like a sock cannon he was packin. and I was pussy footin Pickin the wedgie out my ass cheeks shoulda gone to the bathroom but the bathroom always smells like dookie shit and dick balls and I aint got the time and Jerry McCollom keeps looking at me giving me the eye while simultaneously pretending to scratch his thighs but we all know he’s diggin for genital gold. Jerry McCollom You are Nasty. But he’s giving me the eye and suddenly it doan madda
EKONG | 27
if his fingers smell like musty dick It doan madda that he as a person smells like musty dick. It doan madda. Because Jerry McCollum was giving ME The Eye.and everybody could see see me seeing him scratching his ball sacks sagging like a sock cannon he was packin. And I was pussy footin.
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I ATE 103 STUFFED ANIMALS FOR BREAKFAST
Noelle Africh
I jumped out the window and landed in a giant vat of guacamole the guacamole is very thick it slowly fills up my nose and my mouth and asshole and vagina I feel full of something nice I have a tube for breathing a ballroom chandelier lights the vat at night barbara walters interviews me from outside the vat I push my hand toward the edge of the glass and the audience claps in unison the moon is skinny then chubby then obese A doctor presses his stethoscope on the vat and listens for a heartbeat he hears “Sweet Caroline” by Neil Diamond playing instead I died and the coroner pulled me out with a crane will you be there during the autopsy when they cut me open and see all the stuffed animals fall out they’ll never know how I died but at least they have something to bring home to the kids
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Why Did We Draw This? by Noelle Africh
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SIX FEET OF EARTH MAKES US ALL EQUAL
Noelle Africh
A giant worm with facial features remarkably similar to Al Gore follows me everywhere I go. I nicknamed him Al Gore. “Will you ever leave me alone?” I asked. Al Gore shrugged and kissed me on the forehead. Yesterday, a little boy from across the street shot me with a nerf gun and spun around. Al Gore slithered over to the little boy, wrapped his body around the boy’s feet, and yanked his shoes off. Al Gore tied the shoelaces together and flung the shoes into the sky. They hung from a cloud. The little boy’s tears turned into puddles. Al Gore grinned and took a bath. When the sun woke up from her nap, she growled at Al Gore. Shoes fell out of the sky. Al Gore’s skin boiled under the sunlight. He shrunk into a tiny worm. Al Gore waved good bye and burrowed deep into the ground. He said he would see me soon. I got on the school bus. I never made it to school.
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KENSINGTON GARDENS
Preen Dhillon
On one sunny morning in London, several months after the end of the Great War, Daniel Block visited Kensington Gardens with the sole intention of catching up on some reading. As he walked through the gardens, he witnessed happy couples sprawled leisurely by the ponds, and reunited families picnicking whilst enjoying the rare beautiful weather. He continued down the manicured walkways until his eyes fell upon a slender, blonde woman who was sitting alone on a bench, engrossed in the book she was reading as her hair gently fluttered around her in the light wind. Approaching her, Daniel asked, “Excuse me, would you mind if I shared this bench?” She looked up at him, startled, and replied, “No, of course not. Please, sit.” She motioned at the remainder of the bench, scooted further to the side, and absorbed herself back into her book. Daniel sat down squarely and opened his own book. After a few minutes of being unable to get past the first page, he gave up on attempting to read it. The world was too beautiful today and he didn’t want to spend time in a forged one when his own offered such brilliance. The lush green trees waved in the gentle breeze and canvassed the perfect backdrop to the Londoners’ merriment. Huge white roses were in bloom on the shrubs lining the paths, and several women were passing by with flowers gripped in one hand, and a man in the other. Daniel turned to his right and admired the woman next to him. Sucking in his breath, he decided today was too fine of a day to not fall in love with her. Leaning towards her, he affably asked, “What are you reading?” “Excuse me?” she said, startled, looking up from her book. “Sorry to bother you, it’s just I was wondering what you were reading?” “Oh!” She marked her page, closed the book, and showed him the cover. “It’s The Wild Swans at Coole by Yeats.” “Huh,” he said. “What’s your name?” “Sophia Wells.” “You’re not Irish then?” “No,” she said, looking confused. “Then what are you doing reading Irish nationalist poetry, if I do ask?” Taken aback by his confrontational tone, she replied, “My grandmother is halfIrish; she sent it to me just last month. He’s a rather beautiful writer, you know.” She self-consciously turned the cover of the book downwards on her lap as a gaggle of businessmen passed their bench. Ignoring her discomfort with the subject, Daniel persevered to say, “I ask because it’s harder to know who to trust these days. Especially the Irish, and especially after this war.”
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Desperate to change the direction of their exchange, Sophia asked, “What book have you brought with you?” She reached for the novel he’d set beside him. She read aloud the title, “The Return of the Solider by Rebecca West.” She looked over Daniel, who was sitting in his full military regalia. “My mother sent it to me once I got back home,” he justified. “Said I would relate to it.” “Do you?” “I do.” “Where were you stationed?” “Spent several months helping with recovery in Italy after most of the action went north. What did you do during it all?” “I’m a doctor, actually. Although the last few years have mostly been trauma patients and helping returning soldiers, like yourself. You’re lucky you came back in one piece. I’ve seen some—” “Being a nurse is a duty of its own,” he said, cutting her off. “Doctor,” she corrected. “How’s that?” he smiled, thinking she was joking. “It’s not impossible, you know. I spent six years at Imperial College, same as the men. Did you go to school?” “No; I served my country instead.” “At least we have that in common,” Sophia replied, curtly. “So,” he continued, unaffected, “Are you still a doctor or did all the real ones come back and put you out of a job?” He laughed at his own joke. “You’re rather rude!” she exclaimed. She became aware of how loud she was when passerbyers looked curiously in their direction. Daniel smiled widely at her reaction. Settling down she hissed, “Is this amusing?” She gathered her book and purse to leave. “No, don’t leave,” he said, reaching for her arm. She recoiled. “Don’t touch me!” “Say, what are you so angry about? You should really smile more. You’d look prettier.” “That’s quite out of line.” “What? Telling a woman to smile is out of line?” “It is,” Sophia spat back at him. “How so? I say it for your own good. Everyone should smile.” “And yet, I beg you to recall the last time you told another man that he would look handsomer if he ‘just smiled’. It’s demeaning, to say the least.” Daniel looked Sophia over curiously. “You know,” he began moments later, “We used to talk, during the war, about what would happen to the women back home
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since all the men were gone—if their brains would go funny without us there. And ruddy hell, you are worse than we had ever imagined. You’re unbelievable, do you know that?” “I am the unbelievable one? I am? You’re a complete stranger, and in a matter of minutes you’ve managed to slight me more than any other person I have ever encountered in my life.” “Is that so? You’ve had an easy life then.” He started to fumble around his pockets. Sophia fumed. “You know, the worst after-effect of this war has to be all the sort of terrible people flocking to London. The quality of person living here has noticeably declined.” “Am I not fancy enough for you?” he asked as he leaned back and lit himself a cigarette. “It would seem that you are not.” She crossed her arms. “Fancy a smoke?” “No.” “Thought I’d ask. Wouldn’t want to be accused of being badly mannered, would I?” With a distasteful scowl, she said, “You know, the real question is why you’re still dolled up in that ridiculous uniform.” Again, he smiled, squinting this time as the sun had come out from behind the clouds. “A force of habit. The military will do that to you. You wouldn’t understand.” “It’s been eight months since the war ended. The papers reported weeks ago about the Versailles signing. I’m fairly certain you’re safe in taking it off. You look like a proper idiot strolling around in it.” “I’m sorry,” Daniel said sitting up straighter, leaning towards her. “Have I actually offended you in some way?” “What in heaven’s name would lead you to that conclusion?” she said, rolling her eyes. “I don’t know. I thought we were having good banter, but something about the way you’re talking to me now. I don’t think I care for it much,” he said slowly and seriously. He leaned back again. “It’s just irritating that you still wear that get-up. It probably sets people on edge.” “Most people thank me for my service when they see me.” “Oh, I see. Don’t want to let go of feeling like a hero?” He threw his cigarette on the ground and put it out with his boot. “I did this country and my King a great service. What’s wrong with wanting some acknowledgement?”
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“Ha!” She laughed incredulously. “That’s pathetic! You didn’t even see any real battles. I likely saw more gore and dead men than you did, prancing into the war once all the fighting was over and done for.” “Listen here, I am a hero.” “The real heroes are either dead or have medals hanging on their chests,” Sophia said, knowing it was a lie. “You know,” Daniel said, “When I saw you I thought you were too beautiful to not talk to. I had no intentions of offending you as I appear to have. This conversation has not gone as I had planned it would.” “I truly am so sorry to have disappointed a fine gentleman.” “See, even as you say that, Madam, I’m not sure I believe you mean it.” “Dear God, you are serious.” “Now be reasonable with me. I saw you, a beautiful woman, and thought that it would be pleasant to talk to you. I’ve done nothing wrong,” he said earnestly. “My intentions are not what you assume them to be.” “Hmm, and is this a frequent habit of yours? To approach both men and women who’ve done nothing to solicit your attention and to then impart your judgment upon them? Forgive me if I’m inclined to conclude that this subjection is something you keep especially reserved for women. Believe me when I say, sir, that your intentions are transparent to us all, and that women are happier uninterrupted.” Sophia watched as he put his head down in what she hoped was shame. Daniel’s palms began to sweat. He looked down the pathway at the other occupied benches. There was another pretty, sandy-haired girl sitting at one of them, reading the paper and wearing a yellow frock. He wished he had sat with her. This one had soured his morning. He grabbed his book and abruptly stood up. “Leaving so soon?” Sophia asked sweetly, feigning surprise. “Here I was thinking we could spend more time talking about how I’m not a real doctor.” “I think I should be going now,” he said nervously. “Yes, I suppose it would be best if you would.” “Good day to you, Ms. Wells.” “Oh yes, have a lovely day.” She could see his retreating figure in her peripheral but instead refocused herself on the gorgeous poem he had so unceremoniously interrupted.
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William Jaramillo
I’m feeling restless, so I decide to leave him be and sit cross-legged on the floor. I light a cigarette just to watch it burn. I’m restless, but there’s nowhere to go. I’d go outside too, but the sun was replaced with a digitized light many years ago. I’m stagnant like a plant in soil everywhere I go. In other news, boredom remains the same.
I record the show and get to up to see what my roommate is doing. Kevin is lounging on his fake plastic tree, caught in a hammock, bong in his ginger hands watching Fraiser mid-rip.So far he’s watched two and half seasons today. He’s pretty dumb for being a hyper-intelligent orangutan.
Tune in to hear Albert Einstein, James Brown, and William Burroughs discuss the socio-economic impact of a well-timed fart in Post-Victorian England. Do be sure to stay tuned afterwards to watch Miles Davis give a lecture on how to be coo, where he just sits on a barstool, smokes a cigarette, and just looks at everyone in mute judgment.
I dip to the next channel. It’s a live recording of the 58th annual Smart Dude Convention. Intrigued, I read the TV Guide for more info.
I flipped the tv and see an interview with The Temptations about discovering the cure for cancer, but I generally don’t like re-runs, so I slip to the next channel where it’s yet another documentary on WWIV and how the extra-terrestrial life forms from Uranus came to save our asses again.
IN OTHER NEWS
FLEMING | 37
Dragon Tear by Ana Victoria Fleming
THE EARLY FLOWER
Natalie Czarnota
The little boy stumbled through the field in his too big, scuffed up boots and with the sleeves of his too big, shabby coat flapping in the wind as they nearly trailed on the ground. Despite the beginning signs of spring, the air was quite nippy that day, frost eradicating the promise of any more warmth that the previous days held. He searched the ground with an intense look in his eyes. The boy was so focused on whatever he was looking for that he didn’t notice a group of four arrogantly strutting and snickering boys around his age sneaking up behind him. With a sudden burst of joy across his pale, pinched face, the boy threw himself on his knees and carefully snatched a flower from the frozen ground. The bud was barely opened to reveal light purple petals. It was almost on the brink of death because it bloomed too quickly, coming into this world before all the threats of frost were vanquished by the summer winds. Despite this, the little boy beamed down at the wilted flower, the look on his face regarding the tiny plant in his hand as if it were a rare, exotic one plated in gold. When the group of the boys behind him saw what he was holding between his fingers, their snickering exploded into full out laughter, two of the boys grasping onto each other as they collapsed to the ground with tears in their eyes and clutched their sides. The little boy whipped around, startled by the sudden noise, and, seeing the boys laughing at him, took a step back in fear with a horrified look on his face. “Look what we’ve got here, boys,” said the largest one of them all, clearly their leader by the superior sound in his voice. He slowly sauntered over to the boy, a nasty half grin on his face. The little boy stood still, rooted with fear. “Well if it isn’t Crybaby,” another boy drawled. “And what’s he got there? Oh, a pretty little flower,” the leader said, causing the rest of the boys to howl in another round of ugly, mean laughter. By that time they reached the frozen boy, towering over him. “What are you, gay or something?” the leader snarled into the boy’s face. He looked up at his friends flanking him by the sides. “Wanna show him what we do with fags?” “Please,” the boy whispered, the single word weakly carried away on the wind. The boys smiled at each other with a glint of evil mischief in their eyes. “I think we should show him, don’t you think, Harvey?” one of the boys said to the leader. “I think you’re right, Tommy,” Harvey smirked, pushing the little boy roughly to the ground. His finger tightened around the stem as he hit the ground hard. The rest of the boys exploded into a burst of movement, kicking the helpless child as he curled into a protective ball, cradling the flower against his chest.
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The boy stayed silent, letting only gentle tears escape him, and the other boys grew bored quickly by their defeated victim. With one last kick in the stomach, Harvey squatted down next to the boy’s swelling face and, ripping the flower from the boy’s grasp, threw it at his feet. “Next time, you’re really gonna regret being such a weak little girl.” Then they left the bruised and bleeding boy lying still on the frozen ground and pranced away, slapping each other on the back and congratulating themselves on another successful ambush. As soon as the sound of the boys faded from the little boy’s ears, he got up shakily and scooped up the crushed flower into both of his hands. The stem was completely crushed and torn, but all the petals were miraculously intact, so the boy kept the flower shielded in his cupped palms and starting walking in the opposite direction in which the gang of boys went. He reached a dirt road and turned left, following it until he reached the local cemetery, where boys from his school usually came during the night as dares. The little boy learned to avoid it after sunset, a scar on his leg from last summer serving as a reminder of that lesson. But he was safe for now; the cemetery was always vacant during the day, especially on cold ones like that one. He walked the usual path up the familiar grave and, upon reaching it, he kneeled down to place the small, mangled flower in front of it. “Happy birthday, Dad,” the little boy whispered, wiping a stream of blood from his nose. And that’s how he stayed until sunset, his beaten body curled up on top of the land under which an army of rotting, decaying corpses lay. Eventually, he would have to take the dirt road back to field, onto the main road and down to the shabby house. Eventually, he would have to face the woman with empty eyes who sat at the table, staring unseeingly at the peeling wallpaper as the young girl glanced at her with sadness while carrying out all the household chores. Eventually, he would have to go back to school and explain an excuse for the black eyes and torn up skin as Harvey and his boys snickered in the back of the classroom. But for now, he’d rather stay out in the cold, surrounded by no one but the dead and the barely living flower.
CZARNOTA | 39
Park Guelle Mural by Stephany Guerrero
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SANDPAPER TONGUE
Margaret Telthorst
When I was little I wanted the moon. Qu’est-ce que tu fais? Qu’estWhat a beautiful idea. The moon; hanging there in the sky from a wooden spool, plastic thread through a needle, the awakening of light as it claws out the dark. S’il te plaît, s’il te plaît, arrête.. A beautiful idea: climbing to the moon. Is it a long climb? Do you think I’d get tired? Would the arches of my feet ache as they curved along each wooden step? Ne t’inquiète pas. Shh. J’ai besoin que tu sois calme. Do you think I could hold it in one hand? Would it take two? Is it small enough to dangle from my earlobe? Is it so big I could plant both my feet on its dusty surface? Je ne peux pas respirer. S’il te plait…arrête. Is the air thick on the moon? Does it feel like syrup in your lungs? S’il te plait…je dois aller. Does the dust ever settle where you walk? Or does it stay forever, hovering around your feet in a beautiful murky halo? Does the moon watch the earth the way we yearn for it down here? Does it feel the want that I feel, this strange sadness in my chest? Tais-toi, putain. Tell me: is it a different kind of place than here? Is it a place where the closing door devours the last piece of light like an animal? Where the bottle is empty so you smash it against the floor to feel anything at all? Is it a place where they tell you to calm down, be quiet, and lie flat on your back? Tell me, is it? § “Do you know you keep blinking your eyes like that?” “Like what?” “Like you’re wincing, like it’s hurting you.” I pick at the skin around my thumbnail. “Oh, yeah. I don’t know. Most of the time I don’t even know I’m doing it. I read online it’s a nervous tick.” “When does it happen most?” “I don’t know, like I said, I don’t realize I’m doing it.” “Does it happen when you’re stressed?” “I guess so.” “When you’re anxious?” “I mean it’s called a nervous tick.” “Do you feel defensive talking about this?”
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“No…I don’t know. I don’t like that I’m doing something I can’t control.” The conversation is permeated by the blaring of an ambulance as it peels through the rain a street over. I turn my head to the window to see the reflection of the blue and red lights, distorted by water on the glass. I push my palms down into the couch on either side of me. They are clammy with sweat. “Can we talk about something else?” Dr. Kessler looks at me kindly and tilts her head to the side. Her hair spirals out from behind her ears in varying directions, like she didn’t have enough time to drag a comb through it this morning. There’s a word for that in French, you know, for when your hair looks all disheveled. Ébouriffés. I think of how the word sounds but I know my mouth won’t form it. “You said before you used to speak French?” It’s as if she has a direct line of sight into my thoughts. Goddammit. “Yeah.” “Why ‘used to’?” “I just can’t anymore.” “You mean you forgot?” “No…” I press my nails into the skin of my left forearm; I stare down at the engravings of the tiny half moons and think of a way to explain it to her. “I just can’t speak it. My mouth, it won’t let me.” “What do you mean?” I shake my head and forcibly press my eyes together. “I don’t know. My mouth dries up. My lips won’t form the sounds. And my tongue…it feels heavy. And rough. Like sandpaper. It Hurts when I try.” “Does it hurt when you’re talking to me now?” I respond with another sharp shake of my head. I feel insane, saying this out loud. I have been plagued with the thought for weeks, with the nail in my chest that comes when I try to put it in words. The thought feels tangible now that it’s been said. I am overcome with the urge to grab it and crush it under my heel. “It doesn’t hurt when you speak English?” “No.” A silence settles like fog. I wish another ambulance would come by to break it up. “Why did you start learning French?” The question catches me off guard. “I...I thought it was beautiful, I guess. I mean I know I thought it was beautiful. But it sounded like a poem when I first heard it; even though it was just a conversation in a foreign movie my dad was watching. I thought ‘that would be something else’, to feel like I was always talking
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in a poem. It seemed like as good a reason as any.” “When was that?” “Um, seventh grade I think. Sixth maybe.” “What was the movie?” “Huh?” “The movie your dad was watching.” Manon des Sources. But my mouth translates it for me. “Manon of the Spring. It’s a sequel actually, to Jean of Florette. Have you heard of it?” Kessler’s long earrings bounce as she shakes her head. “Yeah, it’s kind of old. And obscure, unless foreign movies are your thing. Basically it’s in this little village in France right after World War I, and this guy Ugolin and his uncle want this plot of land with a spring in it so that they can harvest carnations. They’re both huge assholes though....they harass the owner of the plot until they accidently kill him, and then proceed to plug up the spring so that no one will know it’s there and want the land. Anyway, the plot goes to the owner’s deceased sister – am I making this easy to follow?” Dr. Kessler laughs and crosses her skirted legs. She reminds me of a hippie with her long dresses and untamed hair, which I guess is one of the reasons I agreed to see her after my mom pushed the idea for so long. “I’m getting it all right.” “Okay good. Do you care if I ruin the ending for you? I’m assuming it very unlikely you’ll ever come across this movie.” She gives me a thin half smile and shakes her head. “Okay so the dead sister, she has a son, Jean. That’s where “Jean of Florette” comes from. So the land goes to Jean and his family. And they’re good people, but Jean was born a hunchback, so he’s kind of a social outcast. Even so he has a beautiful wife and a little blonde daughter, named Manon, and they move to the land and live there. To sum it up, Ugolin and his Uncle befriend them only to manipulate them, they never tell him about the spring, and they turn the village against him. Jean struggles throughout the entire movie to find a source of water, and eventually he dies trying to build a well with dynamite. His wife and daughter are forced to sell the land to the Uncle, but at the end of the movie Manon finds Ugolin and the Uncle unplugging the hidden spring and celebrating in it.” “So she understands, then, what they had done. That they drove her father to his death.” “Yes.” “That’s very sad. Is the second one any happier?” I bring my legs up to my chest on the little couch. “Not till the end. Manon is all grown up and beautiful, still in the same village and living off the land. Ugolin sees her bathing one day in the mountains and becomes obsessed with her. She hates
TELTHORST | 43
him of course, knowing what he did. He kills himself because she won’t have him. And the Uncle is revealed to have had a relationship with Jean’s mother, Florette, long ago. And he realizes before his death that Jean is his son. It’s awful. But he was a fucking terrible person, and Ugolin was just stupid. And to make matters worse, the entire village knew what they had done to Jean but no one said anything or tried to help him.” “You said this one was happier!” “It is! Manon ends up ok. Better than ok. She marries a man she loves and has a kid. She finds happiness despite, well, everything.” “That sounds like a lot of sitting through a depressing movie only to reach a sliver of happiness at the very end,” Kessler remarks. She leans back in her hippie dress and searches me with persistent eyes. “Yeah but, I don’t know, a lot of things are that way.” “Is that why you liked it so much?” The rain has stopped outside to make way for the heavy curtain of nightfall. But I don’t want it to be dark out, not yet. “I liked it because…because I couldn’t believe that people could actually be so fucked up as to watch someone suffer as a result of their actions and do nothing. I wanted to think that real people were better than that. That we understood our own capacity to hurt.” The voices are creeping up into my throat. I grate my sandpaper tongue against the roof of my mouth to seal them away. “Was the last time you spoke French in Montreal, Marion?” Qu’est-ce que tu fais? Qu’est-ce tu fais… “Marion, can you hear me?” “What?” “The last time you spoke French, was it when you went to Montreal?” S’il te plait…arrête. “Yes.” “Marion, are you alright?” She focuses her eyes down to my left forearm. I look down to find that the tiny half moons are crying blood. I had not even felt the nails in my skin. Dr. Kessler begins to rise from her seat but I flinch back and tear a tissue from the coffee table to press into my arm. “No,” I say. “It’s fine.” “Perhaps we should take a break-” “No.” I taste the word as it sears my tongue. “I’m fine.” Kessler looks at me like she’s concerned, and suddenly I want to fly across the room and dig my nails into her skin so that she can feel this pain too, so that she can understand without me having to break my own bones as I sit here trying to turn my terror into a language that doesn’t feel like a grate against the inside of my
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mouth. The Doctor’s voice turns soft. “The man, did he speak French, Marion?” Ne t’inquiète pas. “Did he?” Tais-toi, putain. I mouth the word “yes” but no sound escapes. “Did you know him?” Do you think if I climb long enough I could get there? Do you think the ladder would be strong enough to hold my weight? What if a step breaks? What if someone on the moon pushes the ladder over the edge? What if the moon decides it doesn’t want me there at all? If I fall will I be close enough that I can see it growing smaller as gravity gropes me back to earth? Will it hurt when I hit the ground? Will it hurt? Please please tell me it hurts. The office blurs by me as I fling open the door and sprint through the lobby. I tear through the automatic doors and fall to the sidewalk in the dense night air. The marigolds and petunias and peonies look up at me innocently as I heave onto them. I retch and my vomit smothers the neatly arranged flowers and I want to say Je suis désolé, Je suis désolé, but the hurricane in my throat is drowning me to no end. Someone places their arms around me but I twist out of them before I can comprehend who it is. I run a few feet before falling like a rag doll onto the blacktop of the parking lot. “Is she okay?” “She’s ill, someone should call an ambulance.” I turn my face to the night sky. La Lune is just a sliver tonight. I look back down and cower into the concrete. “Ma’am, do you need help?” It is eating me alive.
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MIXTAPE
Jack Geist
A side Maybe I’ve got it all wrong, maybe beyond the terrible, creeping fog was a sign from God that we had just a couple of miles before the car ran out of gas, that we only had three more songs left in us until we burst into butterflies; the butterflies that died in our stomach fluttering themselves to death gave birth to two lowly caterpillars.
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B side The cigarette butt we threw out the window in a trail of ash and ember ended up in open flames, quickly headed nowhere fast. I Want You Back played while god in the driver’s seat was saying “Well, anyways...” trailing off and twisting the pencil in graphite, heavy lead, guts run and dive died of puncture. Yelling for the ones they miss when things were new and the butterflies were fornicating with folded wings whose eyes Tape ends. We are alone when the fog thins.
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SIGNAL CLEARANCE
Liam Burns
The next stop will be Jackson. Doors open on the left at Jackson. I mouthed the words with the disembodied voice on the speakers. I could match hisannouncements with surgical precision at this point, as many times as I’d ridden this train. Stop by stop, I could even get a sense for when we’d be momentarily delayed, stopped for hours, or pulled into express. This was a nice train, though. Not aesthetically, far from it. “Gangster” tags etched into the windows, nondescript stains adorning most of the seats and a few homeless gentlemen adding to the already dicey aroma of the car. It was hardly pleasant on a surface level. The atmosphere was what got to me, still does. It’s just a bunch of the hardest-working people in the city getting back from a hard day’s labor to their comfortable, albeit worn-down, homes. Salt of the earth, these folks. Couldn’t get any better, I truly believe that. Whenever my friends come down from Bloomfield Hills, I always have them take this train down with me a few stops, so they can really get a chance to see the nitty-gritty of this town. Granted, I only ever go as far as Bridgeport with them, and always during the day. Please. I’m adventurous, not suicidal. Speaking of adventure, tonight was something of a special day for me. I had decided, for the first time, to take the Red Line all the way to the end: 95th street. Usually I can only get as far as Garfield Park before I decide that there’s just too much riff-raff and ruckus going on in the train for a fellow like me to keep up, but today was going to be different. Tonight, I was going to blend in seamlessly, riding the train as one of the people. I had on a t-shirt with the logo of a popular soft drink cleverly reworded to say, “Mount and Do me”, a pair of JNCO jeans I found in the prop department of the Goodman Theatre (my friend Jacob, who’s on the board of directors, was kind enough to loan me the pair) and my wallet tucked firmly into my left sock. Personally, I thought it looked kind of like one of those probation anklets you see in the movies, which would likely only serve to heighten my credibility on this train. The next stop will be Harrison. Doors open on the left at Harrison. An entrepreneurial urban youth proceeded down the aisle of my car, selling candy bars to some of the more reputable-looking passengers still on the train. I’d say he had about two stops left to make any more sales, but what do I know? Maybe a lighter wallet can be overcome by a sweet tooth. He arrived at my end of the car, carrying a box labeled, “World’s Finest Chocolates.” A bold claim to be purporting on public transportation, but I always try to keep an open mind. “Hello, sir, you wanna buy some chocolate to help support the Hyde Park
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YMCA?” “Well certainly, young man, what varieties of chocolate are you offering?” “I got some milk chocolate, some caramel, and an almond.” “Hmm, the almond sounds enticing. Would you happen to know if the chocolate you are offering is derived from criollo, forastero, or trinitario bean? Likewise, what regions are the almonds from? I’m partial to those from Greece’s Magnesia region, though I’ve never met a Moroccan almond I didn’t like.” My father, a very stoic yet knowledgeable man, always said that a man’s hunger should never deprioritize his palette. “…” “Well?” “… I got some milk chocolate, some caramel and an almond.” The next stop will be Roosevelt. Doors open on the left at Roosevelt. I sat in my aisle seat, indulging in one of the three varieties of chocolate bars I had purchased. Though my efforts to derive information on the chocolate from the salesman were largely fruitless, I could tell from the texture that it was likely of Dutch origin. As I contemplated the worldliness of my impromptu dessert, a man I could only describe as a grungy drifter, joined me on my tandem bench. He bore a striking resemblance to the great actor Jamie Foxx’s character, Nathaniel Ayers, in the wonderful 2009 drama, The Soloist. Being in the spirit of new experiences, I decided to strike up pleasant conversation with the man. “Hello there, what’s your name?” “Spoons.” “Spoons? That’s quite an interesting name, where do you hail from, Spoons?” “No… no no no. Spoons.” The drifter then proceeded to take two rusty teaspoons from his jacket pocket and, in a presumed act of goodwill, rubbed them on my mouth. I was not one to decline this nearly tribal hospitality. “Ah, spoons. Very good, Spoons.” Spoons grinned a fragmented grin, nodded, then rested his head on my shoulder and closed his eyes. The existence of a drifter is not one that I could very well comprehend, given my position in life, though I was wise enough to know that it must be a tiresome one. At that moment, Spoons deserved a good rest more than I deserved a shirt without grease stains on the sleeves. I allowed Spoons his brief reprieve from the toils of vagabond living and continued taking in the atmosphere as I journeyed ever deeper into the soul of our great city.
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The next stop will be Cermak-Chinatown. Doors open on the left at Cermak-Chinatown. The city lights soared by the window in cosmic fashion as we exited the tunnel and emerged into the night. The sun is setting quicker and quicker every day, I usually don’t even notice that it has become dark by the time I get out of the office every night, and every morning has me in a blinding staring contest against the glare coming from Trump Tower. Just another in the long list of drawbacks that come with getting stuck in the southeast-facing corner office on the 51st floor. Spoons spit up on my shirt. The next stop will be Sox-35th. Doors open on the left at Sox-35th As I wiped Spoons’ excess from my clothing with my emergency wet-nap, my eyes were caught by the majesty of the passing ballpark. A testament to American ingenuity, industry, and of course, baseball. I only ever came down to this stadium for the crosstown games, but the experience is undeniable. The mixing of cultures, backgrounds and geographic affiliations in the spirit of enjoying one of the greatest pastimes this world has ever known is something of a euphoric experience to me. The undeniable closeness everyone feels in that shared experience brings about an electric energy to those in attendance, a feeling that I see no reason to be limited only to those who can afford a ticket. I turn to the woman to my right, careful so as not to dislodge Spoons’ tender head from its deepening position in my neckline. “Baseball, huh? Take it in, dear lady. Greatest game on Earth.” She responded with a rather obscene gesture in which her middle finger extended to the ceiling as a means of telling me to “f-off.” Initially shocked, I then realized my blunder and chuckled at the obvious oversight. Not wanting to leave the wrong impression on this woman, I reengaged to correct myself. “I’m sorry to have offended you, miss, but I’ll have you know that I’m a Cub fan as well, there’s no need to worry. I know you must get a tough run of things down here on the ‘South Side’, but trust me, you’re in good company as long as I’m here.” I threw in a playful wink for good measure. Evidently, the sentiment failed to translate as she immediately got up and moved to the other side of the car. A learning experience, I thought. This is what it’s all about. I rested my head on Spoons’, smiling ear to ear and glowing with the anticipation of what knowledge my next encounter could possibly hold. The next stop will be 47th street. Doors open on the left at 47th street.
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This was it. This was the furthest I had ever been down the train line. From this point forward, everything was going to be new. No prior knowledge, no connections, no research, just sink-or-swim. I hadn’t been this far in the dark since I embarked on my semester abroad in London. My daydreams of Big Ben and elegant accents were cut short as a younger-looking ruffian boarded the train and sat in the seats across from me, a worn, dented thermos in hand. The train car was fairly empty at this point, understandable for 11pm on a Wednesday night. I took his choice of proximity to me as an indication that he hopes to engage in pleasantries. I’d credit my friendly features to this plutonic attraction, but in all reality, it was probably my choice of rough-and-tumble street wear. Reasons notwithstanding, all I had to do to turn this stranger into a friend was wait for my chance to interject. The stranger put his thermos in between his legs, and reached into the backpack he had placed underneath his seat. He started rummaging around; apparently unable to find whatever it was he was looking for. After a few seconds, however, he pulled out something unmistakable: a small cellophane bag of pure white powder. I had seen enough episodes of Crime Scene Investigation to know what scenario I had just been thrown into. Having read in the Harper’s Index that thirty two percent of African-Americans in his age group were incarcerated, I knew immediately of my social obligation to help him out. My duty apparent, I crossed the aisle and sat down in the seat next to his. Spoons slumped over across my seat. Oh, sweet Spoons. Not even the gentle jostle of this train can wake your street-hardened head from its slumber. Now beside my new compatriot, I surreptitiously surveyed the car before engaging him. I leaned in, and spoke in low tones out of the side of my mouth. “Pssst. Pssssssst.” I caught his attention. “What?” “Whoa whoa whoa, cool down, cool down. You should put that away, brother, could be one of those narcs on this car.” He shook his head, seemingly in need of clarification. “What?” “That stuff you’re holding! The base, the beat, the electric Kool-Aid!” “The what?” “The crack!” The stranger paused, looked down at the crack he had apparently taken for granted (I imagine the overabundance of it in these parts lends its consumption to being a common daily occurrence), then looked back at me, with an oddly puzzled look on his face. “It’s Coffee-mate.”
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“Hm. Haven’t heard that term before. Regardless, be wary!” Isn’t drug terminology enthralling? My new friend flashed me a contorted look of endearment, proceeded to move across the train car, sprinkled some crack into his thermos, and start drinking it. Fascinating. The next stop will be Garfield. Doors open on the left at Garfield. My new friend, much to my dismay, didn’t choose to stay long. After several successive instances of brief eye contact with me, he oddly decided to hurry off of the train after one stop. A wise decision of him, not getting too attached. Friendships must come and go in these horrid streets. Who knows how long it could have been before one of us heard of the other falling victim to gangs, drugs, or gentrification? Ever vigilant, I noticed something fall out of his pocket as he exited the train. A good Samaritan as I am, I rushed to go pick it up, but sadly, the train was already speeding off at a blistering 15mph by the time I reached it. As I came closer it became glaringly clear that the man, in his coked-out stupor, had dropped his bag of illegal substance. It’s intriguing, you read so much about this incredibly dangerous concoction and then you finally have it in front of you. I picked the bag up and studied it intently. Much softer than I thought it would be. It smelled sweet as well, with a hint of French Vanilla. Undoubtedly some kind of signature watermark left in by the manufacturer. It was at this moment that I had one of the most devious thoughts to have crossed my mind since I took that stranger up on that jazz cigarette he offered me at Blues in the Park. What if I were to, in the spirit of this whole escapade, just try a little bit of this crack? I was sure it could do no harm, certainly in such small doses. Who ever said it could be too late to try something new? It wouldn’t be the craziest thing. Not in the slightest. I looked over to Spoons, hoping to solicit his consultation in how one goes about consuming crack. However, he was still asleep. He had been jostled to the floor by the violent shaking of the train car on the urban rollercoaster that was the Red Line, now laying on his back, deep into his peaceful slumber with his eyes open to the ceiling. It was like he was making a beautiful snow angel out of floor crime and cigarette butts. I took the bag and threw it back. I could instantly feel the effects. Heart pumping, eyes open, my mouth suddenly tasted amazing. Perhaps I was a natural. The next stop will be 63rd Street. Doors open on the left at 63rd Street. The crack was settling into my system. My eyes were opened. My mind alert.
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My body engaged. I decided to lay on the ground next to Spoons, careful not to wake him, but eagerly mimicking his natural repose. I was one of them now. The vagrants, the drifters, the riff-raff. My goal had been to blend. My reality was that I had transformed. This moment of introspection was cut short as the overhead lights were blocked by a shadowy figure. “You. Dude next to sleeping fuckin’ beauty. Wallet and phone, you goofy motherfucker.” I sat up. “Excuse me, sir?” “I said hand over your motherfucking wallet. And your motherfucking phone. You trying to get cut?” The man waved his hand out to reveal a knife. This situation was growing dire. I needed assistance. I rolled over and shook Spoons, who must have been laying next to the air conditioning vent, his face was like ice. Poor Spoons. As if your poverty wasn’t enough, you had to go out and catch a cold in the middle of the summer, too. No matter. I was one of them now. Was this a trial? I certainly didn’t see it that way. This was more than that. This was my right of passage. There were no bones about it. In my excursion, I had been inadvertently thrust into a two-man gang war. There were no rules, and this was no time to fight with honor. Embodying the spirit of this barbaric fracas, I rolled over and took a bite out of my assailant’s ankle. He yelped out in pain. “Ow, shit, the fuck are you doing?!?” “Mmm bidding yer angle,” I snarled, teeth digging into denim. “Goddammit, who even does that?!?” He tried to shake me off. I held fast. “Mmmmrrrgh!’ In his panicked frenzy, the would-be robber dropped his knife. In my crackandadrenaline fueled rush, I picked it up and thrust it into his leg. The man fell to the ground beside me. I stood above him, waving the knife in his face, much like the characters in the action movies my nephews adored so much. “Fucking psycho!” “Am I?!? AM I?!? Would a psycho have found a way to perfectly transform his entire image to blend into an unfamiliar environment as I did?!?” “Probably!” The next stop will be sixty“Well, would a psycho have instantly befriended a man of completely opposite socioeconomic status, despite all of the barriers between them?!?”
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“You talkin about that dude? Is he fucking dead?!?” “Well would a psycho have found urban exploration to be such a productive outlet for his spare time after Diane left? And took his Mercedes? And his Saab? And his house, half his money, and his goddamn children?!?” He looked scared. I was passing. “Would a psych have been able to bounce back so effectively after he found out that she had been sleeping with half of the Lakeshore Athletic Club after seven years of marriage?!? Would a psycho do that?!? Would he?!?” “Man, what do you want, my money? My phone? Take them, man, you don’t gotta stab me…” The train lurched to a stop. The doors behind me parted. I had arrived. “Chicago Police, drop the fucking knife!” I turned around just in time to see the policeman come in off of the platform. It’s an adventure. He clobbered me in the temple with his billy club. Police brutality, in this city, no less. My head hurt, but this was a new hurt. I’d been socked pretty well back in my lacrosse days, but this felt new. Warm. I crumbled to the ground. As my consciousness faded, I stared into Spoons’ eyes. Laying by my side, peaceful as a Zen Monk. I could take a lesson from your disposition, Spoons. I planted a kiss on his cheek as the dizziness started to take over. The officer towered above us, an obelisk of authority. I heard him speak the phrases “assault and possible homicide”, and “perp neutralized” into his radio. The lights dimmed as my head rushed full of the fond memories and lifelong friends I had made on my grand adventure. Perhaps I’ll visit the Andes next.
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Chainsaw by Noelle Africh
AFRICH | 55
THEY STILL FIGHT
Kathryn Polkoff
They all crowdin’ in the corner, shufflin’ money around and bettin’ on they cocks. I can hear them cuckooin’. They goin’ after each other and they makin’ that noise cuz they know they about to die but they fight to kill the other one anyway. The whole circle is shouting. They eyes all bulgin’ out and they all got sweat drippin’ down the backs of they necks and they grippin’ the dollars in they hands so hard you could see the tendons popping on the backs of they hands under they skin. You stupid fucker, get that son-of-a-bitch. Rip his fuckin head off! I can’t decide which one’s louder—them dyin’ cocks, or the people shoutin’ at them. It’s true, what they say ‘bout what happens when a chicken gets its head cut off. Except most the time here they ain’t even gotta get it cut off. They just gotta get hit one too many times. They just gotta get they necks slashed by the sharp talons on the other cock, and blood goes everywhere. But if it’s quick you know they dead when all they movements start just happenin’. They body keeps on movin but they ain’t got no thoughts happenin’. They just kinda flappin’ about. Twitchin’. And it’s all happenin’ at once and there ain’t nothin’ anyone can do to stop ‘em. The poor bastard’s already gone dead but it look like he still alive and the other fucker in the ring with him just keeps attackin him--goin after the dead bastard. And then the fight’s over. That’s how it always goes. Sometimes they have a couple fights in a row. But when all the cocks is dead and bleeding they all get out. They know this ain’t legal. It’s my job to stay and clean up they mess. I used to think it was cuz I needed the money that I did it. And I do, don’t get me wrong. But I know its somethin’ else, too. After the fightin’s over and all the winners have they money and one bird’s already dead, they just leave the cock that won cuz he prolly ain’t in much better shape. When it’s just me and they all gone, before I start cleaning up the blood I go to the bird that just won the fight. I pick it up and hold it in my arm and sometimes I get the blood all over myself but I hold it anyways and I pull the neck down and out until it pops. And the bird just kinda starts flappin right there in my hands, twitchin’ all over the place. Then I sit it right there right next to the other dead cock, the one it just killed. And it twitches for a couple more seconds and then they both dead and they both lyin’ there next to another. And for a moment we all is out of our misery. And then I clean the blood.
POLKOFF | 57
SOME DAYS I WISH I HAD NEVER KISSED YOU BECAUSE
Jack Geist
‘You never called me when you said you would’ you say with your hands on your hips you sway and hand a bowl of rice to me with chopsticks stabbed into the middle two stilts like the masts on a ship you tell me don’t--- don’t eat it you shake your head. I eat the rice and you are gone and naked. I do not know how I know but in your room you are sprawled out waiting strung out waiting meat sweats waiting breasts swelling with breath swelter you melt and ask for my humidity to come plummet I open the door that is not a door, instead ajar I have opened full of worms, the kids are asleep we have nothing to worry about, the front door is locked just keep me here longer and don’t knock my hands over into your chest and your heart we’ll make too much noise against the glowing fireflies in the cavernous echoes ram against ricochet against the curling elephant tusk ceiling. Fleeting flirter, you become stranger still. There are three grains left in the bowl, they lie under the deconstructed mast, collapsed stilts chopsticks cut the bowl in two.
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CONTRIBUTORS Justine Adeboyejo is a senior studying news-editorial journalism and English. She takes a lot of pictures in her free time. Noelle Africh is the best kisser in literature today. She is very similar to global warming in the sense that she is extremely hot, yet the human race as a whole is not acknowledging her appropriately. Her only wish is to be buried with a Coexist sticker on top of her coffin. Liam Burns is a Liberal Arts double threat from Chicago. He enjoys cheap beer, a good slab of ribs, and compliments from the elderly. Watch his ascent to Twitter immortality @liamcburns. Natalie Czarnota studies Creative Writing at the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign, where she is learning to use words to try to understand why the world is the way it is. Preen Dhillon is a writer who ardently champions for the rights of adverbs. In her free time she enjoys having celebrity-related meltdowns, imparting useless information about European royal families upon her friends, shortening the word “very” to just “v”, and dreaming about future pets she wants to name Ophelia and Ovid because she is v pretentious. Akanimoh Ekong is a senior majoring in creative writing. Every day she’s on a journey to become the woman she was destined to be. Mariel Fechik is a junior studying English Secondary Education. She is an avid reader, writer, and musician. She hopes to one day be the kind of high school English teacher that kids actually think is cool. Ana V. Fleming is from Peoria, Illinois, currently a sophomore pursuing her bachelor’s degree at UIUC. She strives to explore and create through various artistic media, notably painting, composing music, and writing. Jack Geist is a poet at the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign. His work has never been featured in any literary journal. He will be attending Iowa Writer’s Workshop as a graduate student for his MFA in creative writing. He loves cardstock paper and deep fried meats. Stephany Guerrero takes photos. She enjoys looking at flowers. She is a senior advertising student. Mitch Healy is a junior majoring in English and Creative Writing. He reads books and watches movies and hopes to do things after college. William Jaramillo is a senior studying economics. Known to say a thing or two about stuff, he has a proclivity for watching nature documentaries and eating guacamole. You can generally find him meandering about with his headphones on while he contemplates his impending transformation into a sell-out. Sam Kendrick is a student at the University of Illinois who writes apologetics, poetry, and songs. He is pursuing a career in nursing. Kathryn Polkoff is a student in Animal Sciences at the University of Illinois, which has almost nothing to do with writing or literature. But sometimes she writes short fiction and poetry because she does. Krystyna Serhijchuk is a freshman studying English. Margaret Telthorst is a sophomore pursuing Anthropology and Creative Writing with a minor in French. She is a lover of coffee, antiques, and all things Harry Potter. A native of Indiana, she currently does not know what she wants to do with her life but is having a good time figuring it out.
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