The Olivetree Review Issue 54

THE OLIVETREE REVIEW

ISSUE 54 FALL 2013

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© The Olivetree Review, CUNY Hunter College, Thomas Hunter Room 212, 695 Park Avenue, New York, NY 10065. theolivetreereview.com Fall 2013, No. 54. This journal is funded by Hunter College’s student activity fees and is distributed free to the university community.

The artwork featured on the cover is “Trunket” by Kristie Kish. The inside cover features selected content from Issue 54. The fonts used are Florencesans Black, Opficio., and Gill Sans. Layout design

by Theadora Hadzi.

Submissions are reviewed September through November and February through May. We consider submissions of visual art, fiction, creative non-fiction, poetry, and drama. The Olivetree Review is staffed by undergraduate students of Hunter College. All submissions are reviewed anonymously by Hunter College students.

Permission to publish the content in this issue was granted to the Olivetree Review by the artists and authors. These contributors retain all original copyright ownership of works appearing in the Olivetree Review before and after its publication. Copying, reprinting, or reproducing any material in this journal is strictly prohibited.

Printed by Sun Ray Printing, St. Cloud, Minnesota.

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THE OLIVETREE REVIEW

ISSUE 54 FALL 2013 THE LITERARY AND ARTS JOURNAL OF HUNTER COLLEGE SINCE 1983

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CONTENTS INTERVIEWS with ROBERT SWAIN

Buona Notte Untitled 112

ART CONTEST PRIZE MALKA BRIZEL-LIPSHITZ The Red Wedding

49

FRANCHESKA ALCANTRA I Am Not Afraid

99

SAMANTHA ANDERSON Someone Else Ask Me About My Hair #selfiesunday

23 42 122

THEADORA HADZI Flamin(goes) Cross-Stitch

51 65

AMANDA HERNANDEZ Octopus MÉTALLON

50

KRISTIE KISH Trunket Boxed Reptillian

30 54

MICHAEL LAMARRA I Don’t Remember This Ain’t Up To No Good

AUDREY BECK Untitled

10

YULING REN Untitled

CECILIA CHARLTON 11-27-2013

93

NICOLE SAENZ Untitled

JACOB CINTRON Rough Touch The End Madison Emmanuel Solomon Got Boom

56 111

18 53 66 92 118

100 101 64 124

EUN WOO NAM Oscar, Look At Her She Looks Like A Giraffe 20 8 Animals 21 Real Presence 41 At Rothko Chapel 89 Yeon In 125

KATHARINE ERNST

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SHANE VELASQUEZ Portrait Of A Man Hooligans

97 112

DRAMA CONTEST PRIZE BRIAN KELLEY Commentary I Thought You’d Like That

58 102

The Cockroaches and Jeffrey Dahmer 68

PROSE CONTEST PRIZE MICHAEL BETZA Geoffrey and Uncle Lars

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GIAN LUIGI DE FALCO Rhythm

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ANNA JANKOWSKI Glimpses I & II

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ANNA MIRABELLA Raising The Dead

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TERESA SOTO Brave

68

AMANDA HOHENBERG I Don’t Have No Favourite Fruit

EDITH WOOLLEY I Hate Your Sharp Teeth

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POETRY CONTEST PRIZE KRYSTIN HERNANDEZ My Grandmother’s Cooking Pot 22

CONTRIBUTORS

124

CONLEY LOWRANCE Morning Rain

NICOLE PERGUE The Virago

11 120

MEGHANN WILLIAMS Arms Splayed Out Like Concrete 52

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FALL 2013 ADMINISTRATIVE AND EDITORIAL STAFF EDITOR-IN-CHIEF ASSOCIATE EDITORS Katharine Ernst Kristine Ambrosch Michael Betza MANAGING EDITOR David Carmona Jacob Cintron Melissa Cauchi Jacob Cintron ADMINISTRATIVE EDITOR Stefania D’Andrea Rubana Rahman Jacob Daniels David DeLeon TREASURER Annie Dobbrow Meghann Williams Anjelica Enaje Katharine Ernst ART EDITOR Kristie Kish Leying Zhang Louis Gaudio Andrew Gayle DRAMA EDITOR James Guo Esther Ko Theadora Hadzi Amanda Hohenberg PROSE EDITOR Lev Izraelit Louis Gaudio Brian Kelley Esther Ko POETRY EDITOR Diana Kosianka Catherine Ryan Linda Luu Nicole Pergue CREATIVE DIRECTOR Stacy Seever Theadora Hadzi Vlad Velicu Erika Wang EDITORIAL ASSISTANT Chireau White Kevin Zych Meghann Williams Brenda Wong PUBLICITY MANAGER Leying Zhang James Guo Kevin Zych

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LETTER FROM THE EDITOR KATHARINE ERNST I love art. Art in any form, from writing, painting or music, caters to the human spirit. Through art, each person has an experience that is both tied to themselves, yet intertwined with history and the maker of the object.

As our age introduces more digital and technological advances, the types of experiences that art provides are becoming increasingly important to individual development. I see art as a reflection of each individual’s social experience, and I regard art and education, or some form of knowledge and learning, are intrinsically tied.

Being involved with a journal like the Olivetree Review has been a privilege. It ensures that the student body has a forum to express themselves and develop an artistic sensibility. That sensitivity and creativity is invaluable in any facet of life. I am so happy, and grateful, to be involved with such a gifted group of students, and I thank you all for making the Olivetree Review what is it today.

Sincerely,

Katharine Ernst

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CONTESTS ART This semester’s art contest asked for unique interpretations of the word “distance”. The Red Wedding was chosen as the winner of the contest for its contrasting balance of inner and outer space.The piece invites questions about space by distorting the viewer’s perception of physical distance.

The Red Wedding by Malka Brizel-Lipschitz

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DRAMA Brian Kelley’s “Commentary” recontextualizes our understanding of space by bringing virtual reality into the physical realm. This semester’s drama contest encouraged writers to evoke a space other than the one the characters were inhabiting. “Commentary” explores a space where the characters are both “there” and “not there” simultaneously. What emerges is a cast of characters whose individual personalities are established through careful attention to the features of the text we exchange daily. What does it look, sound, and feel like when the chaotic, overlapping world of the internet is brought to life? A hilarious glimpse into the solipsistic, self-promoting, self-righteous culture of these modern times.

Commentary by Brian Kelley

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POETRY The poetry contest encouraged writers to consider the relationship of the words “egg” and “space”. My Grandmother’s Cooking Pot was chosen as the winner for its metaphorical exploration of fertility and matrilineage.The writer evokes strong images through an intimate portrayal of cross-generational admiration.

My Grandmother’s Cooking Pot by Krystin Hernandez

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PROSE The contest prompt was to write a story in which one character wants to get closer to someone who wants to get further away. “Geoffrey and Uncle Lars” featured a protagonist who wants to help a relative to whom he feels a special connection, but the situation quickly reverses and the protagonist becomes the one trying to get away. The transition shows how people perceive the distance between each other, and what can happen when that distance closes.

Geoffrey and Uncle Lars by Michael Betza

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UNTITLED AUDREY BECK ACRYLIC ON CANVAS

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MORNING RAIN CONLEY LOWRANCE POETRY Dawn’s raindrops are sucked back into the clouds & your dress watches like a fire from the floorboards.

In bed, I thumb through photographs of familiar bodies while your limbs rearrange into the jagged lines of a poem.

The clouds part—I pull a strange cyst from my mouth that resembles a small, wet skull & place it in jar.

But like a magnet, the room ignores me—fixed instead on the nocturnal cadence of your breath & the sliver of hair caught between your lips.

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RAISING THE DEAD ANNA MIRABELLA PROSE

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hey crowded around his resurrection of half-dead actors.” grave like vultures, chanting News trucks, bloggers and other and singing. They reached press parked along my narrow street out to each other and linked arms. I to witness the impossible. Middlewatched from my window aimlessly aged cameramen stood by doubtful. as the group circled around the Others had their cameras angled, decade-old grave. The very same ready to capture the spectacle. grave that I spent hours scrubbing It won’t happen though. It can’t clean every year after they had happen. left. Their satanic spells and rituals The sky seemed darker than were meant to transfer a soul into a usual today. There was no moon lifeless body. light to illuminate the It won’t work. It neon pink flamingoes HENRY WOULDN’T that lined my porch. never works.

COME BACK; HE The only form of I’ve told them, the neighbors told them; WAS BURIED SIX light was artificial. It even the police had came in the form of told them. It seemed FEET UNDER THE flashes, streetlights, as if nothing could and lamps brought by GROUND stop them from the News production gathering every year crews. Coincidentally, on Halloween. This year brought it had begun to drizzle lightly. more hype than ever before. There It isn’t possible. was a man who was claiming to be With all my might, I clutched the the next Messiah. He proclaimed satin curtain I was hiding behind. to his mass following that he would Why wouldn’t they just leave? Henry do unlike any other before him and wouldn’t come back; he was buried successfully raise the dead. There six feet under the ground. His body was an endless amount of YouTube had decomposed years ago. videos posted on his behalf, bashing It won’t work. magicians and miracle workers who The mob on my lawn bustled with had, according to him, “staged the excitement. I couldn’t help but laugh

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bitterly at the mangled conversation of the people. They were so naïve.

“It’s going to be his greatest trick!”

“No, you’ve got it all wrong. Xavier is going to be the one to raise that Houdini wannabe from the dead.”

“You’re joking right? That guy thinks he’s Jesus.”

Xavier Woods. I hated every fiber of his being. He always wore designer shades on his head, even if it wasn’t sunny out. His vocabulary was heavily weighed down by his ego. He never uttered a compliment to anyone other than himself. He actually believed that he was God’s gift to the world. I stared in disgust as he maneuvered his way through the crowd. Girls flung themselves at the handsome twenty-something year old. With his ripped jeans and black blazer, he looked like something out of a Hollywood blockbuster.

“Xavier!” They cheered as he stopped in front of them. Girls looked at each other as if his termination of movement was for them in particular; that with some strike of luck, their new dress caught his eye out of the hundreds lined up behind the barricade.

A barricade.

In front of my house.

It was absolutely ridiculous how much power this man had over the world. The very power he drew from the speculation and hilarity of others. It was as if each like on Facebook, each retweet, made him grow stronger and stronger.

“Good people of the Promised

Land!” He called out with outstretched arms. “I’m sure you’ve all heard the story about that guy who parted the Red Sea.” “His name is Moses!” Somebody called out from the crowd.

“It doesn’t matter what his name is. The only name that matters is Xavier Woods. Watch as I make each and every one of you part like the Red Sea!” A shriek escaped from the crowd. People began to hold on to each other tightly as if that would keep them from physically splitting apart.

Xavier held his temple with the palm of his hand. “The crowd is going to part like the Red Sea.” With a swift movement of his hand, people shuffled to the left and right, leaving the middle open for him to pass. “Idiots,” He mumbled.

I watched the people whisper to each other in hushed excitement.

There was no doubt that he was demonstrating how easily people could be manipulated, and they were all proving him right. Xavier inched backwards, spun on his heels and chuckled. “Do you see the power I possess?” He mocked the crowd that had lined up for hours in the cold to watch him. The way he shouted to the sky was like something out of a horror film. This man was desecrating everything held sacred in this world.

Life. Trust. Love.

The crowd erupted in cheers at his every word. “Now, where is Ms. Magic?” He smiled deviously. Ms.

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OTR Magic, it was my stage name long “Coward!” ago. “She’s hiding again?” His laugh I knew neither of them were was almost maniacal. “Tell her to put meant for Xavier. He was idolized by on her get-up and help me preform too many for that kind of treatment. an amazing trick. I promise no one I hated him, I hated his juvenile will die with me around.” fans, but most of all I hated that I The line was crossed. Everyone couldn’t find solace because of him. felt it but no one dared make a move. He had brought with him unwanted They knew the wrath of Ms. Magic speculation, scrutiny and attention. was nothing to take lightly. It was a Fuck you, Xavier Woods. part of me that I was ashamed of.

“Come on out here, Ms. Magic! I “Don’t you remember what don’t bite.” His voice grew louder happened to that with each attempt. If I reporter?”

One didn’t face the dragon, whispered.

I couldn’t slay it. More I’M NOT A “You mean the one importantly, I couldn’t MONSTER. that she punched in the let that dragon burn face?” down the village by “Shhh…what if she hears you?” digging up my husband’s grave for his Another voiced chimed in. fifteen minutes of fame. I made my I’m not a monster. way towards the door and prepared The shades banged against the a scowl so the world would know window when I scrambled to seal I wasn’t here to please Xavier. I every opening of the house. I was here for my own intentions. wouldn’t be drawing any unnecessary Xavier was already knelt down attention to myself today. In fact, I by my husband’s grave when I left couldn’t. If I pounced on the spawn the house. As I approached him, of Satan now, he would no doubt file somebody twice my size shoved me a lawsuit. It would be on the news for away. “Don’t come near him. He decades. There would be no hope in needs to concentrate.” escaping the ridicule and unwanted “I don’t give a fuck about what he attention. My husband’s grave would needs. That is my husband’s grave not only be frequented by die-hard he is trying to dig up!” I swatted the fans but by those nosy Paparazzi too. man’s muscular arm away.

It will be a mistake.

“Shh!” Xavier’s glossy eyes The sound of cat calls towards reached mine. His golden eyes were Xavier were drowned out by the like venom. He captured and averted pounding of my head. The room the attention of many unsuspecting became a blur. I could barely make victims with those very pupils, but out the shouts coming from outside. not me. I only saw Henry’s chocolate “Weak!” eyes. “I can’t bring him back to life

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with your negative energy.” Xavier long fingers curled around mine. pushed me slightly.

“Right here? Are you sure?” All I stared at his bent over figure. other activity had ceased. It was just He began instructing people to grab Henry and I together on the wooden shovels. “Focus by the gravestone. swing.

We want to see his face when he “Yes. I know it sounds crazy. Why comes back to life.” would any sane person put their “Stop it!” My shouts dawned on husband six feet under their front deaf ears. I began to shake violently. lawn?” He tapped his chin as if he How were these people just was in thought but shook his head. watching this? How was this legal? “It’s what I really want. Please don’t The same scene kept playing over fight me on this.” and over again in my mind.

Morals were being exchanged Henry and I sat on the new swing for entertainment. “Get back inside we had purchased with the advance ma’am. Security guards grasped my on one of his magic shows. We were arm and began to drag me towards drafting ideas for new and exciting the house I had finally gained enough tricks we could use in our act. His courage and incentive to leave. brown eyes locked with my green “Leave me alone! Your so called ones and he whispered, “I want to ‘savior’ coaxed me out here! Those be buried right here.” are my husband’s remains in that “Excuse me?” I dropped the ground! I have every right to be out Sharpie I had been doodling with and here and deny all of this!” Punches watched Henry’s unusually stoic face. and kicks were thrown as I tried to “When I die, I want to be buried escape the burly man’s grasp. right here in our yard,” He repeated.

“I only need you to confirm that “But why? What about your this is indeed your husband and not mother’s plot?” some look-a-like when I resurrect “I don’t want to be buried with him. You’re only here for the cameras. everyone else. A graveyard is a place Now, go ahead and dig, guys.” Xavier for lost souls. I’ve been thinking a motioned to his lackeys. lot lately about death. It’s basically The man was having a hard time an eternal sleep. I want to sleep restraining me. His grasp loosened comfortably in my home. It’s where with each aggressive twist of my I grew up, where I discovered magic, body. I ran towards Xavier with a and where I proposed to the woman fist cocked. The splat of the mud, I love. I don’t want to be with a the pounding of the fresh rain, the bunch of strangers. Have the funeral shouts of thousands of girls, were all at the cemetery, but bury my body drowned out by the sound of my loud here. Right where we’re sitting.” His shriek. I lunged toward the nearest

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OTR worker and reached for their shovel. my face. He stood with a shovel still Once in hand, I began to swing at in his hand and his blazer stained everything in my path. Thud. Thud. with dirt. Anger danced behind his Who or what I hit was a mystery. I lids. He huffed and stomped like a didn’t realize until I was secured by wild animal. I remained silent, even two officers that I had indeed missed when his big hands clutched my my prime target. He sat there with shoulders firmly. I had no idea what his smug smile. “Nice try.” he was talking about. He was the The cops threatened that if I one playing the joke on me. moved even an inch out of their sight, I At the time I would be fined heavily. POWER DOES NOT thought he was just If the debt wasn’t overthinking things DEFY POWER. enough of a warning, like he usually did. He POWER STANDS was they would arrest always sputtering ALONGSIDE me on the spot. If I out what came to his wanted my freedom, POWER WHILE THE mind. He never held I had no choice but anything back. Later to sit back and watch POWERLESS GAWK that week, Henry and the “show.” Henry’s I had a huge show in AND FOLLOW grave continued to be Las Vegas. It was the dug up. This time, by show that was going Xavier himself. I didn’t know what to make us a world famous act or legally gave Xavier Woods the right send us back to our ramen noodle to dig up Henry’s grave. There was diet. Henry had been working hard something about being in the public on an escape act that he hadn’t shown eye that erased all of his fears. No me before that night. When we one said anything to him because he were setting up, he told me that he managed to convince them, even if wanted to surprise me with the cool they knew what he was claiming was new trick. I thought it was because out of reach, that he was in fact a he wanted my surprised reaction to powerful person. Power does not be genuine for the audience. Henry defy power. Power stands alongside was wrapped in a straightjacket. The power while the powerless gawk ends were hooked together in the and follow the promised stability back. He was supposed to unhook like blind sheep. They had nothing to himself and float to the top of a lose but a couple of hours of their 100-gallon tank and unlock it with time. the key that was hidden away under “What kind of a joke are you the jacket. This was all supposed playing on me?” Xavier was now in to be done in under a few minutes front of me, near inches away from before he would suffocate under the

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water. I wasn’t worried. He had done many escape attempts in his routines.

Everything was going smoothly.

He unhooked the jacket in twenty seconds and was working on the lock when it happened. One of the hooks from the straightjacket got caught on the chain that held the lock into place. Henry was the only one with the key. I watched him struggle with the lock. I thought he was putting on a show for the audience. How was I supposed to know that he was drowning? In the next few seconds I realized that something went wrong and the staff rushed in to break the tank, but it was too late. He had already suffocated. I did the only thing I could handle at the time. I ran from it all.

“Don’t let her go! She dug up his body and moved it! What kind of a sick joke is this? Look at all those cameras waiting to film me!”

“I didn’t do anything.” My voice was barely above a whisper.

I didn’t do anything.

“Where is he?” Xavier boomed.

The crowd seemed to be just as confused as I was at that moment.

“His body is not in there!”

Shrieks burst from the left and spread until each person was frantically shouting. The crowd was indecisive. Some of them left, ashamed that they were part of some publicity stunt. Others weren’t convinced and leaned in for more drama.

“He’s not in there!”

“How could she have moved him?

We were here all night!”

“It’s obvious isn’t it? People gather here every year, she probably just moved his body before all of this.”

The conversations continued. The yelling from Xavier continued. The rolling of cameras continued. They were waiting for me to confess. To tell them that I was the one ruining the show again. I didn’t run this time.

Instead, I lied through my teeth. I went on and on about how I was tired of people chanting their satanic spells by his grave. I told them how I was afraid that they would conjure up bad spirits and disturb his eternal rest. I said what I could to get them out of my sanctum. These people hung at my every word. They were zombies who feasted on drama.

They accepted anything that was force fed to them. I didn’t expect those imbecils to understand that Henry’s little disappearing act was indeed his final trick.

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ROUGH TOUCH JACOB CINTRON DIGITAL PHOTOGRAPHY

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OSCAR, LOOK AT HER SHE LOOKS LIKE A GIRAFFE EUN WOO NAM ACRYLIC ON CANVAS

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8 ANIMALS

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MY GRANDMOTHER’S COOKING POT KRYSTIN HERNANDEZ POETRY I felt the full weight of my ovaries the first time I watched my mother Fry an egg in my grandmother’s cooking pot The steel basin Four inches deep; Nine inches in diameter Collecting at least an inch of surplus oil Accumulated every day since it first fell into The fleshy fingers of the first matron The swollen palms of a working class that traveled by boat And rocket ship to the Bronx From an island sixteen hundred miles away And spent the next fifty years In a cafeteria In a scrap yard In a launderette In a maintenance closet Over a cooking pot Blackened, warped, and stained under the high heat of a gas stove Irrevocably coated in a thick layer of grease From hot oil cracking as it cuts through an inch of searing hot liquid Thousands of bubbles frantically rising from the pitch black bottom Desperate to taste the light of the kitchen Onto my mother’s arm as she fries an egg in The cooking pot inherited from my grandmother Whose swollen hands were stiff and cold the last time I pressed them against my cheek Lingering for the heaviest nanosecond before the second matron’s ascension

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POETRY PRIZE WINNER The first now laying in a mahogany coffin six feet beneath the grass of spring I felt the full weight of my ovaries the first time I watched my mother Fry an egg in my grandmother’s cooking pot Splintering the ivory shell and pouring the yolk into an inch of sizzling oil

SOMEONE ELSE SAMANTHA ANDERSON INK & WATERCOLOR

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GEOFFREY AND UNCLE LARS MICHAEL BETZA PROSE

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outh Africa had just taken help that the twenty-two year old the World Cup from Spain. law student was more than a little The instant Bernie Parker intoxicated. scored the winning goal, Cape Town Feeling like the proverbial salmon erupted into a chorus of cheers and headed upstream, Geoffrey ducked football songs carried aloft on the into an alley to catch his breath. A warm July breeze, infused with salt few steps inside and the volume from the bay—a magnum opus of on the celebratory chant dropped alcohol-fueled national pride. Even down to mezzo-forte. Then came Geoffrey, who hated sport, was out a strange bleating noise, like a goat sharing a pint with his friends from in heat. Geoffrey turned down the University, drinking in the heady alley and saw a rather large man mix of adrenaline, hunched over, his left testosterone and elbow balanced atop THEN CAME lager. an industrial-sized Manchester Street, rubbish bin, retching.

A STRANGE near the Lion’s first BLEATING NOISE, Geoffrey’s Head Pub, where reaction was to step LIKE A GOAT IN off—he didn’t know Geoffrey’s friends had dragged him after who this man was, or HEAT they’d hunted him whether or not he down at the library, was armed. Then, as was more jammed up than the the man straightened up and wiped M11 at rush hour—and noisier too. the remaining vomit from his mouth Half an hour’s worth of zigzagging with the sleeve of his oversized through the inebriate swarm of Bafana Bafana t-shirt, he said, in a revelers and he’d barely gone three gruff voice, “Damned if I ever do that meters from the entrance of the again.” pub. Not including, of course, the “Uncle Lars?” twenty minutes it’d taken him to “Huh?!” the old man whipped get to the entrance from his friends’ around. His head jerked left, then table all the way at the back. It didn’t right. After rubbing his eyes a

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PROSE PRIZE WINNER moment, he squinted through the helped the old man to his feet. half-light of the alley, his gaze slowly “I’m fine,” Lars grumbled, as he focusing on the young man in front steadied himself and motioned for of him. “Whooz’ere?!” his nephew to let go. “Well, let’s “It’s me, Uncle. It’s Geoffrey.” have a look at you, then.” Uncle Lars “Geoffrey?” Then, after a short stepped back to survey the young pause, his slackened, slightly man. Then, almost immediately, he jaundiced face tightened into what smiled and spread his arms wide. could’ve easily passed as a warm “Come and give your uncle a hug, you smile. “Geoffrey!” handsome devil!”

“Pleased to see you, Uncle. You’re Geoffrey hesitated, then stepped looking…” he cleared his throat. “… forward into the old man’s waiting well.” arms. Now, that hug went on for Geoffrey had always admired far longer than he was comfortable his uncle. As a lad, his face would with. Geoffrey also did his best to positively glow with pride whenever ignore the long bulge in his uncle’s his father, or any adult for that trousers now pressing against him. matter, said he reminded them of Told himself it was probably just his Lars—even if the comparison was mobile. Yet, he couldn’t ignore the negative. And yet, the sight of him potent miasma of flopsweat, stale in this drunken state made Geoffrey cigars and dried vomit that peeled uneasy in a way he couldn’t explain. off the old man like sunburnt skin.

He seemed almost unrecognizable. Add to that the stench of fermentedAs if the man standing before him grain on Uncle Lars’ breath, and it was somehow not his uncle. At least, was all Geoffrey could do not to be not the uncle he knew. sick.

Lars stepped forward to greet “So,” he said, finally breaking free his nephew. “You, t—Whoops!” of the old man. “What’ve you been He tripped over something in the up to?” dark (his own vomit perhaps?) and “Same as you, I expect.” He toppled over. belched. “Here’s a tip for you, lad,” “I’ve got you…!” Geoffrey dashed he said, patting his stomach. “Never to the rescue. Except his reflexes mix Jameson’s and Rheingold.” had been slowed by intoxication, so “Geoffrey chuckled. “I’ll remember he was too slow to catch the old man. that, Uncle.”

Geoffrey could do nothing but watch “That’s my boy.” as his uncle belly-flopped toward the On more than one occasion, ground. Only Lars’ outstretched usually after his father had yelled at hands kept him from smashing his him, Geoffrey had imagined what it head against the concrete. would’ve been like to be Lars’ son.

“Are you alright, Uncle?” Geoffrey If only he could’ve chosen his father;

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OTR if only he could’ve screened paternal candidates the way he screened profiles on a dating website. How different his life might have turned out. Still, there was no use in whining over matters one couldn’t change.

Or so Geoffrey told himself the day he left his father’s house. That was four years ago and he hadn’t been back since. Nor had Geoffrey told his uncle about these patrilineal fantasies, though he suspected that the old man already knew.

“Whoops!” Lars’ knees buckled and he reached out to steady himself against the rubbish bin. “Still feeling a bit woozy here, lad,” he said, swaying in his nephew’s direction.

Again, Geoffrey was treated to that miasma of sweat, cigars, vomit and fermented grain.

“Think I’d better sit down.” Lars pointed to a small concrete stoop across the alley, in front of a large metal door, presumably the back entrance to the Lion’s Head. “Can you give your poor old uncle a hand?”

Geoffrey’s eyes darted back to Constantia Street. The inebriate swarm was still flowing past the alley in a kind of slow-motion cavalcade.

For half a second, he wished he could join them. Or that he could be back with his friends, who were most likely still inside the pub. But, he couldn’t just abandon the old man.

At least, not in his current condition.

So, with a heavy sigh, Geoffrey placed his uncle’s arm around his neck and helped him over to the stoop.

“There’s room enough for two

here, lad.” Uncle Lars patted the concrete beside him.

“I’m fine, thanks, Uncle.”

It wasn’t that Geoffrey wanted to stand. Quite the opposite, really.

His head was pounding and his legs were still quite jellied from all the lager. But he didn’t like the idea of letting his guard down, of allowing himself to rest while out in the open.

Like an impala that’d strayed too far from the herd, he felt dangerously exposed and vulnerable to attack.

From what he couldn’t say; yet, he suspected it had something to do with his uncle. Though he still couldn’t explain it, his uneasiness at being around the old man had only gotten worse. So much so that what had once seemed like a hindrance now seemed like a helpline. Even if the inebriate swarm of revelers couldn’t hear him over their massive celebratory chant, at least they could see him. The thought gave Geoffrey a small amount of comfort, yet not nearly enough.

“Suit yourself then.” The old man shrugged.

Uncle Lars leaned his head back against the metal door and fell silent, except for the occasional snort.

Geoffrey took the opportunity to study the old man, hoping to uncover the source of his anxiety.

Yet, all he found was a man in his late fifties, bald, with a round face and even rounder build, but with thick muscular arms, the last vestige of his days as a rugby player. Just a man, nothing more. Or so Geoffrey

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told himself as he closed his eyes uncle a hand, eh?” Lars stretched and took a deep breath, letting his out his right arm. shoulders drop as he exhaled. And Geoffrey grabbed his arm and for the next half a minute, Geoffrey pulled, but to no effect. The old felt his uneasiness wane just a little. man seemed glued to the concrete.

“SNORT!” Uncle Lars woke It didn’t help that he outweighed himself up.

Geoffrey by at least “LET HER WAIT, fifty kilos. Now “Whoozat?!”

Geoffrey couldn’t LAD,” HE SLURRED. determined to shift help but chuckle. “I his uncle, the young “WOMEN’RE A think it’s time I got man steadied himself you to bed, Uncle.” for another go and....

GODDAMNED “Oh, do you now.”

“Wait!” the old NUISANCE, Handsome and man winced. Then, ANYHOW” fit, in spite of his with his free hand, distaste for exercise, he grabbed Geoffrey Geoffrey was used to getting looks by the ankle and braced the young from girls, and even a few boys (it man’s right foot against the stoop. was Cape Town after all). Yet, the “Why don’t we try it this way?” look his uncle gave him in that Geoffrey was able to lift his uncle moment took him quite by surprise. off the stoop. Once he was upright, It unsettled him. To the point that though, Lars’ rickety knees gave he almost sobered up right then and way again. Propelled by his own there. momentum, the old man crashed “Yes, I do.” Geoffrey tried to into Geoffrey like a wave at high tide, mask his anxiety. “Besides, my forcing the young man back against girlfriend, Patricia is waiting for me the opposite wall, until his legs could back at her flat.” This was a lie, of steady himself. course. Patricia was on holiday with “Em…” Lars slowly pushed himself her sorority sisters and wouldn’t be away from the wall. “You ok there, back until next week. But he needed lad?” some excuse to get the old man “I’m fine, Uncle,” he lied. moving. Or better still, to get away Once again, Geoffrey was treated altogether. to that miasma of sweat, cigars, “Let her wait, lad,” he slurred. vomit and fermented grain. The “Women’re a goddamned nuisance, old man hovered, nearly face to anyhow.” face with his nephew. Then came “Yes, Uncle,” Geoffrey agreed, if that look in his eyes, the same one only to appease the man. “But I still Geoffrey had seen just a minute ago, have to go.” only magnified a thousand fold. He’d “Then why don’t you give your old seen that look before, on his friends,

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OTR just as they were about to pounce on a razor. He was on his knees, with a pack of pretty girls. But why was his hands tied behind his back. His Uncle Lars giving it to him? Geoffrey fingertips grazed soft leather and didn’t know exactly. then cold metal. It felt All he knew was that familiar somehow. That’s it frightened him. when he realized—he’d THE OLD MAN “Uncle?” His voice been hogtied with his SLAPPED HIM own belt. He tried to cracked slightly.

The old man HARD ACROSS move, but couldn’t. Not didn’t reply. Instead, with the huge weight THE FACE he moved in closer, pressed against the back pressing his nephew of his neck. back against the “Sit,” the old man wall. With one hand, he brushed commanded.

Geoffrey’s hair away from his eyes.

Geoffrey tried kicking him. Only With the other, he caressed the his legs wouldn’t move. His attacker young man’s cheek. had pinned them to the ground.

“Uncle, what’re you…?”

Probably with his knees, judging by And with that, he forced his the closeness of his voice. Geoffrey tongue down Geoffrey’s throat. could feel the old man’s bulk—all 120 “MMNNN!” Geoffrey screamed kilos’ worth—bearing down on him. and kicked the old man in the crotch. And then there was the stench. That Hard. same potent miasma of odors that The old man stumbled back, just bled through the old man’s pores; it enough to remove his lips. overpowered his senses and left him Geoffrey gasped for air. “What gulping for air. the f…?”

“HEEELP! SOMEBODY! ” Before he could finish, the old Geoffrey’s voice, half muffled by the man slapped him hard across the face. brick wall, was drowned out by the Geoffrey’s mouth swelled up. He celebratory chant of the inebriate spat blood, right at his attacker. The revelers. He couldn’t see them. Not old man just growled and knocked hidden as he was behind the rubbish him into the side of the rubbish bin. bin. He could still hear them, though, Geoffrey’s head collided with metal rolling past the alley like a parade at what felt like Mach 2. The impact float, completely oblivious to his all but knocked him unconscious. plight, or even his existence.

His vision grew blurred and his ears “Quit barking.” wouldn’t stop ringing.

All hope of rescue fell away.

Then, the world faded to black.

Geoffrey could feel himself getting Geoffrey awoke to the sound of choked up. the brick wall scraping his cheek like “No need for tears, lad. You’ll like

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this. I promise.” The old man let go knocking into the bin had somehow of his neck. set them free. How beautiful they “Uncle…” he whispered. “Please… were, how fragile. They reminded don’t do this.” Geoffrey looked over him of his mother’s garden. Daisies his shoulder to see his attacker were her favorite flower, after all. taking off his shirt. His chest was As a lad, he would often help her wrapped in fine white fur, like a polar with the spring planting, much to his bear. father’s chagrin. Geoffrey didn’t care.

“That’s right, lad. Your old uncle’s That garden was his favorite place in here now. And he’s going to take you the entire world. It’d been that way for a ride.” for as long as he could remember, Geoffrey felt two large hands even after his mother’s death, after across the back of his cargo shorts. his falling out with his father. Even to He heard fabric being ripped apart, this very day. He could see himself then felt a slap against his bare skin. there now—part memory, part After which, he felt something (an imagination—his five-year-old self index finger perhaps?) being forced carefully leaning over the petals, between his smooth buttocks. hoping to catch a whiff.

“Nice and tight, lad. Just the way Then, with tears burning his face, your uncle likes it.”

Geoffrey closed his eyes and inhaled.

In a single deliberate motion, the old man slid into his prey, while still keeping a hand firmly wrapped around the young man’s neck.

Geoffrey closed his eyes, buried his face in the brick wall and wept.

His mind could no longer process what was happening to his body.

There came a rush of pain unlike anything he’d ever experienced. It tore him apart and left him heaving and gasping for breath. Opening his eyes, he scanned the alley, frantically looking for something, anything, to take his mind off the pain.

Then, he saw them, wrapped in paper and dangling over the edge of the rubbish bin—a bouquet of purple daisies. He wondered why he hadn’t seen them before. Perhaps they’d been buried deep inside, and his

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OTR

TRUNKET KRISTIE KISH INK ON PAPER

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OTR

I HATE YOUR SHARP TEETH EDITH WOOLLEY DRAMA CHARACTERS: LAURA – girl.

AMAROK – man.

Scene takes place in a motel room with a kitchenette, a double bed, and a bathroom. Laura is sitting at the table reading Charles Dickens’s Great Expectations.

She’s eating an apple. At the sink, doing the dishes, is an attractive, older man.

Laura finishes the apple. She takes aim and throws the core in the direction of the bin. It lands on the floor.

LAURA: Snaps!

She resumes reading.

AMAROK Could you pick that up please?

She looks at him blankly and then continues reading.

AMAROK Laura.

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LAURA Yes? AMAROK: Pick it up.

She carries on reading.

AMAROK Pick it up Laura. Or I’ll get mad.

LAURA No. AMAROK Don’t make me— LAURA Piss off. I’m trying to read.

AMAROK You’re an insolent child.

LAURA I don’t care.

AMAROK Pick it up, or I’ll make you care.

LAURA Ha! You don’t scare me.

AMAROK You’re a brat.

LAURA You’re a pervert.

AMAROK Shut your mouth!

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OTR LAURA Pervertttttttt.

She repeats this. AMAROK grabs her.

AMAROK Don’t say that.

LAURA You’re hurting me you freak.

AMAROK Take that back you little brat!

He shakes her.

LAURA Owch. Get off me!

LAURA starts screaming.

AMAROK (Aware there might be people next door) Shht. Stop screaming!

LAURA I’m not scared of you!

She screams, more to aggravate him than out of pain or fear. AMAROK bares his teeth almost growling at her. He bites the fleshy part of her upper arm.

LAURA Ow! Don’t bite me! Stop it!

He doesn’t stop. She slaps him hard across the face. He stops, surprised by the strength of her slap.

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LAURA I hate your sharp teeth.

AMAROK Sorry.

LAURA gets up. Picks up the apple core, puts it in the bin, and sits back down. Silence.

AMAROK Do you want a cup of tea.

LAURA Please.

AMAROK Breakfast okay?

He puts the kettle on.

LAURA Got Earl grey?

AMAROK Yup.You’re bleeding.

LAURA You bit me.

AMAROK Let’s have a look. Stay still.

LAURA winces.

AMAROK I’ll get a plaster.

AMAROK goes to the bathroom. He rummages through cupboards and wash bags.

Kettle starts whistling.

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OTR LAURA Kettles boiled!

AMAROK (From the bathroom) Turn it off then.

LAURA I can’t. I’m bleeding moron!

AMAROK Jeez! Calm down!

Kettle is really screaming now. AMAROK comes back with a box of plasters and turns the kettle off.

AMAROK Here. Now stay still. Does it hurt?

LAURA No, just stings.

He has to use two plasters. He kisses her arm and then resumes making tea.

LAURA Do you ever miss her?

Silence. He pours the tea.

LAURA I do. Can’t we go back, just to see how she’s doing. Just to— AMAROK Please. We’ve had this conversation.

LAURA But why can’t we go back there? I don’t think she’d be angry anymore—

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AMAROK Because she knows, Laura! She knows. I’d be mauled, you know I would. It’s too dangerous. For you too.

LAURA They don’t believe her! Come on, honestly. They probably think she’s crazy. I mean, she didn’t believe me! A shape shifter?

They only exist in stories. Said I was a dreamer, a case for the psychiatric ward, a cause for concern! She probably hasn’t told anyone anyway— AMAROK Stop it.You know she has.

LAURA Whatever, like two people…and they probably don’t even care or think she’s a nut or— AMAROK Enough! Drink your tea.

He sits down.

LAURA It’s too hot.

AMAROK Blow on it.

LAURA (Sarcastically) Thanks.

AMAROK Do you still love me?

LAURA Can you pass the sugar please?

AMAROK Laura?

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OTR

LAURA Sugar. Please!

AMAROK You’re acting like a brat.

LAURA I am a brat.You said so yourself.

AMAROK I was angry.

LAURA Well you should learn to hold your tongue.

He goes to get the sugar, sits back down. She adds three heaped teaspoons and stirs.

LAURA I can’t get the image out of my head. It was like something collapsed inside her. Like suddenly she had no bones left and she was just baggy skin and she couldn’t hold herself up any more. So she sank. And I thought she’d never stop sinking, would just sink into the floor, and it made me really scared for her. But then I saw her eyes. Boring into me. Filled with hatred.

Felt like daggers. I couldn’t breathe.

AMAROK I know.

Silence.

LAURA You know it’s funny, cuz I’ve always hated her. I’d always think.

Whatever happens I do not want to be like that. She makes me want to vom. I wanted to do things different.

AMAROK And you did.

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LAURA It’s your fault.

AMAROK No. It’s our fault.

LAURA Whatever.

She goes back to reading.

LAURA Are you going to transform tonight?

AMAROK Yes. LAURA Can I come with you?

AMAROK No. LAURA Why? AMAROK I have some stuff to do.

LAURA Like what kind of stuff?

AMAROK Things to sort out. There are some people who are very angry right now.

LAURA Why do you keep on leaving me? I hate it here.You know I hate it here.

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OTR AMAROK It’s only for a while.

LAURA It’s been a while.

AMAROK It’s too dangerous for you to come.

LAURA Please.

AMAROK No. LAURA Pretty please with a cherry on top.

AMAROK I’m not strong Laura. I’m not well.

Silence.

AMAROK We’ll leave tomorrow.

LAURA Oh good! How long’s the journey going to be anyway, how much further ‘til we get there?

AMAROK Maybe ten days driving… I don’t know.

He starts taking off his shirt and t-shirt.

LAURA Can I watch?

AMAROK No. I don’t feel well.

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LAURA Is that why you bit me?

AMAROK I have a lot going on right now.

LAURA Oh right, yeah, like I don’t?

AMAROK Sorry.

LAURA Your neck’s hairy.

AMAROK Moon’s up.

LAURA Still pretty light out though. Mmm, I like the hairs on your neck.

They’re tickly. Can I sit on you?

He pushes the chair back to let her in.

AMAROK She’ll be okay.You know she will.

LAURA She hates me.

AMAROK She won’t ever really hate you. She’s your mum.

LAURA Can’t ever go back there. Not now.

AMAROK No. But you have me now.

They kiss.

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OTR LAURA You just dribbled on me.

AMAROK Sorry. I’m hungry.

LAURA Okay.

She gets up.

You’re shaking.

AMAROK I’m just weak.

LAURA Okay. Do you want me to go to bed?

AMAROK I’ll see you later.You should pack.

LAURA Shall I wait up?

AMAROK No, I won’t be back ‘til early morning. I’ll wake you. Just don’t leave here. Okay?

LAURA Okay.

He’s gone.

LAURA Please be safe.

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REAL PRESENCE EUN WOO NAM ACRYLIC & PASTEL ON CANVAS

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OTR

ASK ME ABOUT MY HAIR SAMANTHA ANDERSON MIXED MEDIA

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OTR

RHYTHM GIAN LUIGI DE FALCO PROSE 1& Co-ra 2 Cries (3) 4 and Wails

C

ora. Cora cries. Cora cries and wails. Her cries are cacophony to the untrained ear. Beating roughed hands on her hard, smooth chest.

Cora cries and wails.

Her song is in remonstrance to the overtaking of herself; it is a moneymatter or a thing along those lines. Her dark, three-roomed hole has black plastic partitions on her windows. She added that fixture when she decided to die, to enclose herself within herself and die in selfabsolute. When she didn’t, she has to lose herself in this riotous, mundane fashion.

Cora has no money. She quit her job when she decided to die, though what happened before has no bearing on now. It was a moment of inspiration, perhaps divine, but if echoes tell a faithful preacher anything it’s that nothing is divine.

Cleo and Tony, always sympathetic and inattentive, hadn’t noticed their tenant’s recollection of self and of her apartment as her own. The building had been in Cleo’s family for time immemorial (for our purpose).

Cora’s apartment had nonetheless always been hers as where we die is more ours than where we live.

Birth is inconsequential: a matter of coincidence and coinciding. Death is absolute. The only vestige of fate or soothsaying. Thus Cora had to die, recoil into dim sombre unstuck blackbox and grow and flesh into self so she may could getout of the sun and self and die.

Cleo and Tony, always sympathetic and sympathetic (and yes, sympathetic), had no more bourbon and saw to collect Cora’s nomoney so they could return to red and blue and black velvet and slumber and slothy sex. They didn’t need jobs, breathing sufficed for them.

Ninety-nine notices were left.

Retry, perhaps again; Cora had been given enough time to die and she hadn’t or couldn’t or perhaps it was

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the conflation of the two and so she had to have herself taken away.

They got the police and uhaul as well as some nice enough working folk to tear her from herself.

Needless to say. Cora cries and wails.

Sunlight was hard on Cora. It pierced and made her remembering again and again was worst of all and.

Cora cries and wails.

forgotten in between the attempted recollection and this banishing reentry was that before and forever before she had trouble keeping in breathing with the monotone whittling clicks. Cora cries and wails Into the Hudson with flat irons taped to her breasts and singing in sweet wails Death is AptsOlude ( . ) .

Cora knew that remembering was knowing and knowing was the worst alongside remembering which meant again and again was and. But this is regurgitation, words and things Cora learned and read in fiction and philosophy: rather she learned how to say them and think them and know them. In the pulsating indignation of the sun Cora knew that remembering was something that happened before the rememberword, where the rememberthought blew up and composed her whole self and finger skin eyes ears and soft tongue felt the prickle and coming back and living again and.

She knew from the past (though we won’t speak about that) if she didn’t think in the rememberword and the knowingsound then maybe she could bring her blackbox sombre unstuck selfhouse into the world immemorial and function again. She abated thought and again tried her hand at living, but what she had

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OTR

GLIMPSES I & II ANNA JANKOWSKI PROSE I.

T

he lonely woman had a pet snake. Not one of those tame, wimpy little garden snakes, either. Her snake was thicker than a tug-of-war rope, some sort of vicious-sounding breed—cobra or python—that would have gotten her evicted if anyone knew about it. The woman loved her snake in place of a more conventional pet.

She had never wanted children or a dog or much of anything normal.

Quirky, eclectic, out there. Her hair had been a startling plum color for two years and she had grown fond of the ukelele, which she played for hours on end. She was rarely in a relationship and rarely desired to be in one.

She let her snake sleep in bed with her. His cage was so constrictive and her bed had so much extra space, it only seemed logical. She gleefully fed him his mice every day and allotted a large portion of her evening to stroking his spotted scales. The woman was so grateful for her snake, this newfound mutual love and dependence they shared.

One day, her snake refused his mice. She dangled the little corpse in the air and the snake made no motion towards it. He was completely uninterested. This happened the next day, and the day after that. Distressed, the woman rushed her beloved snake to the veterinarian’s office. She paced until the veterinarian returned with the results on his clipboard, except there was no clipboard this time. The veterinarian looked at her gravely and said: “You need to get rid of this thing.

It’s starving itself to eat you.”

II.

O

n the fourth Good Friday of his life, Jimmy’s father explained to him why it was such a grey, gloomy day.

“God always makes today a yucky day because today’s the day His Son died and God is sad.”

And this held true for the next several years of Jimmy’s life.

When his great-aunt died, it was a similarly grey, gloomy day and Jimmy’s father gave the same explanation for this.

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ART PRIZE WINNER When his neighbor died, it was a gorgeous day with cotton-ball clouds on a dazzling sky and sunlight sharpening every color. Jimmy asked his father why this was.

“It’s a nice day today because God is so excited to welcome Mr. Jackson into heaven and to have him for an angel,” his father told him lovingly.

But when Jimmy’s father died, it hailed. Little chunks of ice fired onto them in the cemetery. Jimmy

wanted to ask why this was, but no one could hear him over the hailstones and the grieving.

THE RED WEDDING MALKA BRIZEL-LIPSHITZ OIL ON CANVAS

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OTR

OCTOPUS MÉTALLON AMANDA HERNANDEZ OIL ON CANVAS

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FLAMIN(GOES) THEADORA HADZI ACRYLIC ON CANVAS

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OTR

ARMS SPLAYED OUT BY CONCRETE MEGHANN WILLIAMS POETRY Heat hangs over the streets, twisting light into waves.

Bounding past stop signs, the car bounces forward— south, south, south to meet TJ and get the coke you can smell through the bag.

Cigarettes lit, already ashing in the whipping wind, the girls talk sex between drags: “Even a good fuck gets boring.”

“I’m kind of a slut but whatever—It’s just I was rolling.”

“Will Danny be there?”

“It’s not his scene.”

“What a shithole. Who lets crackheads watch their car?”

Traffic slows.

The girls roll their eyes: “It’s always this way at the county line.”

With windows closed, they pack a bowl and pass it, while the thick smoke twirls upward curling like a tendril of hair.

The girl-that-drives drives with her knee pressed against the steering wheel steadying it, barely.

The road is straight, the way is ahead— down, down, down toward Miami.

The girls look to the sun, to the west, to the glades.

The sky is feathered flamingo pink but it is not enough: the bowl has been smoked, the weed is gone, the CD is done, the good gossip is dead.

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The car moves forward in coughs— lurching, lurching, lurching toward Miami.

After a stretch of road, streaks of tire against pavement, foot after foot after foot, of ruined tread, streaking.

“We’re almost there.”

“Come on, hurry up.”

“Jesus, I just want to get skeeted. Is that so much to ask?”

100 feet after the not-that-bad car, with the barely-touched fender, next to the only-light marks sprawled against the concrete railing, the paramedics aren’t rushing.

Face peeled off, blood across reflective paint, arms splayed out by concrete.

And the girls— they say nothing.

THE END JACOB CINTRON DIGITAL PHOTOGRAPHY

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OTR

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BOXED REPTILIAN KRISTIE KUSH MIXED MEDIA

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OTR

BUONA NOTTE KATHARINE ERNST COLLAGE

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SLIP II STEPHANIE LY SCULPTURE

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OTR

COMMENTARY BRIAN KELLEY DRAMA GRACE, STANLEY, JADE, XAVIER, and ZANATOS BOOKS sit in a row. Zanatos wears a sandwich board that bears a company emblem. Lights rise.

GRACE Is this from your trip to D.C. JADE Yep, just a night out with the hubby. Headed back tomorrow.

Heart, heart. XOXO. GRACE Can’t wait to see you! One. Stanley turns to face Zanatos Books.

STANLEY Hey, this service was amazing. Got my books just in time for classes. Everyone should use.

ZANATOS Thanks, Stanley Vanderbilt.We are glad you enjoyed our service.

We look forward to helping you in the future.

STANLEY I should really take a page out of your book. You are the best.

ZANATOS We see what you did there, Stanley Vanderbilt. Winking face.

Nice one.

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DRAMA PRIZE WINNER XAVIER Hi Jade! Happy Birthday! Hope you had an awesome day!

JADE Jade Bartlett likes this.

Stanley stands up and surveys the people around him.

STANLEY Got home late last night, with thoughts in my mind of all the things wrong in the world. We have an ever increasing index of wealth, yet so many people remain at the bottom. It seems ridiculous to me that we can spend money sending people to space but basic things like shoes are still a rarity for some in the world.

GRACE Had a strange looking sandwich today, feeling a little sick. Ugh. JADE Jade Bartlett likes this.

STANLEY We need to take strong action against the serious issues of the world, we cannot be sedentary. We’re too remote, we’re too far away, the internet has ruined us. It’s all come down to liking things.

GRACE Grace Yang likes this.

XAVIER I love you, you know I do. But you’ve boiled it down to this simple reality which isn’t simple at all. The reason so many things have been botched in this society is due to our leaders.

They’ve mismanaged our resources, taken our tax dollars and pissed them away. Take for instance the percentage of wealth in our country this last year and just how much they paid. Hold it up to today, and see that people are making progress but it comes down to more than that.

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OTR STANLEY Okay, you have a point about that. But what about all the other things I just said? I’m willing to hear you out, but a lot of what you’re saying is unsourced or imbalanced.

ZANATOS Here’s a picture of a funny cat to get you through your Monday!

Ugh, work, am I right?

GRACE Ha! You guys are great. Looks like that cat’s having a cattastrophe.

ZANATOS Zanatos Books likes that comment you just made! You’re a natural, Grace Yang. Can the weekend come right meow?

STANLEY Yo, man this is gay as shit.

XAVIER And what about Iraq, son? We had an unnecessary scuffle with them for what stretched on to about a decade. This international conflict.

JADE You’re making the duck face again.

GRACE Haha, shut up. My tongue’s sticking out at you.

JADE Ha, stay beautiful ho. I love you. I’m headed to Albuquerque soon.

XAVIER We’ve got rappers going on about how many women they’ve had intercourse with, meanwhile, some kids can’t afford to read. It’s a terrible problem in this country. I swear by it. But the real ill here is how we’re sacrificing people’s rights for the good of the almighty dollar. Look at this link I’ve posted.

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The writer points out the evidence in one of two ways. It’s either, a, a matter of capitalist fundamentals eroding the democracy of our voting districts— GRACE Albuquerque, for how long?

JADE Two weeks, I’m frowning. But I promise we’ll H.U. real soon.

STANLEY Looking like some crazy weather for tomorrow.

JADE Your not lying. Ugh, I’m sorry, I meant you are. My eyes are closed in exasperation.

GRACE I hate it when fake people try to be real and real people try to be fake. If you mean something in my life, you’ll know it. In life, we all have to try to be this image of who we are, when really all we need is each other. That’s the most important thing.

STANLEY Stanley Vanderbilt got a new high score on Words with Ninjas!

XAVIER And another thing, the U.S. has by far the highest GNP that it’s had in years. But private enterprise has eroded the foundations of public goods. We’re no longer a society that looks at international borders with some diplomatic hand.

That’s why other countries are affected. They see this chaotic social structure within filled with so much racism, sexism, homosexualism. In fact, if we all put our hands. See more — GRACE That girl you just called fat? She’s been starving herself and lost over six hundred pounds.

STANLEY That dude in the back does not look too comfortable.

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GRACE That boy you just tripped? He lost one leg in Iraq and the other in Afghanistan.

JADE Yeah, can you say creeper?

ZANATOS Get thirty percent off on our Veterans Day sale! Remember those who served with some new books.

GRACE That person in the hall you just called a transvestite? They’re actually a transvestite.

XAVIER It’s like no one even cares anymore about the perils of socialized medicine. I understand that we need certain coverage, but it’s important to ward off certain aspects. The percentage of inpatients and their cost to the coverage of the average citizen is something to be considered very gravely.

JADE This load of books is killing me. Hashtag honor student problems.

ZANATOS We can’t help but feel partially responsible here Jade Bartlett.

JADE Wait, what are you doing here?

GRACE There’s going to be three Thursdays, six Mondays, eight Fridays, twelve Tuesdays, and eighteen Blernsdays this month. Repost this if you’re against hashtag bullying. I know that 15.5% of you won’t.

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(XAVIER and GRACE overlapping) XAVIER And what’s with this triple latte society we’re living in? It’s like we can’t go five minutes without objectifying our lives to our friends and coworkers. And meanwhile our political leaders put their hands in their pants which allow the nuts of the world to roam wild and free.

GRACE Hi, everybody, I’m just going to be doing a bit of friend cleansing.

Going to be getting rid of some people who aren’t true friends.

Have to get rid of those people and just keep the people who are real to me. I love you all. Just getting rid of those people who don’t mean as much and those who I don’t mean as much to.

(XAVIER, ZANATOS, and GRACE overlapping) XAVIER If you look at the facts from a clear perspective, you’ll see that our society is at a tilt. That everything seen now in today’s world of the new millennium is just a bunch of glam.

ZANATOS Happy Caturday! Be sure to take advantage of this meowvelous deal on our books. And while we’re on the subject, we’ve found this guy successfully writing his mid-term, brushing his teeth, painting with his feet, shooting at a target, and running a cat hotel.

GRACE LMS for a ‘who is.’ It’s where I tell you thirteen truths about myself in a note. Then you repost it and give it to all of your friends, your friends give it to me. Let’s start this out: have you ever been drunk or high?

STANLEY Headed out? Stay connected.

Blackout.

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OTR

UNTITLED YULING REN ACRYLIC ON CANVAS

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CROSS-STITCH THEADORA HADZI INK & DIGITAL MANIPULATION

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OTR

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MADISON JACOB CINTRON FILM PHOTOGRAPHY

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OTR

BRAVE TERESA SOTO PROSE

I

spent a great deal of my life I sat there quietly, trying not to asking the gods to send me a wet myself. That’s a special kind of beautiful woman, but the gods courage, no? were cruel, and I woke up next to a troll instead.

It all started because I was hungry.

Let me phrase this gently, so Honestly, it seems a bit unfair I don’t startle the women in the that a man should be cursed for life audience. Imagine a hairless bear. No, for being hungry, but as I have said, a hyena, that would be better. Now the gods and I are not on pleasant smash it in the face with a mallet a terms. couple of times, then toss it off of Mt. We’ll get to that soon enough.

Hideous and have it hit every rock, Ask any Amiran and they will tell weed, and goat on the way down. you my name is Adrian the Brave, I couldn’t tell whether she snarled though that’s more of a persona, if at me, or tried to pull off some you will. Admittedly I had not done travesty of a seductive grin. Could anything that would have been have been both. And her stomach… considered “brave.” If you had asked ah, perhaps I should say stomachs. me whether I had done anything I don’t know whether it was three, insane, on the other hand, I would four, a dozen, or a thousand. have to say yes. “Borrowing” armor “Good morning, pigeon pie,” she off of a corpse I had found in the purred. She rubbed her filthy fingers forest had been one of those things, on me, to make matters worse. I’m but wearing said armor did wonders not exaggerating when I say that for my image. after hundreds of baths, the heartThere’s a lesson for the children. shaped line of muck she left on my If you find yourself too boring or arm still has not come off. unattractive, steal from corpses. I Was I terrified? Perhaps. The don’t even know which sigil this is… things I wanted to say, however, A fox holding an arrow in its mouth mainly along the lines of “What are ring any bells? Yes? No? you?” and “Don’t eat me!” would I’ll keep going. Let’s begin with have probably gotten me killed. So Amira. I lived there before this

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particular incident happened. Now, I was lying, though? I was wearing you may wonder why anyone of armor, so naturally everything I said supposed great standing would want had to be true. The whole knightsto live there. It’s little more than a cloaking-themselves-in-honor-anddent in the woods, and the people steel thing really gets in a peasant’s are incredibly stupid. I had met mind. Knights had lived through crows wiser than Amiran men. Dead adventures that they could only crows, at that. Don’t get me started dream of! on the women, either. I couldn’t I could tell you about a few of tell them apart from swine. Why, these adventures, so long as you there was one time I asked for a hog have the coin. and walked out of the market with Wait a moment. You all have the the butcher’s wife coin to cover this instead! story, don’t you? I THE WHOLE All right, perhaps don’t tell my stories KNIGHTSthat was in poor taste, for free. My time judging by the looks is far too valuable CLOAKINGI’m getting now. I to—oh, all right, I’m THEMSELVES-IN- starting to see some suppose I’ll use that in a different crowd. gold now. Very well.

HONOR-ANDThe children were Where was I? STEEL THING the worst, little Oh, right. lowborn fleas who REALLY GETS IN A Surprisingly, these couldn’t spell sword, PEASANT’S MIND. peasants were able never mind properly to cover my perfectly wield one. Alas, it reasonable demand was as my dear mother always of fifteen gold pieces per story. At said: “The most valuable diamonds least, they were often able to. are discovered under mounds of On that particular morning, I worthless filth.” Amira might have could hardly scrounge up enough been full of stupid peasants, but their food for a fourth breakfast. (Yes, children enjoyed a good story, and I fourth. I’m just as surprised as happened to have plenty. As far as anyone that the armor still fits.) I had any young boy was concerned, I had not received enough offerings the slept with over a thousand maidens day before to buy anything from the and had once slain a fierce dragon. market, so unless I wanted to starve (Really, they don’t have to know that to death, I had little choice but to go “slept with” means “been slapped into the forest to search for some by,” and the “dragon” was just a food. I brought along a small knife, dumb lizard in my path. I didn’t see good enough for slicing through him there, honestly.) Who could say another hunter’s snares.

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OTR What, did you expect me to kill berries which looked suspiciously something myself? Do I look like like eyes. I would have gladly eaten I can outrun a hare, or have the those, but judging by the amount of patience to set a trap? dead squirrels crowded around the Moving on. The forest was the bush, I guessed they were poisonous. only thing about Amira that I actually Really, that should have been the liked. Well, that and the cheap wine. first sign that my day was going to be I remember how it looked on that horrible. morning: how soft the sunlight had I grew desperate and tired, and been as it danced its way through thought about turning back, but that the thin branches and warmed the went out of my mind quickly enough. ground with a lover’s embrace; how I doubted anyone would take me the leaves, red with seriously as a heroic autumn’s blush, HAVE YOU EVER knight if I showed up crunched under my at the town square HEARD OF A feet as I walked; begging for food, GOBLIN SLAYER especially after I had the crack of wings overhead as birds WITH A BEGGAR’S told a massive crowd flitted from branch the week before about BOWL? to branch. I even my victory over the think fondly of the goblin kings. tiny ants, marching through muck Have you ever heard of a goblin and mud with crumbs on their backs. slayer with a beggar’s bowl? Honestly.

I loved that I could breathe freely At least out in the forest, no one there, without having to put up with could see me “borrowing” catches. that horrible Amiran stench, and Let them blame a rabbit-snatching I dreaded the day they would ruin goblin, for all I care. that, too. They might have done so I sighed, and thought about how already, come to think of it. fitting it was that the armor would I had not seen any traps for a long once again don a corpse, when I time, which was odd. I supposed the noticed a mushroom on the ground. hunters had gotten to them already. It was short and squat, with a red I saw nothing by the deformed cap speckled with black dots. There stump where I had derived my “mad- weren’t any dead squirrels around it, wooden-witches-from-oblivion” tale. so I took that as a good sign. I faintly I made my way around the pond, recalled some Amiran saying that the where I had dreamed up a kraken, brighter something was, the more and still saw nothing. I even took cautious you should be…but, coming note of new landmarks as I walked: from an Amiran, this knowledge was trees with what appeared to be worthless and probably wrong. withered faces, an old den and some I plucked the mushroom from the

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dirt. It seemed fine to me, so I ate it.

I jumped. I glanced around quickly, Perhaps I should stop here for wondering whether I had passed by a moment and warn the younger some small child. I certainly had not listeners against eating unfamiliar expected the rabbit to have spoken mushrooms, but why should I lie? to me.

It tasted amazing! It had a peculiar An appropriate response to a taste at first, like a strawberry a talking rabbit should have been, touch too sweet, but after a few “Wow! I’ll make a fortune!” Or, chews it started to taste like honey. perhaps, “This rabbit is possessed!”

Sadly, it was so small that it was gone followed by flinging the beast against within a few bites. a tree and running away as quickly as I started to feel a bit strange. I possible. remember the forest looking more Guess what I said instead? vibrant, though I’m not sure how “Where?” to explain. The leaves were much Yes, that’s right. The mushroom redder and the trees were much may have increased my senses overall, taller, and grass moved like ripples of but it certainly did nothing for my water. I could taste how the red the wits. A talking rabbit seemed as plain leaves were…is it odd to say that a as sunrise. In any case, why shouldn’t man could taste a color? they talk? They have tongues and This much I knew was true: I about as much intelligence as an would have killed a man for another Amiran, anyway. mushroom.

“Beyond the b-burrow. I-if you let Well, perhaps not kill, but me go, I’ll show you.” definitely threaten, though I doubt I set him down, but I kept a tight anyone would have found me grip on the other end of the rope. intimidating.

He pointed to the knot around his I looked around shrubs, tree ankle. “C-can you untie that?” trunks and mounds of dirt, but I “Lead me to the mushrooms first,” couldn’t find any more. I did, however, I said. notice a rabbit dangling from a tree “And then you’ll free me?” branch a couple of feet away. I would I didn’t want to give him up. If have gladly given up a hundred what he said was true, I could gather rabbits for another mushroom, but as many mushrooms as needed and I slipped the knife out of my pocket still get to eat him. Mushrooms were all the same and sliced through the important, yes, but a nice rabbit rope. I wondered whether anyone in stew only sweetened the deal.

Amira might trade a mushroom for “You have my honor as a knight,” a rabbit.

I lied. The way his face lit up, you “I-I know where you can g-get would think that was good for more mushrooms, Sir.” something.

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OTR “Fascinating,” I said. I plucked I had expected a long journey a berry off of the branch just as it before arriving to the burrow he had turned red, and it remained that mentioned, but it turned out to be way as I held it between two fingers. a mere fifteen or so feet away from I had no reason to worry. I wasn’t where I had found him. Lackwit, going to let Lackwit run free, after as I had taken to calling him—not all. He would lead me there and back, only for getting caught in the first and then I would toss him right into place, but for being stupid enough a stew pot when I got back home. to believe I was an actual knight— Why are you all looking at me like hopped forward, beaming. “Well,” that? Foxes eat rabbits too. Would he said, “here we are.” you give a dirty look to a fox?

You told me there would be I didn’t think so. mushrooms,” I said. There was “I’ll lead the way through,” Lackwit nothing strange about the burrow, said. and I suspected Lackwit had hoped And then you can leave me alone.

I would have forgotten.

That was written on his face well “Beyond the burrow,” he said, as enough. if I was an idiot. “You need to eat I popped the berry in my mouth, a berry to get through. Here.” He still keeping a close grip on Lackwit’s pointed to a berry bush nearby. leash. The berry tasted plain, and I The berries didn’t seem out of the didn’t feel any different. I was about ordinary at first. In fact, I hadn’t to yell at Lackwit, but then I noticed noticed them at all. When I reached that he, along with everything else, for one, however, the berries started growing larger. changed from blue to red. The red That’s when I started to panic. A berries became yellow, then green. rope is very difficult to hold when it They changed back to blue once is about a third of your size. Still, I more and started the cycle anew. managed, and Lackwit, as promised, You would think that I would have led the way down into the tunnels. found this odd, but once you’ve met Whether I kept my eyes open a talking rabbit, these things don’t or closed made no difference. I really surprise you. trailed behind Lackwit, stumbling “Eat one and you’ll become over gods-know-what. I heard other small enough to travel through the rabbits speak as we passed. Their warren,” he said. “Then you’ll arrive high voices echoed. Every time a to the Other Side, where you’ll find rabbit spoke, it seemed like there mushrooms everywhere you look. were a dozen more repeating after The warren is the only way to get him. there and back. But don’t wander “Did you hear about Barry?” one too far, or else you may never—” rabbit asked, somewhere to the

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left or right of us. As I said, it was difficult to place anything, and the echoes certainly didn’t help.

“Poor Barry,” the other answered.

“I always tell my bunnies, don’t go near the traps, you’ll end up as a pair of gloves. Barry should have listened to his mother.”

I walked by, silently wondering whether I had owned the gloves that had once been Barry. Best not to ask about the color of his fur.

“How much longer?” I asked Lackwit. I had a terrible feeling in the pit of my stomach. I thought he meant to turn on me, possibly turn me into a pair of gloves to avenge Barry. My mother had not warned me about that. He said, “A bit further, Sir,” and left it at that.

The journey had taken well over an hour. Perhaps time did not mean the same to rabbits as it did to people. I remember being told that we were “almost there” thirty or forty times.

For most of the journey, we walked undisturbed. A couple of rabbits stopped and stared, judging by the halts in their hops, but we continued on. I wondered whether or not other men had ever walked through the warren, and what had become of them if they had.

Anyway, partway through the tunnel, a couple of young bunnies noticed me and they crowded around us, curious as children. I thought they would surely overtake me and free Lackwit, but no. Instead, I felt paws the size of my leg prodding me,

while the idiots giggled.

“Food?” they squeaked. “Food?

Food? Food?”

Dear gods, there must have been a hundred of them! Well, it was a small tunnel, so I suppose that might have been a slight exaggeration.

Lackwit shouted over them all. “No, children, let me pass. I have to take the knight to the mushrooms.”

“Why? Why? Why? Why?” “Because he swore on his knight’s honor that he would free me if I did.”

Lackwit, the idiot, didn’t realize that all it took to get his freedom back was one short burst of speed.

I don’t even think I could have found my way back on my own, after all the twists and turns he had led me through.

“Oh. Oh. Okay. Mushrooms.”

I pushed away the paws that had pressed against me. I tried walking forward, but furry flanks blocked me in all around. Lackwit could have run off there, he really could have, but he said, “Move aside, children. I’ll be home soon.”

How sad is it that a brainless rabbit had more honor than I did?

Actually, don’t answer that question.

When we came out of the other side of the tunnel, the sunlight roasted my eyes. The fresh air was highly appreciated, even if I suspected my vision had been permanently damaged.

Lackwit waited patiently. “You okay, Sir?” he asked. “Your eyes

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OTR good yet? There are mushrooms, Sir, I stood there for a good minute right in front of you.” or so, wondering if I had made a tiny You would be amazed at how mistake following Lackwit to this quickly I recovered after being place. Then again, I wanted nothing reminded. so much as to start harvesting One thing was certain. There mushrooms. The only question was, were definitely more mushrooms. how?

The only problem was that I had no Lackwit nudged my leg. “Well, way of carrying them. Why? Because here you are,” he said. He stared at they happened to be as large as trees, me, then the rope, then at me again. even after I had regained my normal “So…about my freedom?” height. They stood tall in a circle “Are there smaller mushrooms?” I around the clearing, mocking me. asked him.

The giant mushrooms weren’t He hesitated. “Yes, but—” the only peculiarity. The sky, like the “Lead me to them.” berries I had eaten, cycled through the THE SKY, LIKE THE Lackwit did as same four colors as he was told. There BERRIES I HAD quickly as my eyes was only one path could blink. It would EATEN, CYCLED to follow out of the have been beautiful elsewhere, THROUGH THE clearing; if it hadn’t been so the mushrooms were SAME FOUR terribly nauseating. too crowded together If I had hoped to force our way COLORS to find something through. There might normal on the ground, I would have been a forest’s worth of large have been sorely disappointed. mushrooms, but smaller ones were The flowers had faces, and they as rare as an Amiran with common marched on their roots with their sense. We traveled farther than heads held high, and their leaves I would have liked, and the more pressed against their stems. Can time I spent in that strange world, you imagine? Arrogant flowers. If the more I wanted to leave. You there’s one thing I hate more than might think, Adrian, how could you Amirans, it’s arrogance. They were possibly say such a thing? This world talking to me, I suppose, but their sounds incredible! But I assure you, voices were barely above whispers, after five minutes it grated on my easily drowned out by the breeze. I nerves; after twenty, I wanted to set suspected the grass might have been the forest on fire. as equally “alive” as the flowers were, The flowers were the worst. and that made standing on top of it They crowded around me like terribly uncomfortable. admirers and would not step aside,

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no matter how many times I asked.

I had to crush them if I wanted to get anywhere. Sad, yes, and you would think that would deter the others from getting too close. It didn’t. They kept darting in front of my path, and I believe I had crushed over a hundred of them. Gods forbid I ignored the little beasts and stared up at the sky instead. Why couldn’t it pick one color and stick with it? I made the mistake of asking Lackwit, but he only replied with a terribly boring story about how much he wanted to go home.

I almost felt bad for him, if you want to know the truth, but even if I hadn’t taken him, the hunter who had caught him in the first place would have cooked him anyway. You could say his fate had been decided long before I got there.

Ah, well. Eventually, we came across some mushrooms, though there were only three of them, crowded before a bright red bush.

The fact that there were so few had been disappointing, but I would take what I could get.

“Well, Sir, I hope these will be enough,” Lackwit said. “Now then….”

I didn’t answer him immediately.

I was about halfway through my first mushroom. I had long been anticipating the sweet taste, though it seemed the strawberry and honey flavors were far more enhanced in this one than in the last. Odd, but certainly not unwelcome.

“Sir?” “Not now.”

“You have three, Sir.” The first mushroom was gone before I knew it. I popped the second one in my mouth. The flowers that had gathered around me grinned so widely that I thought their petals would fall off.

“Lackwit,” I said, “eat these flowers.”

They either didn’t understand, or outright didn’t care much for my threat.

“You swore on your knight’s honor you would let me go if I showed you mushrooms,” Lackwit continued. “I did. Then you asked me to show you where the smaller ones were. I did.”

“I never said I would free you, though.” I swallowed the second and plucked the third from the ground.

At that point, I no longer bothered to wipe off the dirt.

Lackwit’s jaw dropped. “But— but—” I swallowed the third and regretted it immediately. There were no other mushrooms in sight, unless I wanted to eat one the size of a tree…which didn’t sound like a terrible idea. I headed over to the nearest mushroom-tree, dragging Lackwit along with me. The flowers followed, all too eager.

I laid a hand on the stem. I would definitely need a saw, but where could I find one? My knife was far too small. My sword came to mind, though that was purely for show, and at home, nonetheless.

I sighed. “Come on, Lackwit,” I said.

It was then that I noticed that I

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OTR had let go of the rope.

I knew my chances of catching him were slim. Really, look at me.

But still, that didn’t keep me from trying. I rushed after him, with a horde (or should I say garden?) of flowers chasing after me.

Lackwit might have been dumb, but he was certainly quick on his feet. He took a sharp turn into a clearing, but by the time I made it there, I had lost him.

Once I saw what else was in the clearing, however, Lackwit became the least of my worries.

I’m going to assume that you’re all more intelligent than you look.

Do you recall the troll “woman” (I am using the term very loosely) I described at the very beginning of this tale? Well, that thing may have been the epitome of ugliness, but this woman…ah, how shall I describe her? I suppose I could call her a “goddess,” though I feel even that wouldn’t do enough justice. Her skin was smooth and fair, and her eyes were like emeralds. Her hair framed her face with soft ringlets, red as mushroom caps. And those glorious breasts! The hair and the face, all of that was fine and well, but those…

Oh, right. Children in the audience. Sorry.

She was sitting on a large tree stump…well, mushroom stump.

She twirled a flower between two delicate fingers, pausing every so often to pluck a petal. The ground

before her was piled high with stems, leaves and petals. (I assumed those flowers, at one point, had faces. A little unnerving, but I must have killed thrice that amount just to get there, so I have no right to talk.) The flowers that had followed me there scurried off as quickly as they could.

She must have been waiting there for a while, perhaps for a fine young knight. Though I am neither fine nor young, (nor a knight,) I took that as my invitation.

“Good morning, fair maiden,” I said. I forced myself to look at her face instead of...you know. “Why is such a sweet woman like yourself out here alone?”

Normally, at this point, I would have been slapped, or forced to outrun some enraged husband. But neither of those things happened.

She merely sat there, staring at me.

The flower in her hand wretched free and ran off, scattering what little petals remained on its head.

She didn’t seem to notice. “Are you drunk?”

“Ha! I’m not a drinker, my lady.”

Only because I had no drinks left that morning, but why tell her that?

“I’m only a wandering knight, alone in this vast world, struggling to find meaning.”

Women love a mysterious man, you see. Remember that line, listeners, it may get you bedded someday.

She snorted. “All right then, drunk it is. That would explain a lot.”

“I’m not drunk,” I said, more

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persistent that time, because women though that made her laugh harder. love stern men as well.

“What are you laughing at?”

“If you’re not drunk, why are you She fought to keep a straight face. still standing there?” she asked. “You “Renowned? Look at you,” she said. know what I do to people like you, “You’ve got dirt all over your face, right?” your armor barely fits.

Odd question, I And what’s with your thought, but no hair?” She tugged at “YOU KNOW matter. one of my locks and WHAT I DO TO got her fingers caught “My lady, do you know what I do to PEOPLE LIKE YOU, in a snag. “Have you people like you?” I ever brushed your RIGHT?” replied, only because hair?”

I had no idea how I changed the to continue the subject. “So do you conversation. live here? Are you the queen of this She continued as though she forest?” hadn’t heard me. “You’ve heard the She laughed so hard that the stories, haven’t you?” she asked. winged squirrels nestled above us “Beware the eeeevil enchantress, she flapped off, squawking. “A queen? bathes in the blood of maidens and Seriously?” devours suckling babes.”

Ah, I thought, she was “Who would say that?” embarrassed about her clothing.

She pointed half-heartedly to the Though she looked like royalty, her pile of stems. red dress was little more than a rag.

“Oh.” Excusable, I suppose, as tailors don’t Silence hung heavy between us. grow on trees. “Well,” I said, “you “They’re only flowers,” I offered, look like one. Sort of.” as though she hadn’t known that “All right. That’s enough.” She herself. “What merit can a flower’s stood up. She gave me a measured words possibly hold?” look, with her hands on her hips.

She sighed. “If only it were just “What do you really want?” the flowers.”

“Is that a trick question?”

It was time to move onto my She glared at me. “Why are you favorite subject: me. “Do you know giving me so many compliments?” who I am?” I asked. She shook her Definitely a trick question, I head. “I am the renowned knight decided. Best to answer her question known as—” with a question. “Why not?”

She cut in, laughing. Gods, that “Look at me. I’m a hideous was quick. monster. Does that answer your “—Adrian the Brave,” I continued, question, Sir?”

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OTR What was this madwoman talking about, I wondered? I supposed she was just exaggerating, as women tend to do. “You know,” I said, “you’re really beautiful when you’re angry.”

She rolled her eyes and started walking away. I’m not completely unfamiliar with that type of behavior, but it stung nonetheless. I had been talking to her for about two or three minutes, perhaps four. That, my dear listeners, was a record, and I wanted to keep it going.

“If you want to know the truth,” I said, loudly. She started walking a bit faster, curse her, and I was already out of breath from Lackwit. “If you’re—an outcast, then—I know the feeling.”

She glanced back at me. “I don’t think you do.”

“No, honestly,” I called. “Amira is hardly what I—would call a—home.”

I slowed down. “Will you stop for two seconds?”

She actually heeded me and stopped walking. I had no idea that would work, to be honest, and I had to fish around for a few seconds for what to say next. “It was only after I put the armor on that people started listening to me.”

“And where did you get the armor?”

“A gift.” From a corpse. She didn’t have to know. “If you don’t want to be an outcast any longer, find your own armor.”

She gave me an incredulous look.

“What does that even mean?”

“Well, I’m here, am I not?” I offered her a hand. “So long as an outcast has a companion, she isn’t an outcast, is she?”

She laughed. “You’re pathetic.”

“Oh, thanks.”

“Yet…you’re strangely likable.” I’m still not sure whether I should have taken that as a compliment. “Do you have anywhere in particular to go?

I’m on my way to my mother’s home, but would you like to tag along for a bit?”

“All right,” I said, faking a grin.

Meeting her mother was hardly my idea of fun, but I would take what I could get. “I never got your name?”

“Edna,” she said with a smile. A beautiful name for a beautiful girl, no?

We did not walk far before I felt the urge for more mushrooms come upon me, stronger than before. I asked Edna where we could find some more, and her eyes lit up.

“There were some sprouting along the banks of the honey stream,” she said.

“The stream is made of honey?” I asked.

She gave me a look. “Yes. Why else would it be called that?”

“Fair enough.”

“We’re getting closer to it now,” she said. “Be patient.”

Ah, if I had a copper for every time I heard that…but she was telling the truth. It really was close. After a few minutes of walking beneath the shade of giant caps, I heard the

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gurgle and rush of the stream before same for myself. I didn’t quite watch me. How could a stream full of my step, and I ended up stepping honey sound so much like one filled into the stream. The honey was with water, you ask? It is not known sticky and thick, and I had a feeling for being particularly fast, after all. I crushed the bugs I had watched But what did I care, I merely wanted earlier. mushrooms.

She laughed. “Are you stuck?”

The banks were choked with “No,” I said, though it took a flat stones, and the stream was certain amount of effort to pull narrow enough to hop over. The my leg free. I ended up with honey honey caught the full glare of the halfway up to my knee. I hoped it sun and shone like molten gold. I wouldn’t ruin the armor. was tempted to give it a taste until The honey, fortunately, didn’t ruin I noticed insects crowded along the the steel, though it seemed to attract rocks. A few of them, wearing shorts, every animal in the forest. Luckily for dove into the honey and splashed me, Edna’s incredible beauty repelled around in it, though the women, them. When the winged squirrels wearing tiny dresses of leaves and swooped over my head, Edna gave silk, merely shook their heads and them a harsh stare and sent them gossiped. I heard Edna’s voice a short flapping off. Flowers scurried out distance off. from the bushes in record numbers, “I found some mushrooms,” she but thankfully Edna had scared them said. The insects quickly splashed away as well, with hardly a look in into the honey when she drew near. their direction. Wingless birds and “What were you looking at?” she three-headed frogs seemed to take asked. the hint, and remained at a distance.

She seemed upset earlier about I suppose that should have been what the flowers had said, so I a sign. thought it would be best not to In any case, some distance away mention the insects. “Nothing in from the stream, we came across particular,” I said, and looked up. She some singing trees. Not tree-sized was true to her word. In her arms, mushrooms this time, but actual she held not one, but six mushrooms! trees, though they were bright purple.

“That’s a fair amount,” she said. I had just eaten my last mushroom, “You really should save some. It isn’t and I was already searching for more. good to eat too many.”

I asked Edna if she knew where any “I’ll be fine,” I said, right after I more would have sprouted, but had swallowed three of them. Edna she merely gave me a look and said, shook her head, then crossed the “You’ve had enough.” stream, delicate and dainty as you “No I haven’t.” I felt a severe please. If only I could have said the pounding in my skull, as though a

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OTR blacksmith was hammering away inside of it. “I need more.”

Edna tried changing the subject.

“So,” she said, “this place you were from. Amira, was it? What is it like?”

“A stupid village with stupid people,” I said. “It’s like living with a bunch of oxen, except they can’t do anything useful.”

She started to laugh, but stopped when I didn’t join in. “Are you going to return?”

I paused. I hadn’t actually thought about returning. Of course my house was there, and my meager belongings, but I wasn’t sure if this world would exist if I traveled back. I had arrived here with Lackwit’s help.

Could I return without it?

I shrugged.

“Well… if you really had nowhere else to go, you could stay with me for a while. It should be all right.”

An invitation to live with a woman!

I would have rejoiced, if I didn’t have a splitting headache. “I don’t think—” “Come on. It would be nice.

You’re the first person—well, first anything—that I’ve been able to speak to. You said you were an outcast back home. What was it… when an outcast has a companion….”

“They won’t be an outcast any more,” I finished. She beamed. “Yes. Something like that. I don’t suppose you’re finding any mushrooms?”

“Is that all you can think about?”

Yes. “No, not at all.” I doubted she truly believed me, but she didn’t say anything else. For a while, the only sounds were the hums of distant

trees, who only seemed to know “Knight of the Ocean Deep.” They all hummed at different speeds, and some of the trees only knew half the tune. The ones beside us were silent, stopping when Edna came too close.

The further we walked and the more trees we passed, the quieter the forest became.

“You like it here, right?” Edna asked.

“I suppose.”

“Hold on.” She stopped walking and turned to face the nearest tree.

“Go back to singing! I’m not going to do anything!”

The trees around us started humming a very timid version of… something. I think the collective whimpers merely sounded like a song, though it wasn’t any that I knew.

“You were saying?” she asked me, sweet as ever.

“It wouldn’t be a bad idea,” I said.

“Moving here, that is.” In truth, I said that to please her, though once I said the words, I started to consider them myself.

The path stopped in front of two great trees, neither of which were singing. Perhaps they were afraid. A curtain of woven leaves hung between them. Edna drew the curtain back and allowed me to pass through.

When Edna said that we were going to visit her mother, I thought she was leading me to a cottage, but no. There, towering right in the middle of the dirt, stood a massive

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cave, though “castle” would have and cheered with every thrust. been nearer to the mark. Stone Skunk fools dressed in motley— statues of snarling bears stood on well, red leaves and the like, but either side of the entrance, carrying close enough—pranced around the flags made from animal hides. The stone tables. Off in the corner stood cave even had its own a wingless pigeon sigil. (A bear holding a “IT’S LIKE LIVING courting a brown leaf, drawn in a pile of WITH A BUNCH hare princess, and in dirt with a stick. It’s midst of it all was OF OXEN, EXCEPT the something.) I thought a deer in a scarlet THEY CAN’T her mother lived gown, standing on its alone, and once again DO ANYTHING hind legs. One of the I had been proven bears stumbled into USEFUL.” wrong. It sounded as a table and knocked though the cave held over a vase, and the half of Amira’s people within its deer raised a shout that sent all walls. I heard something shatter, and of them trembling. “If you smash silence fell for a heartbeat, but the another vase, I’m going to smash cave regained its roar before I could your skull!” take another breath.

“Sorry, Ma.” The others lowered Well, no one could say that I their lances and offered up their hadn’t dressed the part for entering apologies as well, though the deer a castle, though truth be told, I had would hear none of it. never actually stepped inside of And to think I had a deer head one. (Let’s not mention that to the mounted up on my wall!

Amiran children, shall we?) While “Mother,” Edna called, “I’m here.”

Edna led me closer, I imagined it The deer turned to face us. Her would be filled with exotic furniture, eyes darted immediately towards unimaginably clean, and basically the me. “Who the hell is that?” she exact opposite of my home back in shouted. The bears dropped their Amira. Imagine my surprise when I twigs at once and snarled at me. One saw that it was actually filled with of the dancing skunks lost his footing furniture made from stone, mud and and slammed against the wall, and twigs… Ah, yes, and that the people the little hare princess covered her I had imagined turned out to be wild mouth with her paws. animals.

Edna cleared her throat. “This is Fitting company for a queen of Adrian. He’s—” the forest, I suppose. I watched “One of them,” a bear finished, brown bears with tree-bark shields followed by a roar of disapproval and twig lances practice swordplay, from the others. I should stop here while the ring of onlookers shouted for a moment and commend my

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OTR dear bladder, for not releasing at learn something from him! You never that moment. All the deer had to compliment your mother!” do was turn her head, and the bears “But, Ma,” one of the bears said, stopped at once. “he’s a—” “Why is he here?”

“I know what he is.” Her shouting “He kept me company, Mother. did nothing for my headache, I can He’s a very nice man, and—” tell you that.

“It’s about time you brought a man “I’m so sorry,” Edna muttered, home!” the deer shouted. With that as the deer and bears argued. Well, husky voice, she reminded me of my perhaps that is not the correct term, father, only she was slightly less hairy. as I believe an argument is generally “Are you a healer?” two-sided.

“Ah…no, I’m a knight,” I answered.

“You’re really related to them?”

I had almost mentioned that I had I asked. It might have been a little been a hunter in my youth as well, rude, but I couldn’t see for the but thankfully I had life of me how a redthe sense not to. haired girl could have a “A what?” That deer mother and bear THE BEARS time she nearly brothers. The pigeon, LAUGHED AT blew out my ears. hare and skunks could ME, THOUGH The unlucky skunk have been related too, next to her winced. for all I knew.

THE INSULT “He’s a knight,” She sighed. “Don’t WAS EQUALLY Edna repeated. remind me.”

The deer shook “Edna.”

DIRECTED AT her head. “I wanted “What is it now, THEM. you to marry a Mother?” healer! They make “When are you good money!” getting married?”

“Mother, please—” “Mother, stop it, you’ll scare him “Don’t I have enough useless men off.” to support?”

“I want grandchildren!”

The bears laughed at me, though This deer and my mother would the insult was equally directed at have gotten along fantastically, I them. Everyone turned to me, waiting thought. In fact, it was becoming for a reply. What was I supposed to harder to distinguish the two. The say? I was so dumbfounded that all I deer rounded on me. “You’re could think of was, “Your mother’s marrying my daughter.” a deer?”

I realized it wasn’t a question.

“That’s very sweet of you.” She “Well,” I said, “I would prefer more rounded on the bears. “You could time to get to know her—”

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“Why? Do you think she’s ugly?”

Edna’s cheeks flushed, red as her hair. “Mother!”

“Of course I don’t,” I said. “I merely think marriage would be a bit too soon, and there are too many things to consider, for one—” “You’re no catch yourself!”

One of the bears laughed, though he was the only one. The deer chucked a vase at his head. When it smashed against the floor, she glared at him as though it had been his fault.

“I didn’t say that I wouldn’t consider a marriage,” I said weakly, “I merely meant—” “So you’re accepting?”

I turned to Edna. “Help me,” I whispered. Edna wasn’t going to be of any help, though; she had no response either, and was so red in the face that I thought she might burst.

“You have other women on the side, don’t you?” the deer snapped.

“Is that it?”

“No?” It came out sounding like a question. “I mean no. Not at all.”

“Then why not marry her now?”

Good question…why not now, I wondered? If I married her, I would be free from stupid Amirans. I would be able to eat delicious mushrooms whenever I wanted, and that cave was much nicer than my house, that’s for sure.

Yes. Those were my reasons. A bit pathetic, now that I think about it.

Having a deer shout herself hoarse at me might have also had something to do with it.

“You’re right,” I said. “Perhaps we should.”

Edna laughed nervously. “Adrian,” she said, “come outside for a minute, would you?”

“Where are you going?” the deer yelled, but Edna didn’t listen. She dragged me by the arm with a rather surprising amount of strength, back to the leaf curtains outside.

“She seems…pleasant,” I said.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she asked. “You don’t have to agree just because you’re afraid of her.”

“I’m not afraid of her. I just—” “It’s written all over your face.”

“I just think, why not? You mentioned you wanted me to stay here earlier, didn’t you?”

“That doesn’t mean I would marry you.”

Ouch. “Then why did you want me to stay here?” I asked. “Did you intend to keep me as a pet?”

“No,” she said. She broke eye contact and stared down at a gnarled tree root instead. “I don’t know about this…”

“Remember? An outcast who joins an outcast—” “Will you stop saying that?”

I don’t recall saying it that often, but you know how women get. I noticed the deer’s head poking out from behind a statue. “What color do you want the dress to be?”

“Mother!”

The deer headed back inside, though she did it slowly enough. I started to speak again, but Edna made me wait until we were both

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OTR sure she was gone. “We have enough in common,” I said. “We both hate flowers, and…everything else.”

“But you’re a human.”

I thought she was referring to the bear’s displeasure. “That doesn’t matter much, does it? I’m sure they won’t mind after a while.”

“I just met you.”

“Princesses often meet their grooms the day of the wedding,” I said, though I wasn’t entirely sure whether that was true or not. “I’m sure we can learn more about each other after we get married, no?”

Edna hesitated. “Maybe you’re right. I don’t know, I guess we could, but—” We, and most likely half the world, heard the deer scream her approval.

“Good! It’s about time!”

“Mother,” Edna cut in, “I haven’t actually said yes!”

The deer couldn’t care less. The bears had emerged to see what was going on, and the unlucky one closest to her received a hoof in the face. “Start getting everything ready!

I want a fairy-tale wedding!”

If looks could kill, I would have died thirty times over.

The deer dragged Edna off to discuss plans, despite all of her protests. I was left to wander around, with nothing in particular to do. I couldn’t speak to the bears, since many of them had made it clear that they would rather bury me alive.

The skunks fled when they saw me approach, and the little hare and her

pigeon companion remained hidden from sight, though I couldn’t tell whether they hid from me or the deer.

I thought I would duck off into the woods again and look for more mushrooms, seeing as how most of Edna’s family would much rather pretend I didn’t exist, but I was stopped suddenly by a mountain of a bear. He had more scars than the rest, and the look in his eyes all too clearly stated that he would love to tear me limb from limb. Perhaps I would have been more afraid if I hadn’t seen him cowering before a deer mere moments ago.

“You’d better not do anything to hurt her,” he growled.

“Of course not,” I replied. “Why would I—” “Because I know your kind,” he said. He spat on the ground. “If you think I’m just going to—” “Get to work!”

The bear spun around, his eyes wide. When he saw that the deer hadn’t yelled at him, he straightened up and continued. “If you think I’m just going to stand by and let you walk all over her, you’re wrong.”

Funny, I supposed in this world the women were expected to walk all over men, if the deer’s treatment of the bears was anything to go by.

Of course I didn’t bring this up. I didn’t think it was wise to enrage a bear any more than I already had.

“Take that as friendly warning,” he said. I would have hardly called that friendly, but I didn’t think I was going

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to get very far arguing with a bear.

I excused myself and started making my way towards the leafy curtain again, when suddenly I caught a familiar scent.

One of the skunks held a plate over his head, and on it were several mushrooms piled high. I rushed after him and snatched the plate from his paws. He looked up at me, confused, then scampered off, probably assuming I would deliver the plate instead. Well, if that’s what he thought, he was wrong. I don’t remember how many I ate before Edna made me stop. Perhaps five or six, or ten. Combined with the ones I had eaten earlier, that would have put me at a dangerously high amount, but what did I care?

“Be honest with me,” Edna said in a low voice. She kept the remainder of the mushrooms at arms length.

“You aren’t troubled by any of this?”

I felt lightheaded. “Give them back.”

“You’ve had more than enough.

Tell me the truth, now.”

My headache was gone. I remember feeling great, and the forest had lifted its spirits along with me. The bears sprouted flowers from their heads, and the little skunks changed from black and white to purple and green. One of them, wearing a little mushroom cap, hopped up to me and asked whether I had ever climbed to the moon.

“No, of course not,” I said. It was too high, after all, and my ladder barely reached the top of my dresser.

The skunk seemed satisfied by my answer and trotted off, singing.

“Really? You’re okay with this?”

One of Edna’s brothers said something. I don’t recall what.

Something about “my kind,” most likely. Edna yelled at him, though I don’t know what she said, either. I was too busy watching little bugs gather around my feet. A green ant strummed a harp while the others sung in high voices. I recognized their tune as “Knight of the Ocean Deep.” They did a much better job than the trees did, that’s for sure. I hummed along with them, and that made them happy.

“The hell’s his problem?”

Edna turned back to me. “Is so m e t h i n g…w i t h…yo u?…l i t t l e dazed….”

I gazed into Edna’s eyes. She had become even more beautiful. Ah, I remember seeing her green eyes aglow with passion…well, perhaps a bit of concern, but mostly passion. I remember embracing her, telling her how much I loved her, and then….

To be honest, I don’t recall much after that.

When I woke up, I felt strangely empty. The joy the mushrooms had filled me with had long deserted me, and I sat in the dark, feeling quite alone. I didn’t recognize the room when I woke up, either. There were fleshy remains of gods-know-what and skulls scattered about, like the mouse droppings back in my home.

The bed they had lain me down upon

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OTR was merely a flat rock with a crudely eat you. stitched tiger skin for a blanket, so “Fix your hair, dear, or she’ll you can imagine how much my bad complain about that, too,” she said. back appreciated that. Perhaps they How could something so hideous had lain me down in one of the bear’s have such a beautiful voice? She was rooms, I thought. definitely Edna, though I could have I craved another mushroom, sworn she had been much prettier hoping it would lift my spirits, and than that…thing. I would have asked, I knew Edna could bring me more. “How did you become so hideous?”, Sweet little Edna…I called out to her. but my boldness failed me, and I I heard the reply behind me, soft could only manage, “You look… as a breeze. “Good morning, pigeon different.” pie.”

She beamed. Her teeth were I turned around, and…you know grey from rings of plaque around her the rest. gums. I should have been awarded a medal for not vomiting. “Thanks, “I warned you about the sweetie. I trimmed my hair a bit, can mushrooms,” she said. “You’ve been you tell?” unconscious all night. You have to “Edna!” start getting ready I remembered a deer now. You don’t with that same husky “YOU DON’T want to be late to voice from the day your own wedding, WANT TO BE LATE before, but I can assure do you?” what I saw next TO YOUR OWN you, “W-where is was most certainly not WEDDING, DO a deer. It was another Edna?” I managed to say. troll, even bigger than YOU?” “Stop fooling Edna, and twice as around,” she said. hideous. In the dark, “If you keep laying in bed, Mother will the warts on her face resembled a blame me. She already blames me toad’s back, and the grease in her for your little mushroom feast, even hair looked twice as slimy. A deer’s though I told you not to do it. Hurry scalp had been fashioned into a hat, up.” though obviously not well enough, Oh, I’ll hurry up, all right. I had for there were strings of flesh a vague escape plan stirring in my dangling all around it. The only thing mind: wait until she isn’t looking, that remained the same was the red then run. It might not have been gown. epic-worthy, but let’s face it, it isn’t “Finally, he’s up. Why isn’t he easy to think when you’re talking to outside?” someone who looked like they might “He’s getting ready, Mother, be

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patient, he just woke up.” trolls and little trollings, half as furry “I’ll be dead before the wedding but just as hideous, hurried around starts!” She glared at me, her red the clearing instead. The little bunny eyes burning. I could only manage a princess and the bird were trolls as tiny squeak. “Hurry up!” well; one was decked in soft furs, the She left, thank the gods. Edna other in feathers. started to follow her. She paused by Speaking of bunnies… the exit. “I’ll give you some time, but I immediately thought of Lackwit. please hurry. You’ve seen how she Oh, he most likely hated me, but he gets.” was my only hope. I snuck by, quite “Erm…yes,” I said. pleased with myself. I really thought I The wedding hadn’t even started, was going to do it, just leave without and I was already getting nagged. drawing any attention. I pulled the I forced myself to walk outside, curtain back and slipped through, calmly. It was the hardest thing I had and slammed directly into one of the ever done in my life. Sure, in the tales trolls.

I’m always fearless, but any Amiran He had been the bear who had child who would have seen me then threatened me yesterday, no doubt. would have been sorely disappointed. He had the same scars, the same Adrian the Brave would have killed freakish build, and the same growl. everything in sight and laughed about “Where do you think you’re going?” it later. The real Adrian, sadly, could Think, think, think. “Mushrooms. only boast of keeping his bladder Red mushrooms. For Edna.” from bursting.

He frowned and scratched his If they were trying to set up a head. Quick as a serpent, he drew wedding, they were going about it the curtain open. “Ma!” all wrong. I had never attended one “No, it’s a surprise,” I said quickly. myself, but I was fairly sure they did “She…your mother…she wanted me not involve a roaring bonfire or dead to get them, so…Edna could have frogs speared on tree branches. The them.” I swear, I’m usually wittier cake, assuming that was what they than that. If you think you would were going for, was merely a giant pile have fared better than I did, go find of mud slapped on a split log. At least yourself a troll. “She wanted it to be there were drinks. Who knows what a secret. You don’t want to upset they were made from, but judging by your mother, do you?” the reactions of the drinkers, they Ah, I’d struck something there. were definitely spirited.

“Never mind, Ma!” He turned to me If you were wondering where again, big burly mountain that he was, the bears and dancing skunks had and growled, “Five minutes. That’s run off to, you would have been as it.” disappointed as I was. Giant, hairy “That isn’t nearly enough time!” I

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OTR said.

He brought his face up to mine. I backed up until I was pressed against the tree. “I said five minutes.”

I didn’t argue after that.

Do you recall what I said at the beginning of this tale, about me not being able to outrun a hare?

Apparently, if my life is on the line, I can outrun anything. It should have been simple, really. All I had to do was follow the dirt path beyond the singing trees, then cross over the honey stream, run through the clearing where I had met Edna, and follow the path where Lackwit and I had found the mushrooms. Then I would be safely back at the burrow, and...well, hopefully Lackwit would be understanding. An easy escape.

Even an Amiran could do it. Really.

Here’s the reality.

I made it to the path with the singing trees—they were still trying to figure out the tune of “Knight of the Ocean Deep,” and failing miserably at it—when the winged squirrels swooped down off of the branches and flew straight towards my head. I tried swatting at them, but the cunning little beasts dodged my blows. They were pretty bold when Edna wasn’t around. I tried giving them a glare of my own, but they only laughed.

At least, I was pretty sure that they did. The trees might have been the ones laughing at me. I kept getting slapped around by tree branches and I started to think they were doing

that on purpose. I opened my mouth to curse them all, and I ended up swallowing a couple of bugs.

You could say that was unpleasant.

I was out of breath by the time I had arrived at the honey stream.

The squirrels lost interest in me and landed on the banks, and started to eat the honey instead. I wanted to stop and take a rest, but I knew Edna’s brother, no matter how stupid he looked, surely must have figured out that more than five minutes had passed. I stepped over the stream and kept moving, praying to the gods that he hadn’t started looking for me.

When I reached the spot where I had first seen the beautiful redhaired girl, I nearly stopped...but, stupid me, she was gone now.

Or at least uglier.

I kept running, wondering how my heart was still beating. Perhaps I had not gone as particularly fast as I had during the first half of the journey, but you try running with armor, if you think you could do better. I had slowed down to a walk at that point, and breathing had become a chore. Tiny flowers raced out to join me. I would have told them to get out of the way, but I couldn’t afford to waste the breath, so I let them be. It felt like an eternity had passed before I finally reached the clearing, where Lackwit’s burrow waited.

I knelt down beside the burrow and shouted, “Lackwit!” There was no reply. I glanced over my shoulder.

No trolls yet, though that would be

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sure to change any minute.

Honestly, what had I done to I wondered if Lackwit would deserve that? really come for me. I had been fully He scurried off before I could grab prepared to kill him, after all. The him. Forget the berries, I thought, flowers glanced around, confused.

I’ll just claw my way through. Of all “Lackwit!” things, the dirt decided to betray Still no reply. He’s going to leave me as well. I might as well have been me to die, I thought, surrounded by swiping at steel. Maybe there was flowers and mushroom trees. But, another way, a road, something...but the bunny must have been as stupid it was too late. as I had thought. He poked his head I’m not particularly proud of my above ground and regarded me with wedding. a wary look. “What?”

Edna said it was “magical,” but “Let me through!” from what others had described, I’m He rubbed his eyes with his paws not quite sure I would use that word. and yawned. “Isn’t this place to your I was unconscious for most of liking, Sir? You wanted mushrooms. I it, thanks to Edna’s stupid brother. showed you mushrooms.”

Apparently, the words “I can explain, “I want berries now,” I said quickly, I swear” had no effect on him. He “go and get the berries. I need to go insisted to the others that the giant back to Amira. I want lump on the back of to go back.” my head was well“Are you going to THERE ARE TROLLS deserved, though apologize for the way IN THIS FOREST, Edna avoided him for you’ve treated me, the rest of the night.

THEY’RE ALL Sir?” I revived about COMING AFTER two-thirds of the way Dear gods, I could have smashed his face ME, AND I WANT through and headed in. for the drinks as soon TO GO HOME. “Yes, yes, I’m sorry, as I could. Surviving a thousand times I’m the wedding became sorry, now hurry up! There are trolls much easier when I was so drunk in this forest, they’re all coming after that I could hardly remember my me, and I want to go home.” own name.

I heard the flowers screaming.

Edna said my vows were beautiful, Her brother was on his way, he had though I’m pretty sure I said to be. something along the lines of “I’m Lackwit grinned. Oh, it was a going to kill Lackwit.” Then again, wicked thing, that grin. “I’ll get the I don’t know. I’d rather not think berries,” he said. “On my knight’s about it. honor.”

I’ve been told that I spent the

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OTR remainder of the wedding swearing at everyone who looked at me funny, and, apparently, I had stabbed a roasted rabbit over a dozen times with a fork.

A wedding fit for a fairy tale, isn’t it?

Alas, no matter how many times I tried, I could never get through the burrow again. No amount of kicking, swearing, threatening, or bribing worked, though once in a while I heard the rabbits laugh at me.

I searched for the rainbow berries every single day, but, lucky me, the only shrubs I found had already been picked clean by winged squirrels.

I’ve tried to find other ways, but this forest is cursed, I swear. Every path leads me back to the cave where that thing awaits, ready to nag me about how I never tell her where I’m going, how we never spend any

time together, so on and so forth.

Why any man ever desires to get married is beyond me.

Moving along.

Do you want to know something interesting?

Did you know that a troll gives birth in as little as four months after the seeds have been planted?

I didn’t. And yes, I did plant the seeds. If you buy a cow, you may as well drink the milk. With enough mushrooms inside of me, I can almost pretend she’s the red-haired woman I’d fallen in love with.

Here’s another fact. Did you know that they can spawn as many as fourteen little demons?

I didn’t.

Well…that’s the end of it.

I’ll take those offerings now.

Those fourteen mouths aren’t going to feed themselves.

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AT ROTHKO CHAPEL EUN WOO NAM OIL ON CANVAS

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EMMANUEL JACOB CINTRON DIGITAL MEDIA

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11-27-2013 CECILIA CHARLTON ACRYLIC ON CANVAS

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I DON’T HAVE NO FAVOURITE FRUIT AMANDA HOHENBERG DRAMA A kitchen table stands in the middle of the stage. Behind the table we see a young girl wearing a light dress and a cigarette tucked behind her ear. She is expecting someone.

She prepares a fruit salad. She starts out cutting the fruit very carefully but the chopping becomes more vigorous and aggressive in the course of the monologue. She addresses the audience directly.

GIRL Look at this fruit. Look at it. It’s bizarre. You just take it for granted, this fruit, but it’s actually really really strange. Like the shape of this banana. Who came up with that outrageous shape? Or that kiwi? It’s furry. It is actually growing hair. I mean, I don’t know how that is even possible.

Each time she says “just like” she hits the board with the knife loudly.

And then there is this whole thing about having a favourite fruit.

For no reason you prefer one fruit to another. I mean, you say it’s because you “just like” it better—but what does that even mean you “just like” it? Do you “just like” its taste better? What is it, exactly, that you “just like” about its taste? Is it sweeter than the other fruits?

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Is it because you find its colour more appealing? Its...its skin, its little freckles? Is that what you find so charming? Why do you prefer this one fruit to all the other fruits?

It tastes good, fair enough, but there is something else that makes you choose this one fruit over hundreds of other fruits and it’s not only about taste, don’t tell me it’s only about taste.

You don’t know it yourself and that is the worst. You “just like it” and you’re happy with that answer, but I am not. I wanna know what makes this one fruit so very special for you.

She stops cutting the fruit, takes the cigarette from behind her ear, and takes a drag.

Because all the other fruits, they try their best too, you know.

Especially those that you wouldn’t consider at first. Like the exotic ones that come from places so far away, you couldn’t even pronounce their names. Yeah, the ones that look a little odd, a little out of place in those cold supermarkets.

She picks up something like a starfruit, walks around the stage, and interacts with the audience.

You can’t help but wonder why they left a home where the sun shines five times brighter, a home where the air smells of salt and the people of warmth, why they left a home like that just to come onto the smoky streets of New York, just to chill in the dusty shelves of the shitty little grocery store next to your house.

Well, I’ll tell you why. They are waiting for something. They are waiting for that moment, where you stop your weekly shopping for a few seconds, just a few seconds to take the time to appreciate that beautiful little piece of fruit that is lying there in front of you. It’s there in its full beauty and it’s there just for you. It tries to enchant you with its smell, to bewitch you with its colour.

“Pick me up.”

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OTR It came all this way. A reminiscence of distant places lying there right before your eyes.

“Pick me up.”

It does everything in its little fruit power to convince you that if you’d only pick it up, if you’d only take the chance and choose it that it could make you truly happy.

She goes back to the table and starts chopping the starfruit.

But most of the time, you don’t pick it up. You go to the next shelf and you take a box of cherries. Because you “just like” them, they’re your favourite fruit, and that’s why you take them home with you. The battle is lost, the fruit lays down its weapons. It’s turning sour and brown and it grows really fat and out of shape until it falls apart completely. Then it is put into the local compost to help grow food for some idiot cows or something like that. That’s not what it expected but, hey, that’s life.

She pauses because she hears something in the stairway. She waits. Nothing happens.

I once had a favourite fruit too but it didn’t work out between us. Since then I stopped having a favourite fruit. I think it’s unfair to have one.

She puts the rest of the starfruit into her salad bowl and makes her way off-stage.

Help yourself.

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PORTRAIT OF A MAN SHANE VELASQUEZ ACRYLIC ON CANVAS

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THE COCKROACHES AND JEFFREY DAHMER MEGHANN WILLIAMS POETRY A boy runs through the streets, he speaks no English.

When they find him, the police return him, bleeding and drugged, to his captor.

Troglobite cockroaches dwell blind in limestone caves; they scuttle about in droves, eat bat droppings, and climb stalagmites.

Late December, somewhere in New Jersey, George Washington crosses the Delaware, on Christmas morning, he and his Hessians slit open the throats of sleeping Redcoats.

Later that night, the boy’s thigh muscle, penis, and fingers are cooked and eaten, his skull perched atop the dresser as a souvenir.

Einstein’s special theory gives birth to Big Bertha; she descends from the heavens to turn Japanese mothers into dust.

The boy is discovered, in a waste bin swimming through the dissolved remains of 17 others; his killer is tried and given 15 life sentence.

In the mid-Atlantic springtime, Mayflies launch out of the water for the first time; they swarm around each other in columns, mate then die.

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The boy’s killer is baptized, born again.

He lives in absolution, until he is killed by a fellow inmate who collapses his head with a pipe.

Glowing cherubim welcome him into God’s Kingdom, when he dies, the cockroaches squirm and copulate at his feet.

I AM NOT AFRAID FRANCHESKA ALCANTRA ACRYLIC & COLLAGE

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I DON’T REMEMBER THIS I DON’T REMEMBER THIS MICHAEL LAMARRA=FILM PHOTOGRAPHY

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AIN’T UP TO NO GOOD

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I THOUGHT YOU’D LIKE THAT BRIAN KELLEY DRAMA INT. BREAK ROOM AFTERNOON FRANCES PUTNAM stands over a cup of boiling water dipping a tea bag. She walks over to SPENCER ADAMS sitting at the other end of a small table.

SPENCER So, how was the weekend?

FRANCES Oh, the usual agenda.Went down to Poughkeepsie, though. Saw some old college buddies that I hadn’t been in touch with for a little while.

SPENCER Really?

FRANCES Yeah. One of them,Allison, is about to start up this motivational speaking tour.

SPENCER Is she any good at it?

FRANCES Sort of. Hard to speak objectively, we’re real close.

SPENCER I can imagine.

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FRANCES Yeah. So what’d you do?

SPENCER I got engaged.

FRANCES spits out a scalding flow of tea.

FRANCES What? I can’t believe it.

SPENCER I thought you’d like that.

FRANCES I can’t believe it.

SPENCER I thought you’d like that.

FRANCES I can’t believe it.

SPENCER I thought you’d like that.

FRANCES I can’t believe it.

SPENCER (spaced out) I thought you’d like that.

FRANCES (spaced out) I can’t believe it.

FRANCES puts her glass down.

FRANCES When were you going to tell me this?

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OTR SPENCER You know me, look for the opening. Blah, blah, blah.

FRANCES Well, I have to say, congratulations. What’s her name? What’s she like?

SPENCER When Jennifer comes to mind, it’s like we’re walking on air.

LONI TARKENTON comes into the office with trepidation. He is fidgeting with his tie.

Has a cup of joe in hand.

FRANCES That’s so romantic, you know, my dad actually has access to— LONI Uh, oh, hey guys.

SPENCER Hey Loni.

FRANCES Oh, hi there Loni. How’ve you been?

LONI Oh...I’m...good. Say are you guys...um...I don’t know...are you... are you guys go... going to...to Louie’s for um, lunch?

FRANCES Oh, I don’t know. Play it by ear.

SPENCER I actually brought lunch today.

LONI Oh, okay...so I’ll...I’ll see you around.

LONI scurries out nervously.

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FRANCES He seemed nice, a bit shaky.

SPENCER Yyyyeeeep.

FRANCES Actually, between you and me I hear he’s getting promoted.

SPENCER Shut up.

FRANCES It’s the truth!

SPENCER Shut up.

FRANCES It’s the truth!

SPENCER Shut up!

FRANCES It’s the truth!

SPENCER I said shut up, damnit!

FRANCES It’s the truuuuuuuuuth.Yeah, man.

A pause occurs.

SPENCER (in an accent) Shut up!

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OTR FRANCES (in an accent) It’s the truth!

SPENCER and FRANCES sit there with grimaces. FRANCES hits her spoon on the side of her cup.

FRANCES Anyways...I should probably get back to the old nose and grindstone.

SPENCER I might sit around here for a while.

FRANCES You aren’t that concerned with getting back?

SPENCER No, I wasn’t feeling that well when I got back.

FRANCES Why not?

SPENCER Well, actually...I’m kind of nursing a hangover. Don’t tell anyone.

FRANCES I don’t care.

SPENCER I know, it’s just— FRANCES I don’t care.

SPENCER I know, it’s just— FRANCES I don’t care.

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SPENCER I know, it’s just— FRANCES (hurriedly) I don’t care! I don’t care! I don’t care! I don’t care! I don’t care!

I don’t care! I don’t care! I don’t care! I don’t care! I don’t care!

I don’t care! I don’t care! I don’t care! I don’t care! I don’t care!

I don’t care! I don’t care! I don’t care! I don’t care! I don’t care!

I don’t care! I don’t care!

SPENCER (hurriedly) I know, it’s just! I know, it’s just! I know, it’s just! I know, it’s just!

I know, it’s just! I know, it’s just! I know, it’s just! I know, it’s just!

I know, it’s just! I know, it’s just! I know, it’s just! I know, it’s just!

I know, it’s just! I know, it’s just! I know, it’s just! I know, it’s just!

FRANCES Oh, fine, what were you going to say?

SPENCER I...forgot.

FRANCES Isn’t that something.

A crew of ninjas suddenly emerges from the corner of the room. They bind and gag FRANCES and drag her away. SPENCER seems to notice none of this. A six foot man in her clothing, unshaven, with makeup plastered all over his face is put in the empty chair. Let’s call him FAKEY. He says everything in a monotone.

SPENCER So, anyways, I’m just...I’m just not in it today. I can’t wait to get home.

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OTR FAKEY Me neither.

SPENCER You’re looking great by the way.

FAKEY Thank you.

SPENCER You know, not that I’m...well, you know. I don’t, feel that way about— FAKEY I understand.

SPENCER Great...because I’m engaged.

FAKEY You already told me.

SPENCER I know, I just wanted to— FAKEY You already told me.

SPENCER I know.

FAKEY You already told me.

SPENCER I know.

FAKEY You already told me.

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SPENCER I know.

FAKEY You already told me.

SPENCER I know. I know. I knoooooowwwww.

FAKEY You already told me. You already told me. You already toooooollllldd me.

SPENCER (in a voice) I know.

FAKEY You already told me.

SPENCER Don’t be impossible, Franny.

FAKEY Who’s being impossible?

SPENCER Oh, forget it, I’m just going to go to back to my desk.

FAKEY What for?

SPENCER Because I have a lot to catch up on.

FAKEY Like what?

SPENCER Like those Johnson reports.

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OTR The same crew of ninjas reappears from another corner. They bind and gag SPENCER and drag him away from the scene. He is replaced by FAKETTE, a woman in his clothing. She also speaks in a monotone.

FAKEY Oh, those can wait. Let me tell you something important.

FAKETTE What?

FAKEY I just wanted to take a moment to say how much I really appreciate you being in my life. A friend of mine died of cancer three days ago, and I’m just taking stock of everything.

FAKETTE Oh, Frances, stop.You’re going to make me cry, and my eyes are red enough as it is.

FAKEY You’re impossible, Spencer. How about you just accept my heartfelt message?

FAKETTE Because I had a bit of a rough time growing up and have a tough time adjusting to emotion. It all started when my dad began drinking.

FAKEY Here we go again.

FAKETTE The location was Greenland. The year? 2010. It happened to be raining that day, which was odd. I went out to get a cheese sandwich.

Blackout.

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UNTITLED KATHARINE ERNST COLLAGE & ACRYLIC

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OTR

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HOOLIGANS SHANE VELASQUEZ PEN AND INK ON PAPER

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OTR

INTERVIEW WITH ROBERT SWAIN LEYING ZHANG

R

obert Swain, an abstract painter known for the color content in his paintings, has been developing his color system since the 1960s. Not only have his works been exhibited at the Times Square Gallery, the Corcoran Gallery, the Museum of Modern Art, and the Whitney Museum of American Art, his group exhibitions have traveled through Central and South America. Swain has received grants from CUNY, the State of New York, and the National Endowment of the Arts. During his forty-five years of teaching, renowned artists such as Diana Cooper, Gabriele Evertz, and Thomas Weaver (the current Chairman of Hunter’s art department) have been his students.

You have said that while you were growing up, you didn’t have books that were in color. Was that something which increased your curiosity about color in general?

Absolutely. It’s strange. I grew up in a small town in Southern Texas. I never had access to movies. I didn’t have access to almost any color reproductions. I spent most of my time out looking at nature. Texas in that location is tropical.

I didn’t have any access to any real art. I studied very carefully at a local comic newspaper, and I was drawn to how the formal structure of a comic book told its content. When I was about seven I moved to Arlington, Virginia, where I gained access to the National Museum of Art in Washington, D.C. It was a terrific experience. That’s when I became sort of interested not only in art but also in color.

What made you to move to New York City?

A couple of things. I grew up in a very middle class family. At a certain point I was very bored with college. That was in my sophomore year.

Did you have a major yet?

No! I actually grew up in a neighborhood of doctors and lawyers. I didn’t know any people who were associated with art. But I did go to a progressive high school, where I had my own art teacher. The classes were very small.

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There were two people in my class and 24 people in the entire school. This meant I had a very intense education. Having your own art teacher, it’s kind of nice. But when I got to college at the American University, the large lectures with 200 people; the whole culture of college really didn’t appeal to me very much. So after my sophomore year I went to travel around Europe for three months. Then I lived in Spain for a couple of years. Spain was quite nice. Before I settled in Spain I went to all the major museums in Western Europe. I liked museums because you got to see the real thing. An art history book isn’t real. You’re thumbing through pages. In real life, you get to see the reality of them -- like seeing the Sistine Chapel and wondering how, for two years, this guy climbed up the scaffolding. Or walking through the Louvre and seeing all the paintings and their formats; all the paintings which impressed the Impressionists.

After you moved to New York City, what was life like?

Those were hard times. My father was the president of a company. He felt that I should work my way through college. And he said that’s how he learned to be self-sufficient. I looked into going to a graduate school. I didn’t see myself working my way through graduate school, so the day after I graduated, I left New York, and went to Provincetown in Massachusetts. I apprenticed with an artist named Karl Knaths, an American Cubist, for a year. I sold a painting, and I decided to move back to New York. Then I started working for a sculptor, Tony Smith. You know the sculpture in front of Hunter? That’s one of his pieces. And I would build his pieces. We were very good friends. And he taught at Hunter. One day I got a phone call, and Tony said, “Could you come up here and take over a class just for the day?” A sculpture class. Well I’m a painter, even though I built sculpture. So I went to Hunter and I was a substitute teacher for a day. And then the department said, “Why don’t you teach here part-time?” The marvelous thing about Hunter at that time was that the tuition was free. So anyone could go to school. It also meant that there was a very diverse student population. So there were elderly ladies from the Upper East Side who owned a Picasso and would come to art classes, and then there were the normal students. That’s how I kind of got to teaching.

It seems you are pretty intuitive when it comes to color. What made you want to develop your own color system?

I was trained as a classical realist from models and still-life setups. In life, you gravitate towards the things that have interested you. You don’t necessarily have a reason for it. When I was in Provincetown there was a big abstract painting. At night I would pull up my chair next to the painting and look at

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the color. I wasn’t interested in the shape. As a matter of fact, I got very irritated with the painting. You’re supposed to build a structure of color and shapes. So after a while, I began to ask myself why does a painting need to have any kind of shape at all in it? Why not let the color sensation be the content of the painting? So in the ‘60s, I started painting solely on color and color sensation. That’s how I got into color. I think it’s a very powerful thing.

You taught for more than 40 years and you won the College Associate Award, which is a very prestigious award for teachers. How do you understand abstraction, and why should a student take a color theory or abstract class?

Well, to take a color class is to learn the fundamental structure of color and how it operates. It’s kind of like sound where musicians have decided earlier that they would use a diatonic scale. So they modulate from one note to another, while, inherently in color, [there is also] a modulation of color. So Cezanne would paint a landscape, and he would understand next to yellow, if he wanted to move slowly, it would be through yellow,orange, red. Once he got to red if he wanted to pause, he would put a complimentary color, so the red would be next to green. That’s the grammar of color which was taught in all the schools throughout the world before World War II. Abstraction comes around the time of Jackson Pollock. Abstraction, actually people think it’s very complicated. It’s not complicated. When you look at a good still-life, say by Monet, part of it is abstract; he is eliminating detail. There is a lot of color sensation.

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SOLOMON GOT BOOM JACOB CINTRON DIGITAL PHOTOGRAPHY

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THE VIRAGO NICOLE PERGUE POETRY Steel slabs slide through my palms ‘til I sweat, I lift ‘til I feel my limbs split, I always say walk out your door with sword and shield between your legs, snarl rose colored spittles of rage. I furrow my brow, I grip my belt, every puss-stringed white sun through Sunday I swing my weapons, the muscles pulse underneath and beat.

It’s never enough to beat the chaotic mocking chirp of the expected, the clean split of my hairline, stiff board of my back forever dividing, night and day.

If I could defeat my enemies I’d put a rose in my hair, rotate my waist’s side and wait, grip the temples of their heads and make furrows.

When will I furrow my last, and will it stop the singing and beating of my too-Herculean grip, the cradle-rocking snake splitting that drives men to a slow burn when I rise my helm above my head, in the bright dawn dead of day, in the dusky dark body of day, I am the body of blood, they furrow their way and rip down my leathery plate, they make me feel roses in my hips, and into me it beats.

They say an ugly woman is the most unfortunate thing, my laugh splits through bloody cutting salts of such words, it’s the grips that I endure, my own gripping on to this that makes a weapon sweet as any day where I take my meals in the clothes I like, my grin splitting

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down my thick face furrowed, and some man who took me pulped and beaten, pelvis-spilled under my feet, ichor roses.

Sometimes women slip roses into my hands, and when I grip tight they fall away, it’s these times that leave me beat and swept like I was sweating in sleep. Come light forcing my head to catch day, I am still wearing leathery plate and knuckled glove and brace, brow furrowing, scowling, painful splitting, the bloody straps and fastenings of day cut coarse rosy lines into my flesh, I grip the strap and untie, my body furrows but nothing comes stripped away, no splitting softness, no beating black-stoned eyes fall anywhere, I carry it.

UNTITLED NICOLE SAENZ MIXED MEDIA

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#SELFIESUNDAY SAMANTHA ANDERSON OIL & WAX ON CANVAS

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YEON IN EUN WOO NAM ACRYLIC & PASTEL ON CANVAS

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CONTRIBUTORS FRANCHESKA ALCANTARA (American born in Santo Domingo, Dominican Republic, 1983) holds a degree in art history from Old Dominion University, Norfolk, VA and is a US Navy veteran. Recently admitted into Hunter College’s BFA, she looks to expand her ideas formally concerning the themes of identity, migration, feminism and sexuality. Her work can be viewed at FrancheskaAlcantaraTrapp.com.

MICHAEL BETZA has always been a storyteller at heart.

His creative influences run the gamut from superheroes, to science-fiction, to fantasy and even to “serious” literary fiction.

His work has also appeared in Ripple magazine and in a locallypublished anthology, Unboxed Voices. Besides being a Hunter student, Michael is currently working on his first novel.

MALKA BRIZEL-LIPSHITZ was born in Jerusalem, Israel in 1987. She is currently studying Studio Art at Hunter and hopes to graduate with a BFA from Hunter. Her work with figurative and landscape oil paintings has been placed in numerous private collections. Malka has spent the past eight years teaching painting in Jerusalem and in New York City. Besides teaching art, Malka also works extensively with art conservators in New York. She can be reached at Malkyblip@gmail.com CECILIA CHARLTON is a student in Hunter College’s Art Department. Using acrylic paints she creates square paintings of equal dimensions which explore the way in which we see. She paints in an effort to investigate the shapes and structures which can be observed in the world; shapes that we must navigate and understand. While her paintings approach abstraction, she ultimately wants to question our relationship to the world’s underlying framework. You can view images

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of her paintings as well as her photographs at charltoncecilia. blogspot.com and www.tumblr.com/blog/charltoncecilia

JACOB CINTRON is an aspiring photographer from the Bronx who enjoys your company.

GIAN LUIGI DE FALCO takes great interest in William Faulkner and poetry. The writer also enjoys writing.

THEADORA HADZI likes to design while sobbing over her lack of sleep. But it’s okay because she really, really likes to design things. Most of the time.

KATHARINE ERNST lives and paints in Queens. More of her work and updates at KatharineErnstArt.blogspot.com AMANDA HERNANDEZ was born in Queens and currently lives in Staten Island, with her bunny. She was interested in art since childhood and her grandfather encouraged her. Although her concentration is painting, she enjoys working and trying different mediums such as pen, ink , sculpting and silkscreen.

AMANDA HOHENBERG doesn’t ever know what’s going

on. That’s what most of her writing and art is about, too. She’s studying Theatre and Studio Art for one more term until she goes back to London, where she wants to continue making performances, art and juice. But before she leaves the holy halls of Hunter and the shabby streets of Brooklyn she’s determined to spread good vibes and find out what “s’mores” are.

ANNA JANKOWSKI is a freshman at Hunter College. She is from the Hudson Valley and is pursuing a career as a writer.

BRIAN KELLEY is a 20 year old junior at Hunter College who has written in the past for his high school’s literary magazine and Hunter Theatre Company’s Undergrad Playwrights’ Festival.

He is a student sketch writer at the Upright Citizens Brigade

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where one of his pieces, “I thought you’d like that”, was derived from a short sketch written last year. He lives in two places in Upper Manhattan with his divorced parents and on occasion goes outside and interacts with people.

KRISTIE KISH is a second year undergrad. Having emerged from Flushing, she tries to extend her familiarity from sea to shining sea. Fueled by the city’s energy and zest, she can’t seem to stop coming back. At Hunter, she searches for her place in this world of art, eager and willing to fight. She tap tap taps her feet to Jazz and kick-boxes her way through the semester, also studying Jeet Kune Do. MICHAEL LAMARRA is a New York-based cinematographer and editor. He learned how to edit video at age 12 and continued branching out into lighting and camera work under his mentor, Michael Allebach. He now works under Austrian photographer and cinematographer, Aksel Stasny, on independent film and commercial videos at Bayard Studios. He uses a strong color palette and moving frames to connect the viewer with his characters.You can see his work at: www.mrlamarra.com.

CONLEY LOWRANCE began writing poetry after an

aborted career in punk rock. His endeavors in writing eventually led him to the University of Virginia, where he received his BA in poetry writing. His poems have appeared in publications such as Tupelo Press, Gadfly, Counterexample Poetics, Word Riot, The Virginia Literary Review, and A Clean, Well-Lighted Place. Currently, he is writing a detective novel while working at Columbia University’s Heyman Center for the Humanities.

STEPHANIE LY recently graduated from Hunter College in fall of 2013 with a Bachelor of Arts degree. She double majored in Studio Art and English. She plans to pursue a career in art.

ANNA MIRABELLA is a freshman at Hunter College. She

plans to major in Creative Writing. Her dream is to see her

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work on the shelves of bookstores around the world. Anna has had the opportunity to read an original work out loud at an official Barnes and Noble reading.

NICOLE PERGUE is a Creative Writing major at Hunter.

She writes poetry and science fiction. She is a native New Yorker and a part-time secretary. She can be contacted at nicolepergue@aol.com.

NICOLE SAENZ is a local NYC artist and a candidate for the BFA program at Hunter. Drawing unleashes a side of Nicole that makes her question her perceptions and go beyond the obvious. The raw emotion is overwhelming in such a beautiful and sensual way. You can view her work online at www.saatchionline.com/nicolesaenz TERESA SOTO is a writer studying at Hunter College. She

enjoys writing fantasy, and her favorite authors include J.K. Rowling, George R.R. Martin and Hannah Tinti. She lives in Brooklyn and is currently working on a novel. You can contact her at tsoto2007@gmail.com.

MEGHANN WILLIAMS is a Floridian currently wintering in New York. More specifically, Williamsburg. She wouldn’t come into Manhattan if she could help it because “there are just too many people there.”

EDITH WOOLLEY is a collaborative theatre maker.

She directs, acts and writes. She is a member of a British theatre company, The Wardrobe Ensemble. Last September she performed in RIOT at The National Theatre London, a production that her and the company devised. In England Edith has directed several pieces of new writing at The Rondo Theatre Bath and she has worked as a workshop leader and assistant/co director with the Bristol Old Vic Young Company.

This is her first piece of published writing and it has encouraged her to complete a full-length play.

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SUBMIT

Passionate about writing or art? Submit your visual art, fiction, creative non-fiction, poetry, drama, and cross-genre pieces every semester. See our website for details on how to submit online.

GET INVOLVED

Students are encouraged to become editors, graphic designers, publicity associates, production assistants, or senior staff members. Attend our many events, such as our open houses, writing sessions, art sessions, open mics, and launch parties.

Or, just come by our office. Visit our website and find us on Facebook.

EDIT

The OTR welcomes Hunter undergraduates of all experience levels to become editors for art, drama, prose, or poetry.

Editors decide together which pieces are accepted into the issue every semester. For more information, please visit our website.

CONTACT

TheOlivetreeReview.com Thomas Hunter Room 212 olivetreereview@gmail.com

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THE OLIVETREE REVIEW

The Literary & Arts Magazine of Hunter College COVER_2.indd 2

ISSUE 54 FALL 2013

THE OLIVETREE REVIEW

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