Spectrum Literary Arts Magazine: Spring 2019

L i te ra r y A r t s M a g a z i n e Spring 2019

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Andie Gasparovic August Bottorf Erin Choi Grant Foskett Jade Fiorilla

Editor-in-Chief, Co-Designer Creative Director & Layout Manager Finance Manager Secretary Advertising Manager

Katja Berger Olga Prifti Sarah Sherard Sophia Petrucci

A DV ERT I SI NG

L AYO U T & DE S I G N

Emily Shen Gabrielle Bruck Inika Shetty Mitchell Gamburg

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Kaitlin Kerr Kathryn Norris

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Cover art adapted from “Seagull” by Hana Shapiro.

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No part of this publication may be reproduced without the permission of Spectrum Literary Arts Magazine and/or respective authors. Spectrum Literary Arts Magazine reserves the right to edit submissions for layout, grammar, spelling, and punctuation unless otherwise indicated by the author. Any references to people living or dead are purely coincidental except in the case of public figures. The views and opinions represented in this media do not necessarily reflect those of Northeastern University or the staff of Spectrum Literary Arts Magazine.

TA BLE O F CO NTE NTS

STAF F M E M BE RS COM M IT T E E CON TAC T

Natalya Jean Doga Tasdemir Haniyyah Tobarri Gwen Cusing Remenna Xu

Take A Hike | Danielle Rowe Burn One for Me | Tiffany Jieting Yu

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Unclear | Remenna Xu

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Gemütlichkeit | Liam O’Donnell

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flighty | Gabrielle Bruck After Hours | a. l.

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Churning Seas | Yanni Pappas Modern Bloodletting | Sophia Petrucci

Can I be the fool today | Aidan Meyer-Golden

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Orb | Muhammad Elarbi

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the odyssey | Gwen Cusing

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Stoicism | Liam O’Donnell Jade | Laura Ma

boston baroque, watercolor | aximilya insomniac manic insomniac | a. l.

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Purple Haze | Euvin Lee Apocalypse in Haiku | Rayna Haque

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La Jolla Tide Pools | Muhammad Elarbi Air Quality Index of a Wildfire | Sophia Petrucci

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Watercolor and Pen | Mary Carolonza Boat | Sayali Bhagat sleepyhead | krk

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Tines of the Oculus | Sam Penney major climate report describes a strong risk of crisis as early as 2040 | Gwen Cusing

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In a room with glass flowers | Sarah Sherard

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唐人街 | Doga Tasdemir

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Picnic | C. Clarke

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Seagull | Hana Shapiro SMTWTFS | Elke Thoms

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Funkdafied | Natalie Hill Deutschkurs | Kaley Bachelder

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Drive Me & Black Porsche | Sam Penney Enfumer | Haniyyah Tobarri

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Roadblock | Ben Landsberg Cauterization | Liam Bell

Leabharlann Choláiste na Tríonóide | Liam O’Donnell Class of 2018 | krk It Mattered | Victoria Barranco 5

Burn One for Me | Tiffany Jieting Yu

They wanted to burn furniture.”

That was all.

They wanted to turn bedbugs to dust, wanted to light up their entire lives and start anew.

There would be plenty more furniture to be had, and sure, they could’ve left it in the alley to be taken by the next garbage truck or seeker of furniture— but to burn it, no one could claim what was once theirs. They had a match and a tank of petrol, so they did.

Take a Hike | Danielle Rowe

They wanted to burn Furniture! wanted to Smell Charred wood and Polyester Crackling in a huge orange Mouth.

Their Faces gleamed Red from Flames jumping up for a Kiss One of the Boys dumped gasoline on the Fire Every So Often and The Fire Screamed.

Gone was the beige-brown recliner the Stained love-sack, Even the lamp that Lived on steven’s desk.

They Wanted to, so they Burned It All.

They wanted to burn furniture so they lit the bed on fire sent the couch up in flames out back their boots sunk into sludge flattened half-hearted grass Tough to get a fire going good thing they found fuel Fuck. This. Shit. he says and pours it all onto a rotting cushion the flame rises red battling itself feeding on dried beer stains and potato chip crumbs and the long wisps of girls’ hair (some hers) deserted in the cracks now transformed into smoke rising strangling the night air

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major climate report describes a strong risk of crisis as early as 2040 | Gwen Cusing which is to say, i. you were right all along, back in the sixth grade, crawling on our bellies through the school hallways during our fifth round of Spy. Tell me this story again: the way August afternoons clung to our backs and blackened our white uniform shirts, the smell of asphalt and warm carpet, how we laid on the turf, side by side, and looked up to see an everything open to us all at once.

The heat settled in that year and never left. ii.

It is 32 degrees Fahrenheit here and we are now 3078 miles apart, which is to say, I have never been good with numbers.

Add state lines, subtract the time, and we end up back to back. iii.

Where will we be in four years?

I see you, laying on your little brother’s old bed, your feet hanging over the edge. June slips under the covers and curls up against your shoulder. You are looking up at the everything open above you, now so close you can feel her breathing, and you laugh in her face. Ignoring the white uniform shirts in the Goodwill boxes on the floor, you feel like you want to never leave.

Tines of The Oculus | Sam Penney

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In a room with glass flowers | Sarah Sherard

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Can I be the fool today | Aidan Meyer-Golden Can I be the fool today —asked blithe & articulate your sharp hips making the day quakes, shivers, unlikely.

And breath not forthright is a problem, so what do you do when the world ceases its giving?

Grab scalpel?

I wear the mask and wig.

My clothes do not fit right.

And all the world stages to turn like ballet on the axis of our trade.

唐人街 | Doga Tasdemir

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the odyssey | Gwen Cusing after george saunders

gwen cusing I leave home at seventeen.

george cusing I leave home at nineteen. lee tin cusing Yah sui (How beautiful is) gua-eh kao-eh. (my little dog.)

george cusing Seventeen.

I race around the last bend on the dusty track in my bare feet. Running is the closest I have ever been to flight. Maybe if I close my eyes, this gold medal around my neck will become something for me to sink my teeth into and chew. jeanie see Seventeen.

I live in the night, sneaking past the nuns and into the street.

The humid air wraps around my throat and I can almost taste saltwater and new lands. viola gotauco-see Seventy.

Armed with a thimble and sewing needle, I create life out of fabric. My sisters and I,

we weave and weave and weave. wilson see Yah sui (How beautiful is) gua-eh boh. (my wife.)

pablo cusing, sr.

Gusto ko pa (I wanted more) para sa iyo. (for you.) viola gotauco-see Ninety.

I perch on this plastic chair and watch my children and their children and their children around me. This life we have created, how beautiful.

wilson see Gua-eh tan di.

(I will wait for you.) gwen cusing Thirteen.

I want nothing more than these stars and stripes.

I am forgetting this language that has wrapped its arms around me and raised me. When I speak, this mother tongue is rusty and jagged. lee tin cusing Mang bueh kee dit (Never forget) di-eh keh. (your home.)

jeanie see I leave home at twenty-two.

george cusing Twenty-two.

This country, this golden state, smells so sweet. I take a deep breath, cradle this hope into my chest. Let me dance across these streets, a cha-cha across the Tenderloin, a Viennese waltz through Daly City. pablo cusing, sr.

Sige lang isayaw mo.

(Keep dancing.) jeanie cusing Thirty-eight.

If I have a daughter, I will teach her to rely on the strength in her own fingers.

I will teach her to stand straight and stare life square in the eye. george cusing Thirty-eight.

If I have a daughter, I will teach her that there is an everything open to her all at once here. I have strong shoulders to climb and a spine to support us both.

lee tin cusing Long zhong di be (Anything you desire) si di-eh. (is yours.) wilson see Gua-eh sin si di-eh.

(My body is yours.) george cusing & jeanie cusing Fifty-seven.

I would give this tired body to build an airplane or boat or time machine for you.

I will sacrifice my home, will whitewash my tongue, will swallow this foreign air by the lungful for you.

Only let me rest among the branches of this life we have created, how beautiful.

pablo cusing, sr. & lee tin cusing Gusto ko pa (I wanted more) para sa iyo. (for you.) gwen cusing Five.

There isn’t a single thing I can’t do.

I have been given flight and everything I want and more, so I take and take.

viola gotauco-see & wilson see I think of you / gua le kee dit di always. / tyah tyah.

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Jade | Laura Ma On a sweltering summer afternoon, I perceive a woman with tousled black hair.

On her lap: a pepper-furred pup with a pink tongue panting contentedly in the August heat.

Held gently between two plump fingers, a cigarette– plumes of pensive clouds escape lazily from her lips in languid sighs.

A jade bracelet hangs lightly from her elegant wrist; I am surprised by a tingling warmth inside me.

By tradition, my old grandmother checks in now and then on my love life: Are you a lesbian?

An accusation I always counter with no– But concealed behind a curtain of denial is my coveted memory of the jade bracelet dangling in the afternoon sun, tobacco scented fingers stroking soft, black fur.

Stoicism | Liam O’Donnell 13

Picnic | C. Clarke

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SMTWTFS | Elke Thoms Saturday afternoon is spent dozing in Santa Barbara, my head tilted on your chest.

We are out in the open, and I am enamored with the waves not moving.

We are sleeping in rhythm, ever slightly awake.

So maybe it’s Monday evening, I do not know.

You take away the names, you make every day feel lovely, cool and the same.

Seagull | Hana Shapiro

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Deutschkurs | Kaley Bachelder Ich spreche ein bisschen Deutsch.

My tutor might say otherwise.

German is a straightforward language.

Auf Deutsch: der Handschuh literally: hand shoe a glove Auf Deutsch: arbeit = work. der Arbeitgeber the work-giver employer der Arbeitnehmer the work-taker employee Auf Deutsch: to fall in love is not a change of state.

When constructing the present perfect tense a verb usually takes haben, but in some cases sein.

Sein is used for: “movement in a particular direction or a change of location” gehen, fahren, fliegen, schwimmen go, drive, fly, swim and “verbs that indicate a change of state or describe an event that one cannot control.” einschlafen, aufwachen fall asleep, wake up Ich habe mit du verliebt.

No change of state.

Am I always falling in love?

A controllable event.

Am I in control?

Funkdafied | Natalie Hill

Present Perfect Tense

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Black Porsche | Sam Penney Enfumer | Niah Tobarri i’m collecting matches and using them to light cigarettes (yes, i know it’s not practical but i’ve never been conventional) this isn’t an oven, this isn’t even my kitchen. i’m on the wrong side of the tracks; puffing air into my tires, passing go swiping marlboro lites from convenience stores like smoking has ever been m ​ y​ thing, like i don’t care about my lungs or the environment, like i need to use matches to kindle this fire, like i don’t know that all you need is a spark.

Drive Me | Sam Penney

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cauterization | Liam Bell can we go home properly, i mean, after really leaving we’ve blazed a trail in fire and fury and passion and courage but if we turn back all we see is ash and ruin or maybe it’s not what is left that changes it’s us maybe we forge ourselves anew in the crucible of adulthood and then cannot fit into old spaces the ones that held our childhood that caught tears and hid secret toys now we are too small and then when we touch them, they burn in the heat of our new creation with surety, though we cannot return home because home becomes a memory of childhood, which once lost can be remembered, tasted briefly but never truly found again all that remains is burnt ruin where home once was

Roadblock | Ben Landsberg

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Unclear | Remenna Xu I tend to be very forgetful; my mother says that my head is thinking two steps behind my heart. When I forget my practice book at home, the teacher tells me I am lacking in self-will. My father reminds me that semester examinations are soon. I know, I know, I know.

This is how my morning unfolds: I am pulled awake at 7:03 by the insistent nature of my dog, Bunbun, who grips my blankets in his teeth and pulls them away. My mother will lay out my school uniform on a chair next to my bed, and my breakfast will be waiting for me on the kitchen table. I will know that my father has left for his work, and that my mother is next door gossiping with Widow Lang. I will eat for 10 minutes, feed scraps to Bunbun, and then I will walk to the bus station; walk, don’t run. If it is raining then I will let the muddy Beijing water taint my white uniform, and if it is sunny then I will patiently weave around the apartment children. I will take Public City Bus Route 287 for 40 minutes. I never rush.

When I return home, it will be dusty, but I will know my way home because it is 105 steps from the bus to my door. I know.

But today, I awoke at 7:10. Bunbun was not next to me, and my mother had not ironed my uniform. I stepped into a sticky kitchen and forced my way through the dampened air to the table, sipping lukewarm tea as I chewed wordlessly on the stale bread my mother forgot that we had purchased a week ago.

Without Bunbun to occupy me, I can hear through the walls snatches of the gossip my mother has already begun with Widow Lang. I know she must be waving her arms in fervent emotion, her smooth hair curled in place, white skin with tiny pink dots in the center of her cheek’s hollows.

Now she is telling Widow Lang about the affair.

I can hear Bunbun whine as my mother hugs him closer to her chest.

And I vomit.

When I lift my head, I am assaulted on both sides, by the toxic smell of my own waste, and

by the motion of events to come. The acid is still burning a hole through my throat as I crouch on legs that refuse to stand. My breath is simply a hoarse whisper through gurgles in my throat.

I remember the blurry state of their melting together, a suffocating fog compressing the lines of their bodies. At the time, I had stood there, as I always do. And I did not flee, nor did I run or cry or scream. I stood, breathing in the proof of my father’s lies, until the gravel from the street lodged inside my lungs.

I stood, watching, until the small stones closed up my breath. I blink, and then I walk away. I knew.

I knew because his clothes are always already wrinkled. For brief moments, I catch wild, insurgent, emotions stirring inside me, before they quiet down. I except them to surge now. I wait. I reach up to catch tears from my eyes, but instead I swear my fingers glide through my face. Nothing.

Now my mother is telling Widow Lang about divorce.

I should have told her sooner. I should be outraged.

But instead, my vomit remains on the ground and I silently leave the apartment, fingers and breath smelling faintly of sweat and refuse and bile.

Now, my mother is calling her sister, and soon, my aunt will tell her daughter, and then Honghai will run into me and cry. I know, I know. Yes, I know what happened. I know you are sorry for me, but it is ok, cousin, and yes, I will be ok. Cousin Honghai, don’t cry for me.

As I wait for the city shuttle I practice a brave smile for Honghai. Yes Honghai, I’m fine. Look, do you see how I smile?

But today, she does not come rushing for me.

People often comment on how similar Honghai and I are in appearances; our mothers are twins, after all. But Honghai has milky porcelain skin and slender legs; I have my father’s dark, bumpy skin, and my mother’s

thick, rich hair. And though she is excitable and popular, I have never considered Honghai as more than an accessory thrust into my arms at my birth.

I glimpse Honghai during our lunch hour, in the courtyard with her friends. I have brief flashes of unfamiliar envy, thoughts of her easy, beautiful life in the back of my thoughts.

Even her new gloves, at first seeming out of place, have coaxed compliments out of our classmates. But I breath. I lay out my lunch and I sit under a tree, closing my eyes under the falling ginkgo leaves. For 59 minutes and 14 seconds, I watch neighboring squirrels gorge on my food as I wait for my mother to call me on my mobile and tell me the news herself.

I prepare a response: “Oh mother, how awful!

How awful of father to treat us this way. I am so sorry. Mother, do not cry. We will be strong.”

But the call does not come.

When I return that evening, I am expecting a discussion. I have taken a deep breath, and I have turned the key slowly, because I know my mother can hear the deliberate sound of our heavy steel locks opening.

But when I walk in, there is not even a whine from Bunbun to tell me that this is my home; I only know that I have come to the right address when I see my mother’s wedding qipao, lying on the ground with a tear in its shoulder. I feel a remarkable sense of loss at the marred silk. When I kneel down to gather up the torn fabrics I am greeted by the stale stench of my morning vomit covering the back of the qipao.

I go to bed wondering if mother would be happy to find that I have scored a high grade on the most recent English exam. I miss the warmth of Bunbun next to me, and I fall asleep shivering under the glare of a full moon.

Next, the war. They bring in lawyers.

They march into our home and carry leather satchels so full of papers that I cower under their shadows. The first sharp pain comes when I am informed that my father has asked to be given ownership of Bunbun. He did not ask for me. And now my one companion is taken.

I am told to gather up my Bunbun’s playthings and bowls from my bedroom. And I happen to glance into the aluminium face of the water bowl.

There is a cloud where my eyes once peered. It has extended to my chin. I touch my face, half out of fear, half expecting the cool touch of fog. The dish falls. I dig through my drawers until I find my hand mirror, looking in but finding only mist and a blurred, grotesque white.

I fall too.

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Gemütlichkeit | Liam O’Donnell

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After Hours | a.l.

• i feel more like a person when im with certain people • and you, my dear, make me feel like a fish • i learned to dance from a girl who could dance far better than i could even breathe • the • bunnies in my head • love the color yellow. they’re much nicer to me than me and darling im groping for oxygen in your atmosphere; not because i breathe like a fish but because she’s a really fucking great dancer anyway, it’s • negative 50 degrees • in my hometown– • jesus christ • that can’t be right no, i checked again, it’s true i should be counting my bunnies, keeping us lucky but im just • so • damn • blue

flighty | Gabrielle Bruck

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Modern Bloodletting | Sophia Petrucci I bleed and it smells like the piers: Kelp and brine, barnacles.

You reach out a hand as if to say this is what you get for owning a body.

Where I grew up, the sea was a tease like that; never smelled quite so good as you’d remembered and the little crabs would hide in pits of water as if they didn’t already have shells.

On that shore I am grabbing my own hands, fingers woven tight like a kindergarten placemat, turning my fingertips purple. Keeping it in.

Here, years away, I am sitting And you are standing And I am bleeding.

And you are touching my shoulder to remind me that blood is a prerequisite to creaturehood just as memory is to forgiveness.

And I am accepting your touch, which is another part of being a creature, or a forgiver, or a rememberer.

Modern bloodletting is when I floss after too long an absence, cherry spit in the sink.

Injury, menstruation. Tattoo, surgery, beautification, donation.

More than ever it’s a blood age.

This, too, is just ritual, and the ocean knows. Together we bleed in and out.

Churning Seas | Yanni Pappas 31

Orb | Muhammad Elarbi

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insomniac manic insomniac | a.l.

boston baroque, watercolor | aximilya

try to relax your teeth try to relax the space between your brows the heartbreak of losing one in a pair is the other forever longing for their brother– i try to relax my teeth but its four a.m. and ive lost another earring and if you’re counting, that makes three. this year. it’s february.

i furrow my brow i furrow my teeth i’m stuck in time, four days behind a vignette of a life that i shouldn’t relate to but do and everything is moving so fast around me i clench my teeth i clench my brow a moon, a hoop, stars on a line the veins in my hand grow loud and i think of the gourds in my grandmother’s house and i think of the lives i shouldn’t relate to but do and i think of my hunger i clench my teeth i furrow my brow i clench my brow it’s five o’clock somewhere but it’s four a.m. here and i’m sick of how i feel and i’m sick of how i am i’m sick of the chase but i’m hungry for blood and there’s nothing i can do so i furrow my brow and i furrow my teeth and i furrow the veins in my hands and i clench my teeth and i clench my kneecaps and i clench the tiny hairs that grow between the knuckles on my feet i want to tame the killer but there’s nothing i can do so i furrow and furrow and clench clench clench until its 4 a.m. and i’ve lost all my earrings.

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Apocalypse in Haiku | Rayna Haque Moonlight pours through a sheen of sweat on god’s brow; the sun strains His aged back. the rays mean to blind– their heat swelters, singes your hair-yet you must bask He means no harm but the fact that there is a but keeps your heart awake etch me in flowers, let the sun soak my petals– make me feel human.

Delicate fingers, sweetly plucking to the tune of Armageddon.

Purple Haze | Euvin Lee

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La Jolla Tide Pools | Muhammad Elarbi

Air Quality Index of a Wildfire | Sophia Petrucci

A smell like hemp, orange and hairspray; You eat the only cherry on your neighbor’s tree, pie dough under your fingernails.

This summer is This summer is This August is overburdened Five hundred apples ricochet off the pavement, then roll into the storm drain. Glut.

If you eat enough truths maybe they will grow inside of you like seeds Or maybe if you swallow enough seeds you can fill your growling stomach.

In this way you attempt to fix things— kick apples pick cherries wait for rain; the smoke swallows the city instead and you choke on holding your breath.

August is a murky yellow.

A noisy time.

August is a muddy, creeping color-wash dull with dirty water.

The ash will stick in your bloodstream long after the fires have gone, longer still after the fires that replace them.

You need to breathe. AQI 159 and climbing.

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Boat | Sayali Bhagat

sleepyhead | krk I like to dream about the hypotheticals. especially in the mornings. if you were here you’d reach out for me without opening your eyes. you’d pull the covers up to my chin. you’d moan in protest at the alarm. you’d suggest we spend the whole day in bed. and why not?

I’d roll over.

I’d say “good morning, Sleepyhead” I’d kiss your forehead.

I like to dream about the mornings.

Watercolor and Pen | Mary Carolonza

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Leabharlann Choláiste na Tríonóide | Liam O’Donnell

class of 2018 | krk valedictorian of my high school gave a speech at graduation in my white graduation cap leaned over to whoever sat next to me then said that boy stuck his tongue in my mouth”

It Mattered | Victoria Barranco Stare up from the cold.

Cram into a styrofoam container.

Look at the dried raindrops.

Don’t feel.

I didn’t cry It didn’t matter but it did

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