The Olivetree Review Issue 57 by The Olivetree Review

THE OLIVETREE REVIEW

ÂŠ The Olivetree Review, CUNY Hunter College, 695 Park Avenue, Thomas Hunter Room 212, New York, NY 10065 theolivetreereview.com Spring 2015, No. 57. This journal is funded by Hunter College's student activity fee and is distributed free in the university committee. The artwork featured on the cover is "War Child" by Ki Sub Lee. The inside cover features various pieces by Ki Sub Lee. The fonts used are Helvetica, WeblySleek UI, and Typoster. Layout design by Theadora Hadzi. Assistant editing by Maha Paracha. Post-production editing by Jacob CIntron.

The Literary & Arts Magazine Of Hunter College Since 1983

Submissions are reviewed September through November and February through May. We consider submissions of visual art, fiction, creative non-fiction, poetry, and plays. The Olivetree Review is completely staffed by undergraduate students of Hunter College. All submissions are reviewed anonymously and then chosen 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 Sunray Printing St. Cloud, Minnesota

ART

CONTEST HONORABLE MENTION

JESSICA ASTUDILLO The Young One 115 JACOB CINTRON Offer 90

MAHA PARACHA Sunday 131 JOANNA MARIANO Untitled 66 Emerge 70

AMANDA HERNANDEZ Spring 10 Eye Spying Birch 99 Trees She Said She 129 Loved Sunflowers

EMILIA MIKRUT Woman In Red Old Man In Pink

CONTEST WINNER

TORI ZHOU Untitled 34

KI SUB LEE Don't Blame On Me It's Ok To Be Changed Blurred Memories Why Are You So Serious War Child

50 65 78 80 101

KARL LORENZEN Horse Attitudes 68 Demons 139 STEPHANIE LY Untitled 114

49 93

MARINA SOLOMONOVA Herman Melville 117

DRAMA GAMAL ELSAWAH After Party

PROSE

OLIVIA COLEY-BISHOP Miss Scanziana 102

KRISTEN ARNETT Felt It In The Jaw

CHARLOTTE FOREMAN Davie 130

JARDEN GRAHMAN Abenaki Sunset 12

LOUIS GAUDIO Cold Island

CONTEST WINNER

DANIEL LUTSKER Discovery EMILIA MIKRUT On Rape Culture

104

132

DANIEL LUTSKER Being Jeff Hardy

MAHA PARACHA Mickey Dee's Golden 71 Boy

MEGHANN D. WILLIAMS Junk Mail 92

118

JASON SLOAN But A Memory

EZRA WOLFGANG (in)Stability

ASHLEY WONG Breathing in the Beauty of the Yellow Umbrellas

BRIAN KELLEY Graceway

CONTEST WINNER

LOUIS GAUDIO The Hulk Can't Perform CPR

POETRY

100

ROBERT WAND The Lighthouse At Pineapple Rock

116

CONTRIBUTORS 140

ANDREA ZAMPARINI I See My Mother 11

Page 78

Rachel DeCesario

OTR

ANDREA ZAMPARINI POETRY I. I see my mother. She’s in the cocina stacking food for a family of seven. She is watching novelas, most likely Betty la fea. Waiting to shout A comer down and up the stairs. Language keeps an ocean between us. We meet at the octagon edges of the kitchen table. I watch her hunching over the counter eating dinner because there are only six chairs. We stay seated She reminds us that she will be gone soon, that we will miss her for the wrong reasons. II. El día en que mi mamá vuelve de Argentina, I find her spirit fading on the couch. Lying on her back, her smile intact, she laughs. I tend to expect things: for her to be unchanged, breathing the same, for mimitos to heal her back pain. For three weeks, I fear speaking Mis ojos peleando tormentasWhen her eyes roll back, she begs God to hurry up. She is mere failed body that I lived inside. Todo lo que puedo hacer es mirar -

SPRING • AMANDA HERNANDEZ SUMI INK, RADIOGRAPH, GOACHE

III. I call my mothers name. No answer. Three years, and I’m still chasing the echo of her fuerte risa. I stare at the mirror and try to find her. Te encontré

JARDEN GRAHMAN PROSE The clouds that gather round the setting sun Do take a sober colouring from an eye That hath kept watch o’er man’s mortality – William Wordsworth. Death is the mother of beauty. – Wallace Stevens.

riving north on ninetyfive, approaching the tall, arched bridge spanning the Piscataqua River, Jon signaled and changed into the fast lane. He hugged the median. A cargo jet taking off from the air force base eclipsed the sun, its long shadow casting Jon’s goldmica sedan into sudden but brief darkness. A chill. A familiar feeling started in his diaphragm, a tightness, his own ribs like claws closing on his lungs. He slowed his breathing. Meryl was asleep in the passenger’s seat. She’d curled into a ball, her knees pulled up tight to her chest, her long, dark hair draped over her sandaled feet. He was amazed by how small she could make herself. That she wasn’t wearing her seatbelt had bothered him, but

now nothing mattered. He was sweating, his skin cold and clammy. The AC was up all the way and still making that clicking noise he’d meant to get checked. He drove up behind a black Jeep Cherokee and set his car on cruise control. He couldn’t hear the clicking, the pitter-patter coming from the AC vents, or the steady ticking from his directional still on. The highway ramp lifted him up over the trees and street lamps lining the adjacent surface roads. The traffic climbed around the shipping yard and large gas storage tanks abutting the harbor. Few people knew; his wife not included. Since Jon was little he experienced terrible things driving over bridges. After moving to Boston for school and then work, he found returning home difficult. His lingering fear made him hesitant to visit his grandparents, visit the town where he grew up. Funerals and weddings were the only events for which he seemed willing to try his nerves. Few weddings these days. He was crossing the Piscataqua now only because Jacob, a close childhood friend, killed himself.

A young woman in a two-door Pontiac drove up beside him. She was painting her fingernails blood red. With her fingers spread wide over the rim of the steering wheel she coated her nails in deliberate strokes, peering up now and again to check the traffic ahead. Jon thought he could smell her nail polish. Meryl adjusted her position in the passenger’s seat. She was coming off her overnight shift at the animal hospital. She was a veterinarian at one of only a handful of 24hour emergency facilities in northern Massachusetts. Jon feared she was burning herself out. She always came home from work exhausted. She was the youngest on staff, eager to prove herself. She worked twice as hard as any other doctor at the hospital, working through her lunches and never refusing an open shift or an at-home visit.

tingled. He drove under the bridge’s green, crisscrossing steel beams. He felt weightless, snake-brained, a boneless slither of fear and instinct, but mostly fear. Thousands of vehicles cross this bridge every day without consequence, but numbers and probability comparisons or any other arguments of reason were meaningless to him now. Piscataqua. Cherokee. Pontiac. Indigenous words guiding him through the abyss. He didn’t know how to tell Meryl about his fear. He was embarrassed; he couldn’t make sense of it. As if these things make sense. His car, still on cruise control, descended the ramp on the other side of the bridge. A fear of flying would make sense. Meryl would understand that. His parents were killed in a plane crash when he was little – no one would blame him for having such a fear. But he’d rather fly across the world three times over than

H E D I D N ’ T K N O W H O W TO T E L L M E RY L A B O U T H I S F E A R . H E WA S E M B A R R A S S E D; H E C O U L D N ’ T M A K E S E N S E O F I T.

The Jeep Cherokee led him up the causeway. His heart pounded, banging against his sternum, thumping in massive knells as if each heartbeat were the blunt resound of a sexton ringing a massive church bell, the vibrations making his body tremor. His hands and feet

cross a single, stupid bridge. Jon passed the blue road sign welcoming him to Maine, to Vacationland, and he started to relax. But he wouldn’t notice the sweat teeming on the steering wheel until he was well past the bridge, or that his radio was tuned on a channel

no longer in reach and that for at least a half an hour he was listening to static. Every mile separating him from the bridge eased the tension, the clawing in his torso. He stopped at a rest area to use the bathroom, but found himself too uptight to go, and he stared blankly at the parchment-colored tiles above the urinal. Scribbled initials and acronyms like some secret language for a society of piss-happy delinquents. Jon wished Meryl had put up a fight about the trip, the inconvenience of the drive. But to his chagrin she’d been an understanding wife and agreed to go without fuss. He wasn’t just trying to avoid crossing the bridge. Jon was always confrontational in the beginning of summer. The school year was over, his students gone, and almost immediately he began to feel bored and restless. He’d find himself picking petty fights with Meryl, the neighbors, sports radio, anyone really. The first two weeks of June come along and suddenly Jon is a stickler about the condo leash laws. Jon left the restroom without emptying a drop. On the highway Meryl woke only once and sipped her flat soda water and fell back asleep. Jon entered Scarborough and the fear and anxiety passed like one long exhalation. He was comforted by the road signs for Lake Abenaki, which was just outside Scarborough’s center and several miles from Prouts

Neck, where he’d grown up with his grandparents. He drove past the entrance to the lake’s boat landing and remembered the summer mornings with Papa. They’d spend the day fishing for small trout in Abenaki Cove. Jon wasn’t much of a fisherman. He’d make Papa bait his hooks because he couldn’t stand the nightcrawler’s slimy texture. The beach parking lot was full and cars were lining the shoulder of Route 1. Jon was surprised by how busy the lake was nowadays. Fishing with Papa the lake was abandoned, solitary. When he was a child there were only hiking trails and a make-shift path leading to a small beach covered in undergrowth. The lake became popular several years after Jon left for college. The town paved the boat ramp. They brought in sand to widen the beach, and safety concerns from increased visitor traffic forced the town to line the trail with a railing and add wooden steps at the steeper junctures of the path. Now every summer the lake was packed with vacationers. Jon entered Prouts Neck and passed the Black Point Inn, its white Adirondack chairs set in a row across its front lawn. Growing up on this small peninsula. He used to play street hockey with his friends, including Jacob. They’d have to stop the game every five minutes to let a car pass and direct lost tourists to Winslow Homer’s studio. He turned onto his childhood street.

He squeezed Meryl’s shoulder to wake her. Jon was curious, a little nervous to see his grandmother. He hadn’t seen her in a year, and conversations on the phone had grown strange and almost absurd. She insisted on talking about intimate details in her life. One time over the phone she told Jon about her constipation. “I feel like a mailman who’s returning to the post office with half his envelopes still in the bag.” Jon could only shake his head, silence and static to Nonna. He could only guess that these were the topics she’d talked about with Papa. Jon pulled into Nonna’s driveway. Already standing behind the screened door, in the shadowy downstairs hall was his grandmother. How did she know he was near? Had she been standing there all morning? Homer, her Border collie, stood beside her. Nonna opened the screened door and Homer ran down the path to the driveway, his tongue flapping in the June heat. Sleepy-eyed, Meryl watched Homer. “Look how fat he is,” she said. Jon opened the car door and greeted Homer, who started into the car. He put his front paws on his lap and Jon tried to tell him no. “Nonna’s been feeding him table scraps,” Meryl said. Homer wagged his tail and licked Jon’s face. “I knew she’d spoil him after Papa died,” she

added. Jon unbuckled his seatbelt. “It’s her dog,” he snapped, surprised by his sudden urge to defend his grandmother. He climbed out of the car and walked to the trunk. He stretched his arms and legs and grabbed his and Meryl’s bags. Homer led them up the path to the veranda, where Nonna waited. Jon started up the porch steps and stopped suddenly, surprised by how much weight Nonna lost. “It’s so good to see you two,” Nonna said. Jon embraced her with a hug. He was nearly startled by how much smaller she seemed. She was maybe half of her old self. Nonna looked at Meryl and told her she looked exhausted. Meryl nodded and embraced Jon’s grandmother. “I had a long night, but it’s really nice to see you,” she said. “You look great.” Meryl looked down at Homer and said to the collie in a playful voice, “Well, haven’t we been spoiled lately?” Homer wagged his tail excitedly. “Yes, yes, yes,” Meryl said, leaning down to let the dog kiss her. Jon always marveled at how easily Meryl had been accepted by his grandparents. With Meryl’s big family, her three brothers and two sisters, Jon felt he came off as awkward and distant, and yet she’d always seemed so natural and at home

with Nonna and Papa. He entered the house and put their bags at the bottom of the staircase. Meryl and Nonna followed. Behind them the screened door whacked shut. Jon noticed that since his last visit, since his grandfather’s funeral, the theme in the hallway and in the kitchen had changed from lighthouses to sea shells. He stood in the kitchen’s entranceway and Nonna skirted past him and offered tea and crumb cake. “Bob and Ada Williamson brought it over this morning,” Nonna told them. “They remembered crumb cake was Papa’s favorite.” Nonna smiled. “I wanted to remind them that he’s been dead for a year. How about my favorite?” Meryl forced a laugh. She yawned and passed on the cake. “I hope you don’t mind if I head upstairs for a quick nap.” She hugged Nonna again.

friends from New Jersey. Jon set down the bags near his boyhood desk, an old handcrafted piece with creaky and jammed drawers. The room had been stripped of all his childhood belongings. The desk and the model ship he’d built with Papa the summer after his parents died were the only mementos that remained from his youth. The model was a plastic replica of Old Ironsides and it sat on the bookshelf beside the closet. Jon looked at the dusty old thing. Its main mast was still bent from the time he punched the wall and sent the bookshelf crashing onto his dresser, the boat falling and landing bottom-up on the floor. He’d been so angry at Anne Sutton for rejecting his invitation to the freshman formal. Meryl sat on the edge of the bed. “How much did she lose?” she wondered. Jon shook his head.

Nonna looked at Jon and told him to have some crumb cake. Jon nodded and said he’d be a minute. He grabbed the bags and followed Meryl upstairs. She led him into his old bedroom, which long ago had been converted into a guest room for Nonna and Papa’s old

“She’d mentioned a new diet. Something about her borderline diabetes. But I didn’t know it was this extreme.” Jon wondered if Anne Sutton would be at Jacob’s funeral. “I think Homer’s stealing all her food,” he joked. Meryl laughed. She started undressing. “She looks

'T H E Y R E M E M B E R E D C R U M B C A K E WA S PA PA’S FAV O R I T E' N O N N A S M I L E D. 'I WA N T E D TO R E M I N D T H E M T H AT H E’S B E E N D E A D F O R A Y E A R. '

good,” she said, her back to him, her bra strap pinching her smooth skin. She lifted the blankets and crawled into bed. “Good for her,” Meryl added, out of pity Jon thought. He closed the window blinds and studied Meryl. Her eyes were closed. There was something unsettling to him about his wife sleeping in his childhood bedroom. He went to the bathroom and pissed a loud piss and breathed. He was relieved to be out of the car. When he came downstairs, he found Nonna sitting at the kitchen table eating a small piece of crumb cake. She’d already cut him a slice. She’d poured him a cup of tea too, a slice of lemon wedged to its rim. He sat across from her and picked at the crumb cake. He wasn’t hungry – the dread from crossing the bridge had stolen his appetite, but he picked at the cake anyway – he’d do anything to avoid his grandmother’s eyes. “I feel so terrible about Jacob,” Nonna said. “The ladies at bingo are devastated. They loved the little class he put on. I’d just seen him at his studio a few weeks ago. I’d brought him some of my brownies.” Jon didn’t know what to say. “I hadn’t spoken with him since Papa’s funeral.” “He seemed fine when I saw him,” Nonna went on. “He didn’t say or do anything unusual.” She sipped her tea. “I

was shocked when I heard the news. Everyone is shocked.” Jon nodded. “Isn’t that how it always is?” he muttered, still unable to think of much to say. He changed the subject. “I’m sorry I haven’t been up sooner. It was a busy school year.” Jon took a large sip from his cup of tea and burned his tongue. “The state had the standardized tests this year so the whole faculty was in a crunch,” he continued, sounding desperate. His eyes watered and he ignored the pain on the tip of his tongue. “And Meryl’s been taking extra shifts over at work. She’s playing superwoman down there.” Nonna nodded. Jon still felt sorry, and added: “And the snowfall we had this winter was brutal. Everything was backed up.” They picked at their pieces of cake. He wanted to know how she was managing without Papa, but he couldn’t part his lips to speak. Homer had sidled up next to him, looking up at him with his dark, watery eyes. The dog licked his chops. Homer was usually wellmannered. Papa never allowed him to beg for food. Nonna asked Jon about his diet. Jon looked up at her, surprised. “My diet?” he repeated. He looked down at Homer. Maybe she was asking the dog. “Yes, Jon.” “I don’t know. Good I suppose,” he said. Jon

struggled to find the right thing to say. “Balanced I mean.” She shook her head. “Mm-hmm.” She loses some weight and suddenly she’s a dietitian. “I stay away from junk,” he said. “Meryl and I have memberships to a gym.” What could he say? “We work out together, encourage each other. We run three miles. Lift free weights too.” He let out an awkward chuckle. “You wouldn’t believe how much Meryl can bench.” Nonna wasn’t amused. She looked down at her crumb cake. He knew he hadn’t satisfied whatever it was she was driving at. “What about zinc, dear? Are you getting enough zinc?” “Zinc?” he couldn’t help but repeat. Nonna gave him a tired nod. “I haven’t really monitored my zinc intake,” he said sarcastically. Homer, impatient with Jon, walked around the table and sat beside Nonna. He figured she must’ve been watching too much daytime television, one of those fear-mongering doctor shows. “I had my yearly physical a few months ago,” he told her. “The doctor said I was fine.” Nonna tapped her acrylic fingernails on the table. “I read an article in the Herald the other day,” she started. Jon couldn’t imagine where this was going. “An AP story about the growing rate of infertility in men.”

Jon shook his head and raised his hand as if to stop her. But there are some forces in the world for which hand gestures are impotent to stop, and Jon looked like some Himalayan prophet holding his hands out before a great avalanche. “Everybody blames the woman when a couple can’t get pregnant, but this article says that men are the culprits forty percent of the time.” Flattened by a wall of snow. Faith and prophet crushed. Nonna plucked a few crumbs from her piece of cake and put them on her palm. She held out her hand beyond the table for Homer. “The article mentioned zinc can be very helpful for a man.” Homer licked the crumbs from Nonna’s hand. Out of habit Jon looked over his shoulder. He was looking for Papa. He was waiting for Papa to yell from his recliner in the living room, barking for his wife to quit harassing the boy. He realized how much he missed Papa’s voice and the thought nearly brought him to tears. “I don’t think I have to worry about my sperm count right now.” “You’ve had it checked?” she wondered. Homer licked clean her open hand. “That’s not what I mean,” he said. “You should have it checked,” she shot back. “People tend to blame the woman if a couple can’t get pregnant. But it’s not always

her fault. Men have to take that into consideration. Just because somethings coming out on your end doesn’t mean it’s all A-Okay.” Jon slouched down in his chair. He didn’t have to look over his shoulder to know Papa wasn’t there. He looked at Homer, but Nonna had the collie in the palm of her hand. He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. Nonna went on about Vitamin A and other supposedly helpful supplements. “I’d look into it if I were you. They probably have a lot more information on the web.” Jon shook his head. He was grateful Meryl was upstairs sleeping. “And don’t be too hard on Meryl,” she said, almost as if she could read his mind. “She’s the best thing you have. Don’t let her go by picking stupid fights like you always do.” Now she’s giving me advice on how to keep my egg count up, he mused. “I hope you’ll never have to find out how important she is,” Nonna said. “We’re only given a few true treasures. And only when they’re taken away do we truly know it. I don’t want you to find that out, Jon.” “Why are you telling me all this?” he wondered. Nonna sipped her tea. “I was just thinking how special it would be to have a greatgrandchild,” she confessed. “I’m getting old you know.” Just then Jon noticed her hair wasn’t permed.

“And you’re not as young as you might think.” She placed her tea cup back on the table. Her hair looked unusually thin. He could see her pale scalp. “You realize your parents were about your age when they had you.” Jon sighed. “You can’t say these kinds of things,” he started, but looked away. For a moment he thought he was reprimanding one of his difficult students. Nonna’s unwavering stare distilled his false impression. The kitchen was beginning to feel stuffy, suffocating. He found it hard to grasp the notion that he was nearly as old as his parents. Jon looked at Homer across the table. Not a care in the world. He said to the collie, “Not too subtle, huh?” “I’m only saying you should have it checked. That’s all…” He shot her an impatient look. “I know exactly what you’re saying.” Nonna placed more crumbs in her hand and held out a flat palm for Homer. “Take a chance,” she told him. “That’s all I’m saying.”

• Meryl woke him in the middle of the night. He was lying on his side. She pressed herself against his back and stroked his chest. At first he ignored her. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the

alarm clock on the nightstand. 2:30 in the morning. He thought about the ride home, the bridge, how to hide the anxiety from her. How did he pull it off last year? When he finally gave in to Meryl, he struggled to keep up with her. She was well rested. She climbed on top and dug and pushed into his chest with what he thought seemed like unresolved angst. Fighting to keep up with her, Jon was exhausted and out of breath. She was poised and strong, determined. The bed frame creaked. They were silent otherwise, sweating, panting and fluttering in rhythm with the trees rustling in the heavy heat of a humid summer night. Outside a cricket chirped in rhythm to the creaking bed frame. Afterward, Jon, his chest heaving from exhaustion, was ashamed and embarrassed. High school all over again. Meryl kissed him on the forehead and Jon thought it might’ve been something a mother would do for her son after he strikes out in little league, a small kiss of motherly pride to alleviate the pain and disappointment. Outside the window the cricket continued to mock him. Meryl checked her phone. This seemed like an empty gesture, but Jon knew she was making sure there were no messages from the hospital. Occasionally her work would page out shifts if extra hands were needed for an emergency surgery or if the hospital was overwhelmed with walk-ins.

Jon went to the bathroom and splashed cold water on his face. His face and chest were flushed. Abnormally red, he thought. He tried to ignore the coloring and returned to bed. Meryl was back under the covers, her phone turned off. Not wanting to wake her, he slid under the sheets quietly. But she was still awake. Before he could close his eyes, she asked about Jacob. She wanted to know if he was crazy. He rolled over in bed and looked at Meryl. She was sitting up now, her back resting against the headboard. “You met him last year,” he said without much thought. “We talked for five minutes, hon.” He didn’t even think of his childhood friend. He composed himself and thought of the shortest thing to say to satisfy his wife so he could go back to bed. “Jacob was different, eccentric,” he said finally. “He was a talented artist. It comes with the territory, right?” He knew he needed to add something. “Maybe he had an awkward sense of humor, but he wasn’t crazy.” She was wide awake. She wanted to know more. He’d never talked much about Jacob with her. His old friend was so removed from his life he seemed hardly a friend, hardly worth bringing up. He stretched his neck and drew in a deep breath. He exhaled through his mouth.

He wasn’t sure what to say. He thought of the story he loved to use to shock his colleagues. “I remember in middle school he got in a lot of trouble over a joke,” he started. “He wrote a note to this kid who liked to make fun of him for being an Indian.” “Indian?” Meryl interrupted. “Native American,” Jon clarified, and sighed. “One of his legs was longer than the other so the kid liked to call him Wounded Knee or Poc-a-hopus. Something like that.” Jacob wrote the boy a note saying if he didn’t quit calling him names he’d

from waves crashing out on the western cove and fell asleep.

• The plane was in the sky and then it was an irreparable pile of smoldering debris. As a child that was how Jon pictured – or failed to picture the crash that killed his parents. No steep downturn with screams and unforced vomit and curse words and unthinkable last thoughts. The plane – in his childish rendering – was just taken from the sky in a blink or a flash.

THE PLANE – IN HIS CHILDISH RENDERING – WA S J U S T TA K E N F R O M T H E S K Y I N A B L I N K O R A F L A S H. come to his house in the middle of the night and sodomize him.” Meryl, wide-eyed, looked at him for confirmation. He nodded. “He wrote he’d cut off the kid’s tongue so he wouldn’t be able to tell the police.” “And he did this as a joke?” she wondered. He nodded. “He got Ovid banned from the library.” She gave him a strange look. “Can you imagine,” she said into the darkness. Jon didn’t know what to say. He wanted sleep. He heard in the distance the subdued rush

He would try to bridge the gap with concrete facts. He went to the town library and looked at their limited archives. He went to the library up in Portland and searched through their collection of microfilms, looking through a bulky aperture at old headlines about a regional airline crash in the Catskills. He sifted through dusty cabinet files and found microfilm copies of the Times and the Globe. The articles were little help. They said the same things, more or less, and they said nothing Jon didn’t already know. They were words on an impenetrable screen, illuminated by sterile lights,

detached, untouchable and unreal, filled with the nondescript names of spokespeople and investigators and administrative officials.

• Jacob’s service was at St. Paul’s Episcopal, a modern structure with vinyl siding and two sandstone obelisks on either side of the front doors. St. Paul’s was the only place in town that could hold the expected crowd. Jacob had been an accomplished artist once upon a time, and artists and critics from New York were expected. Before leaving the art world, Jacob was known for painting gorgeous but unsettling scenes of selfimmolation. All of his work was over Jon’s head. His painting, “Dance, Maquokeeta!” showed a tribal chief dancing as his body is enshrouded in fire. His other well-known piece depicted the sparagmos of Orpheus in a Dionysian orgy. Jon dropped off his grandmother at the church’s front door and parked the car in the back lot. He and Meryl sat in the car talking. Meryl was in the backseat. She reminded him about a friend’s engagement party Sunday afternoon. Jon looked at her in the rear-view mirror, a long, impatient stare. She was wearing her hair up in a clip, straight and business-like. “Kim’s a good friend,”

Meryl said. “She’s really looking forward to seeing us.” “You know, I really like it when you wear your hair up like that,” he said. “It’s too bad I only get to see you like this at funerals.” Meryl shook her head. “Sunday, Jon.” “She’s engaged to that writer?” he asked. “Walter. Yes, the writer.” “The thought of an engagement party…” he said, rolling his eyes. “Why are you giving me such a hard time with this?” Meryl wondered. “You’ve always been good about going to these parties.” “I just don’t understand the principle of throwing an engagement party,” he said. “Isn’t the wedding celebration enough?” Meryl didn’t answer him. In the mirror he saw her shooting him a severe look. For his life Jon couldn’t recall if they’d thrown an engagement party. Probably. Though sadly he was unsure. “I don’t think they’re right for each other,” Jon said. “I’ll have to be phony, congratulating them and feigning my excitement. The thought makes me want to vomit.” “What’s wrong with Walter and Kim?” she wanted to know. “They’re a nice couple.” Jon turned around in his seat and faced her. She stared right back at him, defiant. “Kim is fine, but Walter

is so tiring. I can’t stand his voice,” he said. “Talking to him is like having a conversation with Stephen Hawking on sedatives.” She laughed, but stopped herself. “I think you’re being a little too harsh. He’s not that bad. You’ll just say anything to get me going.” He raised his eyebrows. She ignored his incredulous stare and watched the pedestrian traffic flowing toward the front of the church, a hands-in-pockets caravan of underwhelmed faces. He told her he wasn’t being too harsh, just honest. Jon checked his teeth in the mirror. “We should probably start for the church,” Meryl said, and opened the car door. “Nonna might worry.” They held hands walking to the front of the church. A slight breeze shook the tall trees surrounding the parking lot. Such a beautiful day. Jon had to remind himself that he was at a funeral. A Cessna droned overhead, leaving a thin contrail of white in an otherwise pale blue sky. Meryl and Jon entered the church, the air in the foyer cold and thin. Nonna had saved space for them in the second pew. Jon tried to wave her off, but Meryl had already started up the aisle. The church’s nave was spacious and unadorned, more utilitarian than the ornamental ones that as a Catholic he’d grown up in. Jon didn’t believe in

funerals. You can’t force grief and acceptance. He saw the whole process as trying to wrench the juice from a fruit without getting any of the pulp. He found Papa’s funerals a waste of energy, both the small ceremony at the funeral home in town, and the large one down in New Jersey. Jacob’s service was long and disorganized. Small prayers and eulogies from family sprinkled between discursive commentaries from critics. Jon pretended his back was tightening up on him – a reuse to free himself from the monotony, but Meryl shushed him and rubbed his back and patted his shoulders. Jacob’s adopted family shared anecdotes and inside jokes. Critics from New York stood up and congratulated themselves for having recognized the genius in Jacob’s early work. No one should hold back about a man’s life. Tell the whole story, Jon thought. But the self-important men left out the last half-decade of Jacob’s life. Nobody mentioned how he was forced out of New York after his pregnant girlfriend overdosed on heroin and fentanyl. At the time many of his friends openly chided him for negligence. Given the nature of his art, some went far enough to speculate he encouraged her. Jacob was used to ridiculous accusations. For years, many rival artists insisted that his limp was mere posturing. Jon could remember getting a phone call from a journalist who wanted to know

if Jacob had a limp as a child, and then wanted to know if Jacob purposely made himself a cripple. The accusations, however, made him a pariah in the art world. Jon was annoyed, but couldn’t plead innocence. He too abandoned him, and since Jacob moved back home he never made an effort to get together for a beer, to catch up and reminisce. He only knew about Jacob’s life from Nonna, or from what he’d pick up from other friends. Jacob returned home and attempted to revive his career by mimicking Marsden Hartley’s Dogtown collection. He began painting different scenes around Lake Abenaki, but his

had opened his own studio. He gave art lessons to seniors for, in Jacob’s words, “the fucking irony of it all.” He always hid his vulnerabilities behind a veneer of abrading sarcasm. The service was drawn out, but Jacob was cremated and to Jon it felt like a miracle to be spared a funeral procession and a long, burial service sweating in the sun and humidity. After the funeral, Jon, Meryl and Nonna followed the crowd down into the church’s basement, where Jacob’s family was holding a small reception. They kept to themselves, mostly, sipping burnt coffee and nibbling on store-bought cookies. As they were about to leave Jacob’s brother approached Jon

H E A LWAY S H I D H I S V U L N E R A B I L I T I E S B E H I N D A V E N E E R O F A B R A D I N G S A R C A S M. landscape portraits received little acclaim, and Jacob gave up painting altogether. He worked as a mechanic at the town’s police department until the nagging lower back pain from his disability forced him to retire early. At Papa’s funeral Jon was surprised to see that despite his orthotic and a cane Jacob could barely walk. When they talked after the service, Jacob dismissed the cane. “Medicine man’s just trying to keep me down,” he joked. Jacob by then

carrying what looked to Jon like a covered porcelain bowl for holding sugar. Jacob’s brother had long hair slicked back with water and he wore a flannel shirt buttoned to the very top like some kind of lumber jack boy scout. The brother spoke in curt, incomplete sentences like a foreign messenger new to the language. He told Jon he was holding a share of Jacob’s ashes and asked Jon if he could spread them at the lake. Jon didn’t know what to say. The

adopted family thought it would be a nice gesture. Jon nodded and the brother did not hand the bowl to Jon but forced it onto him and walked away like a man relieving himself of a curse. Jon looked over the odd dish in his hands and felt sorry, sorry for Jacob, his brother, the ambivalence he felt about it all.

• There was only one photograph. Every newspaper Jon could find, the same blackand-white photo showing a handful of investigators in protective suits combing a patch of charred earth, the suited men clouded in a haze of smoke wafting from the smoldering ground. He’d spend days at the library in Portland scrutinizing the picture. The image was ingrained in his memory. He hated looking at it. He felt as if there were a sponge in his stomach, and every time he glanced at the photo the sponge grew more saturated, weighing him down. He’d stare at the photo and feel the musty sponge growing heavier in the pit of his gut. He couldn’t help but soak in everything: the scattered debris, the small piece of fuselage in the photo’s lower left corner, the wafting smoke, the slouched figures frozen in time.

•

Meryl walked along the perimeter of Papa’s office, walking with her hands behind her back as if she were an idle shopper browsing a flea market. The attic office was stuffy; the air, thick. Jon and Meryl had been up there for two minutes and Jon was already starting to sweat. Meryl ran her hand along the platen of Papa’s typewriter, a faded black Smith Corona. After lunch she’d received a call from the head veterinarian and owner of the hospital, a balding, thin-nosed and severe man with a resonant voice, as Jon remembered from the shelter fundraiser. The hospital was short a vet for the overnight and he’d called to see if Meryl could cover the shift. Jon wanted her to stay, but he knew coming through for her boss was important to her. They’d put the argument aside and Jon was showing her Papa’s office. Meryl had changed out of her funeral clothes and was wearing a loose t-shirt off the shoulder. Jon had taken off his tie and jacket, but, distracted by the phone call, he never changed out of his dress pants and buttoned-down shirt. He stood with his back to the attic window. Over every surface lingered the dust from dead skin. A chesterfield loveseat sat pressed against the wall near the window. The coffee table was stacked with journals and magazines stained and swollen

by time. When Jon was young he would use the coffee table as his desk. He’d sit at the small table and finish his homework, listening to his grandfather punch the keys on his typewriter. He studied the coffee table and remembered how he’d get lost in the rhythm of Papa’s work. He turned to Meryl. She was looking at a framed Giclée print of a Winslow Homer painting, which hung on the wall over Papa’s desk. “Is that real?” Meryl wanted to know. Jon told her it was a reprint of Winslow Homer’s Right and Left. “Winslow Homer?” she wondered. The painting showed two flying ducks off shore being shot simultaneously by a hunter standing in a rowboat. Jon approached the print. “It’s Homer’s last finished painting before he died. It’s named for the hunting technique,” he explained. “It’s disturbing,” Meryl said. “Why would Papa choose this?” Jon shook his head. He too thought the painting was a little macabre, especially for office decor. But to Jon it seemed germane to his grandfather’s writing, an appropriate – albeit dark – intimation of the work at the old man’s fingertips. Papa’s career seemed saturated in death. He’d spent a decade at the Times writing obituaries for the not-yet dead. He wrote and

amended obituaries, updating the abridged biographies of former presidents, adding Eisenhower’s and Truman’s grandchildren as they sprouted from nowhere in Middle America. His work sat in dusty file cabinets waiting to be plucked at a moment’s notice. After moving to Maine, he wrote a series of popular articles for the Atlantic that detailed the dying moments of well-known literary figures like Keats, Thoreau and Oscar Wilde. Jon wiped the sweat from his forehead. He was waiting for Meryl to bring it up. She was still looking at the framed print. Sweat beaded on her hairline. He knew she was thinking about work, about the call she’d received. “I’m sorry to leave Nonna so soon,” she said finally. “But I can’t say no.” She turned from the print and looked at him. “Like hell you can’t,” Jon said. “I’d really be letting everyone down. And it’s hard to say I have a legitimate excuse.” She stared into his eyes, pleading for him to make this easy for her. “We’re not talking about the funeral of a close family member…” The sweat dripped from Jon’s forehead. He raised his sweaty brows and the trapped moisture ran down over his eyes. “Let the prick think whatever he wants,” Jon snapped. Meryl sighed and walked to the window. She stared into the blinding daylight.

“It’s difficult for me to say no.” “What am I supposed to tell Nonna?” Jon said. He moved toward the door. “She was so excited to see us. It’s been so long, and then we just up and leave—” He felt that childish impulse to argue with her, yell at her, get fiery-eyed and throw a tantrum, sweat and roast in this god-forsaken room. It was what he’d been looking for all week. Instead he took a deep breath and wiped more sweat from his forehead. He leaned against the door frame. Meryl was moving toward him. She stopped in the middle of the office. “You can stay up here,” Meryl suggested. “I’ll take the train out of Portland.” Jon rested his head against the door frame. His undershirt was soaked with sweat and clung to his skin. He pulled on his buttoned-down and shook it by the collar. Jon suggested she take the car. Meryl squinted. It was the rare look she gave when she couldn’t read him, understand his motive. Jon smirked. “I’ll take the train,” he told her. “You can pick me up at the station before Kim’s party.” Meryl approached Jon, still squinting, but a smile had cracked her perplexed look. Jon continued, “Let’s pretend we’re long-lost lovers. We were supposed to meet at the station forty years earlier, but I’d been kidnapped by the mafia. So every year on the same day you return to the station looking for

me. Now you’re old and wrinkly and your coat is covered with cat fur.” Meryl laughed. She embraced Jon and kissed him. She stood on her toes and kissed him on the forehead. She came down on her feet, stretched her neck and kissed him on the lips. “You live with sixteen coon cats,” he told her. “You should really teach summer school,” she suggested. “I think you’ve been watching too many soaps on your vacation.”

• The painting is perverse. Homer places you in the lineof-sight. You’re staring at two ducks that have been shot over the ocean, but the frame of reference places the wounded ducks between you and the double-barreled shotgun. It’s a cloudy morning, you’re hanging over a rough sea, and just before your eyes two mating ducks are stricken in the hold of immediate death. One duck is doubled over, the other, stiff and lifeless. And, looking into the shotgun’s muzzle flash, you can’t help but realize that if the hunter missed, if a slight sea breeze eluded his calculation, you were next in line.

• Jon was in a playful mood when he saw Meryl off in

the afternoon. He was relieved in knowing he wouldn’t have to endure another crossing. From the end of the driveway he saw her off with a dramatic wave. Meryl watched him in the rearview mirror, shaking her head. Jon waited for her to drive farther down the road before he started after the car. He followed, running in the middle of the street, his arms spread wide. He thought he could make out Meryl’s wide smirk in the mirror. He considered falling to his knees in a display of melodramatic anguish, but he saw an elderly couple with pedometers on their waste bands walking toward him. They approached at an easy pace. He was suddenly embarrassed, and walked back to the house hiding his blushing cheeks. Nonna was cleaning the living room. She was dusting Papa’s urn. The small, floriated ceramic piece sat on the mantel above the bricked-in fireplace. Jon stood catching his breath in the doorway. She stopped dusting. “I’d told Papa to browse the caskets over at Whitey’s,” she said to the wall. “They have an extensive catalog, you know.” She struggled to lift the urn. Jon approached her. He picked up the urn, which was heavier than he’d expected, and she dusted the empty space on the mantel. “But Papa, being so darn stubborn, insisted on being cremated,” Nonna continued.

“He didn’t look at a single casket.” Jon was surprised Nonna and Papa had ever discussed such arrangements. He assumed their conversations were always petty – talks about which old neighbor was moving to a nursing home, or the latest local political scandal – all the trivial things they’d talked about in front of him growing up. Jon placed the urn back on the mantel. Nonna reached up and centered it. “Cremation seems unnatural to me,” she said. “He didn’t want to rot in the ground. I can understand that, but being incinerated, that’s better?” Jon forced an awkward laugh. He was uncomfortable with her straight-forwardness. “I wished he’d taken a plot like I did,” she said, and sighed. Jon had no intention of talking to Meryl about these things. He figured when the time came Meryl would make all the appropriate arrangements and that would be it. “He didn’t think it through,” Nonna went on. “You see, Papa didn’t realize how fortunate we were to be able to sit down and talk these things out. Make these choices for ourselves.” She stopped dusting and looked at Jon. “Your mom and dad never had a choice in the matter.” Jon staggered back like a boxer stunned by an unexpected blow. He regained

his footing and tried to hide the shock. His face had gone blank, his eyes and nose and mouth and chin vanishing as easily as chalk on a blackboard. He suddenly found himself realigning the matching throwpillows on the sofa. “Your Papa didn’t talk to me for a whole week when I told him that. You can imagine.” “I can imagine,” Jon managed to say. Still reeling from the shock, he sounded hypnotic, bowing to Nonna’s words. Jon remembered riding his bike down to the cemetery near the town line, where his parents were buried together. He would look down at the grass before their gravestones and picture the two caskets side-byside. He could see his mother and father lying lovingly together. It was like something out of an Emily Dickinson poem. Nonna was dusting the other objects on the mantel now – the Disney World snow globe, Papa’s encased retirement badge from the Scarborough Volunteer Fire Association, and the framed photo of them slowdancing at their 40th wedding anniversary. “I just couldn’t imagine why he wanted to be cremated,” she said. “The thought truly bugged me. There’s nothing left of you. And the ashes are so ugly. Not to mention the smell.” Jon would chain his bike to the cemetery’s iron fence. He’d walk to his parents’ plots and picture his mother

and father lying in their padded caskets; their arms crossed over their chests; their faces marked with placid grins. Without saying anything more to Nonna he disappeared upstairs to shower. Why did he think their bodies would still be in tact? He saw the charred earth in the newspaper photo. He felt like a small child, lost to the world and its many strange and peculiar ways.

• Jon drove Nonna’s old Buick down Route 1 toward the lake, the dish with Jacob’s ashes in the small compartment between the seats. Driving down the cracked and sun-faded roadway, he pictured the car careening into a telephone pole, a guard rail, the dump truck approaching in the distance. He pulled into the beach parking lot and found a spot near the pathway to the lake. The lot was nearly empty, all the vacationers probably at their motel rooms or summer cabins washing up for dinner. Jon walked down the wide pathway, no longer riddled with the tough roots that used to stub his toes. A group of kids were enjoying the deserted beach. The sound of girly shrieks and splashing water echoed through the phalanx of dwarf pines surrounding the renovated path. He walked across the beach to the boat-landing’s dock. Three

boys waded in the shallow water nearby. They were facing the shore and splashing water at a group of girls trying to dry off on the beach. The girls, their towels wrapped tight around their slender frames, squealed into the twilit sky. Out of boredom, awkwardness, he checked his phone and noticed Meryl had left a voicemail. When did she call? How did he miss his ringtone? Standing on the dock, looking over the lake, he listened to her message. She’d made it home safe and was getting ready for work. She told him she couldn’t wait to finally see him after being separated for such a long time. “Oh, how will I ever sleep tonight…?” Jon smiled. At the end of the message, Meryl told him she loved him and again reminded him about Kim and Walter’s engagement party on Sunday. Jon put away his cell phone and looked out over the lake. He clutched Jacob’s ashes and wondered what to do next. Crane Ridge jutted out from the eastern shore, a bald cliff of granite littered with beer cans and cigarette butts. When the town fixed up the trail and added bathrooms and changing rooms, teenagers flocked to the lake. Jon thought it was foolish to get drunk up there. One false step and you could plunge to your death. Before the renovations, Jon and Jacob used to spend their afternoons on the ridge, but at the time they were too young

to be interested in drinking. Instead they absentmindedly watched the sunset and shared fantasies about Miss Cowley, Jacob’s private art instructor. He walked back across the beach. He put the dish under his shirt to keep it from getting wet, but the boys in the water stopped splashing and waited for him to pass. Respect for their elders. Jon was shocked. He entered the hiking trail and started for Crane Ridge. He used to walk these woods with Jacob. They were slow in there travels, for Jacob always refused to wear his orthotic. Despite whatever pain or discomfort he’d drag his right leg through the woods. He’d pretend his gimp wasn’t the fault of a chronic disability, but an act of some inner calculation of efficiency – an autochthonous trick passed down from his ancestors, an ancient technique that escaped books and institutions and could only be obtained by word of mouth over midnight campfires in the wilderness of Maine, or somewhere like Maine. Jon forgot how to get to the ridge, forgot the difficulty of the climb. Walking in the thick haze of the forest, he was lost and found his way but was lost again. Finally he reached the ridge, exhausted and out of breath. He stumbled up the rocks. He was greeted by a startled and agitated group of teens. They were sitting on old, rusted metal lawn chairs, and

downing cans of beer. He looked out over the lake and then staggered back and slowly lowered himself onto the rock, careful to find a spot free of any sticky pine needles. He placed the odd dish on the ridge and buried his hands in his pockets and clutched at his thighs. His heart was pounding. He gulped in the air, felt it was the only way he could keep the air in his lungs, keep himself from suffocating. One of the teenagers – a scrawny boy with curly hair holding an unopened can of

sunset with them. He smiled to himself and thought about his colleagues, what they would’ve thought of him drinking with students. He looked off to the west, to the sunset, the thick layered cumulus clouds on the horizon. The sun lay somewhere below the earth, its higher rays shining behind the clouds, an inferno of burning light shimmering in the translucent prism. The clouds were puffed out and swollen as though curdled and calcified by the summer heat, streaked orange and mauve, gray and sapphire.

H E F E LT D I Z Z Y. H E TO L D T H E B OY S T H AT T H E Y W E R E A S K I N G T H E W R O N G Q U E S T I O N. T H E D I S TA N C E O F T H E D R O P WA S I R R E L E VA N T. beer – walked up to Jon. The kid extended the can of beer toward him. He had braces on his bottom teeth. Jon snorted a laugh, but watched his unsteady hand take the beer. Jon managed to thank him, and the kid returned to his friends. An airplane droned overhead, traveling west, drifting toward the setting sun. He cracked open the can of beer and took a small sip. The beer barely tasted like beer. He looked beyond the lake and over the green hills stretching toward the sunset, the clouds on the horizon. He talked with the group of teenagers and he watched the

The boys were arguing about the distance of the cliff’s drop, daring each other, wondering if one could survive the jump. Jon counseled the young men. He held out his can, belched and took the floor. He stood up and moved toward the edge and looked down. Lake Abenaki – like the jagged piece of a shattered mirror – reflected the sky’s seething colors, the glow of a forged ingot burning over its corrugated surface. He felt dizzy. He told the boys that they were asking the wrong question. The distance of the drop was irrelevant. From this height the depth of the water below was the sole determining variable.

Jon sat down and disappeared into his can of beer. One of the boys nodded, and another one said he didn’t think the water was deep enough. He listened to the fuzz coming from the can’s mouth. He chugged the beer and looked up, eyes watering. The thick, layered clouds on the horizon hovered above the green earth like the remnant dust from an arrant stampede across some great primordial plain. He stared beyond the lake, beyond Maine’s rolling hills, and his other senses failed him. The world around him receded, the motor traffic, nonexistent, a distant whisper; the nervous and hysterical screams of skinny-dippers in Abenaki Cove muted by the sunset and its gorgeous, blood-red landscape. He wondered if Jacob had ever painted something like this in his landscape experiment. He felt sad he didn’t know. Jon finished his beer, belched again and gazed at the clouds, a supplicant before beautiful dusk. He looked at the bowl holding Jacob’s ashes and pictured Jacob dancing on the ridge like his famous Maquokeeta, the burning lava of his weeping flesh, his eyes closed, humming and stammering out gibberish prayers and withering out with another day’s passing. The sunset. Rolling, marbled clouds like mist and fog billowing up from the rim of flame cataracts pouring over the world’s end. Dance! The horizon a shoulder

to bear the burden of the day’s torch, the light in torture suffusing the swarm of clouds in bands of orange, salmoncolored agony. Jon was lost, imploring the martyred skyline for some sign for auger. Muted clouds whipped with lashes of sunlight. The blunted shapes and spokes of light, the colors, the beauty, were all accident, happenstance, a helter-skelter accumulation in the atmosphere, and all it took to wipe them clean of sight was a slight shift in atmospheric pressure – an everyday meteorological event. The teenagers grew bored and left the ridge. Jon had tears in his eyes and the muscles in his jaw were cramped and he couldn’t manage even a goodbye. He sat on the ridge and felt the heat radiating from the cliff. He shook the empty beer can to weigh its emptiness. He wiggled off the tab and dropped it into the can. He shook the can and listened to the clanking sound. The clouds on the horizon had thinned, and in the crepuscular light they reminded him of the smoke and dust that climb the air after the controlled demolition of a defunct highrise casino or dilapidated hotel, the way the dust wafts in some beautiful emulation of its lost host. Jon stood up and looked over the lake. His back had begun to tighten up on him. Lake Abenaki rested, unstirred, its surface unmolested as if covered with a film of ice.

Tomorrow morning families with their air-conditioned mini vans and coolers packed with pouched juices would return to populate the lake and fill the surrounding woods with childish laughs and motherly cautions. But for now the lake was as quiet and as obscure as Jon had first known it to be, when Papa first introduced him to this world. He thought back to early memories of Papa, the two of them fishing. Papa would loop and stake a worm to the boy’s hook and tell him stories from his own youth, the summers he spent as a camp counselor on Indian Lake in New Jersey. Jon knew little what to make of Papa’s boyhood reveries, tried to picture his grandfather as a young man but couldn’t. He picked up the dish holding Jacob’s ashes. He removed the lid and walked to the edge. The charred smell. Smoky gray ash. White fragments among. He poured the ashes over the edge, slowly at first to try its course. The ashes sunk through the air, fanning out and falling and fading into the twilight. Where they scattered and landed he could not tell. He poured the ashes until the dish was upside down and nothing fell out, and he threw the dish toward the center of the lake and stood holding only the lid. The dish landed, splashing like a frog jumping from a lily – to sink to the bottom and house silt. He chucked the lid like a Frisbee, and laughed and felt like a child.

The clouds to the west cleared and the sky grew dark, and in that void on the horizon – that vast and vacant nothing where all that beauty had been – sat an empty canvas with the promise for another masterpiece of timeless beauty, a soaring tomorrow of aesthetic radiance. Jon waited for the clouds in his head to dissipate, and finally he left the ridge and walked through the dark woods. He took in the scent of the night; the forest reeked of damp soil and the musty compost of decaying leaves. A cool summer breeze rattled the leaves overhead, an indigenous goodnight lullaby. He was lost and he could barely see, but he wasn’t worried. He’d find the hiking trail that would lead him out of the woods and back to the parking lot. In that moment of certainty he thought about Meryl at work, maybe leaning down and listening to the shallow respirations of an ailing golden retriever. He pulled out his phone to borrow its light. He called his voicemail and listened to Meryl’s message again. A treasure of life. He needed to hear her voice.

•

UNTITLED • TORI ZHOU DIGITAL PHOTOGRAPHY

walks a little, searching for anything) Hello? Frederick? Jacob? Sara? (Josephine continues to walk around, but she lowers her voice)

JASON SLOAN DRAMA CHARACTERS FREDERICK Around eighty, showing severe signs of aging. JOSEPHINE Frederick’s wife. Also in her eighties. BERTHA In her late twenties, with a gorgeous body. SETTING The afterlife. It is a blank space with no walls and no people other than the characters. TIME Present day. (Josephine is standing in the center of a room with nothing in it. She is wearing only a hospital gown and socks with treads. There is even lighting, no walls, no people and no color. She looks around, trying to work out where she is) JOSEPHINE (shouting) Hello?

(Josephine waits for a response, then

Frederick? Where are you? Where is everyone? Frederick? (Josephine sits down on the floor. She takes hold of the hospital gown she is wearing, examines it, and then adjusts it)

Where am I? (Frederick appears ten feet away wearing day clothes) FREDERICK

What the-?

(Frederick, who had become kyphotic and reliant on a cane, falls over) JOSEPHINE

Frederick!

(Josephine pulls herself up slowly and walks over to where Frederick is struggling on the ground. She helps him up to a sitting position and sits down beside him) Are you okay, my love? FREDERICK Josephine? But you’re dead! JOSEPHINE (explaining, as to a child) No, love, I’m right here. See?

(Josephine holds Frederick’s cheek in her hand and turns his head to hers)

With your dead wife.

FREDERICK But I saw you die. On the bed! JOSEPHINE I’m not dead, honey. How can I be dead if I’m right here with you next to me? FREDERICK No, you’re dead! I saw it happen! The line went flat and there was that noise. Sara collapsed on top of you. I had to pull her off; she was shaking you, trying to keep you alive, like she knew the secret those doctors, specialists, didn’t. That flatline sound got into my head, Josephine. I couldn’t get it out, even as Sara drove me back to our home, like a few years ago when our oven timer kept going off, remember? Beeeeeeeeeep! JOSEPHINE Frederick, how can that be? If I’m dead, how can you be here? FREDERICK I’m getting there, I’m getting there. Sorry. Go on, then.

JOSEPHINE

FREDERICK When I got home, that damned noise was everywhere. I took a shower, but the water was silent in comparison. It was like footage of a waterfall in the background of an office or something. Gallons of water just pouring down, absolutely quiet, like it never impacted the real world. And??

JOSEPHINE

FREDERICK Well, that’s it. I got out, got dressed and then I was here.

JOSEPHINE

FREDERICK (hesitant) That’s right. JOSEPHINE Do you think you’re dead, too? Could we both be dead? FREDERICK I suppose it’s possible. That sound is gone. (excited)

JOSEPHINE

Oh, Frederick! We became one of those couples! FREDERICK I don’t know what you’re talking about, Josie. JOSEPHINE Haven’t you ever heard stories of old couples who died within hours of each other? Oh, lord.

FREDERICK

JOSEPHINE How romantic! Frederick, you died of a broken heart! (Josephine hugs Frederick tightly) FREDERICK (blushing) Yeah, yeah. And what does that say about you? JOSEPHINE Oh, I’m sure I also would have died soon after you, had I been given the opportunity.

How romantic.

FREDERICK (sarcastic)

And Jacob-

(Josephine hugs him again, then pulls back and places a hand on Frederick’s shoulder, rubbing it gently)

FREDERICK Yes, Jacob will be fine, too. There’s nothing we can do for them at this point, Josephine. It’s just the two of us now. Like old times.

So now what happens? JOSEPHINE I can’t say I really know, my love. It’s a lot emptier than I would have thought. FREDERICK Yeah, shouldn’t there be more dead people here? JOSEPHINE Maybe we aren’t dead, then. Maybe it’s only a dream? FREDERICK (looking around) Maybe, Josie. JOSEPHINE (suddenly shouting) Oh, Frederick! The kids! Jacob and Sara and the grandchildren! FREDERICK (soothing, rubbing Josephine’s back) They’re alright, Josie. Calm down. Calm down. They’re adults. They’ll be okay. They knew we were on our way out. (in tears)

JOSEPHINE

But you said SaraFREDERICK I know what I said. It’s okay. It’s a natural part of grief.

JOSEPHINE

(calm)

JOSEPHINE

Except we’re dead. FREDERICK

Maybe.

(They sit in silence for a little while) So. Is it like this for eternity? I suppose.

JOSEPHINE

FREDERICK And we’re supposed to sit and talk? Me and you? Forever? JOSEPHINE Is that a problem, Frederick? FREDERICK No, not at all. I love your company more than anything, Josie. It’s just… What? It’s just what?

JOSEPHINE

FREDERICK It’s just, sometimes I like to have a good book, you know? Or the paper in morning. Something to read, you know? JOSEPHINE So you died for me, but now you want to go off and find something to read?

No, I’m not saying that.

FREDERICK

JOSEPHINE How would we even know when it’s morning? Is The Heaven Times delivered daily? Josie-

FREDERICK (eyes wide) Josie. Josie, it isn’t Sara. Then who is it?

FREDERICK

JOSEPHINE Sign up for your eternal subscription! A once-in-alifetime opportunity! FREDERICK Don’t be silly, Josie. You know what I was saying.

BERTHA (softly, from a distance) Freddie! Freddie! JOSEPHINE Is she saying your name, Frederick? Who is she? (Bertha arrives at where the couple is seated)

JOSEPHINE I know. I’m sorry. I’m scared, Frederick. I’m just scared, is all. Me too, Josie.

FREDERICK JOSEPHINE (after a pause)

BERTHA (overjoyed) Freddie! Oh, Freddie! How I’ve missed you, my darling! Frederick?

JOSEPHINE

Although I must admit, having a few books around wouldn’t be such a bad thing. (They once again lapse into silence. Bertha appears in the distance, slowly advancing toward the couple, wearing a bright sundress)

(Frederick is shocked into silence, staring at Bertha, who runs up to him and bends down in an attempt to wrap her arms around him. Josephine moves in front of her to block her, and Frederick topples over without her support)

Frederick, do you see that? Is that another person over there?

Excuse me! (to Frederick, angrily:) Frederick, who is she?!

FREDERICK I think it may be, Josie. She looks somewhat familiar.

BERTHA ‘Who is she’? SHE is his wife, grandma!

JOSEPHINE (panicked)

JOSEPHINE

Oh GOD! Is it Sara? It can’t be Sara! Could she have died, too?

Bertha?

JOSEPHINE BERTHA (confused)

Y-yes. How do you know my name? Freddie, who is this old lady?

No, but-

JOSEPHINE ‘This old lady’ happens to be Frederick’s current wife.

BERTHA No? So what is it? Do you love me or not?

BERTHA Current wife? Freddie, you remarried? You son of a bitch!

I do, Bertha! I do!

FREDERICK (from the floor)

FREDERICK

JOSEPHINE But you aren’t in love with her, right? FREDERICK

Can someone please help me up?!

Right. Well-

(Frederick holds up his arms, but neither of his wives offers their assistance, so he drops them back down to his sides)

BERTHA Right? RIGHT?! Freddie, you aren’t making any sense!

Bertha, you died sixty years ago. What was I supposed to do? BERTHA Did you not love me, Freddie? Did you never love me? FREDERICK Of course I loved you, Bertha! I never stopped loving you, even after you passed. JOSEPHINE You never stopped loving her, Frederick? FREDERICK Well… She was my first wife, Josie. You knew how hard it was for me to get over her death. (quietly)

BERTHA

To get over me… JOSEPHINE You can’t still be in love with her, Frederick. We built a life together. A family.

FREDERICK

FREDERICK (shouting) Goddammit! Will one of you help me up?! (Both wives rush to help Frederick sit upright, competing with each other. They each pull one arm and hold it, standing on either side of him) With two wives, I figure I wouldn’t be left on the ground! Or whatever this stuff is. So which is it?

BERTHA FREDERICK (resigned)

Bertie, it’s been sixty years. BERTHA But Freddie! I love you! I’ve had no one for all this time. There’s nothing here! No one! Six decades I’ve been alone, waiting for you, thinking about you, missing you.

JOSEPHINE Frederick, my love, we’ve shared our entire lives with each other. Our married life is twice as long as her entire existence! We have children, grandchildren. She’s nothing but a memory!

JOSEPHINE (horrified) No. NO! Frederick! (Bertha puts her arms around Frederick’s neck and kisses him on the cheek. She turns his head toward her and kisses him on the lips. He doesn’t resist. Josephine drops his other arm, but he doesn’t fall)

BERTHA A memory? Freddie, I’m right here! In the flesh! Look at me! (She raises the skirt of her sundress to expose her pale upper thigh and slaps it lightly) BERTHA (CONT.) I’m all right here, see! And I’m still young. I’ll always be young, Freddie. Not like that one. That one!

Frederick… my love… (Josephine breaks into tears and falls to the floor beside Frederick. He breaks off the kiss and looks at Josephine in agony beside him. Bertha tries pulling him back to her, but he puts his hand on hers to stop her)

JOSEPHINE

FREDERICK Bertha, I’m so old now. I can’t even sit up properly without assistance. How can you still want me? Frederick, stop!

JOSEPHINE

BERTHA I made a promise on our wedding day, Freddie. I’ve always been prepared to spend the rest of eternity with you. It breaks my heart that I left you alone all these years. I know what it’s like to be alone. I won’t let it happen again.

(Bertha sits down beside Frederick, still holding him upright)

JOSEPHINE Think about our children! Oh, Frederick! We’ve been married for half a century! I… I- Josie, I…

FREDERICK

FREDERICK (tenderly) Bertha, I can’t. BERTHA But Freddie, you were my everything. FREDERICK I know, Bertha. I know. And you were mine. But my life continued and I fell in love again. My heart is riven. Josephine, my wife of fifty-eight years… look at her. (Frederick puts his arm on Josephine’s back and rubs it. She looks up, still crying, then puts her face back in her arms) I can’t.

(Bertha breathes in deeply)

BERTHA (softly – barely audible)

I understand. (Bertha lets out her breath and stands up) Freddie. I will always love you. And I you, Bertha.

FREDERICK

(Bertha leaves Frederick propped up on his arms and walks away and disappears. Josephine looks up and stops crying, then sits up) Josie, she’s gone. JOSEPHINE (venomous) You monster! (Josephine stands up) Till death do us part, then? You son of a bitch. (Josephine spits on Frederick, then stomps off) FREDERICK But Josie! I chose you! Josie! Josephine!! Bertha! Bertie! Please! Somebody! Somebody… (Frederick’s arm wobbles and he falls over, lying splayed on the ground) END

WOMAN IN RED • EMILIA MIKRUT MIXED MEDIA

EMILIA MIKRUT POETRY They say the only way to survive an anaconda attack is to spear it from the inside lie flat, motionless, rigid against the earth like you've already lost the waiting game, like your lungs have eased themselves into the smell of soil and mold and your skin's about to give way to solid whites You pretend, and it comes sinking into rocks lined with the same filament that courses through your skin and blind-shut eyes as the dirt against your lips holds your hot breath in for you It wishes it were warm, the kind of warm that licks its way through a body, and swarms even after the sun has set, looking for intangible frosts to coax out Don’t fear the unhinged jaw that slides over your knees Don’t trust the smooth, pink capsule tear from teeth to tip, expose the soft spots and insides of scales DON'T BLAME ON ME • KI SUB LEE CHARCOAL & DIGITAL MANIPULATION

Make sure you have a knife Make sure the blade is sharp

ammy thought her backyard never looked so much like a vacant lot as it did at twilight. The grass stood tall and weedy in some parts alongside bare patches of dirt where the ground was scraped and dead. Anthills poked up at odd intervals, the ants threading back and forth between them in red and black highways. At dusk the sun sat like a fat Easter egg, its dye running burnt orange through the branches of the trees. The air was thick with humidity and the smell of damp leaves, which probably meant rain. It wasn’t ideal weather for an outdoor party, but it was too late for a change of plans. It was her youngest daughter’s birthday. There was no cake and streamers, just Tammy and her two girls camped out under the stars. They were using the red pup tent she’d gotten her youngest as a birthday gift. It had cost less than thirty dollars, which was good because her budget was already stretched thin. There’d been few present options that didn’t seem cheap or meaningless, so when she’d finally found the tent sitting alone on the shelf, it had felt like kismet. She’d stood in the store

KRISTEN ARNET T PROSE aisle, holding the box, dreaming up memories with her daughters that would last a lifetime – gathering wood from their yard for a campfire, crunching on trail mix in ziplock bags, breathing in the cool night air and drifting peacefully off to sleep. She’d picked up a few dollar flashlights and a tiny igloo cooler for sodas and figured she’d assemble the tent around noon, which would give them plenty of time for activities. It had taken three hours to set up. Tammy wormed the rods through the small plastic openings as the grass and weeds itched her ankles. The bugs flew directly at her face no matter how hard she swatted at them, attracted by the sweat beading above her lip and along her hairline. There were mosquito larvae wriggling in the puddle water out back by the shed, their bodies rolling in the plant detritus and muck. By the number of bites dotting her arms and legs, Tammy imagined she’d have malaria by the end of the night. But her daughter’s face had lit up with excitement once the tent finally stood upright on its shaky legs and the torture had seemed worthwhile. Sitting inside its warm

red glow, it had felt like a cozy cabin. Tammy had wanted to read the girls from the Little House books, but they’d rolled their eyes at her. Instead they’d wanted to tell each other scary stories with the flashlight pressed under their chins, their missing baby teeth turning their faces into hollowed out jack-olanterns. Tammy didn’t think this was such a great idea. Laura was her oldest and she loved to scare her younger sister – she was smart and loud and quick to get angry when people told her no. Maggie was her youngest

hotdogs cooked on bent coat hangers and they’d tasted okay and the kids had actually eaten them. The fire had a comfortable smell that made Tammy feel happy, like bundling up under blankets. Even the choking, smoky parts fed her nostrils like Christmastime. It reminded her of cold nights when her father had played the guitar for their family and they’d sat around the fireplace and eaten popcorn balls. She and her girls sang silly songs, commercial jingles and patriotic anthems, and when they’d gotten tired out they’d all

E V E N T H E C H O K I N G, S M O K Y PA RT S F E D H E R NOSTRILS LIKE CHRISTMASTIME and her sweetheart, though she cried easily and hated doing anything that might make her sweaty. She was already complaining about the dirt on her shorts after the first fifteen minutes of sitting outside, and Tammy was beginning to feel sorry she’d planned something as “easy” as camping out in the backyard. But there’d been s’mores, and though they’d been messy, they’d been delicious and the girls had each had four. She’d been able to coax fire from the damp wood with the help of some strangled bits of newspaper, crunched up in her kid’s sweaty palms. They’d eaten

crawled inside the tent together. It was just as cozy as she’d imagined; the three sleeping bags piled nearly on top of each other, her two babies snuggled on either side of her. For the first time since her wife had left, they’d felt like a family again. Tammy was able to smile and mean it for a few minutes before she’d drifted off in the sweltering plastic of the tent. When the bite happened, Tammy hadn’t even opened her eyes. She’d stayed in the barely cognizant place between wake and sleep, rubbing at the spot with one hand twisted up behind her back in the sleeping bag. It had felt like the start of an

ingrown hair or maybe a pimple. The pain was sharp and sudden, but not anything worth waking the kids over. Tammy decided to ignore it, burrowing down, pulling the sleeping bag over her face and dropping right back to sleep. Tammy woke again abruptly sometime later, her stomach roiling. She sat up and pressed a hand against her back. It ached, as if she’d slept with her spine curled around a metal pole. It was black in the tent, but she could feel Maggie’s leg beside her. It was kicked out from her sleeping bag, which made Tammy think she’d just gotten an accidental kick to the kidney. Then her stomach pitched again, and she wondered if it would help to use the bathroom or if she could even try to do that without waking up either one of the girls. Maybe she’d had too many hot dogs – or maybe they’d gone bad? She’d bought the grocery store off brand because they were cheaper. She hoped her kids wouldn’t get sick, too. Her stomach lurched and she scrambled to sit up. Tammy fumbled for her flashlight, fingertips skimming the slippery tops of sleeping bags and grazing the soft skin of an arm. After digging between the pillows, she finally she found her phone. She brought it up to her face and clicked one of the buttons, and the blue glow made her eyes want to seal closed again.

“Momma?” “Go back to sleep, baby, it’s fine.” She pushed her youngest daughter’s head back down against her pillow. Maggie’s hair was drenched with sweat. The screen on her phone told her that it was after two in the morning. There was a heavy feeling in her bladder and a sharp pain behind her eyes. Tammy worked the sleeping bag down her legs and immediately started shivering. Her fingers trembled and the phone screen shook in her hand. There were two emails from work that she ignored and a curt text from her ex about when she’d be by the next day to pick up the kids. She put down the phone and crawled to the front of the tent, sliding her knees slowly along the ground so she wouldn’t pull anyone’s hair or smash any fingers. The tent’s front was zippered closed and she fumbled for the tab. When she found it, the zipper stuck in three places before finally opening a hole wide enough for her to crawl through. It was drizzling. As she peeled apart the tent flaps and pushed her head through the gap, fat drops of water fell into her hair from off the top of the tent and her teeth chattered violently. Overhead the moon was a pale smudge behind the low hanging clouds. She wasn’t wearing shoes and she hadn’t mowed the grass in a few weeks, so the weeds slapped wetly against her legs. Tiny moths and other bugs floated

up from the ground, drifting past her face as she made her way to the house. Melissa always used to mow the lawn, that was her thing, and Tammy had taken out the garbage and cleaned the bathrooms. Now Tammy had to do all those things and work full time and plan a camping trip in the backyard with half of the money it took it do it. Everything felt too hard all the time, like trying to do three people’s jobs. It made her tired and irritable and felt like running away from all her problems. Tammy wasn’t sure how she’d get anything done if she was actually sick. The sliding door looked like the entrance to a cave. She flattened her hands against the glass and felt her back twinge sharply, as if someone had grabbed a fistful of her muscles. She’d left the air conditioning running in the house, and the cold combined with the humidity of outside dragged up a layer of goosebumps on her skin. Her teeth began to chatter again, and she couldn’t get them to stop even when she grit her teeth. It was dark in the living room, but she knew her way around even without the light to guide her. They’d owned the house for seven years, and even though Melissa wanted to sell it, Tammy had outright refused. She’d shaped the way the furniture sat in every room, picked the rug for the front hall, and brought her babies home to their freshly painted rooms. Their childhood artwork cluttered its walls and

their growth was marked on the wall next to the garage. Her eyes burned as she clicked on the wall switch in the hall bathroom and the buttery yellow halogens came on over the mirror. Tammy had avoided looking at her reflection for a while now. Her appearance was always shocking to her – the enlarged pores on her cheeks and nose, the stray dark hairs sprouting up under her chin – things that she hadn’t noticed even six months ago. After Laura, her flesh gone a little doughy, but after Maggie it had permanently dented and dimpled at her waist and hips. The creases in her neck looked like the trunk of a tree. As she leaned in, she saw that the whites of her eyes were flushed bright pink, and as she moved in closer to get a better look, the muscles in her back seized up. She fell against the sink, banging her hip against the edge of the vanity. “Oh god, shit.” The pain came in waves, cresting and falling before building up again to something unbearable. She reached her hand beneath her shirt and rubbed at her back. There was an ice pick feeling that ran down her spine as if someone had stabbed her. When she pulled up the hem of her t-shirt and twisted sideways, there was a mark in the center of her back. It was an angry red, streaked and dark, like someone had pressed a lit cigarette to her skin. She touched it gently with the tips of

her fingers and blinked to clear the sleep from her eyes. She’d left her glasses in the bedroom, hadn’t thought to bring them out into the tent where one of the girls could step on them in the middle of the night. It hurt to touch the mark; it was radiating heat and looked puffy. There was ibuprofen in the medicine cabinet. The bottle rattled loudly. Only three pills left. She thought about the grocery list she always kept on the fridge and how there was no one left to go to the store. Melissa used to pick up groceries and Tammy had written the list. Tammy had loaded the dishwasher and Melissa had unloaded it. One of them would take the garbage cans out to the curb for pick up on Monday evenings, and the other would drag the empty

a pretty miserable ear infection four years ago. When she’d tried to throw them out, Melissa had been livid. “What if one of us gets hurt?” Melissa had dug the orange plastic bottles out of the trash and wiped the coffee grounds from their sides. “Then we’d go to the doctor.” Tammy thought that was self-explanatory. “What if we couldn’t afford it?” Melissa had asked. The prescription had been old already; the typescript on the label had begun to fade. “What would we do then?” Tammy looked at those bottles now and understood. She set them both on the counter, just in case the ibuprofen wasn’t enough. She swallowed down the three pills with a handful of

T H E R E WA S I B U P R O F E N I N T H E M E D I C I N E C A B I N E T. T H E B OT T L E R AT T L E D LO U D LY. O N LY T H R E E P I L L S L E F T. cans back up to the house the following afternoon. Tammy missed their easy routines almost as much as she missed having a body beside her in bed every night. There were other medicines up in the cabinet, leftover prescription bottles that weren’t hers that were probably expired. Melissa used to make her keep everything, old leftover oxycodone from a root canal, hydrocodone from

water from the tap, and when she bent over to drink from her palm, the slicing pain up her back almost made her choke on them. She walked back through the darkened house. Colors swam in her eyes, so she stopped behind the couch and pressed her hands down into the cushion while she tried to reorient herself. Her phone was still in the tent with the girls.

She wondered if she’d have to call for an ambulance or if she’d be able to drive herself. How did a person know it was time to call the hospital? Didn’t someone else usually make those decisions? Her insurance hadn’t kicked in yet at her job, the new overpriced plan she’d had to take since she couldn’t be on Melissa’s insurance anymore. How much would an overnight visit be out-of-pocket? Turning to look outside, Tammy pressed her face against the sliding glass door and let the coolness soothe her. When she lifted her forehead, she saw she’d left a rectangular smear of grease. Her hair was dirty and tangled. When she brushed it off her face and neck, her skin felt like boiled chicken. “I need a shower,” she said. “I can’t go anywhere like this.” Instead of bathing, she walked back out into the yard. She was unsteady, leaning forward, hoping that would help her back not hurt as much. There was a large branch that had fallen after a thunderstorm the previous week, and bits of broken stick jabbed her bare feet. When she reached the orange tree in the center of the yard, her stomach protested and she leaned against the trunk and threw up. What came out was a mix of hot dogs and barely digested pills, which were chalky and bitter. The taste of it made her gag again, so she wiped her tongue on the hem of her t-shirt.

She stayed bent in half for a second, panting, worried what would happen when she tried to stand up again. “Mom?” Laura poked her head through the flaps of the tent. “What’s wrong?” “Nothing, go back to sleep.” “Are you sick?” Tammy’s oldest was a noted hypochondriac. If someone complained of a sore throat, suddenly Laura had the flu. When Maggie had broken one of her fingers in a slammed car door, Laura had worn a sling around for a week and claimed she’d broken her arm falling off the backyard tire swing. “No, just trying to cool off. It’s hot in the tent.” “I’m hot, too.” “I’m coming back inside,” Tammy said. “Don’t wake your sister.” Her girls needed her. There was nothing else she could do. Tammy stood up slowly, the muscles in her back spasming violently. Laura had found one of the flashlights and was shining it in Tammy’s face, nearly blinding her. “You don’t look so good.” Tammy fought the urge to throw up again. “Move, please.” Laura backed up and Tammy got to her knees and crawled inside the tent. She opened up her sleeping bag to climb back in, and then thought better of it.

“Give me the flashlight.” Laura handed it to her and Tammy pointed it at the inside of her sleeping bag. At first all she saw was pilled up felt and a hole where the stuffing had started to pull loose in one of the corners. Then her eyes focused and she saw a dark blob near one of the middle seams of the sleeping bag. She brought the light closer and made out spindly legs and a black torso – the crushed body of a spider. She prodded it with the front lip of the flashlight to see if it was still alive, and the legs jerked. Tammy brought down the flashlight and crushed it. Laura leaned over her to see and Tammy snapped off the light, pitching them into darkness. “What was it? A bug?” “No, just a leaf that was poking me. Let’s go to sleep now before you wake up Maggie.” “I’m awake.” Maggie rolled over onto her side and put her hand on Tammy’s leg. “I’m thirsty.” Tammy’s teeth were clenched and her jaw ached. Whenever she tried to relax her muscles, her teeth started chattering again. She used the side of her hand to swipe out the remnants of the spider and then climbed back into her sleeping bag, pulling it up to her chin. “I’m hot, I want to go inside.” “Me too.” Maggie’s voice was near her ear. “Momma, I’m thirsty, though.” “Please go to sleep.” Tammy pulled the sleeping bag

up over her head. She couldn’t handle dealing with the girls, not with how she was feeling. The last time she’d been really sick had been the time Maggie brought home the flu from Pre-K, and they’d all come down with it. It had been miserable – throwing up in different bathrooms, the body aches, huddling together in their big bed and watching cartoons until Tammy wanted to scream at them all to get out and leave her alone, to let her be sick in peace. At the time she thought that nothing could be worse than that feeling. One of the girls prodded at her back with their fingers, and she bit into the stuffing of the sleeping bag to keep from yelling. “Momma, please. I’m thirsty.” “I said go to sleep.” Tammy didn’t use that voice very often, and it wasn’t one she’d ever used on her daughters. She was the nice mom, the one who let the girls stay up late and eat cereal for dinner. This was the tone she once used on an unfriendly dog that had come up behind her when she was out jogging. It had pressed its open teeth against her leg and growled and she was so scared that she’d used the deepest, worst voice she could think of to get the dog to leave her alone – a voice that said I am meaner than you think I am, and if you keep doing what you’re doing I will hurt you. Maggie rolled over and

cried into her sleeping bag. Tammy’s teeth chattered and she pressed her hand up into her cheek to massage the growing ache. It was a burrowing pain, like she’d bitten down on something and her jaw had cracked. She hoped that there was still something left of the ibuprofen in her stomach from when she’d thrown up in the yard. Getting up to get more medicine seemed impossible. Tammy counted the seconds it took to breathe in and then breathe out over the space of five lungfuls of air. She repeated it until she finally fell back to sleep. When she woke again, it was still dark in the tent. She’d been having a dream that she was at a chiropractor and he was digging his fingers deep into her back. She asked him to stop, but he just kept pushing, saying it always hurts at first, but then the hurt makes it feel better. She wanted to get up from the table but her legs were in stirrups, like how it was when she’d gone to the OB/GYN, or when she’d had her babies and her partner Melissa had hovered over her like a restless bird. When she cracked open her eyes there was nothing to see, just noises: rustling coming from the left side of the tent nearest to the fence, scraping and crunching in the dead leaves. A stick fell over in the fire pit she’d had with the girls and made a clang when it banged against the metal lip. There was a wet patch

by her face on her pillow, the pillow from the bed that she’d taken from the house. There was just the one pillow left on her side now, because Melissa had taken her two when she’d left. For the nine years they’d been together, Melissa had two pillows and Tammy had one, so that when they slept side by side their heads were always raised at two different angles. They’d never been able to sleep comfortably because of it. The pillowcase was dirty. She hadn’t washed her sheets in weeks. It was hard to remember to take care of things for herself without Melissa there to remind her. She always remembered things for the girls – their chew-able multivitamins, brown bag lunches for school – but never remembered to give herself medicine, or make sure that she ate the right amount of vegetables, or even to bring a sweater with her in case she got cold. Tammy could remember her mother caring for her when she was young, but mostly she remembered Melissa putting her hands against her fevered cheeks. She could remember the way those cool hands felt when they smoothed along the hot column of her neck. Tammy wondered if anyone would ever touch her neck again in just the right way that made her feel okay with her body. The kind of touch that understood all the bumps and ridges and dips before they even touched the skin, the way that she could remember

the hands on her now without physical contact. Melissa was supposed to pick up the girls tomorrow in the early afternoon and the house was a wreck. She wasn’t going to be able to clean it in a way that made it look like she was doing fine on her own. They’d been together so long that she didn’t know how to be by herself anymore, didn’t know how to react when she talked with people or had to do things like make dinner. Now everything was for three or for one, odd numbers that confused her after so many years of even amounts. But she also didn’t know Melissa anymore, definitely not the person who’d taken so few things from the house when she’d left. No furniture, no mementos, not anything they’d bought together. Just enough clothes to fit into a single bag, the kind of luggage you took for a carry on for a flight that would bring you back in three or four days. Drips of sweat pooled in her lower back and her skin itched. When she reached behind her to swipe at it, the muscles in her back clenched and her teeth came down hard enough to bite through her lip. The blood tasted sharp on her tongue. Tammy tried to imagine the pain in her back as a tangible object; one she could push through her body and out of her mouth, tried to make her muscles relax back to their normal shape. She was used to

visualizing pain. Melissa had gotten migraines every few months. Tammy would darken the room and put the lavender powder on the sheets, and pull out the cooling cloth for her forehead. Then Tammy would sit on the side of the bed and feel the downy-soft hair at Melissa’s scalp, scratching at her like she would one of their cats. The month before she’d moved out, Melissa had cropped off nearly all of her hair. The soft maple sugar curls that had been Tammy’s favorite thing, sweet ringlets like a doll’s hair, shorn off into a buzz cut that had turned her partner into a stranger. In moments where she was honest with herself, Tammy had wondered whether Melissa was sick, if maybe she had some kind of cancer, and Tammy hadn’t wanted to know about it. She’d hoped Melissa wouldn’t tell her, because all she could think about was how hard it would be on her and the kids if they had to watch Melissa collapse inward while the rest of the family orbited her like a dying star. The noise outside the tent kept pulling Tammy in and out of sleep. She closed her eyes and tried to focus on where the pain was coming from, radiating through her lower back, but also in her legs. The tightness of her cheek and jaw was terrible. She wondered if she should call someone. Her parents lived four hours away, and her brother and sister both lived out of state. Their friends had been their friends

and that made things hard. She couldn’t stomach their pity. Tammy pressed the speed dial for Melissa and wondered what she would do if someone else answered the phone – a voice she didn’t recognize, or worse, a voice that she might know. The phone rang and rang and then it went to voicemail. Not even Melissa in the message, just a robotic answering service telling her she could leave a callback number. There was a little bit of drool leaking from the side of her lip from where she was clenching her teeth and she wiped it away. The phone glowed bright all of a sudden and she saw Melissa’s face close to her own. It was a picture of her partner from a few years back, a side shot in the sunlight with the kids at an amusement park. It had been a last minute stopover on their trip back from the mountains, coming home from a vacation that hadn’t gone well. The amusement park had been rundown and it was offseason. There’d been an animal safari tour where they hadn’t seen a single animal aside from some ratty looking squirrels, and the girls had ridden on swings with long rusted chains that squealed every time they’d shifted in their seats. When she’d taken the picture, Melissa had been holding up a drippy waffle cone for one of the girls to lick, and she’d been frowning as the chocolate dripped down into her sleeve. Tammy had thought

the picture was cute because it showed how aggravated Melissa looked all the time, but now it just seemed like she looked really unhappy, and maybe Tammy could have looked at this picture before Melissa had left and known what would eventually happen. “Hello?” “What’s wrong?” And the voice was like calling home from far away. It reminded Tammy of being at camp during summers when she was young, how she’d missed her family and would call them to come and get her. Everyone sounded really tinny and unreachable. Melissa’s voice was like hearing home from a very long distance and wondering if she’d ever get back there again. “Is everything okay? Are the girls sick?” “No.” Tammy had to hold her breath so she wouldn’t cry. “Then what is it?” Tammy listened to hear a second voice breathing in the background, a voice that might be in the bed with Melissa, maybe wrapping an arm around Melissa’s middle, because even though Melissa was taller than everyone she knew, she always insisted on being the little spoon. “Are you drunk?” “No, I’m not drunk.” Talking this much made her jaw ache. “Something happened.” “With the girls?” “No, with me.” Tammy could feel Melissa evaluating

whether this was still her problem. “A spider. I think a spider bit me. It hurts.” “How do you know it was a spider?” Tammy shifted and the muscles in her back creaked and groaned like an old mattress. “There was a dead spider in the sleeping bag. It’s a fucking spider bite, okay? Jesus Christ.” “Do you need to go to the hospital?” “I don’t know.” Her whole body was on fire. When she rubbed her hand against her leg it came back sopping with sweat, like she’d been doused with a hose. “I’ll be over in a minute.” Melissa hung up in her ear. Tammy didn’t know whether she felt relieved or disgusted with herself. She must have fallen asleep again, because the next thing Tammy knew was that there was something touching her leg through the sleeping bag. It was aggravating, like being trapped by a seatbelt. When she kicked her leg to free herself, the muscles in her back clenched into one big cramp. She moaned low in her throat. “Do you need me to come inside?” Melissa stuck her hand through the gap in the tent flaps. “No,” Tammy said. “I can do it.” She forced herself to sit up. Melissa’s fingers wiggled at her as she crawled across the

sleeping bag between her two daughters, their two daughters, and remembered so many things about those hands. How they’d touched her face and her thighs, how they were tough enough to open jars of spaghetti sauce, how they could play Skylark on the piano in their living room. Those hands had been in the delivery room, one holding Tammy’s hand and the other one holding their firstborn baby, smiling down at her through watery eyes and a grin so big you’d have though Tammy had won an Olympic medal and not just pushed out a kid. She let Melissa pull her up through the tent flaps and into the oppressive humidity. It was still dark, but Tammy could see that Melissa had driven over in her pajamas and that her hair had grown out into a softer, curlier cut than the last time they’d seen each other. Melissa helped her across the lawn and touched the small of her back, and it hurt Tammy to think that Melissa could still treat her so carefully, even though the last time they’d spoken over the phone the discussion had devolved into a screaming argument over whether the girls could stay with Melissa for an extra weekend next month. Inside the house, they both walked straight to what had been their bathroom. Melissa dropped her hand and Tammy felt the disconnect like someone had carved them apart. Her own fingers trembled, so she

clenched them into a fist. “Did you take any of these?” Melissa held up one of the old prescription bottles. “No, I took some ibuprofen, but I barfed them up.” “Do you know what kind of spider?” “I don’t know, it looked black, maybe?” Tammy leaned against the counter and tried to take smaller breaths. Whenever she filled her lungs too full, she could feel them pressing against the muscles in her back, muscles stretched so tight that they felt rigid and breakable. The smell of Melissa was in the room, too – like bread right out of the oven. When they’d first started dating, Tammy had called Melissa her Pillsbury dough boy and Melissa hadn’t spoken to her for a week afterward. “Is it okay we left the girls outside?” Tammy didn’t

go to the hospital, I think you just need sleep.” “I’m not sure.” Tammy looked at the pill. “What if I get too sick?” “I’ll stay here. I’ll sleep on the couch.” “You don’t have to do that.” Tammy thought about the possible warm body waiting back at Melissa’s apartment, the probable friend that she knew, maybe a person of her acquaintance. “It’s fine, I’ll stay.” “Don’t you have someone waiting for you?” And she’d said it, but she couldn’t look at Melissa’s face to see her reaction. “It doesn’t matter.” The ache in Tammy’s jaw intensified. It was sharp and pinching like all her feelings were being crushed between her back molars. She clenched her jaw and swallowed hard so

T H E A C H E I N TA M M Y’S JAW I N T E N S I F I E D. I T WA S S H A R P A N D P I N C H I N G L I K E A L L H E R FEELINGS WERE BEING CRUSHED BETWEEN HER B A C K M O L A R S. want them to wake up and be afraid. “Yeah, let them sleep.” Melissa opened one of the prescription bottles and gave her one of the yellow pills. She filled up one of the little paper cups from the tap and handed it to Tammy. “I don’t think you need to

she wouldn’t cry in front of this person who owned nearly ten years of her life. Then Tammy opened her mouth and took the medicine. When she saw herself in the mirror over the sink, she couldn’t reconcile what she saw with her own body – how her hair was greasy and dark, with white at the temples, like a dog

that had suddenly aged without the owner’s knowledge. Her lips were pale. She wondered how she was supposed to rework herself to promote what she had to a new person, like Melissa had done. How did people give everything of themselves to someone, their comfort, their sweetness and their horribleness, and then expect to give it to someone else all over again? She leaned back against the counter. When her hip hit the granite, she cried out. Melissa grabbed her upper arms so she wouldn’t fall over, and when she felt her hands on her skin, Tammy collapsed inward. She pressed her nose into the crook of Melissa’s neck and inhaled. Melissa’s hands were strong on her back and she felt something give, like a rubber band that’s tensed to snap. Tammy’s jaw unclenched, and it felt like it wanted to unhinge from itself like a snake and swallow Melissa whole.

•

IT'S OKAY TO BE CHANGED • KI SUB LEE OIL PAINTING

OTR

LOUIS GAUDIO POETRY After nine weeks at sea, any port is a good port In the winter, Okinawa is cold and gray The bars are unwelcoming to foreigners The shops shut their doors if your money isn’t converted In the winter, Okinawa is cold and gray You can’t get a meal, hot or cold The shops shut their doors if your money isn’t converted But it’s better than being on board the ship You can’t get a meal, hot or cold And the women don’t smile, and the men call you “gaijin” But it’s better than being on board the ship Because they can’t prevent you from breathing their fresh air And the women don’t smile, and the men call you “gaijin” The bars are unwelcoming to foreigners Because they can’t prevent you from breathing their fresh air After nine weeks at sea, any port is a good port

UNTITLED • JOANNA MARIANO DIGITAL PHOTOGRAPHY

68 HORSE ATTITUDE • KARL LORENZEN WATERCOLOR AND GRAPHITE

OTR

on’t you think you need to—“ “Fry?” “—watch what you’re eating? No, thank you,” I said, brushing the ketchup-dipped fry away from my face. He shrugged and chose to ignore my question and continued to eat his French fries, alternating between dipping them in the ice cream and the ketchup packet he’d torn open. I sighed as he chewed slowly. I wasn’t sure if he was going to answer my question or ignore it. My ex was the type of person to ignore questions like that. Usually, he was a really happy person, almost to the point of being way too happy, way too often. That meant he never really liked talking about things that made him unhappy. So if you were to ask him how much he weighed, he’d probably ignore you. It wasn’t anything personal, it was just how he was. My ex, Erik with a K, was a one-hundred-and-sixty-sevenpound-five-foot-five-inch dancer with more fat than muscle and a BMI of twenty-seven point eight. Thing was, he had a great personality and Pamela hated him. I wouldn’t say that was the reason why I’d said yes to dating

EMERGE • JOANNA MARIANO DIGITAL PHOTOGRAPHY

MAHA PARACHA PROSE him, because it drove Pamela crazy, but I also wouldn’t deny that it was a factor. Like most Saturday nights, we had gone out for his favorite fries—they’re the food of the gods, Aria—from the twenty-four-seven McDonald’s on 52nd street. It had a selfserve soda machine that was constantly dripping. I hated that machine and by the time we left I had usually counted one-hundred-and-sixty-seventhousand splashes of soda on the area you were supposed to place your cup. The machine only had about half of the flavors it should have offered and there was never any water. Erik would always have the exact same order: dollar menu French fries, a dollar menu ice-cream cone, and a strawberry Sprite. I usually chose to sip on a small cup of whatever diet soda I could get that day. “They make me happy,” Erik finally answered after a couple of minutes and wiped his fingers on a napkin. Outside, there was a soft buzz of music through the speakers of some car that was driving past us. “What makes you happy, Aria?” I paused, sucking on my teeth lightly as I thought. Sucking

on my teeth was a habit I’d gotten from my father back when we used to fix cars together at my Uncle Peter’s garage. They sold the garage when I was sixteen, but I hadn’t gotten rid of the habit yet. “I like to act.” “No, that’s not what I meant. Something real, that you can physically touch. Like—like a guilty pleasure.” “Acting is real,” I argued, before I licked my lips. “Strawberries.” “Okay—also not what I meant. Do you even know what a guilty pleasure is, Aria?” Erik asked, blinking at me expectantly. He tapped his

was gripping his shoulders tightly from his unfortunate size. I felt bad for him; I wasn’t being the best company that night, but I was too tired to really care. “Something you indulge in,” I answered. Pausing briefly, I looked down at the order of French fries that lay half empty in their container. The ice-cream cone was empty except some melted ice-cream soaking into its skin. Erik didn’t like the cone. The ketchup was now a red stain from being constantly dipped in, and part of the tissue was ripped in half. “That you don’t want others to really know about because you’re not proud of it.”

'C H O C O L AT E,' I S A I D L I G H T LY. S U C K I N G AT M Y T E E T H A G A I N, I P U L L E D A F R E N C H F RY F R O M T H E L E F TO V E R S A N D TO O K A B I T E — I T WA S H O L LO W. fingers on the table to the beat of the music coming from the car—a black Honda—that had driven past us and done a U-turn. They parked right in front of the window that we were sitting at playing a country song that my dad would probably know. Erik had a smudge of red on the corner of his lips. His blond hair was messy from constantly running his fingers through it, trying to keep it out of his face during practice. His green eyes looked tired from both the time of day and our conversation. The worn brown leather jacket he was wearing

“Exactly. You know I like French fries, because I like you more than French fries. What’s your guilty pleasure, Aria?” “Chocolate,” I said lightly. Sucking at my teeth again, I pulled a French fry from the leftovers and took a bite—it was hollow. “I like chocolate. I normally have a hidden stash of it in my bedside table’s top-most drawers.” “So then why are you bothering me about my love of French fries, if you too love something relatively less healthy for you?” Erik asked. He had raised an eyebrow when I had

picked up the fry I ate, and it seemed as though his face had frozen ever since. Erik wasn’t attractive, but he wasn’t ugly either. He was in all sense of the word, average. The only thing that wasn’t average about him was his waist size. He had an average life. His parents married young, had one child, and then separated. He lived with his father. If I was honest, I liked hanging out with his father more than I liked hanging out with him. “I don’t make you sit with me and eat it twice a week instead of, I don’t know, going to a movie, or seeing a Broadway show, or I don’t know, something you know—fun,” I said, flattening my hands on the table as I narrowed my eyes. “Then why, Aria, are you sitting here, doing something boring with me?” Erik asked, letting out an elongated sigh and leaning back into his chair. To be fair, it was an honest question, and if I had not been in a bad enough mood, I would have probably just shut my mouth and dealt with it. But instead, I got up and took the tray of his beloved French fries, and dumped it into the garbage. “Aria where—“ “I’m going to go.” “—are you going. Stop I’ll drive you—“ “I don’t need a ride.” “—home.” As the word came out of his mouth, I was already out the door. Growing up, I learned a lot of seemingly useless life

skills. When Uncle Peter was my age his dad used to lock him in a car trunk to see if he could get out on his own. Grandfather lived on survival instinct alone. So when I finally got outside, that’s when I noticed it. Walking over to the Honda, feeling Erik’s gaze on my back, I stood up straight and tapped on the window. “You’re a cop,” I said. The statement felt light on my lounge, like a relief. It wasn’t that I was afraid that Erik would ever hurt me, or get violent. I once asked Erik to kill a spider that climbed into my ballet shoe. He asked my best friend Alice to do it instead. Erik just wasn’t violent, he wouldn’t kill anything, let alone touch me. The man who rolled down the window gave me a look. “What makes you think that?” “In the state of New Jersey, unmarked cars’ license plates start with MG. They also have more than one antenna, their windows are tinted, and no dealer sticker,” I informed him. There were other tells, but the look on the cops face was enough to know I was right. “Can I help you?” He looked past me, probably to where Erik was still looking at me from his spot by the window. “Is everything okay?” “It’s fine. I just got into a fight with my boyfriend,” I said, shifting my gaze to the car’s side mirror. I’d gotten ketchup on the sleeve of my shirt. “Did he hurt you?”

I wanted to say yes, but, that’d be lying and that was something Erik didn’t deserve. I was annoyed at him, he was annoying. He had this way of making me say things I never wanted to say. He forced me to be more honest with him, to make me admit things I didn’t tell anyone else. He had a way of making me be more truthful. “No,” I said, shuffling my feet before looking back up to the officer. The officer was not like Erik, he was attractive. His jaw was set and firm, his body was lean and athletic, and he had brown eyes. His hair was chopped short, black, and clean. He had it swept back and gelled into place. “Can I sit in the car?” “I never said I was a cop.” “You never said you weren’t.” “You never proved it.” “There’s a police scanner right under your radio.” “Why do you know what a police scanner looks like?” “You ask a lot of questions.” The officer paused and shook his head, a smile snaking onto his face. He hit the unlock button and I slipped into the passenger side. When I turned to grab the seat belt, I acknowledged Erik for the first time since the conversation started. He seemed sad. His was still observing me, face set in a frown, worry lines being drawn on as his eyebrows knitted together.

I’d never seen Erik angry. The entire time we dated, for three years, he never once got angry. He didn’t get mad that day either. Instead, he balled his fingers into his palm and sat back down in the booth. I turned the radio up. “Do you want me to take you home?” The officer asked. I looked from Erik to him and paused. I thought about running my hands through his hair, about crawling over the stick shift and over to the passenger side. I thought about how my dad would know, because he just had a way of knowing everything. He was paranoid, after his year in Vietnam they institutionalized him. Then I thought about Erik. Erik was careful, especially when it came to touching me, like he was afraid that I’d break. Later on, I found out it was for a different reason, but that was beside the point. Erik had just— made me mad, but I didn’t want to be this person, the person who does things like get into cars with strange men, even if they were police officers. Reaching my hand out, I touched the officer’s face and smiled, “What’s your name?” “Why do I feel like telling you that…would not be the best course of action?” The officer asked me, not bothering to remove my hand from its place on his cheek. He was right, it might not have been. “How old are you anyways?” “Older than you think.”

“Don’t make a stupid mistake.” “You have no idea what I’m thinking.” “I know that your boyfriend has been staring at my car since you first walked over here. I don’t know if I believe you

was nothing extraordinary, and his eyes seemed too dull to be considered pretty. It was in the first day of dance class, she had dragged me here because I needed to expand my abilities, and I was tying up my pointed shoes. After I was done, I walked

W H E N PA M E L A H A D M E T E R I K T H E F I R S T T I M E, S H E TO L D M E H E WA S TO O FAT, H I S FA C E WA S N OT H I N G E X T R A O R D I N A R Y, A N D H I S E Y E S S E E M E D TO O D U L L TO B E C O N S I D E R E D P R E T T Y. or not about his violent streak,” The officer said, giving me the same look Erik gave me when I ate his French fry. “Call this…a guilty pleasure,” I said, looking away from his eyes for a moment to look straight ahead of me at the 1967 Chevy Impala parked in front of us. “What is?” He asked me, eyes flickering over to Erik then at me again. “Getting into a strangers car and touching their face. I get off on it,” I deadpanned, looking back in his eyes. Biting my lip, I moved my hand down to cup his jaw before pulling it away. “What’s your name, then?” “Eric.” I’ve met plenty of Eric’s in my life, but only one Erik with a k. Maybe that’s what I liked about Erik, he had a K. He was a little bit more, a little bit extra, a little bit bizarre. When Pamela had met Erik the first time, she told me he was too fat, his face

over to him, tapped him on the shoulder, and kissed him for the first time. I didn’t even know his name. That’s how we started dating. I was fifteen. I brought Erik to all our family events, Christmas, basketball games, baseball games, picnics, anything. My dad liked him well enough; they sometimes sipped on cans of beer together, even though my dad never gave any to Sibling or me. My grandma loved Erik like he was her own; she made him cookies and wrote him letters from Poland after she moved there a year ago. Uncle Peter thought I was too good for him. But maybe with Eric, it’d be different. “My mom would like you. She would think you’re handsome, strong, probably find something you’re talented in and think you’re perfect. She doesn’t think he’s perfect. She doesn’t like him at all,” I said, carding my fingers together and letting them

crack, one by one, until they were all done. “Does she not like your boyfriend?” Eric asked, leaning back into his chair and adjusting his grip on the steering wheel. He’d been holding the steering wheel ever since I’d walked into the car. I didn’t really care—he wouldn’t go anywhere unless I asked, because I was a pretty girl and he wasn’t sure how old I was. “No, Pamela does not,” I replied, looking back out the tilted window to Erik, who was looking at his hands, sitting in the booth. “My Uncle’s name is Peter Willis.” “Wasn’t he the head detective of the NJPD that went mentally—“ “Yes, he was. He’s gone now. He committed during rehab.” “I’m so sorry for you—“ “Don’t be. He wasn’t strong enough to deal with it, it was his own fault,” I said kicking the door back open and slipping out. “I guess this proves me right then, you are an officer.” “I never said I was.” “You never said you weren’t.” Closing the door, I tugged my sweater closer to my body, it had gotten colder. I’d left my jacket inside. “Bye Eric, it was nice meeting you,” I said, waving my hand, and walked back into McDonald's. The soda machine was still dripping. The workers were half asleep, heads

drooping onto the counter. Erik still sat at the booth, staring at his hands. “I think we should break up.” “'Why?” I asked him as I slipped into the opposite side of the booth. It wasn’t something I was against, either. He deserved someone better, someone who was actually going to care about him, and not just someone who was going to use him to make their mother disapprove. “’Why?’ That’s why. You asked me why,” he said, looking up from his hands to me. “Are you not even upset about me telling you I think we should break up?” “Erik, I though being over-dramatic was my job,” I said, slipping my cold hands into his warm, calloused ones. Erik’s hands were never soft, they were always too rough, from callouses, from the time he burnt his hands on a stove making me dinner at his house, from all the things he did. But mine were soft, clean, always taken care of. “I’m not being overdramatic. I’m being honest,” Erik said, looking down at our connected hands. He didn’t try to take his hand out of mine, he just let it stay there, limp, motionless. Like he had given up—given up understanding me, because he had. “You make me more honest.” “Why’d you get into his car?” “I was mad,” I answered

honestly. “It wasn’t you. It wasn’t anything you did. I’ve just been upset. I haven’t been happy lately.” “The thing is,” Erik said, finally taking his hands out of mine and leaning back into the chair, “I don’t think you’ve ever been happy. Not since I met you. You kind of just, float through life. You do whatever you want, whenever you want. On top of that, you never have one distinct personality. You are who you need to be, depending on the situation.” “I’m an actor. Do you expect anything less than that?” I asked, leaving my hand on the table, drumming out the beat of Eric’s car. He hadn’t lowered the volume. “I expect—I wanted to. I hoped that after three years, you would have let me in. Even if I wasn’t sure you liked me. I hoped that you would do it. Because. I don’t know why, Aria. Are you happy?” He asked me, tilting his head and taking a deep breath. Lacing his fingers together and placing them in his lap, he avoided my eyes. “I’ve been happy. You’ve made me happy.” “No, but, are you happy. Overall. When you think of me? When I call you? Do you get— happy?” “No.” “Neither do I.” “I’ll take you home.” I paused and stood up. Grabbing my jacket I’d left inside with Erik, the jacket was

probably the only reason why he didn’t leave without me. I looked back dripping machine that finally stopped dripping. I waited a couple of seconds, but it refused to drip. I shook my head and stepped outside and into Erik’s car. I didn’t kiss him that night.

•

BLURRED MEMORY • KI SUB LEE OIL PAINTING

ART CONTEST WINNER

OTR

DANIEL LUTSKER POETRY Hurtling through dark, star after star crosses - some redshifted, some blue. The floor is a maple constellation. We fly on a Craft tethered to metal, propelling us to the planet Prince Street where Men and women small as a beach ball walk on tiled walls. Then the shuttle screeches to a stop, blast doors slide open, and there is this Electric crackle punching the air as a red light flashes, a beep, a pneumatic hiss. High frequency radio transmissions – Control makes contact. “Ladies and Gentlemen, we are going out of hyperdrive.” And we shuttle through the detour of deep space.

WHY ARE YOU SO SERIOUS • KI SUB LEE CHARCOAL

plopping down opposite Farber on the couch. Sullen, he stares at the ground, saying nothing to Farber.) FARBER

Hello to you to.

EZRA WOLFGANG DRAMA ACT I The action takes place in Dr. Farber’s office. Before us is a shrink’s office. One side is Dr. Raymond Farber, 50s, grey-haired, slimming with wear and age. He’s sitting on a worn and slightly torn armchair. Behind him on the wall are his numerous psychology degrees and honors (Harvard, Columbia, etc.). Opposite Farber is a much newer sofa, with a much bolder and vibrant color (red, to be exact). The door to the office is to the side of him. Opposite that is a window overlooking midtown. The floor is covered by green carpeting. Farber is holding a notepad and pen, tapping the pen against the notepad in an agitated manner. It’s towards the end of the day, and all he wants to do is go home. FARBER (Raising his voice towards the door) It’s 4:00. You can come in now, Jason.

(In through the door walks Jason, 16,

(Pause. Jason continues to stare down and say nothing.) FARBER This is the third week in a row we’ve started our sessions like this. I’m not sure if I’m greatly relieved by the serene quietness, or aggravated by having to feign interest in you by having to stare at you in silence. I’m depressed.

JASON

FARBER And I’m white. What’s new? She said no.

JASON

FARBER That girl? I told you she would. I knew that would happen the second you mentioned it to me weeks ago. We had coffee.

JASON

FARBER With three of your male friends. Statistically speaking, you had at best a thirty-three percent chance of fucking. Less, considering how you speak with your dick instead of your mouth. JASON I didn’t know she wasn’t interested. I thought we had something— FARBER --Which is bullshit. Just because she likes getting

coffee with you and hanging out does not mean she wants to blow you. JASON What if she didn’t notice my erection?

What, do I fucking look like Dr. Phil to you? She probably rejected you because she’s wet for someone else. Grow a pair, and move on.

FARBER Then she would have noticed your acne-ridden face, sloppy haircut, and slouched posture.

JASON Oh, fuck you! You don’t understand what it’s like to love, to not be loved.

JASON I just can’t control it when I’m around her. It sucks not being able to keep it down.

FARBER Yeah, because it’s a fucking chore. Nothing more. Asocial construct preserved and maintained in God fucking Bless America, and the rest of the goddamn world. Love is a sham, it only eats your time, money, and vitality. "Love" is only a resource to further shameless, religious fanaticism, teenage pregnancy, and unacknowledged, unchecked dominant masculinity. Don't say you love a girl if she only makes you hard -- you weepy, self-absorbed little pansy shit.

FARBER Believe me, you’ll miss those days, when you’re unable to get it up. JASON (Looks up for the first time) Oh, like you? (Farber gives Jason a "fuck you" look, trying not to explode.) FARBER Yes, son. Like Dr. Farber. Raymond— --Doctor.

JASON FARBER

JASON Why do you think she doesn’t like me? Is it just her, or am I not good enough? FARBER (Sarcastically)

(Now serious)

Oh, I dunno Jason. Maybe it’s because she’s not ready for a mature relationship, the way you are. Maybe she just needs to develop a bit more, before she’s ready for you.

But we had coffee...

JASON

FARBER And her mouth to drink coffee is not a cunt, so soften your cock and let it go. I don’t think I can.

JASON

FARBER What the fuck do you mean "you don’t think you can"? It’s a fucking girl! No more to you than two D-cups and a shaved snatch. I’m going to kill myself.

JASON

FARBER Oh, really? How surprising to me. JASON I’ll do it! Just watch me you fucking asshole.

FARBER You’ve said this for the tenth time over the past two months! You’re too chicken shit to do it. JASON

Watch me.

FARBER Okay, fine. It’s your choice. Hell, I’ll even watch and coach you. (Jason looks surprised as Farber continues.) FARBER I’ll tell you what to do. You’ll jump out that fucking window right there. Its twenty-stories high, so you'll smash your tiny skull and squish your fucking dick before your final climax. You’re not going to off yourself here. I’m not going to have you stain my walls or furniture because you don’t know how to fucking cut yourself like a big boy (I know you have your switchblade on you, don’t lie). Better to have your blood stained on tax-paying ground. (Pause. Resigned, Jason stands up and walks to the window, opening it. He bends down, exiting through it halfway, one leg outside.) JASON There. I’m going to do it. Happy? FARBER Only when you’re ready and done, darling. You’re a piece of shit.

JASON

FARBER Darling, complimenting me only makes me love you more.

(Jason makes an angry and frustrated look at Farber. Farber mockingly imitates that same look back at Jason.)

FARBER Go ahead. Prove to me that you’re not pussy. Go fuck yourself.

JASON

FARBER Telling me to go fuck myself? JUST DO IT AND DROP! JASON What do I have to lose? I lack stability. FARBER Stability? What the fuck do you mean you "lack stability"? Are you fucking kidding me? You’re white, Jewish, middle class, living comfortably on the West Side. You’re the fucking definition of stable. JASON What about romantic stability? FARBER That’s the biggest fucking oxymoron I’ve ever heard. My IQ probably went down 10 points now. Just because you can't stick dick to cunt doesn’t mean you "lack stability". Grow the fuck up, you clip tip. (Furious and defeated, Jason climbs back into the office, and closes the window. He sits back down on the sofa, staring directly at Farber.) FARBER I knew you weren’t going to do it. That would have meant paperwork for me to fill out, and lord knows I'm not doing that shit. (Pause) Now, are you ready to be a big boy, and finally talk about what’s going on? Fuck you.

JASON

FARBER Fuck me? Fuck you, you fuckless virgin. Five seconds ago, you were literally going to fall to your death over a fucking girl. Please. Women in your case are just a mere cultural commodity, nothing more than the sum of their parts. You’ll find another girl with bigger tits that you’ll fawn over, and then four weeks from now you’ll want to kill yourself over that bitch after she rejects you. But please, go on and tell me how the girl of today turned her ass cheeks goodbye to you.

one bitch, that’s it. Say it with me.

JASON Well, I just asked her out and she said no.

JASON You don’t think I can do it.

FARBER Son, you’re not telling me about a sex fantasy you dreamed last night, do not come early.

FARBER You couldn’t kill yourself. What makes you think you have the balls to do it to another person?

JASON I took her to the bottom floor of the library. There were people by the chairs and tables, so we went to the bookshelves where it was more quiet. I told how we were really great friends and that I liked her, that we should take it to the next level. I asked her out for a date. Ten seconds passed in silence. Her face started crunching and shortening awkwardly. She said that we should be friends, that she didn’t like me in "that way". So I ran. And here we are.

(Jason is dead serious. He stares intensely at Farber, who is intimidated by Jason’s tone and changing demeanor.)

FARBER Okay good. Say, how’s daddy doing? He hit you again? JASON What the fuck are you talking about? FARBER Don’t fucking try to pretend. I saw the bruise from last week. You didn’t just fall down the stairs. But back to the girl. JASON Back to the girl. FARBER It would be in your best interest to forget her. She's just

JASON & FARBER She’s just one bitch. She’s just one bitch. JASON She’s just one. So, it wouldn’t hurt if I...killed her. FARBER Why the fuck would you do that?

JASON Revenge. If there’s one force that stronger than love, its desire for revenge. Revenge is what causes people to commit deeds that they would otherwise never do. For people who want to commit revenge, the ends justify the means. It’s just the course of nature that fate has set for them. FARBER Okay, you just fucking do it. You go kill her, and see what happens. See your ass locked up for life without parole, have the Times use you as the subject for an editorial about "The Tragedy of the Millennial Generation". (He checks his watch) Time’s up, darling. See you next week. Tell me how the murder goes. (Jason stands up, walks over to where

Farber is sitting. He is standing over Farber, he has the high ground now.) Watch me.

JASON (Jason then exits the office, leaving Farber defeated. Farber rubs his head with one hand, trying to alleviate his loss. His other hand is tapping the pen on his notepad. Tapping, tapping endlessly.) End

OFFER â&#x20AC;˘ JACOB CINTRON FILM PHOTOGRAPHY

iii. LARGER And HARDER in 3 Days YOU WONT STOP MAKE HER SCREAM Feel Like your In Bed Again:

MEGHANN D. WILLIAMS POETRY I have seen with my own eyes the Sibyl hanging in a jar, And when the boys asked her, “What do you want?” She answered, “I want to be taken off this mailing list.” i. skillful fingers, depicted upon the tombs, Go on, Lark his blow— its name was Skull and”Yes, that’s good,” the bed with sorry faces. And springtime came again.

It’s a disease that destroys relationships. When it starts showing up in your mouth. I’m talking about the dread... dormant for years in the body iv. “We see unlimited expansion” This is not a sudden thing, honoring Earth with a visit. There was almost hysterical humanity again. cover it ”you--you--” galaxy.

it does not really matter, whether you are truly deceased, you will peacefully let me have my own: form, account, application, remittance, approval if I had more, I would give it you; tremble, though following, accordingly prepared for the trials, that I might be so happy as to take a share of it with you, being concealed, unworthy, parallel. You agree to indemnify and hold, survive without certain types of damages— it dyes the wide air through; With him who comes my way. refund. the Lack, or remember! I would not have to ask so often gifted with personal grace of person, and then it was in a crowded hall in the midst of”Yes; a little more than a year ago but alas, No word ii. Please I don't want you to tell anyone about this. Please I want to trust you

OLD MAN IN PINK • EMILIA MIKRUT WATERCOLOR AND INK

here is nothing splendorous about the Marine Parkway Bridge. It serves as a purgatory between Brooklyn and the Rockaways. There is nothing original about committing suicide by jumping off a bridge. Jeff Harding leapt from the middle of the walkway of that bridge at 4:32 a.m. on a Sunday night in May. I'm sitting on a sandy, splintery piece of driftwood on the Brooklyn coastline. To my left is the Marine Parkway Bridge, its white bulbs glowing along the walkway. The ironwork under the structure dances in a wave pattern. The two red aircraft lights at the top of the towers slowly glow on and off, and on those occasions, the water becomes blood. I am close enough to the Rockaway Inlet, the body of water in between the two boroughs, to hear waves slapping the shore. It sounds like a slow, distant thunderstorm. Jeff Harding and I both worked for an advertising firm in downtown Brooklyn. I would come in early to hunch over the editing desk, reviewing the previous day's shots. Before I left the house, I would straighten my tie and check my mirror every once in a while to make sure that

DANIEL LUTSKER PROSE my hair was groomed and my facial hair was subdued. Jeff Harding always walked in thirty minutes late. He wore a brown leather jacket with the accumulated filth of years, and his breath stank. He complained that the trains in Flatbush were no good, but our team stopped caring about his excuses after a few days. We tolerated him. Jeff was only thirty-six, but he had gone bald years ago. Sometimes, I would see a piece of food stuck in his tangled beard. He was one of our directors. Jeff always lobbied to turn down offers from prestigious companies like Proteus or Viva, even when it meant that we would lose money. He was more interested in shooting his ideas than those of a corporation. We tried to ignore his views, but he somehow convinced us to back out of some deals a few times before. “It's gonna start like this,” he told me in the office one day, his muddy boots resting on my desk, “Black and white. Guy eating cereal at his breakfast table. The camera pans across all the cereal boxes on his shelf, and the audience sees that the boxes are blank – no labels,

nothing. After that, it cuts to his face and, boom, suddenly he has no face.” Jeff Harding was once a reputable filmmaker once he finished college, but in the past few years, the world began to fall out of favor with him. Or vice versa. His quirky advertisements and successful narrative shorts made him common name in the industry. His prestige exploded with the force of a supernova and faded just as quickly. Jeff kept trying to regain that spark. “It jump cuts to him waking up in his bed with the American flag draped over it. Thing is, it's got a Nazi symbol, a swastika, right where the stars are. You following me?” I get up from the driftwood and feel sand slide away from my backside. I walk over to the dark underside of the bridge and climb onto one of the steel beams. Cars clunk manhole covers above me. Twenty-four hours ago he was here. I know it. I take my flashlight out of my bag and shine it at the concrete slab at the base of the bridge, seeing exactly what

have their labels ripped off. Jeff has taken me here before. It was winter solstice, and I sat on the concrete slab with my slacks pressed against the icy rock. I remember the wind blowing the scraggly brown hairs of his beard. The sun was setting. After taking a swig from his 40, he pulled up his leather jacket a bit and turned to me. “Do you fear your – mortality?” he asked. “Me, I do. It's, like, it's a good thing, though.” “What do you mean?” I asked. “Well, think about it. When your life sucks, then death doesn't seem that bad, you know? But if you're happy, you have a greater potential for... a, uh, a fear of death. That's why I like to, uh, basically ask myself every once in a while: Am I afraid of dying right now? And when I say no, that's when I know that things have gone sour.” I am not interested in why Jeff Harding killed himself, because I already know why. I want to know what he felt in those last few minutes. I take out a dark bottle

C A R S C LU N K M A N H O L E C O V E R S A B O V E M E. T W E N T Y - F O U R H O U R S A G O H E WA S H E R E. I K N O W I T. I expected to find – several of malt liquor from my bag and bottles of malt liquor pressed knock the cap against one of the against the cold stone floor. All beams of the bridge. Jeff did this

during the solstice. I hear the top snap off, followed by the bottle gasping. I take several swigs as quickly as I can. It feels like I'm forcing the glacial Rockaway Inlet down my throat. The wind suddenly blows, and I close the top button of my shirt. I press a knob on my watch and see it glow green. The hexagons read: 4:12. Soon, I will be Jeff Harding. I climb down from the steel beam and run around the South side of the bridge. I jog up the sandy hill toward the walkway. Yellow police tape cautions me not to go any farther, but I just duck under it and sprint over the pavement. My backpack hits the side of my back with each step, and I keep going until I am halfway across the bridge. When I stop, my armpits trickle sweat. I look down into the water. Here, it reflects no light. The medics said that when they recovered Jeff's body, his lungs were filled with water, meaning he died from suffocation rather than impact. Jeff Harding must have felt like the biggest fuck-up on the planet that night, and he couldn't even kill himself right. The wind makes the edges of my shirt punch the air. A baseball cap rolls toward my leg. The Yankees logo has been ripped out. This was Jeff's hat. I am in the right place. The few cars slowly rolling over the grates of the bridge give a ghostly howl. Each car that passes sounds like it's

coming at me. I lean my chest over the rail overlooking the water and I observe. I can see yellow incandescent lights forming an unfinished ring around the Rockaways. I uncoil an elastic cord from my bag and sever approximately forty feet off with my knife. I take the large band at the end of the cord and wrap it around my legs. I put my nowempty bag down on the walkway. I will not be coming back for it tonight. Four hours ago, this cable was property of Coney Island. At around midnight, I climbed over a fence, broke open the rusty lock of a storage shed with a hammer, stole the cord, and stuffed it in my backpack. I double knot the elastic around the rail and give it several suspicious tugs. It is of generic quality, but it should hold. The drop is only fifty-five feet at its peak. One of my legs hooks around the rail. Still hanging on, I bring my body onto the other side, over the black water of the Rockaway Inlet. My palms are as wet as my armpits. I alternate hands - one hangs on to the rail while the other is wiped on my shirt. I crouch down so that passing cars will not see me. My shoes are wedged in between the beams of the barrier, and my shaking arms grip the top of the cylindrical rail.

I take several loud, shallow breaths and let go. But my hands instinctively snap back onto the curve of the rail. My arms feel even weaker now. The water down there hypnotically zigzags like air on a summer day. I am Jeff Harding, I think. I am a thirty-six year old who has been evicted from my apartment. I was a celebrity. Now, I make unsuccessful film shorts that my company doesn't understand, and it's a miracle that they haven't fired me yet. I can't pay rent. I suck at film. I suck at life. My art's got no application anywhere anymore. The company only cares about commercial value. They only want to deal with the stuff people can buy. And they want me to accept that this is â&#x20AC;&#x153;the way it is.â&#x20AC;? That phrase makes me sick. If I have to sacrifice my art to glorify a commercial world, well, I'd rather die. I let go. The dark sky somersaults by me, but I'm not afraid because I am Jeff Harding. I'm falling for long enough to realize that I'm flapping my arms for some stupid reason, like I think I can fly. Translucent dots converge toward the center of my vision, like a puckering constellation. Suddenly, both of my legs are torn off of my body, and I let out a primal scream. I bounce back a few times, a little less with each jump. My yell is silenced by the waves. I feel burning tongs

stretching my leg muscles, and suddenly, I am no longer Jeff Harding but myself, in pain and terribly afraid of death. Upsidedown, I reach into my pocket and pull out my knife, trying to ignore my nausea. I swing my torso forward and my hand catches the edge of my belt. From here, I pull up until my knife arm is level with my legs. I cut the cord and fall the remaining fifteen feet into the water. I land on my back with a giant splash. I don't think. I just stroke, ignoring my scalded legs. I row myself almost one hundred yards to the Brooklyn shore. The tide pityingly pushes me forward. Then, I'm at the shore. My knees have sunk into the muddy sand, and I'm coughing the salt out of my lungs. I choke and sputter and spit. Then I crawl forward until I escape the area where the tide hits the beach. My head collapses into sand grains. I see the same piece of driftwood that I sat on before. I turn my head toward the bridge, watching red and white lines zoom across the highway, past the towers and the arches and the maze of steel beams, and see the airplane lights blink. For a second, I am calm. Suddenly I feel the searing pain in my leg again. I suck air sharply through my teeth, hoping that this will take away the flaming feeling. Even though it hurts, I laugh. Just once, but I laugh. I am not Jeff Harding. I look out into the dawn

and see a star there. Or maybe it's a planet, but it's a bright thing, just one bright thing in the sky. My body stays in the sand, watching it shine. I'm lying there long enough to see the sky lift its dark veil and hatch soft contours, but the star I'm looking at doesn't move. I am reborn.

•

EYE SPYING BIRCH TREES • AMANDA HERNANDEZ SUMI INK

POETRY CONTEST WINNER

OTR

ASHLEY WONG POETRY Looking over the ocean harbor and multi-colored skyscrapers Yellow umbrellas sitting on Prince Edward Road after a late afternoon mist Shouting in their native Cantonese—strong and powerful Stuttering angrily in broken Mandarin to Chinabased media Hong Kong professors reading poems in Cantonese and then in British English to their students CEO’s in Central office buildings perfecting their Mandarin for their 3 pm business call to Mainland China business partners Steamy egg tarts and black tea infused with sweet milk Radio station playing late 80’s Canto pop nostalgia Alleys filled with fashionable boutiques, fusion restaurants, and bars Her thoughts are interrupted by a “Wo ai ni” from the newly immigrated couple across the street Ah yes, that is, “I love you” She still feels the Cantonese “Ngo ngoi nai” has more syllables and is more expressive in its enunciation “Sure, some of our phrases cannot be formally written down, some words are derived from the British, and our dialect is more animated, but that is the beauty of the Hong Kong language.” She places her court files into her couture bag, in a separate compartment than her judicial wig and takes a deep breath Breathing in their culture—on the verge of leaving—but still lingering in the air

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WAR CHILD • KI SUB LEE OIL PAINT

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OLIVIA COLEY-BISHOP POETRY I remember this one time in the third grade when Dylan B. puked in class right in class he didn’t even get to make it outside he puked right on his desk and we all laughed at him we all laughed at him and his face got beet red and he cried it was such a silly thing to laugh at looking back And there was this other time when Miss Scanziani was teaching us double-digit math for the first time like carrying numbers she told us not to worry if we couldn’t do the problem because she gave us the problem to do before she told us how to solve it like what kind of teacher does that what is this life? and I looked at it so eagerly because back then I could do anything but I couldn’t solve this problem but another girl could Caroline D and I was so damn mad that she got to answer I hated her I wanted so badly to impress my teacher because she didn’t like me she didn’t like me and I could tell and I wanted her to like me I really wanted it they had always liked me before they loved me and I didn’t realize yet that some people just wouldn’t wouldn’t like me wouldn’t connect with me but it only took me one quarter of school to figure it out and then I hated that damn teacher She’s the one who sent me to that hospital for ‘observations’ and what I remember most was that it was on fancy day and I missed it and I was so damn mad I missed that extra-long recess fancy dress-up all that fancy food in the cafeteria I was so excited for that I never bought lunch I had a PB&J

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every day and all that because this woman just didn’t get me she didn’t like the games I used to play inside my head I used to look out the window and nod my head at each house we passed in the car I used to click my tongue at each driveway it was boring sometimes in the real world so I used to amuse myself in my head and she looked at me like there was something wrong with me and then the doctors looked at me like there was something wrong with me like I was flawed and I missed fancy day for this bitch like I’m sorry you bored me with your lessons but I’m glad you didn’t like me because I’m glad I didn’t like you because you didn’t let me read Harry Potter you said it was too advanced for me and it wasn’t a third grade reading level so I couldn’t read it during reading time or even free time so I put that shit in a different book cover because you know I always had the hard cover edition and I read them all in your class so what now? who really won here? you trapped me in a hospital for eight hours so I’ll give you that but I fooled you I fooled you you bitch and I was just eight years old and I don’t give a shit about answering your problems first anymore

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It’s okay.

CIARA

BENJI I was looking for the...the bathroom.

GAMAL ELSAWAH DRAMA Cast of Characters Ciara: 20s. Newly deceased, she is scared and confused. Benji: 20s. Has been dead for five years, but is still not completely used to it. Garret: 20s. A frat boy. He has been dead for a very long time, and is used to the workings of the afterlife.

Scene

A bedroom at the house party that is the afterlife.

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I’m fine-

Scene

CIARA

BENJI It just looked like you were crying andI’m fine.

CIARA

BENJI Oh. Okay. Do you want another drink? No. I just think it might help.

(A bedroom. Lightly furnished, very modern. A woman sits on the bed alone, crying. Suddenly, a door opens and a slightly drunk man comes in. Behind him, colorful strobe lights shine in.) BENJI Oh. Uh. Sorry... I wasn’t sure...

BENJI Uh. Yeah. Are... are you okay?

Time

The Present.

CIARA This isn’t it. (Silence.)

It’ll make me sick.

CIARA BENJI CIARA

BENJI No it won’t. Not here. You know that. ...Right? ...Yeah.

CIARA

BENJI I’ll be right back. (Benji opens the door and goes out into the strobe lights. He comes back

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in with 2 bottles of beer. He hands one to Ciara.) BENJI

Here. Drink. Sure...

GARRET HEY! We don’t talk about that shit, remember? (Beat.)

CIARA (She drinks. Silence. Another man, Garret, bursts into the room, obviously drunk.)

GARRET WOO! Whoa! Sorry to interrupt! I didn’t know there was another party going on in here.

This is a PARTY!

BENJI This girl here’s not feeling so well. Wait (to Ciara) Sorry, what was your name? CIARA

Ciara.

BENJI Ciara. Ciara. Ciara. I’ll remember that. I’m Benji. AND I’M WASTED!

GARRET

BENJI Here, drink some more, Ciara. It’ll help. Drink fast. (She drinks. Garret walks around the room, checking it out.)

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BENJI

He’s right.

GARRET You know what you guys need? MORE DRINKS! (Garret exits. He comes back in with 3 six packs of beer.)

BENJI You didn’t, haha, you didn’t interrupt anything. It’s fine. GARRET Yo, what are you doing in here then? Party’s outside!

CIARA

I just got here.

I got the strong stuff!

GARRET

(Garret and Benji take one.) BENJI Oh my god, this is good! GARRET

Right?! (to Ciara) Have one, baby. I don’t feel good.

CIARA

GARRET Just drink it! You’ll forget how you feel. That’s why we’re here!

CIARA ...How long have you been here?

BENJI I could use some forgetting. Haha.

BENJI Me? Uh... a while. Five years.

CIARA What do you wanna forget?

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BENJI If I told you, then I’d be remembering it, Duh!

BENJI What’s your name again?

CIARA I wouldn’t mind forgetting-

CIARA I want to forget right now!

THEN DRINK UP!

GARRET

(Ciara takes a bottle, drinks, and finishes it quickly. She takes a new one, and starts to drink that.) GARRET That’s it! Chug! Now why don’t you get your asses out there and party? BENJI We’ll go out in a second. (Ciara finishes her drink. She takes a new one.)

THREE WAY!

GARRET

CIARA NO! NO! NO! GODDAMMIT! WHY DO I STILL REMEMBER?! BENJI HEY! HEY! HEY! CALM DOWN! STOP YELLING!

GARRET

CIARA When will I start forgetting?!

CIARA I still remember. I still remember how I died! I can’t stop thinking about it!

GARRET It’ll happen, jeez... just keep drinking.

GARRET Hey. Hey, stop that. We don’t talk about that here.

(Benji takes a new bottle and drinks.) Have you forgotten yet? ...No.

BENJI

CIARA I was walking home and a man tried to mug me. And then I screamed. And then he shot me. Just like that.

CIARA

Hey! I said shut up!

BENJI I like your eyes. They’re green. Like the ocean, haha. The ocean isn’t green. What the hell, me? Hahaha. I still remember...

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BENJI Sarah, right? ...Let’s make out!

CIARA

GARRET

CIARA HE SHOT ME! HE SHOT ME JUST LIKE THAT! SHUT UP! SHUT! UP!

GARRET

CIARA I died so quickly, everything went away, and it won’t comeback, and I wanna forget.

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(Garret slaps her.) GARRET We DON’T talk about that here. You idiot. Have another fucking drink. (Ciara falls to the floor, and crawls to the six packs. She drinks.) CIARA Maybe I haven’t had enough. I’ll forget. It’ll happen. BENJI (scared) Oh my god. No. No! Now I remember. GARRET YOU SEE?! This is why we don’t talk about that shit here! BENJI OH MY GOD! I REMEMBER! GARRET Go get another drink, man. You’ll be fine. (Benji rushes to grab another drink and gulps it down.) CIARA Am I gonna vomit? I feel like I’m gonna vomit! You can’t vomit here. What if I vomit? You won’t.

CIARA

You’re drunk. We’re always drunk!

GARRET

CIARA Oh my god, I’m gonna vomit. GARRET

You won’t.

BENJI Your eyes are green. Like vomit. CIARA Oh my god, Benji... That’s so beautiful! Oh! I feel it now! I’m starting to forget! BENJI I still remember. A little bit. GARRET

Drink more.

BENJI

GARRET

What if I never forget?

CIARA

Don’t say that!

GARRET

BENJI What if the disease comes back? What if I die again?

BENJI You can vomit on me. If you want... CIARA That’s disgusting. Why would you want that?

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BENJI Hey! You made me remember! The least you could do is vomit on me!

CIARA

GARRET You won’t! Have another. (Benji takes another drink.) CIARA Oh my god! I’m gonna vomit!

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(She quickly crawls to a small trash can and puts her face in it.) You can’t vomit here!

GARRET

owes me! She made me remember! GARRET You’ll forget again. Just have another drink. Go out to the party. (Benji scrambles for another drink.)

BENJI I thought you were gonna vomit on me! CIARA I WANT TO VOMIT GODDAMMIT! I want to feel something again... GARRET No, you don’t. You need to forget. CIARA I can’t. It’s all I’ve ever known. GARRET That’s why you have to let go. But-

CIARA

(He starts to drink.)

I cant... You can try.

(Garret takes a drink.) I’ll see you out there. (Garret exits.) It’s not working!

GARRET Take a drink with you. You’ll need it. (Ciara grabs a beer and takes it with her. She exits.)

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BENJI Hey, what the hell, man? She didn’t vomit on me! She

BENJI

(He takes another drink, and gulps.) I want to forget!

BENJI

(He drinks.)

GARRET

CIARA Maybe you’re right. Maybe I can forget. I’m gonna go out to the party.

GARRET

I need a drink.

GARRET We all have to let go. It makes it easier. CIARA

BENJI

I wanna forget.

I want to forget!

BENJI

(He drinks. He starts to cry.) BENJI I want to forget! I want to forget. I want to forget. I want to forget. I want to forget. I want to forget. I want to forget. I want to forget. (Blackout.) END

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UNTITLED • STEPHANIE LY FILM PHOTOGRAPHY

114

THE YOUNG ONE • JESSICA ASTUDILLO FILM PHOTOGRAPHY

115

n Thursday, a clot the size of raspberry erupted in Leslie Weaver’s brain. When it ruptured, most of her synapses were busy executing the perfunctory tasks of coffee and hair, while here and there a renegade neuron sounded the alarm. In the end, her mind was only dimly aware of the cruel fact that most stories begin with an explosion. At the opposite end of the kitchen table sat Ronald Weaver: a portly, sniffling, allergic kind of man with too much skin for a nose. He had ten fingers for scolding and a crocodile grin. He was the kind of man who made paper towels out of greeting cards ... or paper airplanes ... or just plain paper for posting notes to his neighbors about lowering their volume, or trimming back their flowers, or scolding their children for playing after dark. On the drab little Thursday our story begins, Mr. Weaver had been practicing his sound exercises. One hand clutched a yellow Walkman, the other pressed a ratty ball of tissue to a wrinkly pink nose. His wife had planted daffodils

116

ROBERT WAND PROSE on Wednesday along the stone path that led to the lighthouse on Pineapple Rock. Mr. Weaver hated flowers, especially daffodils. They seemed to awaken something in him, something dangerous, not to mention the sneezing. Sometimes he imagined himself lurking in the garden, waiting to snip away at any colorful thing that popped above the surface, cleaver in hand. As his wife began to topple, Mr. Weaver thumbed the play button. The cassette inside read: Primal Screaming: Release your Feelings Through the Power of Sound. “Whether or not we hear it, everything has a sound.” His blubbery lips bounced up and down as he mouthed the words, a pool of spittle forming in the crease of his jaw. He wondered whether or not everything truly had a sound — what about corpses, or daffodils, or fresh yellow paint? Behind him, the form of his free-falling wife sailed through the air like a magician’s scarf. The tape clicked. “Even a whale: Mmmruunnnnngggggggg!“

Oh, goodie, thought Mr. Weaver. The whale lesson. Mr. Weaver loved a challenge. He wiggled forward in his seat, opened his enormous mouth as wide as a roll of tape ... when out flopped the biggest, wettest, ugliest burp — so ugly and so loud that Mr. Weaver missed the limp thump of linen and skin on the kitchen floor behind him. He sighed, resting his giant hands atop the pooch of his stomach like all the work in the world had been accomplished. A ray of light butterflied across the stone floor. Leslie’s eyes shuttered shut for the very last time. Mr. Weaver set his Walkman aside and started for his feet. He’d master whale after breakfast. When Mr. Weaver finally turned around and discovered his wife, stiff on the kitchen floor, it’s said he resembled a pelican turned loose at a baby shower, all flappy: a shower of glass and wind and cake and string and ribbon and sadness and longing and sideward glances and redrimmed eyes and the long gray moon. It has been speculated that Ronald Weaver died of feeling too much in too little time; that he snapped like a Japanese curtain in the rush of such a pivotal Thursday. He had expected an idle Thursday, like every other Thursday, with appointments and errands and little room for big surprises. He had anticipated a light hush

of rain against the lighthouse window, not a whale song circling the planet at the speed of sound. He had assumed that life would pass him by; that, in the final moments of his existence, he would stand before the kitchen window, as he always had, and snap the elephant gray shutters shut, then retire for tea and the dull glare of television — the sky above him a canyon of stars.

•

HERMAN MELVILLE • MARINA SOLOMONOVA CHARCOAL

117

DRAMA CONTEST WINNER

You’re cute.

FRANK

LILY And you’re smart for saying that. (Frank passes Lily a clean dish and they share a quick kiss before going back to their preparations.)

LOUIS GAUDIO DRAMA (LILY, a woman in her early thirties, is in the kitchen of her small apartment, along with her boyfriend FRANK, also in his early thirties. Frank is wearing one of Lily’s floral pattern aprons. The couple is washing dishes and preparing dessert for a small dinner party in the adjoining room, which is offstage. Chatter and clinking glasses can be heard as Frank and Lily maneuver around one another deftly. They do not live together, but Frank knows his way around the kitchen well.) Why the little girl?

FRANK

LILY I don’t know. Hey, can you pass me the ice cream scoop? FRANK Sure. But there’s gotta be a reason. LILY Yes, a diabolical one. I want to...scoop ice cream. On top of pie! I’m a madwoman! FRANK No, dummy. A reason you’d pick the little girl. LILY Ugh, Jesus. I don’t know. She’s cuter.

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FRANK Is it a probability thing? Because the girl has a better chance at survival? How so?

LILY

FRANK Smaller lungs. Less chance of drowning. LILY Wow. You’ve thought this through. FRANK Haven’t you? You gave your answer pretty quickly. LILY What’s the difference? Hey, we have friends over. Can we play this game later? FRANK They’re not really our friends, they’re your co-workers. And it wasn’t my game. Devin asked the question. De-von. Sorry. De-von.

LILY FRANK

LILY Well, Frank, I know this is a tough concept for you, but this is how making friends works. You take people who are acquaintances, offer them a little bit of alcohol and hospitality, next thing you know you’re somebody’s

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bridesmaid. Or, I guess in your case... (she tugs at the apron Frank is wearing) ...Maid of Honor. Why the girl? Done playing with you.

FRANK LILY

FRANK You answered without even thinking about it. Like you’ve already thought about it and you had an answer pre-loaded. LILY Pre-loaded? Am I a torpedo tube. FRANK I’m just saying, you didn’t seem to think about it. There’s gotta be a reason you gave such an automatic response. LILY You make me sound like a robot. FRANK It was a hypothetical, but plausible, scenario, and Devon even said, the answer reveals a lot about a person. LILY And you think I have some kind of preference for girls over boys? Why do you keep drawing me into this type of conversation. FRANK What type of conversation? LILY Like when we took my niece to see Frozen, and you practically dragged my nephew to the theater with us.

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FRANK And he loved the movie. LILY Yeah, but Sarah was the one who wanted to see it. Actually, if I recall you’re the one who wanted to see it, and you made me bring my niece and nephew so we wouldn't be the creepy adults going to a Pixar movie alone. FRANK Disney, not Pixar, and Sarah didn’t even like it, which proves my point. Which is?

LILY

FRANK That you think girls have more aptitude than boys, but you're wrong. LILY I don’t follow you. Liking Pixar movies is a gauge for aptitude? Come on, Frank. The ice cream is melting. FRANK I’m just saying, you answered Devon’s question quickly. LILY Well I didn’t want to think about it. It’s horrible! Two kids go over a bridge and drown. You want me to dwell on that thought. That’s sick, Frank. You’re kinda sick, dude. FRANK Just, try to picture it for real. Think of it as a thought experiment, and really try to visualize it. What if the kids were Sarah and Alex? (Lily stops in the middle of her preparations and regards Frank for a moment.) LILY Frank, everyone’s waiting. Why is this important? Can

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I just bring this out and then--? FRANK It’ll just take a minute. Come on. One minute. LILY Jesus. Okay. I’m closing my eyes. FRANK Let me make sure I remember it right. Okay I got it. A car veers off the bridge into a river with two kids in the backseat. A boy and a girl. The river is deep enough that you can swim down and reach the bottom when the car settles, and open only one door. (Lily opens her eyes.) LILY Okay this is my first issue. How am I gonna open the door? Am I The Hulk? FRANK What? No. You can easily open a car door once it fills up with water and the pressure equalizes. Come on. LILY Right, common knowledge. Okay I have another question. I only have enough breath to open one door, but why don’t both kids swim out? FRANK They’re strapped in. And uhh, they’re unconscious. The one you save, you have to unbuckle them and carry them to the surface, and perform CPR. LILY You’re assuming I know how to do all of this? CPR? FRANK In this scenario, you do. You’re Super-Lily. LILY So I’m The Hulk. Why can’t I just be The Hulk?

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FRANK The Hulk can’t perform CPR!

LILY Alright. Don’t shout at me. (Devon, a man in his early thirties, enters. He’s a little tipsy.) DEVON Is everything okay in here? Do you guys need help bringing stuff out, or? LILY We’re fine. It’s...Frank has a point. The Hulk can’t perform CPR. His hands are too big. Who needs CPR? It’s fine. We’re fine.

DEVON FRANK

LILY What about the driver? You didn’t say he was unconscious. He can help me save the other kid. Boom! Both kids saved. DEVON You guys are still talking about this? FRANK The driver’s not unconscious, he’s dead. You never said that.

LILY

FRANK He had a heart attack. That’s why the car went over in the first place. He can’t help. Which one do you save? LILY I don’t know, Frank. How do I even know which side of the car they’re on? DEVON Well, you’d see them through the back window before it goes over, right? That’s how you’d know there were

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people in the car you need to save, otherwise you’re just jumping in the river after a sinking car for no reason. (Beat.) Thank you, Devon.

LILY

FRANK So you know which one you’re saving, and you would choose the eight-year-old girl over the eight-year-old boy. So?

LILY

FRANK I’m just saying it’s fucking typical. (Devon awkwardly slinks toward the door.) DEVON You two should, umm, I’m...forgot...something in the... uhh, bathroom? (Devon exits.) LILY Typical? What is this about? FRANK There had to be a reason. LILY (shouting) It’s because I’m the little girl, Frank! Okay? You want me to picture two little hypothetical kids and pick which one dies. I wouldn’t be able to choose. No one would. I’m gonna save the girl, because it doesn't matter. Because I was a little girl. I imagine the kid I save is the kid version of me. But you’re a twisted fuck for making me think about this. I’m done.

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FRANK I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to make you upset. I just thought there was a reason. LILY Fuck you! Tonight was going really well. Why are we fighting now? What the fuck? (Lily notices the ice cream is melting on the counter. While Frank is talking, she scoops some onto a plate and cleans up the mess with a towel.) FRANK Let’s say, hypothetically, there’s two kids in a bad situation. Not a car, just— LILY No. I’m done. I’m done with fucking hypotheticals. I hate your hypothetical face right now. Calm down. Please.

FRANK

LILY You’d save the boy. I don’t even have to ask, because I know, so why are you giving me shit for my choice? You’re right.

FRANK

LILY I know, and it’s because you’re sexist. FRANK No, it’s because I would save the boy, then use the rest of the oxygen in my lungs to swim to the other side of the car and save the girl, and then die. That wasn’t an option. It’s the right answer.

LILY FRANK

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LILY What about the CPR, Frank? You can’t just make up rules to give yourself a convenient answer. (Devon enters timidly, wearing a coat and gloves.) DEVON Hey, uhh, just wanted to let you know we all gotta catch a train. We’ll see you Monday, Lil. Dinner was really great. Sorry we gotta run. LILY It’s fine. Thanks for coming over. DEVON No problem. Um, if you need--um. I’ll see you Monday. (Devon exits. Lily sobs as she cleans up.) FRANK Look, what if it was just an everyday situation where two kids needed parents. LILY You’re asking me if I would adopt the boy or the girl? Frank. It’s a hypothetical.

FRANK

(A beat.)

LILY What. The. Fuck? You want me to feel guilty for kids that don’t get adopted, like that’s my fault? FRANK That’s not what I meant. Just, I mean, just because you can't have kids doesn’t mean we can’t talk about other possibilities. At some point. Obviously not now. LILY How about stray cats and dogs, Frank? What about all the homeless people we pass by on the street every day? You want to take them all in? FRANK Damnit Lily, I’m sorry I brought it up. The question was if you had the means to save someone, would you save them? So if we decided to adopt, and we had to pick one kid— LILY We don’t even live together, Frank! Why are we talking about this? Why are you telling me this now? You were in that hospital room with me. You held my hand and LILY (CONT’D) said you supported my decision. Suddenly you want to talk about adoption. Where is this coming from?

LILY It’s not. Here’s my answer. If it was a brother and sister I wouldn’t adopt one of them, because I wouldn't split them up, because I wouldn’t adopt either of them.

FRANK We both have steady jobs, and we could move in together if we wanted. I’m not saying now, but we could think about—

FRANK It seemed like you’ve thought about it. I thought that's why you chose the girl.

LILY Stop it. I have thought about it. Ok? You were right. I’ve thought about it. I don’t want to adopt, ever. (Beat.)

LILY No, because I’m not having kids. I’m sorry, but yes I have thought about this.

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FRANK So you’d let both kids die?

FRANK That’s a problem for me.

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LILY Then that’s a problem for us. If I can’t have my own kids I don’t want to raise someone else’s. I’m the one that would have to look the kid in the eye every day and know I missed out on that. FRANK

That’s selfish.

LILY Selfish? How about when you get testicular cancer, and you have to decide whether to have your balls removed or let it keep spreading, you can talk to me about selfish. I made a choice, I chose the hysterectomy, and I came to terms with it, and now you’re stirring my shit up.

counter. He reaches his hand toward Lily, but then puts it in his pocket.) I’m sorry.

FRANK (Frank exits.) (Lily looks toward the door, then down at her stomach. She stands up, grabs the carton of ice cream, and sits back down. She eats the ice cream with the serving spoon.) END

(Beat.) FRANK You won’t even consider it? LILY Get out of my apartment. Lil—

FRANK

LILY Get out! I don’t want to see you right now. I can't deal with this. You ruined my night. Get out. FRANK Lily, I’m sorry. I’m just trying to tell you that I can see us building a life together. We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do, but, it’s like you're making this choice for me too. Go.

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LILY (Frank looks at Lily for a long moment. She sits down on the floor by the kitchen counter with her head in her hands.) (Frank takes off the apron and carefully folds it, placing it on the

SHE SAID SHE LOVED SUNFLOWERS • AMANDA HERNANDEZ INK

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I left my innocence three streets over. He thinks himself corroded, does not realize he nurses an alabaster spirit. Even cloaked in white, the children void of childhood cannot shake the craving for maternal purity.

CHARLOT TE FOREMAN POETRY Here in Davie under the carcass of the night we glide along distant roads, watch the night’s palms sweat and slip out of our grasp. We move past endless juxtaposed liquor stores and chapels, harpies of a dissipated town. Here in Davie, they smiled as they decomposed black men to white ash. She recounts her youth, how before only the veil of her shutter, he, unmasked, bared his teeth, yellowed like blessed flames. She remembers the blood red of his hair, the gravel in his voice like disquieted graves. Here in Davie, we trace the sidewalks to the end of our childhood to smoke out our sorrows, dried buffalo skin. Across the street, a fog empties over an Indian burial ground.

Here in Davie, the canals know my bloodstream. In London, seven people have drunk your tap water before it reaches you. Did you know the body is 60% water? Davie will flow through my veins even after I’m gone. Can you hear its heartbeat through its waterways? Can you feel its pulse under the cracked tar and cement? The blood of the hometown will always pulse blue and melancholy. I inhale on the threshold of adulthood, submerged in the midst of my past, slip into the drain: take it easy, baby take it as it comes.

ART CONTEST HONORABLE MENTION

Here in Davie, I bike to the edge of my innocence across intersections with impatient crosswalks, find crushed roses on the pavement, sanguine and mangled, a stillborn city. Here in Davie, crushed glass weeps on the edge of the road, red solo cups lament the torn skirt of the lake like scratches on her record. I reach for her hand, wait to descend into her purgative abyss. I will shed my skin here. I will leave your name to dry on the edge of catharsis. In her cool embrace, I will sink into my own skin again. Here in Davie, as he drives me home he tells me of Morrison’s death, how he ripped himself from the seams of reality, cleansed himself in the immaculate claw foot bathtub, delivered himself to the other side, gasping, sputtering, born again. I wonder what it felt like to choose first words, to breathe with new lungs. I wonder how the soft milk of childhood felt on his lips. Here in Davie, every time he asks me with trepidation. On the bank of the canal, I feel his soft anxiety in the town where

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SUNDAY • MAHA PARAHA DIGITAL PHOTOGRAPHY

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PROSE CONTEST WINNER

ooking for one, nonstop to Boston." "There's one coming around at 8:30." "How much?" "$8.50." Fifty-seven year old woman walks the wet platform in Graceway, waiting for the train to Boston, in a silent, sullen stance. She walks around the platform with no specific direction in wait for the homeward train to her seven room house she inherited from her ancestors. Around her are a few other witnesses, waiting for the same train to their destination. There's one elderly, overweight Mexican man on the southwest corner wearing jeans, a cotton shirt, and a trucker's hat with the insignia of a motorcycle rally. There are two teenage women sharing a Walkman wearing cropped shirts and khakis, and they're standing right behind Ms. Meehan. Possible suspect activity is coming from the far right of the platform in a crowd of younger, rowdy men who are engaged in general horseplay. The woman is pacing back and forth between the benches and the edge of the platform for a few minutes before settling on a single spot. Three minutes in, she sticks her neck

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BRIAN KELLEY PROSE out. Around three minutes later, the 8:30 to Boston is making its way around the bend of the tracks to the center of the platform. Customers are starting to line the edge to get on board and ride all the way to their destination. The woman walks to the train, stops, hesitates, and begins observing the signs around the platform and the people getting on. She bends down to tie a loose lace that's fallen into the gap between the platform of the train and the actual train and begins reaching in. A train operator sticks his head out of the front of the line and apparently doesn't notice the woman who's still bent down tying her boot, as she's obscured by the length of the train. The announcement for the next stop comes over the loudspeaker and as people begin taking their seats, the woman in question begins tugging at the end of her shoelace which is caught under the train gears. All at once, the door closes and the train begins moving, dragging her along. The victim begins throwing her arms out to people in an attempt to be saved, but it is not long before the situation is irredeemably fatal for her. At

three seconds in, she starts the against the steel tracks, spilling process of being sucked down out onto the colony of rats, and into the small gap on the platform the roof of solid bone compacts and screams loudly for help or the brain. Loud screams are assistance from those waiting heard combined with fire and for the Plainsville train that is smoke, melting part of the skin coming a few minutes later. A away into the man-made tracks. large black bag, presumably the A few calls are received from the woman's is left in tow, a few feet station center and the innocent away, as the woman is dragged standbys that now have an down to an untimely death. incredible excuse to be late to F I V E F E E T A N D S I X I N C H E S R A P I D LY C H A N G E S F R O M F O U R F E E T, TO T H R E E F E E T, TO T W O F E E T,

TO O N E

"Holy shit!" "Jesus!" "Stop the train, dumbass!" Five feet and six inches rapidly changes from four feet, to three feet, to two feet, to one. The victim's clothes are being torn and render into shreds by the force of the train. Once the large, blunt, heavy piece of steel reaches the back of her head, consciousness is cut off and the life of the woman is stopped in an instant. The body quickly follows as it ducks in between powerful wheels, now helpless to the force of the train. Head and chest, compressed, peering out in a mangled way, being dragged across the side of the platform for a few minutes before being pulled under the immense pressure of the train. Mouth and throat sliced open, legs broken, feet flattened, boobs scraped

work. Their faces shrink away at the instant the woman falls to her death under the train. The woman's body becomes a gruesome sight, and all at once she disappears into the darkness. Darkness… Darkness… Darkness… Darkness… Darkness… Light… LAURA MEEHAN LAURA MEEHAN LAURA MEEHAN LAURA MEEHAN LAURA MEEHAN LAURA MEEHAN LAURA MEEHAN LAURA MEEHAN. L AURA MEEHAN LAURA MEEHAN LAURA MEEHAN LAURA MEEHAN LAURA MEEHAN LAURA MEEHAN LAURA MEEHAN LAURA MEEHAN. LAURA MEEHAN LAURA MEEHAN LAURA MEEHAN

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LAURA MEEHAN LAURA MEEHAN LAURA MEEHAN LAURA MEEHAN LAURA MEEHAN. L A U R A MEEHAN LAURA MEEHAN LAURA MEEHAN LAURA MEEHAN LAURA MEEHAN LAURA MEEHAN LAURA MEEHAN LAURA MEEHAN. LAURA MEEHAN LAURA MEEHAN LAURA MEEHAN LAURA MEEHAN LAURA MEEHAN LAURA MEEHAN LAURA MEEHAN. LAURA MEEHAN LAURA LAURA MEEHAN LAURA MEEHAN LAURA MEEHAN LAURA MEEHAN. L AURA MEEHAN LAURA MEEHAN LAURA MEEHAN LAURA MEEHAN LAURA MEEHAN LAURA MEEHAN LAURA MEEHAN LAURA MEEHAN. LAURA MEEHAN LAURA MEEHAN LAURA MEEHAN LAURA MEEHAN LAURA MEEHAN LAURA MEEHAN LAURA MEEHAN. L AURA MEEHAN LAURA MEEHAN LAURA MEEHAN LAURA MEEHAN LAURA MEEHAN LAURA MEEHAN LAURA MEEHAN. October 1941: A cold, dark space. A muscular grasp, pulling at my calf. All at once I was free to feel the misery of the cold hand against my wet skin. “She come like a phone on a cord” - Pop. December 1941: Staggering to get up. Somewhere in the background, Japs blow our boys to bits. Yee-haw! Walk for America. March 1943: Meet Sheila E, best for life over tea -

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imaginary, of course. My folks didn’t have much until the end of the war. September 1946: Five years done in the pen - I pick a pencil up, etching out the words of my first biography. “Nearly five years old, from Tennessee. Like Mickey Mouse and apple juice. April 1947: On the double, I got trouble focusing, pair on my first try of lens - look like a year older, put the vision chart in my folder. June 1949: Receive first kiss, feel madness. Receive second, third, feel sticky glaze of an eight year old. September 1952: Go to work, with pa, a soda jerk. Doling out soda creams like a machine for the loose leaves he gets. July 1955: Aunt Mary in the place of mother, for the former, to tell me of the way I’ll twitch and every boy who just wants a bitch. March 1957: Now it’s going well, I read right, and I read wrong. Insipid tales from the century prior, and it’s kind of drier, but it’s dark. June 1959: Walking a fine line from my pals to the wrap, winking. Where my parents at? Dad’s in the back with a busty woman and a bottle of jack. Alcohol was never his game, but now I have a future aim, and won’t fall suspect to my family’s detract. August 1961: Feel free, feeling loose, lost it in the dock house by the bay where the sun went down behind the man. November 1963: Bad news for Kennedy, and my brother’s sanity, after seeing his pal fellate dead dogs in the pantry. Least that’s what he

says in his screaming as a team of men drag him down saying “Momma, momma, help me, please!” October 1966: Twentyfive years out, got the papers and the ring before my booey Bob is hauled off to Sing Sing. My top half waits, my bottom half walks looking for the same thing I had by the docks. June 1968: I had my first hate from marrying a man who couldn’t mate. Filed a tale of lower class kids, got rejected, I suspected it wasn’t the tale they were looking for. October 1972: Where were you? Sheila E and I were out with fast friends, making small talk about big moves. Got my book in their eyes. I dedicate it to my mother’s demise. March 1976: Had a few things stick. I was only thirty-five, still alive, wandering the palaces and my childhood dive. December 1979: Father’s a dead man and a dick in the dirt. My tongue came undone in the bottle of rum, and now the writer’s press is out to have some fun. June 1981: Push, push, push, push, push, push, push, push, push. Fuck. Clean me up. August 1984: It's a little bit cooler in the shade of a veil. The day's getting stale, the air's getting real, and my stranger, feeling lonely, looking to nail. Hail the rail. May 1987: Couldn't be better, got a letter. Who am I kidding? I'm so screwed up in the head, I wish I were dead, my heart felt empty but it couldn't be fed. January 1989: March 1991: June 1994: July 1996: August

1998: April 1999: I'm dead in case you didn't notice. Down a little purple spiral column in the fast flash, fast in the column: spiral-shaped and purple, pointed down. Fly the full run of friends reflected in the long, clear river, long, reflecting the friends in full run you flew past. Gong! Large steel head of a hammer for the revival of all the life inside you from the very first feeling of all the life inside you revived from the hammer's head of a steel too large. Gong! Deceased peering into the eye of light, glowing, glowing light into the eye of the deceased peer. Wind force a mindless, powerful reckoning of the circle of ashes of circling reckoners, powerful and mindless and forced by the winds. Laura's arrival at the front gate pushes her to circle back to the earth to never return: HEAVEN “Whites Only” I,__________, the aforementioned party do agree to all the following conditions and adjoined clauses in the following literature. I relinquish all rights and ownership of belief to the entity of God, and agree not to take legal action if he/ she shall steal any likeness or trademarks from my vision of God. I shall suspend any and all contractual obligations of human disbelief for the purposes of due process of literature, and adhere to all conventional practices of listening and constructive

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criticism as dictated by the World Writer’s Almanac of 2015. No ideas or concepts printed within the contents of the text shall be carried over to other textual passages or visual media without consent of the writer. All sessions of reading must be carried out with a full focus on the context and present action of the character(s) and may only be interrupted with the appeal process of subjects of greater interest in the application period of three seconds to fifty years. For all intents and purposes, "ideas" refers to all conceptions of the human mind, "context" refers to pages 1-6 of this contained text, and "God" refers to the full embodiment of a manifest destiny of spiritual means. Any breach of this contractual obligation shall result in the full fine of ten thousand dollars in United States currency and up to ten years of imprisonment. "Imprisonment" refers to the state of mind under conditions where one must occupy the same physical space for a period of no less than five years. Signature:________________ Date: ___________________ “Is it true? Have you heard of me? I’m always afraid I’ll have to introduce myself in front of new people and sound like I’m absolutely full of myself.” “I…I just can’t believe this. My word, my stars, you are everything I imagined.” “My shape is the man with the white beard. A

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wholesome and cleanly image for the city of eternity.” “This is just flat out embarrassing. I’m turning red, I swear to-” “Don’t swear to me. Embrace the airy days of your second passage, and let it come to you as human as the first one was. It takes time and patience. Just as you learned to walk, to eat, to breathe, to expel, and to love -- you will learn to be dead and an angel in the stars.” “You just have something to say for everybody, don’t you? I’m the one who…should be in awe.” “What’s that? I sense the slightest tone of hesitancy in your voice. Something is deeply disturbing to you.” “No, nothing like that. You’re just…great is all. It’s hard for old me from the blessed state of Tennessee to adjust to that. I’m not quite as north up as your friends.” “Laura-” “Yes.” She said with flustered face and wayward hair. “Don’t lie to me. It’s hard to lie to the one who’s seen you from creation onwards. In all the naked moments.” “It’s…it’s about the sign really.” “The one that says “Don’t get left holding the bag”?” “No…whites only.” A long sift of air funneled through an open darkness, as his mouth took in the atmosphere of the heavenly bodies. Fingers began running through the

thicket of white hairs in a sign of exasperation. “I’m sorry to seem so impatient, it’s just that I’ve answered this question my entire life, and I can’t seem to grab ahold of the right answer. Whenever I bring someone here, it always seems to result in those infernal questions.” “God, can I ask you something?” “It has been foretold.” “Are you a racist?” “No…come, sit wherever you please and I will talk.” She found a nice wedge

are a multitude of emotions and religions, going off at once. Laura, for many years now, you got to go between memories and the leading sensory at a pace and time of your choosing. Being nonexistent is taking all those multitudes of human life and experience and continuing them simultaneously. So, I have to make a heaven for the racists.” He drank from a long goblet. “But, God…if I can call you that…there’s equality where I live. I’ve many friends of all sorts of shape and color. It

I’M S O R R Y TO S E E M S O I M PAT I E N T, I T ’S J U S T T H AT I’V E A N S W E R E D T H I S Q U E S T I O N M Y E N T I R E L I F E, A N D I C A N’ T S E E M TO G R A B A H O L D O F T H E R I G H T A N S W E R. between two soft pustules of cirrus. They began leaking air, light, and water once she found a place to fit her bodacious posterior. Two innocent eyes peered up to the visage of all human life and creation, and yes, even the confines of a vast and unending universe. “When people come and talk of the force I seem to be…faceless, genderless, raceless…and made in their own image at the same time, I have to make myself conform to their standards. It’s not something I do out of passivity for those around me, and I’m not trying to be anybody’s friend. It’s because my mind and spirit

doesn’t matter to me.” “Again, this is you we're talking about. You're Laura Meehan. You were fifty-seven years old, turning fifty-eight that year. You had three husbands, one who died in prison, all of whom left you feeling unsatisfied. Your relationship with your father wasn't that great, your mother was dead, and your one and only son died in childbirth. After your son, your pinnacle in life was your status as an accomplished writer. Of course, you were never as famous as you'd like to be, but you kept that little thought all to yourself. Now your power is lost and your insignificance may run as long as the world does.

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You've been dealt a lot of blows, Ms. Meehan, but certainly none as damning as the 8:30 to Boston." "Please, don't speak for me, lord. I don’t have a place here." "I've found with most of my people that taking the afterlife with a bit less reverence allowed them to loosen up. You don't have to "act" as an angel or a spirit, dear, you only need to have lived to be here. You know the struggle." "You don't." Once more, chilled air ran through the sieve of the spiritual world. His face was a still, stone plateau that flinched against the wind, desperately trying to remain neutral. Patience was something to be retained in Ms. Meehan's insinuation. No proverb or summation of the great world would satisfy her angst and feeling for justice. God just did what God does best -- be God. "Why was I brought here? What good purpose does this serve?" "Laura, what can I tell you? Your family lives here and has done well here." "But why do they have to be ignorant in the face of death? Have they not seen our change?" "What is it to them? It's lost in the infinite. Every move for progress was built in a time they considered the far off future, where their relevance seemed smaller than ever. It did deal a coldhearted blow to their

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supremacist egos, but they dealt with it. Not in rational feeling and love towards all mankind - but in satisfaction with themselves. We all have to put away the vast expansion of the universe, Laura. Out of that is borne stability and temperament.” “You’ll have to give me some time here, I have to collect my thoughts.” “As you wish, cherub. My gates are always open to people and those of your kin.” Laura struggled with the delicate balance between the attitudes she had harbored on earth and the less than charming ways developed in the astrological realm. Here was her family, her friends, her home, and finally a chance to be at peace with the scattered elements, pulled together at the finality of it all. No option was left to her than to the gate. She could not return, as disgusted as she was. The vast expanse of clouds to explore seemed inviting yet daunting. Ten times as big as the stretch of the globe, one might say. She took the first step forward in mid-sentence. After several years on earth, the chattering in her mind stopped and she stood silent as the rest of the world spoke to her.

•

DEMONS • KARL LORENZEN WATERCOLOR

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K R I S T E N A R N E T T is a fiction and essay writer who has held fellowships at Tin House, Kenyon Review, and Lambda Literary Foundation. Her work has either appeared or is upcoming at North American Review,The Normal School, Superstition Review, Blunderbuss Magazine,Pithead Chapel, Hawaii Pacific Review, Timber Journal, The Rumpus, The Toast, and Burrow Press Review. You can find her on twitter here: @Kristen_Arnett J E S S I C A A S T U D I L L O is a graduating Psychology major. Postgraduation she will working as a field data collector in various NYC neighborhoods. These experiences working with communities and people continue to enrich her photographs. O L I V I A C O L E Y - B I S H O P is a Creative Writing major. She likes science fiction, dragons, and Oxford commas. JAC O B C I N T R O N is a photographer looking to create his first solid, connected body of work. He wants to expand from mostly digital and 35mm film photography to medium format. He simultaneously thanks OTR for keeping him sane, and curses them for driving him insane. Jacob can be reached at udp.jacob@gmail.com G A M A L E L S AWA H is a Junior at Hunter College majoring in Theatre. He likes tacos. C H A R L O T T E F O R E M A N is a high school student currently residing in South Florida. Though she writes mostly poetry, she expresses herself through all forms of language, as well as visual art. Her photography, drawings, and installations can be viewed at www.cargocollective. com/charlotteforeman. Her work has also been published in Corium Magazine and Metazen Magazine. L O U I S G AU D I O is a Creative Writing Major, Film Major, freelance writer, and infrequent sleeper. He is currently a senior at Hunter College, and recently became the first recipient of the Archer Craig Mathias Screenwriting Award for his screenplay 'Paydays'."

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JA R E D G R A H A M was born and raised on the north shore, Massachusetts, where he currently lives and works as a firefighter and EMT. He continues to write under the inspiration and encouragement of his family. Previous publication credits include poetry in the magazine, Off the Coast. A M A N DA H E R N A N D E Z 's favorite sketchbook is the one with the yellow cover, where she collects muses. It's been three years since she transferred to Hunter College and majors in studio art. She currently resides in Staten Island, and wakes up in a bedroom cluttered with books, canvases, postcards and memories. B R I A N K E L L E Y is a soon to be outgoing senior at Hunter College, an English major, and with thanks to the Olivetree Review a published playwright and fiction writer. He is a student of sketch writing and improvisation at the Upright Citizens Brigade Theatre. He writes mainly prose, plays, and has plans to grow up into a functional, responsible adult with paid off balances, a regular job, and a healthy ability to deny all those responsibilities now and again. His twitter handle @giraffedreams, was made when people were still worried about keeping their anonymity on the Internet. He'd like to take advantage of this opportunity to thank the Olivetree Review for their hard work in publicizing student work and offering the best in artistic minds in a digital age. K I S U B L E E is a Studio Art major student. Born in Korea, he moved to Coalinga (The GREATEST town in CA). He dreams to be an artist that speaks up for those who cannot speak for themselves through his art works, and is always interested in issues of gender and race. Studying Animation in university before he transferred to Hunter, Ki Sub has taught painting and drawing to high school seniors, middle school students, and children. He has made several portraits and paintings on commission. Proud to be a part of Purple. Loves soccer. He personally believes that FC Chelsea is the greatest football team. Email him at yigi1318@gmail.com if you have a story to share with him. DA N I E L L U T S K E R is a third-year student at Hunter. He is also a Journalism major. He likes to climb things.

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S T E P H A N I E LY graduated from Hunter College in the fall of 2013 with a Bachelor of Arts degree. She double majored in Studio Art and English. She is currently working at the Museum of Modern Art and works on her art on the side. E M I L I A M I K R U T is a freshman Muse Scholar planning to doublemajor in Psychology and Urban Studies. A native New Yorker from Queens, she enjoys creative writing, dabbling in the visual arts, and playing on the piano, and can often be found at a spoken word event or art exhibition. She is currently an editor and writer for the Meraki Journal, Hunter’s newest humanities publication, and recently won first place in the poetry portion of the 2014-2015 “Making Work Visible” Labor Arts Contest. Always striving to foster a deeper sense of understanding with others, Emilia is passionate about exploring the modern human condition and bettering herself through her writing and art. M A H A PA R AC H A is a Creative Writing Major at Hunter College. She's sold her soul to The Olivetree Review, much like everyone who walks in there. Her soul has seeped into the walls and she can never be separated from the room. Dramatics aside, she's very happy to be published (finally). She’s taken on a really big work load, from school, actual work at her family’s business, and OTR, so she apologizes if she ever gets a bit condescending (or mean, or snappish), she doesn’t do it on purpose. Though, asides from all that, she enjoys the company of people around her, making friends, and making the most of her college life (and generally, making the most out of life). She strives to be the best person she can be, even if she trips and falls a lot on the way there. Also, she would like to remind everyone about her, and Jacob's, love of Rainbows. M A R I N A S O L O M O N OVA is currently a junior at Hunter college double-majoring in English Literature and Psychology. Although not pursuing art, when time will allow she occasionally draws some of her favorite faces (and not just because of their surface characteristics). In addition to traditional art, she also has a website where she posts some of her photography as well: https://mssergeyevna.wordpress.com/

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R O B E R T WA N D was born in 1985, and grew up in Lihue, Hawaii. Robert developed a love of words early on. During the best moments, his writing became a cup that held the liquid of who he was: the miracle being that someone else, very different from him, could also feel that whatever he had written was also their poem, their character, their situation. They learned about themselves through someone not themselves. It was like falling in love: the stranger brought the gift. During most times, it was hard. E Z R A W O L F G A N G is a freshman Muse Scholar in the Thomas Hunter Honors Program, pursuing a double major in Film and English. In his spare time, Ezra writes/directs short films and indulges in photography. Check out his photography at www.emwolfgangphotography.weebly.com and on Instagram at https://instagram.com/e.m.wolfgang_photography A S H L E Y W O N G is a junior in the Thomas Hunter Honors Program and the recipient of a full, four-year merit S&W scholarship. With a major in Political Science as well as a minor in Legal Studies, she plans to attend law school after graduation. Ashley is the current President of Pre-Law Society, where she happily serves the Pre-Law community by managing the peer mentorship program within the club, creating and hosting career development workshops, and assisting the Pre-Law Advisor with hosting monthly attorney lunches. Ashley, who enjoys blogging about fashion and writing poetry, is a passionate full-time feminist. You will often find her overwhelming her mini planner with appointments or practicing her golf swings at the driving range on the weekends. A N D R E A Z A M PA R I N I is an Argentine poet born and raised in Queens. After falling in love with the poetry scene, she has performed at the Apollo Theater, Lincoln Center, The Audubon Ballroom, Nuyorican Poets Café, and The Bowery Poetry Club. Recently, she has performed poetry tackling genetically modified food at the Worlds Fair Anniversary Festival at The Queens Museum. When Andrea isn’t writing poetry, she spends her time playing the guitar and bass, cooking with her family, and appreciating the beauty around her. Poesias salva vidas.

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THE OLIVETREE REVIEW

THE LITERARY & ARTS MAGAZINE OF HUNTER COLLEGE

ISSUE 57 SPRING 2015

THE OLIVETREE REVIEW