The Olivetree Review Issue 64

THE OLIVETREE REVIEW

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THE OLIVETREE REVIEW

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ISSUE 64 FALL 2018

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Š The Olivetree Review, CUNY Hunter College, 695 Park Avenue, Hunter North 115, New York, New York 10065, www.theolivetreereview.com This journal is partially funded by Hunter College’s student activity fee, partially by fundraising and donations. This journal is distributed for free.

The artwork featured on the cover is Fisheye by Nyusha Iampolski. The fonts used in this book are American Typewriter and Avenir. This book was designed by Melissa Rueda and Kenny Perez.

Submissions are reviewed September through October and February through March. We consider submissions of visual art, fiction, non-fiction, poetry, and scripts. All submissions are reviewed anonymously and selected by a jury of staff members. The review is entirely staffed by Hunter College undergraduate students.

Permission to publish the content in this issue was granted to The Olivetree Review by the authors and artists featured throughout. 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 Solutions St. Cloud, MN

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The Olivetree Review ISSUE 64

FALL 2018

The Literary and Arts Magazine of Hunter College Since 1983

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Administrative & Editorial Staff Fall 2018 Editor-in-Chief

Tanisha Williams

Vice President Ariel Tsai

Treasurer Kana Tateishi

Secretary Melissa Rueda

Art Editors Kenny Perez

Melissa Rueda

Poetry Editors Sheena Rocke

Doria Wohler

Prose Editors Andy Lopez Gabrielle Luna

Senior Publicist

Associate Editors Lila Amin Tara Chowdhury Ibtasam Elmaliki Krstylle Fajardo Ashley Fenstermaker Danielle Glants Tasmin Hussain Hannah Lee Chrysalis Mandell Alexis Manzano John McKinney Catalina Meza Emily Molina Daisy Ogbeta Bill Piersa Seon Pollard Sumona Rahman Mia Salvaterra Samantha Stoffers

Emma Simpson Yuliya Vayner

Sharon Young

Publicity Assistant Srinidhi Rao

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Table of Contents Art

Inner Flow

Oscar Lopez

Consuming

Panagiota Efstathiadis

10

Discovery

12

Drama

Panagiota Efstathiadis

Edible Cactus

May 13

Mimi Dobelle

13

Japan on Film Tobias Nikl

14

Stepping into the Dynamic Equlibrium Oscar Lopez

Clean Up B Kim

Renae Jarret

Nyusha Iampolski

Catholic Architecture Edwin Bode

28

Native Truth

36

How to Survive a Wolf Attack

35 - 36

Fisheye

Nyusha Iampolski

Inner Flow

Oscar Lopez

Springtime Spoonbills Denise Penizzotto

47

Sofia Bolido

Autumn Feast

Denise Penizzotto

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Amrita Charkraborty

46

48

11

13

35

36

Poem For Mom: The Way You Love Georgia Horizons Alli Cruz

Stepping into the Dynamic Equilibrium Oscar Lopez

Metamorphosis

Catalina Meza 41

29

Poetry

Maria Andrea Luna

Martian Pin-Up

52

40

47

A Hobo Walks into a Train Lorena Caro

52

Prose Defenders of Misrata

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Frank Scozzari 1

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OTR Ashes

Michael Onofrey

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Needle Park Andy Lopez

42

Queries

James Dean Jay Byrd

49

The Desert Tastes Green Sharon Young

While the Sun Sets Merari Hernandez

Contributions

53

59

63

Meet the Staff

65

History of The Olivetree Review

66

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Letter from the Editor Another Hunter semester has ended and another issue is being released again thanks to readers like you and the forever amazing OTR staff.

To those who submitted, thank you for keeping the arts alive in a country where the arts are not valued as much as they should be.

To those whose pieces have been a part of our literary and arts magazine present and past, thank you for giving us content to produce to Hunter and Non Hunter students alike.

I want to give special thanks to Francoise from Shakespeare and Co. for giving us the opportunity to showcase our book in the store. Without her, our office would still be cluttered with old issues staring us in the face.

Last, but not least, thank YOU, yes YOU, reader. You picked up a copy and you are reading the most uninteresting part of this magazine. With that being said, the pieces in here are lot more interesting than this mandatory speech I have to write every semester as Editor in Chief.

What YOU need to do now is turn the page.

May this book not collect dust and mildew on your bookshelf.

Best, Tanisha "Mauve" Williams

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Defenders of Misrata Frank Scozzari

PROSE

The missile crashed down to the earth in a huge plume of sand and dust, skipped twice through an open field, and slammed into the concrete barricade. Mussa and Abdelfatah remained motionless on the opposite side with their arms still over their heads, expecting any minute it would go off and kill them both.

But nothing happened.

Mussa, the brave one, was first to lift his head and take a look.

“Today, we are the lucky ones!” he exclaimed.

There, on the other side of the concrete was a sleek, tan-colored, airto-surface missile, its nose dented, its long delta wings bent like the blades of a blender. It was still simmering from the heat of its flight.

Abdelfatah rose too. “Praise Allah,” he said, looking at the long, cylindrical device.

For a moment, they studied the missile. The boys had seen older Soviet-era rockets before, but nothing like this one. This one was space-age in appearance, and it had numbers along its side and the writing, which was in English.

“Is it NATO?” Abdelfatah asked.

“Maybe,” Mussa said.

“What should we do with it?”

“We must take it.”

“Take it where?”

“Back to the compound.”

“To Shinabah?”

“Yes, to Shinabah.”

“What if it goes off?”

“Then we die.”

Abdelfatah did not answer.

Mussa leaped over the barricade and took hold of the missile’s nose and he strained to lift it. “It is a gift from Allah,” he said. “Come on, help me!

We must take it.”

Abdelfatah reluctantly climbed over the barrier and together they tried to lift the rocket, one on each end. But the device weighed nearly four-hundred pounds and they could barely budge it. Mussa joined Abdelfatah at the tail-end of the rocket and together they were able to lift it off the ground. They dragged it around the end of the barrier and began to drag it down the street.

“Is it okay? It will not go off?” Abdelfatah asked.

Mussa looked back at the rocket, its nose having left a squiggly white line on the asphalt. “I don’t think so.”

“What if it does?”

“Then we won’t have to worry anymore.”

They stopped periodically to take deep breaths and rest their arms.

And they admired their newfound treasure. What few victories the rebellion had known had been celebrated exuberantly, generally in the form of machinegunfire from the beds of pick-up trucks and the rattling off AK-47’s indiscriminately 1

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64 into the sky, and the screeching out of the ancient Arabic battle cry — an oscillating sound made by forcing air through the windpipe while simultaneously flapping the tongue against the roof of the mouth. Now Mussa envisioned a victory celebration of his own. In a city besieged by rockets and sniper fire where NATO war jets screeched through the sky every morning and where CNN news coverage was filmed on a cell phone, coming close to death was an everyday occurrence for two fifteen year-old boys. But it was not everyday that a weapon of considerable strength was delivered to one’s feet. Now he thought of how he could use it. And he thought of the Soviet-manufactured T-72 tank, a forty-ton monster which had been raging havoc in their neighborhood. It had recently shelled the marketplace where his mother bought bread and had destroyed the apartment building where his brother lived, nearly killing him.

This rocket was just the weapon he could use to destroy it, he thought. If only he could figure out how.

He stopped again to take a breath and rest his arms. He looked over into Abdelfatah’s eyes. “We’ll use it to destroy Gaddafi’s tank!” he said.

Abdelfatah didn’t know how to reply. He simply nodded, “Praise the Rebellion.” *** The main rebel meeting room was lively with discussion and strategy when the loud thud of the missile being dropped turned everyone’s attention to the door. Nouri Shinabah, the self-appointed leader of the ‘Martyrs Company,’ turned his eyes to Mussa and Abdelfatah, who stood there in the doorway light.

The air-to-ground missile was resting at their feet. Mussa was straddling it, his right leg pressed firmly against it.

“What is it?” asked Shinabah.

“It is a missile,” Mussa said.

“I can see that. Where did you get it?”

“It crashed into a barricade.”

“But it missed us,” Abdelfatah said.

“What?”

“We were behind this wall when we heard something whistling down from the sky. We could hear it coming down fast and when we looked up, we saw this silver streak coming straight at us.”

“It came out of the air?” asked another man.

“Like a spear,” Mussa said.

“Down from the heavens,” Abdelfatah said.

The men in the room exchanged doubtful glances.

“We ducked behind the barricade and covered our heads. We thought we were dead.” Abdelfatah was rattling now.

“But it didn’t explode,” said Mussa.

Shinabah stared at both of them, as did everyone else in the room.

But slowly all eyes turned back to Shinabah. It was he who formed this ragtag militia, consisting of students and bakers and craftsmen and lawyers and mechanics and businessmen. They all stood there, dressed in all kinds of different clothing, some in traditional garments, others in western-style suits, and others in combat fatigues, waiting for him to speak.

Shinabah said nothing. He walked silently over to Mussa and Abdelfatah and knelt down beside the projectile. He studied the device, running a hand along its side. Then he tilted his head and read the numbers and 2

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“It is NATO,” he said, “an AGM-65 Maverick. It will be useful in the rebellion.” He rose to his feet, took off his cap, and looked around the room until his eyes found a stout man with a large moustache. It was Hakim Audin, their ordinance expert. “What do you think?”

Hakim came forward and looked at the missile.

“Can we launch it?” another man asked.

“No,” Hakim Audin said, “but we can remove the warhead and use it.

It’s a blast-fragmenting warhead. We can use it as a mine or make some kind of road IED of it.”

“Yes, of course,” Shinabah said. He stepped aside and Hakim leaned in and wrapped his big fingers around the nose of the missile. Shinabah waved a couple other men in to help him, but before they could step forward, Mussa held out a hand and spoke loudly. “Wait! We have plans for it.”

Shinabah looked at him, waiting for further explanation.

“It is ours,” Mussa said. “We found it and dragged it back here. It belongs to us.”

“It belongs to the rebellion,” said a voice among the men.

It was young lieutenant Haftar, a twenty-five-year-old who had recently joined the group from Benghazi. He was from the Senussi tribe, an elite political-religious order whose Libyan blood was considered stronger than the other tribes in the region; much stronger than Mussa or Abdelfatah.

“It belongs to us,” Mussa cried. “It fell from the sky into our lap.

That we were not killed by this device, that it came to use like a gift from the heavens, is divine providence. It belongs to us.”

“It is nonsense,” the young lieutenant said.

“It is not nonsense. It is Allah’s will and we will not give it up.” He straddled the missile in a protective stance, turned back, and looked to Abdelfatah for support. Abdelfatah only offered a shrug.

“You are both correct,” Shinabah then said in a calm voice. “It is divine providence that this fell out of the sky and did not kill these two. That is a miracle in itself. But it also belongs to the rebellion, like every one of us, and all that we own, and all who we are, and the air and the wind that we breathe, and the life that we love.” He looked at Mussa. “Tell me… what is your plan?”

“The tank in the city center, the one that destroyed the port shipment last week and that destroyed the apartment where my brother lived —” “Yes.” “It is a coward. It kills and then hides beneath the palm trees.”

“Yes.” “I want to use this missile to destroy it.”

“How?” “We will bury it in its hiding place when it is gone, and blow it up when it returns.”

“Is it possible?” one of the men asked.

“Yes,” Hakim Audin said.

“Then how will they detonate it?” the young lieutenant asked.

Hakim Audin, who was still on one knee, held his thick fingers over the grey circle at the tip of the missile. “A simple shot from a rifle,” said. “It has a contact fuse in the nose. One bullet in this area will detonate it.” He looked up at Shinabah, who nodded his head in agreement.

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64 “Then it is done,” Shinabah said.

“They are children,” the young lieutenant objected. “Let the men handle it.”

Shinabah ran a careful eye over Mussa and Abdelfatah, measuring them up. “There are no children in Misrata,” he said. “Only men. And we need all the men we can get to win this war.”

The young lieutenant, Haftar, shrugged his shoulders. “If it is your will?”

“It is my will,” Shinabah replied.

“Then so be it,” the young lieutenant said.

Shinabah knelt down beside the missile and cupped his hand over the grey-circled tip. He looked into Mussa’s eyes. “One round here.”

Mussa nodded his head.

“It is yours, then.”

Mussa smiled widely and looked back at Abdelfatah, who smiled back, nervously.

“But if for some reason your plan doesn’t work, you must bring it back here and we’ll decide another use for it.”

Mussa nodded. *** When the meeting finished, Mussa and Abdelfatah dragged the missile back to Mussa’s apartment, to his mother’s disapproval. After a short argument, they took it from the apartment and hid it in a vacant building across the street.

The next morning they scouted the place where the tank parked each day beneath three palm trees. It was cater-corner to a little café, which the crew frequented. They found a large oleander bush on the other street corner and hid in it. They sat and watched the tank.

The tank had flipper-like armor panels and a 125mm gun. It was a leftover from the Afghan war, but still a powerful weapon against unarmored street-fighters. For the past three weeks it had been targeting small factories and apartment buildings, and the shops on Tripoli Street where Mussa’s mother bought bread and women stood in queues for hours at a time waiting for flour, sugar, and pasta. And it had been targeting the marina too, where storage sheds kept the munitions and water, which were the lifelines of the revolt. He knew he could always rely on the tank being gone at night, out for its nightly runs, shelling and refueling, and back in the morning, to hide beneath the palms during daylight.

For the entire day they watched the tank. It did not move, but men with machineguns came and went from it to the little café. In the afternoon, they saw the tank Commander. He came walking past them with a young soldier. They knew it was the tank Commander because he wore a tank Commander’s helmet equipped with a microphone and earphones. It had a pair of goggles strapped to the top of it. On their return trip, the two men stopped near the oleander bush, not more than a few feet away.

“Rebel bastards,” they heard the tank Commander say. “Scum of the earth, ungrateful for what has been given them. Ungrateful for what the great one has done. And they will all die for their ungratefulness.

“They think the world will care,” he laughed. “The world does not care.

The world only cares about money, and oil.”

“They are nothing but idiots,” the young soldier said.

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OTR Mussa looked up through the oleander leaves and he could see the Commander’s dark face, half-shadowed by the helmet. There was a military insignia on his sleeve and a portrait of a woman pinned to his lapel. The Commander unwrapped a stick of gum from a pack he had in his hand and offered it out to the young soldier, who took it. Then he unwrapped another stick and tossed the wrapper, which floated down into the oleander bush and settled near Mussa’s foot. Mussa looked at Abdelfatah and put a finger to his lips.

“This war will be over soon,” the Commander said.

“Finally, these rebel pigs will all die,” the young soldier said.

They walked back across the street, climbed up the side of the tank, and disappeared inside of it.

Mussa felt the blood rise in his veins. They will see, he thought. They are cowards who hide beneath palm trees!

*** Another couple hours past before the long shadows of late afternoon stretched across the street, during which time Mussa thought about the rocket and how best to bury it beneath the tank.

“We’ll leave the nose tipped up,” Mussa said, “so that we can put a bullet in it. We’ll cover it with something. Maybe some grass or a palm leaf.”

It made sense, Abdelfatah thought, looking over at the tank. “Yes, of course.”

They were both still watching the tank when the powerful V-12 engine first came on and they saw diesel fumes spew out the back. The tank remained idling for twenty minutes, maybe more, while the early evening light faded.

Then it moved forward, slowly leaving the dirt shoulder and clanking onto the pavement. It stopped for a moment, then came rolling past them, its huge revolving tracks slapping hard against the asphalt. They could feel the earth vibrating beneath them. The shear size and power of the thing made them feel small.

“Where is it going?” Abdelfatah asked.

“Don’t know. Different night, different target.” He turned and looked into Abdelfatah’s face. “Last target.”

Abdelfatah smiled. “Yes, last target.”

They stayed hidden in the oleander bush until the tank completely disappeared down the street. Then Mussa sprung to his feet and hurried across the street to where the tank had been. Abdelfatah followed.

Deep in the dirt were the track marks. They could see where the tracks had come and gone many times. They could see an oil stain in the sand where the belly of the beast had rested. They could see where it entered the street, the deep lines carved into the asphalt.

Mussa looked up into the foliage above. He could barely see the darkening sky through the fanning palms trees.

“Right here!” he said, pointing to the place in the long shadows where the belly of the tank had rested many times. And looking around, he saw a white cardboard box lying in the street. “And that!” he said, pointing to the box. “We’ll use that to cover the tip of the rocket.”

He ran over to the box, picked it up, examined it carefully, and holding it out before him, tore open one side. Its shape and size was perfect, he thought. He carried it back and set it down near the base of the palm trees.

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64 An hour later, the boys were struggling in the dark. It was no easy task dragging a four-hundred-and-fifty-pound rocket four blocks with a shovel strapped to it and a blanket over it. But the boys were strengthened by their faith and desire for freedom, and the cleverness of their plan. They were full of gallantry, which always makes such a task simpler than what it is.

When they arrived back at the palm trees, they were happy to see the street-lamps were off and the café was closed. There was no moon, which was good. The Arabian night was pitch black and speckled with stars. They dragged the rocket to the far side of the palm trees and hid it behind the trees. Then, with the shovel, they began their work. They took turns digging, piling the dirt carefully to one side so as not to disturb the tracks.

“It is like digging a shallow grave,” Abdelfatah said.

“A long and narrow grave for a big monster,” Mussa replied. “We will be the heroes after this.”

“Yes.” After a long turn shoveling dirt, Mussa stepped aside and let Abdelfatah dig again. He sat quietly at the base of one of the palm trees, leaning against it. He felt a jubilant elation, confident that their plan would work. As the pile grew, he stared at the dirt. Once again, he imagined a victory celebration of his own and he smiled inwardly. It was the earth of his father and grandfather, he thought. It was the sand of all his ancestors; the birthplace of all his generations, and would be the birthplace of his descendants. It was the good Libyan earth, in which his forefathers rested and in which he would rest one day.

The ditch formed nicely, angling deeper at the backend so that the tail of the missile would be deeply hidden. When the hole was ready they dragged the missile around the base of the trees, rolled it into the hole, and covered it carefully, spreading the dirt and sand so that it looked as if no one had been there. They carefully swept away the drag mark and their footprints with a palm leaf. Then, with the long stem of the palm leaf, added lines in the dirt which closely resembled the original track lines. As planned, Mussa took the box and set it on top the protruding missile tip. But it looked too big, so he tore off a piece, folded it with a crease down the center, and carefully laid it back on top.

Then he stepped back and considered it.

“It’s perfect,” he said, confidently. It looked like a wind-blown piece of cardboard which had just settled there accidentally.

“I think so,” Abdelfatah replied.

Abdelfatah took the palm leaf and evened out some irregularities in the surface and covered the remaining footprints. As they walked back onto the asphalt, he tossed the palm leaf off the side of the road. They found a perfect place down the street, behind a stone wall, from where they could get a clear shot at the cardboard. It was some fifty meters away; far enough for their presence to go undetected and close enough for them to make the shot. Then they left, back to Mussa’s mother’s apartment for some tea and bureeks, and flatbread.

They could not sleep, nor did they want to, and timed passed.

In the early morning hours, before the sun rose, they returned, now each armed with a Kalashnikov AK-47. And to their grateful surprise, they saw the tank had returned and had parked perfectly along the roadside beneath the palm trees in the same exact spot, its belly, presumably, resting squarely above 6

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They took their position behind the small stone wall. They positioned their rifles above the stone, and they waited. It was still too dark to see the piece of cardboard clearly. They could barely see a vague grayish thing beneath the outline of the tank.

As the light increased and the tank took form, the turret facing them, the grayish thing beneath it remained obscured. Despite the coming light, the cardboard was difficult to see because it was in the shadow of the tank, which was in the shadow of the palm trees.

“Can you see it?” Mussa asked.

“Barely, but I can feel it,” Abdelfatah said. He leveled his rifle.

“Not yet,” Mussa said, wanting to wait for more light.

A few more minutes passed. Now they saw the front armored plates and its running gear, and the machinegun on top the turret.

“It is my shot,” Abdelfatah said.

“Who is the better shot?” Mussa asked.

Abdelfatah turned and looked at Mussa. “I can hit it.”

“Who is the better shot?”

“We’ll shoot together,” Abdelfatah then said.

Mussa nodded. “Okay, we shoot together, on my count, when I say so.”

“Okay.”

With the accelerating light of daybreak, the piece of white cardboard came into focus. But it was farther beneath the hull than they had anticipated, and at this distance, it was impossible to see the circular grey nose of the missile.

Mussa looked at Abdelfatah. “We can hit it,” he said.

“I know.”

“Just hit the cardboard.”

“I know.”

Mussa pressed his cheek against the wood stock of his rifle. Abdelfatah did the same. And with both barrels pointed over the top of the stone wall, they each centered the blurry grey thing in their circular sighting apertures.

“Ready?” Mussa asked.

“Now?” Abdelfatah replied.

“When I say ‘go.’”

“When you say ‘go’?”

“No, on three.”

“Okay, on three.”

Mussa took a deep breath. Then he began to count, slowly; “one, two…” and on “three,” they both pulled their triggers. Their rifles bucked, and the bullets careened off the side of the missile and ricocheted and pinged off the belly of the tank. But nothing happened. Mussa shot again, quickly. And again, and the bullets continued to careen of the side of the missile and smack against the front armored plates of the tank. Then they heard the tank engine come on, and saw a puff of smoke come out of the rear exhaust.

Mussa flipped the rifle’s switch to fully automatic mode, held the stock tight to his shoulder, pressed his cheek firmly against it, and pulled the trigger again. The rifle spit out a fierce, rattling folly of rounds, hitting the dirt before the tank, ripping the ground beneath it, shredding the cardboard, and 7

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64 ricocheting off the gilled-armored plates. Abdelfatah did the same, both rifles now rattling in fully automatic mode, the bullets ripping through the air, pinging against metal, uprooting dirt, and obliterating the cardboard. But still nothing happened.

Before they knew it, the turret began to move, ever so slightly, as to center in their direction. The boys exchanged horrified expressions.

Mussa sprung to his feet, as did Abdelfatah. They both ran with all their might toward the café, the tank’s 125mm cannon following them, its turret turning diagonally. Just as they reached the sidewalk, the building above them exploded into a fountain of pebbles and smoke. The entire structure was in a large ball of flames and smoke. Mussa was hurdled off his feet, as was Abdelfatah, and they were both buried in an avalanche of plaster and brick and boards and splintered wood.

There was that moment of time lost, when one doesn’t know what happened or how long ago it happened. When Mussa awakened, he heard nothing, only a loud humming in his ears. He pulled himself from beneath smoldering boards and plaster. He saw Abdelfatah beside him, also rising from the rubble. His body felt numb all over. He had cuts and bruises everywhere. His shirt was torn and smelt like burning sulfur.

Through the haze of smoke, both boys saw the tank. It had come out from beneath the palm trees and was stopped now in the center of the road. Its barrel had come around again. They could see the tank Commander’s helmeted and goggled head protruding from the turret. They could see him shouting commands and pointing in their direction Mussa tried to move, but his limbs didn’t seem to work. Or maybe it was because of the weight of rubble on him. It didn’t matter. It was as if time stood still. And now he could see the barrel of the tank’s cannon fully upon them, pointing squarely at them. He could see the black hole at the tip, which he knew would soon flash white.

Then, suddenly, there was a loud screeching sound from above. Mussa looked up, as did Abdelfatah and the helmeted and goggled head of the tank Commander. Two laser-like beams streaked downward through the early morning light, and, in the same instant, the tank vanished in a huge white flash of flames and smoke. The turret flew skyward and a high-arching geyser of fiery debris reached above the tops of the palm trees. A second explosion engulfed the entire roadside where the tank and had been and took out the palm trees as well. At the same time, the roar of jet engines sounded overhead as two NATO F-16s screeched away toward the Mediterranean.

The shock waves had smacked against the two boys. They had involuntarily flinched and ducked below the rubble, which already covered half of them. Swirls of dust and debris were still settling around them when they lifted themselves a second time. They pulled themselves from the rubble, dusted themselves off, and looked at one another, not believing what had just happened. In the same moment they thought their lives were gone, they had emerged virtually unscathed, except for the bruises and scratches and ringing in their ears. Meanwhile, what was left of the tank was a burning plume of black smoke that rose high into the bright morning sky.

Mussa let out an involuntary yell. Abdelfatah did the same. Their faces shined with elation. They both grabbed one another and hugged tightly, as brothers do, and before they broke their clutch, a beat-up old white pickup 8

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OTR truck came careening around the corner at the far end of the street. The truck rushed down the street and came to an abrupt stop in front of them. Clinging to the fifty-caliber machinegun in the bed of the truck was young Fathi al-Kharaz, a fellow soldier of the Martyrs Company.

“Get in,” he yelled.

The boys leaped into the bed of the truck and, as it zoomed off down the street, Fathi al-Kharaz began yelling jubilantly and he pulled the trigger of the machinegun, sending useless follies into the sky. He had very clean, white teeth and he showed them generously now in the morning sunlight. “You did it!

You destroyed Gadhafi’s tank!”

“But our missile did not destroy the tank,” Mussa said.

Fathi al-Kharaz looked at Mussa. “Maybe not. But you brought it out of hiding so the jets could kill it!” He pulled the trigger of the machinegun again and it rattled indiscreminately into the sky. “You are the victors!” He fired again.

“We are the victors!” He fired again. “Tonight Gaddafi sleeps with one less tank!”

Then he let out the long, oscillating, Arabic battle cry.

The truck careemed around a corner into a plaza where stood two dozen rebel soldiers of the Martyrs Company. They were all holding their AK47s triunphantly skyward, shooting rounds off into the air. Shinabah stood in the center, waiting.

“Tank killers!” he yelled. “We greet you and celebrate your victory!”

Young Lieutenant Haftar, the elite-blooded Senussi, stood beside him. His eyes looked to Mussa. His head nodded. “Yes, you are men of the rebellion,” he yelled out. “You are soldiers of the revolt!” Then he raised his rifle high. “To the tank killers!”

The machinegun in the bed of the pickup truck spoke loudly again, pounding off rounds into the blue Libyan sky. And when Mussa looked around he realized he was surrounded by an army of men celebrating a victory that was his; that was theirs. All around him was the rapid cracking of gunfire, and the loud chorus of tongues, flapping out the old Arabic battle cry.

“We have won, Brother!” Mussa said, looking over at Abdelfatah.

Abdelfatah nodded his acknowledgement. His face was bright and proud too. “Yes, we have won, Brother!”

Together, they watched over the many rifles pointing skyward above many heads, wasting rounds triumphantly into the blue Libyan sky. Then Mussa tilted his head back, filled his lungs with the warm desert air, and let out a long victorious war cry. He felt the warm air rushing through his throat as his tongue flapped rapidly against the roof of his mouth. Abdelfatah did the same, and their battle cry rose in a crescendo with the others, over the sound of the rifles, into the blue Libyan sky. And it was taken by the warm, desert wind.

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Inner Flow

64

Oscar Lopez ART

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OTR

Cathoic Architecture

Edwin Bode POETRY Two thousand years, four different guilts, scads of Byzantium scrupulous penitents certain forms of mental illness.

It is important to recognize in the first instance the agony of doubt, morbus spirituali (empirically disputable as a kind of OCD) that settles in the belly. * Yet, it serves to mortify fidelity, to recognize healing even as there is none to be had. * I’m put off my game somewhat, I guess, by the dark night of the soul.

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Consuming

64

Panagiota Efstathiadis ART

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OTR

Native Truth

Sofia Bolido POETRY

Neonate buildings fail To hide ramshackle roofs On either side of gravel hearts Blurred by perspiration Trilling down the pane Like beads on backs Pasted onto cotton shirts Dripping, heated, honeyed Taho, slick and sweet atop Tongues stalled at the red Antsy, waiting, skin on skin Limbs hardened and hopeful Stuck in revamped jeepneys Granted by another land

May 13

Mimi Dobelle ART

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64

Japan on Film Tobias Nikl ART

Playing in the Tokyo National Museum Fountain

Rainy Harajuku Tokyo 14

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OTR

Ashes

Michael Onofrey PROSE I drove out to Las Vegas to give my uncle, Jerry, his share of my father’s

ashes, which of course were his brother’s ashes. I had put them in an urn, an inexpensive urn, for urns, as I had discovered, could get really expensive. The cremation place had put the ashes in a tin box, a perfect cube, which was sealed, as in permanently sealed, like you weren’t supposed to get into it. I had mistakenly assumed the ashes were going to be in an urn. A hammer and a screwdriver and a pair of pliers unsealed the box, which was about the size of a cantaloupe and looked to be pounded copper. Inside was a plastic bag with grayish powder and little bits of something, presumably bone. My sister, Faye, and Jerry and I were the ones entitled to the ashes, or so I assumed, for who else was there? I further presumed I had to divide the ashes up because I was the responsible one. Faye was in the south of France and Jerry was in a mobile home park on the outskirts of Las Vegas. I was in Los Angeles, San Fernando Valley, which was where my father had died. Via email, Faye had responded: “Too busy and too poor to come home. Save some ashes for me.” Faye had been away for six years and as far as I knew she might be away for another six years. I settled on three urns that were “reduced,” thus totaling seventy-five dollars for the three, plus tax.

Each urn was about three inches in height and a couple of inches in diameter, metal of some sort with a gray finish. They reminded me of big thimbles, albeit with screw-on lids. After filling them up I still had some leftover powder, otherwise known as ashes. I put a baggy clip on the plastic bag with the leftover ashes and put the bag in a desk drawer. Maybe someone would show up, an old friend for example, who’d warrant some of my father’s ashes.

So then there I was, small urn in hand, at a mobile home park on the outer, really outer, edge of Las Vegas, eastside of town, very arid, and I knocked on the screen door of a single wide because the doorbell evidently didn’t work,

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64 or at least no one responded to it. I had phoned Jerry a few days previous and then had phoned again only an hour or so ago when I stopped in Baker for gas, which was when I told him I’d be at his place pretty quick.

Knocking on the screen door produced the same results as the doorbell. I then pulled on the screen door with the idea of knocking on the real door, but the screen door was locked. Fortunately the weather was marvelous, end of October. If it had been July, for example, sunstroke would have been an issue.

I set the urn down on the landing and I got out my smartphone with the idea of giving Jerry another buzz, but then here came this woman in a dark brown, sleeveless one-piece, huaraches on her feet, which alerted me to the possibility of scorpions, reverse logic at work. Her toenails were red and the red was chipped. Looking at her face, I found it to be sun-brown or maybe weathered. Day-old red lipstick tinted the lips of a wide mouth. She wasn’t smiling.

“What is it that you want?” she asked me.

“I’m here to see Jerry Lill. He’s my uncle.”

“Your uncle?”

“Yeah.”

“So that means you’re…”

“His nephew, Steve.”

She cocked her head and set a hand on her hip. Her build was medium and her age was the same, middle-aged, just like me.

“Jerry never said anything about family. Are you sure you’re a…”

“Nephew.”

“Right. A nephew.”

“I called the other day and I also called about an hour ago.”

“What for?”

“You mean, why I called? I got these ashes, his brother’s ashes, that I want to give him.” I gestured toward the urn and she looked at it, which made the urn look even less significant than it already was. “His brother, my father, 16

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OTR died twelve days ago.”

“You’re just full of information, aren’t you?”

I was about to speak but instead I shifted my weight from foot to foot.

“You just stay right there where you are and I’ll go inside and rouse Jerry and see about some… confirmation. We don’t allow salespeople inside.”

“I’m not a salesperson.”

“We’ll just see about that, okay?”

“Okay.”

While she took the three wooden steps up to the landing where I stood, I reached down and picked up the urn. Standing next to me, she slid a thin piece of wood back on the screen door and stuck her hand through the opening and unlatched the screen door and opened it. Why hadn’t I tried that?

With a key on a ring of keys, she unlocked the front door and stepped inside, door closing behind her. A clinking sound followed, which I interpreted as the door locking.

So there I was again, standing beneath a brilliant sun, air dry, temp around eighty degrees. I heard the soft cooing of doves, and then I heard footsteps crunching on gravel. I turned and saw a woman who looked something like the woman I had just met. This woman, though, was slim as opposed to medium, and her hair was shorter than the other woman, yet her hair was the same color, flat black, luster vanished, like her youth. Her face had a smile on it.

“Hi, there. You must be Steve.”

“Yeah, I’m Steve.”

“I’m Leslie.”

“Hi, Leslie.”

“I guess Jerry didn’t answer the door.”

“No, but this woman came and went inside to rouse Jerry.”

“Why are you standing here?”

“The woman who went inside told me to stand here. She thinks I’m a 17

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64 salesman.”

“That was my sister, Connie. Didn’t you tell her you’re Jerry’s nephew?”

“Yeah, I did, but I don’t think she believed me.”

“Yeah, she’s like that. Well, come on in.”

After stepping up onto the landing, Leslie found the door locked, so she got out a knot of keys from one of the many pockets of her safari shorts, and just like that we were inside and standing, and as my eyes were adjusting, I heard: “Didn’t I tell you to stay outside?”

Coming into focus was Connie with her not-smiling face. Searching for assistance, I looked at Leslie.

“I told him to come in. He’s Jerry’s nephew.”

“Well, I told him to stay out.”

“That’s kind of stupid, don’t you think? He’s Jerry’s nephew.”

“How do you know he’s Jerry’s nephew?”

“Jerry told me his nephew was coming.”

“I didn’t hear anything about that.”

“Where’s Jerry?”

“He’s getting dressed.”

“I called about an hour ago and spoke to Jerry,” I put in.

They both looked at me.

“Jerry’s got a phone next to his bed. He probably talked to you and went back to sleep,” Leslie offered.

“That explains it,” I said and smiled.

“I’ll make coffee,” Leslie said.

“Okay,” said Connie, “but what about him.” She indicated me, which made me feel on display.

“He can sit on the couch,” Leslie said.

“Okay,” said Connie and pointed at the couch and said, “Sit.” I went to the couch and sat down, coffee table near my knees. Two 18

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OTR armchairs accompanied the couch, everything arranged with a view toward a flat-screen TV that was on a low table. I set the urn down on the coffee table.

Connie settled into an armchair and looked at me, and continued to look at me.

“We normally watch TV with our coffee,” Connie said, “but you’re here.”

“I don’t mind if the TV’s on.”

“It’ll be a distraction once Jerry arrives.”

I now noticed a thin strip of leather looped around Connie’s neck. A metal cutout of a peace sign, coloration sepia, was fastened to the leather, pendant hanging between her breasts, which made me understand she wasn’t wearing a bra. Connie’s hair came to just below her shoulders, a pleated hairdo.

Her eyes, which were still looking at me, were hazel.

I looked to my left and saw a man with a cane coming from a doorway.

The cane looked to be aluminum, handle horizontal. Its footing was a fourpronged affair, very stable. The cane and the man were advancing into the living room, a synchronized one-step-at-a-time tempo. It was like he had three feet.

Footwear, on his two real feet, consisted of Chuck Taylor, high-top Converse— white rubber, red canvas, white laces, no socks. His lower shins were stained with varicose veins. Above this a pair of hip hop short pants, baggy denim, resided. I blinked my eyes. He was ancient with a modern twist. Who was responsible for this, Connie or Leslie?

This man, presumably Jerry, seemed to be making a detour, for at first his route was in back of the couch but then it wasn’t. He stopped in front of the TV at an angle to where he was bent forward, looking at me. Bifocals were on his long bony face, and as he stared there were flashing glints from the lower and upper prescriptions of his glasses, which were round and huge in front of his gray eyes. With those glasses, he looked like an owl, but his face had the shape of a greyhound. Sporadic salt-and-pepper stubble blotched his cheeks and jawline and neck, and his neck was that of a tortoise, gray and long and wrinkled.

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64 Fortunately the frames of his glasses were of some plastic material that wasn’t outlandish. Thin hair, a sandy hue, was combed straight back over his scalp.

He didn’t look anything like my father, who genetically speaking was this man’s brother. My father was corpulent and squarish.

“It’s still too early for beer, Jerry, so we’re having coffee,” said Leslie while coming into the living room with a tray that accommodated four steaming mugs. Yet it wasn’t like she was making an entrance because there was only a four-foot-high counter separating the living room from the kitchen, breakfast nook part of the kitchen ensemble. Leslie had been with us all the time while in the kitchen. She placed the coffee mugs at various locations, side tables and coffee table.

There occurred movement in my peripheral vision. I brought my head back around. Jerry had given up his view of me and was continuing on in the direction of the kitchen, which would require rounding the counter, if indeed the kitchen was his destination.

“Where are you going?” Connie asked.

“I got to pee.”

“Right. Please pee,” said Connie and picked up her mug of coffee and sipped.

“We drink our coffee black around here,” Leslie said, “but there’s milk and sugar. Do you want that?”

She was looking at me, so I said, “No. This is fine.” I added a smile and Leslie smiled back, which was what I wanted and which was why I had answered the way I did, for I wanted to be congenial. The coffee really didn’t matter. It was a convenience that would allow for pausing, or intermission, when conversation or staring got too acute. In actuality, I did take milk and sugar in my coffee, but actuality, as in reality or certainty, wasn’t no longer a consideration.

Jerry was making his way through the kitchen/breakfast nook area to an open doorway that seemed to lead to a service porch, bathroom probably part 20

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OTR of that. I could see this easily by looking over the counter that separated the living room from the kitchen.

Leslie seated herself in the other armchair, which meant Connie was to my right, Leslie to my left. I picked up my mug of coffee from the coffee table.

“We got a big project planned,” said Leslie after sipping audibly from her coffee mug, which was white with a big red heart on it, black script in the offering as well. Turning my cup in my hand, for all four mugs were the same, I understood that everyone’s cup said: I Love LAS VEGAS. Or maybe: I Heart LAS VEGAS. “Oh?” I replied. “What’s that?”

“You mean the project?”

“Yeah.”

“We’re going to switch rooms,” Leslie said. “You see, the bedroom is there and Jerry’s studio is there.” She pointed, one direction and then the other.

“Studio?”

“He does watercolors and colored pencil drawings.”

“But he doesn’t do so many these days,” Connie inserted. “Which could be a problem in the future.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Because there’s two decorators, Jill and Marsha, who buy his work.

Fortunately we have a pretty good stock. Leslie takes care of that end—titling, arranging, categorizing, storage. I handle sales. If we were to run out of product, there’d be a problem. See what I mean?”

“Yes, I see what you mean.”

Everyone sipped black coffee, except Jerry, who was still in the bathroom.

“Anyway,” said Leslie, “we’re going to make the studio the bedroom, and the bedroom the studio, because the room that’s the studio now is right next to the bathroom. Jerry’s got this situation where he has to pee a lot. The 21

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64 doctor at the medical center called it ‘frequent urination.’ The doctor also said Jerry’s got an ‘enlarged prostate.’”

“But there’s no cancer yet,” said Connie. “Of course that can change, just like anything can change. Right?”

Connie looked at me. So then, what was I to say? So I said, “Right.”

I heard something that identified itself as a four-footed cane on a linoleum floor. This was good reason to remove my eyes from Connie’s face.

Looking over the counter, I saw Jerry’s face, which was full of concentration, and I saw his burgundy T-shirt, which was full of wrinkles.

As Jerry came around the counter into the living room, with everyone looking at him, Connie announced: “Here comes Jerry!”

This reminded me of a late-night TV show I used to watch sometimes, except Connie had a gravelly voice and Jerry wasn’t skipping into the room. Jerry was looking down at a spot a few inches in front of his fantastic shoes, which meant he was looking at laminate flooring that resembled a hardwood, hickory perhaps.

“Keep your eye on the birdie,” Connie said. “We don’t want you to fall and break a hip.”

When Jerry got to the couch Leslie came over and helped him transfer from standing to sitting. The cane was set to the side of the couch’s overstuffed arm where it remained upright like a faithful dog. Once seated, Jerry leaned forward and picked up his cup of coffee. Prolonged sipping ensued. It seemed he was thirsty. And then, sipping having terminated, Jerry leaned back against the back of the couch, cup in hand.

From outside there was cawing and with this Jerry perked up, for he said, “A raven!” voice thin and high, yet definite. He looked around. Perhaps he thought the bird was in the room. And then… Jerry’s eyes found me.

“Oh,” he said. “A visitor.”

It seemed a reply was in order, but I didn’t have one.

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OTR “That’s your nephew there,” said Connie.

“Nephew?”

“Yes,” I said. “I called a few times. The last time about an hour ago.”

“Oh, yes. I remember now.”

“I brought Vince’s remains.”

“Vince? My brother?”

“Yes.” “Why’d you bring his remains? What remains?”

“We discussed this on the phone. Vince died and he was cremated. So these are part of his ashes. You said you wanted them.”

“Vince died?”

“Yes.” At this point Jerry’s forehead took on distinct lines. He looked troubled.

He brought his cup up and sipped.

“We have to go over things time and time again with him,” Connie said.

“Vince and I…” Jerry began. “Vince went one way, and I went another.

Vince got a regular job. He went to work at the post office after he came back from Vietnam. He got married and had two kids, a boy and a girl. He bought a house in the Valley. He did all the right things.”

“I’m Vince’s son. I’m that boy—your nephew.”

There was a moment that silence stressed sharply, and within that moment Jerry looked at me. It seemed the phone calls with verbal information hadn’t meant much, but now, with me on the couch in direct proximity, something was sinking in. He leaned in my direction. His head went up and down slowly, eyes utilizing the lower halves of the bifocals and then the upper halves.

This investigation seemed to incorporate thought, as if he had come across a curiosity that warranted careful study.

I raised my cup and sipped black coffee, perhaps for my benefit, per23

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64 haps for Jerry’s.

“Do you recognize me?” Jerry asked.

“No.” “I don’t recognize you, either.”

Again there was cawing from outside, but this time Jerry waved a hand, the hand without the coffee cup, like he was waving the bird off. Rid of the cawing, he moistened his lips with a blanched tongue. And then he leaned back.

“I began a bohemian lifestyle on a lark, like I was trying it out or something,” Jerry related. “But after a while I wasn’t trying it out anymore. When exactly this occurred I can’t say. Somewhere in midlife, I suppose. I had become what I had been imitating.”

It would have been easy to have discounted Jerry by naming his condition dementia, but I had hesitated from doing that, and now I knew why, for there was more to Jerry than assumption would claim.

“How’s life been treating you, Steve?”

“Okay.”

“Okay? Well then, you’re lucky.”

He smiled and I smiled, yet at the same time I wondered if I ought to correct his assessment.

“Steve brought you something, Jerry,” Leslie said, which prompted Jerry to look past me to where Leslie sat.

“He brought you some ashes,” Leslie said.

“Who?” “Steve, your nephew, the fellow sitting on the couch with you.”

“I know that.”

“Well, Steve brought you some ashes.”

“What for?”

“Tell him why you brought the ashes, Steve?”

“These are Vince’s ashes,” I said and picked the urn up from the coffee 24

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OTR table. “Vince died twelve days ago.”

“Twelve days ago?”

“Yes.” Jerry seemed to consider this.

“I never thought he’d die before me,” Jerry said. “It’s not fair. I should die first. Vince did everything right. I did everything wrong.”

The urn was in my hand. So there was a coffee mug with I Heart LAS VEGAS in one hand and the urn in the other. I felt like a manikin.

“Vince’s ashes are in this,” I said and gave the urn a shake.

“You’re kidding.”

“No, here let me show you.”

I set the coffee mug down on the coffee table and unscrewed the lid of the urn. With the lid off, I held the urn out for Jerry’s inspection. He leaned and looked into the urn, and for this the scene was stalled.

“That’s your brother in there,” Connie said.

Jerry turned to look at Connie.

“What?”

“I said, that’s your brother in that little thing he’s holding.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Don’t speak to me like that,” Connie said.

“You’re telling me my brother is in that little thing?”

“Yeah.”

“That ain’t my brother in there.”

With this, Jerry jerked his hand, the hand with the coffee mug, so then there was coffee splashing out of the mug and onto Jerry’s hip hop short pants and onto the laminate flooring.

“Now look what you did,” Connie said.

Leslie rose from her seat. “I’ll get something to mop it up. Just hold still.” She started for the kitchen.

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64 Jerry, ignoring the coffee, turned back to look at the urn.

“That ain’t my brother in there. My brother was bigger than God! He showed me everything—how to open the refrigerator, how to throw rocks, how to hit a baseball, how to get by in school, how to trick-or-treat. He even showed me how to masturbate. My brother ain’t in that little gismo there! You got to be crazy if you think I’m going to believe that.”

Leslie returned in a jiffy with a dishcloth.

“Settle down! Let me get you a can of beer,” Connie said.

Leslie got down on her haunches and wiped at the spilled coffee, after which she took the cup out of Jerry’s hand and placed it on the coffee table.

Jerry was still looking at the urn.

“This is like everything else,” Jerry said. “The TV, and that iPad you show me with the Internet and that Facebook stuff with all those silly pictures, and Twitter with that goofball tweeting nonsense day and night, and the socalled community center here with bingo, and those DVDs we watch with car chases and people that are robots, and the shopping mall we go to with dirge music, and the roads with twenty-five million lanes and with cars zooming here and there, and the news on TV, and the shootings, right here in Las Vegas and everywhere else, schools, cafés, everywhere, and—” “Let me get you that beer.”

Connie was suddenly on her way to the kitchen.

Leslie, having stood up, put a hand on Jerry’s skinny shoulder and said, “That’s all right, that’s all right.”

I was looking at Jerry, who was staring at the urn, so I looked at the urn that was in my hand, and here came Connie with a white can that had the word BEER on it in pronounced black letters.

“Here! Drink some of this,” Connie said. “It’ll calm you down.”

“That ain’t my brother in there!”

Leslie looked at me and said, “I think you better leave.”

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OTR Connie added to this, by saying, “You got him all riled up.”

I screwed the lid onto the urn and set the urn down on the coffee table.

“And that reality shit on TV,” Jerry resumed, “and the news that makes you want to blow your brains out.” He paused to gulp some air, and then added, “And here we are at three in the morning, watching badminton on TV.” “Drink this,” Connie commanded and thrust the can in front of Jerry.

Not knowing what to say or do, I got to my feet. Jerry didn’t acknowledge the can of beer. He only looked at the urn on the coffee table.

“Well,” I said, “I guess I’ll be going.”

Connie and Leslie looked at me.

“It was nice seeing…” I began, but trailed off for lack of meaning. My mouth was dry and my legs were weak.

“Take that back from wherever you got it,” Jerry uttered.

I looked at Jerry and then at the urn. I picked the urn up and started for the door, and as I was going out the door I heard sobbing.

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64

Stepping into the Dynamic Equilibrium Oscar Lopez ART

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OTR

Edible Cactus

Renae Jarrett DRAMA Silence for a while. SANDY (18) cleans.

Then, she throws the leaves out onto the small patch of grass.

HAZEL (18) relaxes in her backyard pool, sipping on a colorful drink.

The floatie is something fun and vibrant like a donut or an avocado.

Surrounding the pool is some beige concrete, a brown fence, and a bunch of desert plants such as cacti, cacti, and more cacti.

Within the fence on the right side of the stage, there is a tool shed made of mostly windows.

On the very far left of the stage there is a slip of a concrete beige house. Just a wall and maybe the very edge of a window.

Behind the fence is an open desert sky.

This is very beige with only the shock of the bright blue pool.

Sandy cleans the pool.

(already?)

Oh. You’re done?

HAZEL

SANDY I think I’m supposed to check the water levels. Or something.

HAZEL Yeah. That’s in the shed, too.

Sandy returns to the shed with the pool cleaning wand.

After some rustling, she comes back out with some fancy looking water level measuring equipment.

She fumbles with it by the side of the pool.

HAZEL You have no idea what you’re doing.

SANDY You can tell?

HAZEL Here. Let me.

Hazel swims to the edge of the pool and takes the equipment from Sandy.

SANDY If you can do this yourself, why did your mom hire me?

HAZEL Hiring someone to do work for you is a weird rich-person-complex thing. It’s like she thinks she’s doing good or something by paying some less fortunate person to do work we could do ourselves. (pause) That and she knows I’m lazy.

SANDY (chuckling) Oh. 29

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64 (straight) Wait. Please don’t tell her I don’t know how to do this stuff. I’ll research it. I swear. I just- Need this job.

HAZEL How about this?

Sandy waits expectantly, leaning over the pool to the point of almost falling in.

HAZEL I won’t tell my mom that a valedictorian, Columbia-bound, soon-to-be first female president doesn’t know how to test the water of a pool, if you get in here when I’m done.

SANDY What? Why? HAZEL I’m bored.

SANDY And? HAZEL And you should hang out with me.

SANDY Oh. HAZEL It could be interesting.

SANDY That’s a strange word for it.

HAZEL At least it would make the time pass quicker. (pause) And I know you want to. It’s fucking hot.

I told you, I don’t have a swimsuit.

SANDY

HAZEL What, do I disgust you so much that you can’t wear one of mine?

SANDY No. It’s justHAZEL What?

SANDY Are you kidding? Your swimsuit would never fit me. Ever.

Uncomfortable Pause HAZEL Well. Just. You’re wearing underwear, aren’t you?

SANDY Yeah, / butHAZEL Do we have a deal?

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OTR

I need the job. So. Fine.

SANDY (reluctantly)

Hazel smiles at Sandy, who sits back on the edge. Sandy takes her shoes off. Then, dangles her feet in the pool.

Hazel tests the water levels in the pool.

HAZEL Can you put the radio back on?

SANDY Oh. Sure.

She does.

Britney Spears’ “...Baby One More Time” plays, starting on the chorus: “My loneliness is killing me and I...”

SANDY God. I’m so sick of this song.

HAZEL Really? I love this song.

SANDY Sorry.

Hazel continues testing the levels.

HAZEL You apologize too much. And don’t say sorry for that, too.

SANDY Uhhhh...

HAZEL You don’t even have anything to say if it’s not an apology? (pause) Just get in.

SANDY Oh. Okay.

Sandy stands up. She starts to take her shirt off, then stops.

SANDY I think I’m just going to...

Sandy slides into the shallow part of the pool, fully clothed.

Hazel notices.

HAZEL What’d you do that for?

SANDY I’m self-conscious. And... It’s not helping that you’re pressuring me to do this. I / don’t even want to.

HAZEL You’re in here to cool off. Harder to do when you have bulky clothes on. A proven fact.

SANDY Shoot. I think. I don’t think my sunscreen was made for the water.

It’s going to come off.

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64 HAZEL (chuckling) Wow. You’re so lame.

SANDY Hey. HAZEL Just. Relax. The chlorine levels are prime.

Perfect for any sunscreen.

Sandy sees Hazel fumbling with the pool measuring tools.

SANDY Um. You have no idea what you’re doing. Do you?

Hazel puts the stuff down beside the pool, then swims around.

HAZEL (the biggest grin) Doesn’t it feel good?

SANDY That’s not really nice.

HAZEL Nice is saving you from the heat.

Kill me for it.

Hazel goes underwater for an uncomfortably long amount of time.

She comes back up.

HAZEL Come under! It feels so nice to escape the sun for two seconds.

SANDY Uh, no thanks.

HAZEL What? Are you worried about getting your hair wet?

Oh. Sorry. That’s racially insensitive of me.

SANDY What? No. Don’t be weird. I just. Can’t swim?

Hazel laughs.

Mr. Crema approaches the gate.

HAZEL (badly pronounced) Hola, Señor.

MR. CREMA There’s really no need for that, Hazel. (holding out his hand) Here, try this.

Hazel takes hold of the cactus in Mr. Crema’s hand.

MR. CREMA (gesturing to Sandy) It looks like somebody’s swimming smartly.

SANDY Right? I’m way less likely to get burned if I keep my clothes on.

HAZEL And also way less likely to enjoy life with that attitude. Ay-oooooo!

Sandy and Mr. Crema just look at her.

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OTR Right I’ll try it then.

Oh my God. What do you think?

HAZEL HAZEL

Hazel licks the cactus, then ingests it.

MR. CREMA

HAZEL Yeah. Yeah, that’s really fucking good.

MR. CREMA A-ha!

HAZEL Sandy, you have to try this. Do you have more?

SANDY No, thanks.

MR. CREMA Unfortunately not at this moment. That was just a test sample.

But I’m glad you liked it. So, how do you feel?

HAZEL Um. Really, really good.

MR. CREMA Hydrating, right?

HAZEL Hydrating. But it’s. More. More than just hydrating. I feel like I could just. Run. Just swim laps. Just go, go, go.

Hazel starts swimming very intensely back and forth in the pool.

She nearly plows down Sandy in the shallow end, but she moves out of Hazel’s way.

Out of the radio, “My Body is Made of Crushed Little Stars”

by Mitski plays starting at about the 50 second mark.

The sound becomes louder than the radio and fills the entire space.

Hazel swims faster and faster for 40 seconds.

She then stops, and comes up. She pants for air.

Mr. Crema looks at her with a grin. Sandy stares at her, completely weirded out. The song fades down.

HAZEL When can you make more?

Blackout. The last 10 seconds of the song plays.

Lights up.

Evening light. The pool is still.

Hazel enters from inside the house. She walks around slightly sensually.

A radio chimes in with heavy feedback.

RADIO VOICE (over the course of this scene) Community...mourns the loss of...eth Schri...can donate to the... family and...thoughts and prayers...community college... chitecture...dial 9...stay...drink plenty of...now here’s....

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64 She nearly dances to herself humming “...Baby One More Time.�

She puts her hand on a palm tree.

She climbs up the tree.

At the top, she rustles the leaves so that they shake and fall into the pool. She makes a bit of a mess.

She starts to rip off some of the leaves and drops them in the pool.

She gets down from the tree.

From the pile of leaves that Sandy dropped earlier, Hazel takes one leaf and eats it. Then, another. And another.

She picks up a handful of dirt and puts her hand in the pool while chewing.

The pool is dirty.

She smiles slightly.

Then she exits back into the house.

Lights down.

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OTR

How to Survive a Wolf Attack Maria Andrea Luna POETRY

Step 1: Avoid areas where wolves have been seen Remain indoors, Avoid wearing clothing that shows off your flesh, It may entice the wolves Step 2: If the wolf sees you, back away slowly Do not make eye contact, Walk in a straight line, Clutch your phone and dial 9-1-1 Step 3: Don’t run away It will insult them, They aren’t going to hurt you Stop being such a stuck up bitch Step 4: Do not throw food to a wolf Don’t be nice, You’re acting like a tease, What do you mean no, You ain’t shit anyway Repeat steps one through four until you have arrived at your destination.

If you don’t make it, Say nothing to no one.

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Metamorphosis

Amrita Chakraborty POETRY

in the restful heat of late july, we met a live river sprite and farah, you would’ve laughed at the alarm in our eyes. spear in her wizened paw, she regarded us with an ancient haste, ignoring the blue gossamer net wound around her armpits and the breeze eager on her coils of resolute hair. a stream of water fell continuously up & down her body, filling my shoe too, though i felt none. she pursed her mouth like my mother or my cat, i thought, a silent exasperated and now? is this quite what you wanted? but we were frozen, every phrase trapped between our tongues & our teeth. a magnanimous toss then, she made the net irrelevant & leapt into the marshes without another glance. that night, as my roommate & i trudged through undergrowth, he gave up being a messiah, centered on biology. i swore the same, but dreamt of seraphs, earthy and unknowable. when i woke, my wet shoe had turned into oars.

Clean Up B Kim ART

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Martian Pin-Up

Nyusha Iampolski ART

Green Alien

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Blue Alien 38

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Fisheye

Nyusha Iampolski ART

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Poem For Mom: The Way You Love Georgia Catalina Meza

POETRY

Mom, would you ever teach me how to say ‘I love you’ in your language A million- billion- trillion different ways If i told you it was for a girl?

If one day I come home and want to marry someone who loves me unconditionally Who I would give my whole world to Would you stop me if she was a girl?

You’ve told me before that Georgians only have one word for people they haven’t yet married but have kissed, have loved, have invested in; ‘Shequarebuli’ The closest translation in English being ‘beloved’But really it doesn’t capture the romance, the heart.

How can your language, devoid of gender, devoid of restrictions, Cover up such hateful hearts Such broken dreams How can something that sounds so beautiful become so hateful So angry, so disappointed.

How can you love your culture but be ashamed of me, Me who wants to love Sakartvelo with my heart and not with my brain, Me who can’t because how do you love a culture that doesn’t love you That doesn’t see you That hates the you that you’ve cultivated And protected and strengthened The way that Georgia cultivated And protected and protected.

What does it take to get you to see my love The way you see your Georgia?

Like a home- like a place you’ll always belong.

When will you give me a home, and a place I’ll belong?

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Inner Flow

Oscar Lopez ART

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Needle Park

Andy Lopez PROSE

I sat at the top of the slide, looked across the playground, and noticed how different it was now that Fall had settled in; how bare and weak the trees looked, how harsh and mean the wind felt. It was near sunset, and through the naked branches of the trees, I could see hues of orange and red begin to leak into the sky. I gripped the thin metal bars at my sides and lowered my head back, felt the peeling paint of the bars tickle my palms, and tightened my grip, careful not to let go and fall back. The trees encircled my view and I watched as a single cloud twisted and tumbled like a clumsy ballerina across the colorful background. I watched until it was behind the trees, beyond the buildings and past the East River. I could hear the leaves which littered the ground be pushed around by kicks of wind below my head, scratching and clawing at the pavement, not wanting to tossed up only to come falling back down.

“The point of the thing is to go all the way down.” He thought he was being funny, chuckled to himself and lit a cigarette, but even then, at eight years old, I shared the same disdain my grandmother and grandfather had for him. “Put your hands up and slip all the way down, maybe let out a yell. Then do it again and again.”

I didn’t respond. I knew how to go down a fucking slide. At that height I was nearly face to face with him, only a few inches taller, a rare closeness that made us both uneasy. His half smile showed his missing tooth and disappeared after a few seconds of my staring. He dropped his head and went back to smoking his cigarette. He was nearly three times my size and that was the first time I was able to look at him so directly; the pale brown of his skin, the tiredness of his eyes, the cracks of lips and the hollowness of his cheeks.

It had been a year since I saw him and the scar he had from that day gleamed on his temple like the Jesus Christ necklace my mother made me wear.

He had shown up to our apartment, banging and barking at the door like the superintendent. My mom cracked the door open, in an attempt to calm him down; how embarrassing this would have been had a neighbor been in the hallway, she must have thought. He pushed his way in, ripped the chain lock off the door and slammed her five-foot body onto the wall. Spinning and sprinting around the living room, he spat and swore while scratching at his neck as if he had fleas. With my back and hands pressed against the wall I tried my best to go unnoticed while she tried to quiet him down. He spotted me in the corner of the room and reached and yelled out to me, like I was an old friend he hadn’t seen in a long time, like he was happy. Not noticing the mess I had on the floor, he tripped and fell forward onto the small wooden table in the center of the room, breaking it on impact. I inched my head forward and watched him roll onto his back, fling his head to a side and throw up. My mom called an ambulance and after he was gone I helped her gather the splintered pieces and throw them out in the alley. She made me promise not to tell my grandparents.

“I want to go to the swings instead.”

“Just go down the damn thing,” he said when he saw me get up and lower a left to find the first rung of the ladder to climb down.

“No.”

In his oversized coat, he walked behind me toward the swings, his lean shadow leading the way ahead of me. I glanced back and saw him light his sec42 ISSUE 64.indd 51

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OTR ond cigarette. The only other person I knew who smoked was my grandmother, who only did so when she walked me to school in the mornings, each time making me promise not to tell my mother, forgetting that her breath gave her away every time. She would take small soft inhales and exhale slowly and calmly to a side. He took long drags and exhaled plumes of smoke with the strength of the big bad wolf.

Before reaching the swings I turned to him and asked, “Can I try your cigarette?”

He looked at me with an odd expression on his face. Concern or confusion? I couldn’t tell, I thought he would say a simple no, but instead started walking again, taking the lead. He stopped at a swing made for toddlers and jokingly offered to help me in, assuring me that my question had been forgotten. Again, I didn’t respond to the joke and walked to the last swing at the other end.

“Third grade going okay?” he asked, changing the subject as I sat down.

I was in fourth.

“Man, I remember the start of every school year my mom would get me new everything. Shoes, book bag, pencils, some of those things you put your homework in – damn, what are they called, the things you open and put paper in on both sides?”

“Folders?”

“Yeah, yeah! Those shits,” he said while rubbing his hair flat with a hand, “I bet you were happy when your mom got you all that, right?” Most of my things were being reused from last year, my mom’s hours at her job were sparse that year. “Your mom should’ve called me before school started, I wanted my boy to walk in with some new shoes on his first day.”

“It’s fine.” I remembered the last time he dropped off “new shoes” for me; the soles already had holes in them. My grandmother said he probably cut them down from the phone wires outside.

We were the only ones in the playground the other kids had been called back home for dinner or were hanging in the basketball courts on the other side. My grandfather would take me to the same park, but only in the middle of the day when it was packed with kids crying and running. He warned me of staying out in the park too late: “Los adictos come out at night, looking for their next high, and don’t think they’ll care that you’re a kid if they catch you skulking around where you shouldn’t be.” It was him who told me what my father was after the incident a year before, I didn’t tell him, my grandmother just knew how to wring the truth out of my mom. He called my father “a worthless son of a bitch” who didn’t care about his son, or his son’s mother, only about his next hit.

Sitting on the swing, I kicked off the ground and felt the wind intensify as I went back and forth through the air, the smell of burning tobacco wafting around me. He sat on the ground nearby and lit his third cigarette. I looked at him, wondering what he and I would ever have in common. I leaned back and looked at the sky, which had melted from an orange tone into a purple, and listened to the creaking of the trees’ heavy branches burdened by the forceful winds.

The apartment my grandparents had, the one my mom and I shared with them, was two blocks away, the farthest my mom allowed him to take me that day. She hated living in the Patterson Projects but back then she didn’t have enough money to get us out. She blamed the mayor, Rudy Giuliani, who 43

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64 she didn’t vote for. My grandmother thought he was the best mayor the city ever had, and even had a picture of him on the refrigerator.

My father had been talking to my mom for a few weeks then, he had sobered up and wanted to see me before he started a job upstate, that’s what my mom had told me. My grandparents didn’t know that she let him take me to the park that day, she said they wouldn’t understand and she knew I would be fine, he was like how he used to be when they first met, friendly. I couldn’t get a word in, she told me it was important for a son to know his father, and that I had to listen to what he had to say because without him I wouldn’t be alive.

The purple sky dimmed while I swung back and forth, and I could see what at first I thought was a star, but then realized was a satellite when it began to blink. I watched it until it disappeared behind the leaves of the encroaching trees.

“Grandma said you stick needles in your arm.”

“Yeah, that bitch would say that,” he said in a defeated tone, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t talk like that in front of you.”

“Everyone does, it’s fine.”

“It’s not – my mother always told me cussing wasn’t allowed near kids.” He threw the butt of his cigarette to his side and didn’t reach for a fourth.

“Look, my old man wasn’t around for me when I was growing up, and I told myself when I had my son, I’d always be there.”

I fixed my posture on the swing and could see his sunken eyes begin to glisten. It was an odd thing to watch – whenever my mom cried, she would lock herself in the bathroom and come out with her eyes red, forcing a smile and pretending it didn’t happen. I wanted to tell him to stop crying, but feared what new territory I’d be entering by saying that.

“None of my friends know their dad really.” I wasn’t lying. “Kevin from school said his dad is locked in jail and his mom doesn’t let him visit. Danny, he moved a few months ago, said his dad died after having heart surgery, he was pretty fat.” With his head in his hands, I could tell he wasn’t comforted from what I said, but I kept going. “A kid in my class told me both his dad and mom died in a car crash, I thought he was lying but his cousin told us he wasn’t.” Still, he didn’t move. “Carlos, he lives on the floor above us, he lives with his dad, his mom lives in Colombia I think. His dad is cool, sometimes he takes us out to eat, mom and me.”

He lifted his head and his eyes glossed like marbles. “I take it he’s a nice guy?”

“Yeah, he’s cool, sometimes he gives me a dollar so I can go and buy and ice cream with Carlos at the deli. He’s a nice dad.”

“That’s good, but you know that I’m your dad – me, right?”

“I know that, but,” I began to lie, “sometimes I wish he was my dad.”

I could see him tighten his lips, and I knew he didn’t want to hear that, but I couldn’t help but say more. “Sometimes I call him Dad, Mom says that’s fine and he said he was okay with it too. He told us he’s happy he met Mom and me.

He said Carlos and I are like brothers. Last month he took us to a baseball game and he bought us food and hats and said he was going to teach us how to play soon.”

“That’s real nice,” he said, faking his half-smile.

I got off of the swing and walked closer to him and knew that with each passing sentence I was hurting him, but I couldn’t stop. “Grandma said she hopes Mom and him get married, and then we could move to Queens and live in a house with a backyard.”

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“You don’t have to say more.”

But I wanted to. “I told her I hope they get married too, because Mom gets all happy whenever he knocks on our door. Last month he even took her to dinner for her birthday, just the two of them.”

He didn’t say anything back this time, not even a stupid joke. I was like a foreigner, entering a space I had never gone into, I was closer to him than I was at the slide, the new terrain made me unsteady. He was lower than me, sitting on the ground, his legs lazily stretched out like a hay filled scarecrow.

He got up and without looking at me told me he was going to go to the bathroom a few yards away. “Just stay here, I’ll be right back, your mom’s expecting you back home soon.”

I watched the skeleton that was my father, dressed in that oversized coat and jeans walk away and wondered if he was going to tell my mom what I told him. Would she tell him that I made it all up? That Carlos and I weren’t even friends?

The playground was still empty and I went back to the swing to wait for him. I kicked off and swung my legs back and forth, going higher and higher with each swing. Letting go of my head I let it fall back and looked at the sky which was then closer to a dark blue than purple. I gripped the chains holding the seat, thinking that if I were to let go, gravity wouldn’t hold me down. That if I opened my hands I would fall into the sky, I wouldn’t catch the pole the chains were linked to and would keep falling, past the trees, past the clouds and past the satellites. Would I be stopped at some point? Or would I keep falling?

Would I look back at what I was falling away from? I felt the wind cut against my cheeks with each passing swing, and the stars began to come out, swimming in the deep blue of the sky.

“You shouldn’t be in the park at this time kid!” The old man nearly spat out his dentures while he walked past me. “Get home to your mother before the night crows show up, they love messing with kids,” he laughed, roughly and gritty.

I jumped off the swing and started walking to the bathroom, I don’t remember how long I had been on that swing but it was long enough that the air had dropped to a much colder temperature. As I walked the wind howled through the trees, shaking the leaves and pushing me along with them.

The bathroom door was heavy and when I pushed it open the smell of puke smacked me in the face. “Are you in here? I think we should go now, Grandpa wouldn’t like me to be here this late.” But he didn’t say anything. I walked past the entrance and let the door slam shut behind me. I could see his legs underneath the last stall at the end of the room. “Dad? Dad, are you okay?” The stall wasn’t locked, so I slowly pushed it open and found him sitting against the wall with his belt tied around his left arm, the needle still in place. I walked backwards until I hit the wall. I felt my pants begin to wet.

I looked back and forth at my father and the door, waiting for one of them to move. It was the door that moved. A burly man with a heavy beard walked in and when he spotted me clinging to the wall, he asked if I was lost.

I didn’t respond. I ran.

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Springtime Spoonbills Denise Penizzotto ART

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Horizons

Alli Cruz POETRY We looked to the sky

and saw nothing.

We swallowed paper under our tongues and still nothing.

In the absence of God, we look for the spiritual elsewhere

* At the shoreline, we wept as saline lapped at our feet

—everywhere, the taste of salt * We stared out the car window until the night’s horizon morphed into pleasant abyss

* We held each other and said nothing * The moon followed us as we ran faster into the coolness of night * We woke up with sand in our ears * Salt, salt everywhere. * We morphed into each other as the moon ran into our mouths thick and silvery sweet We looked out the car window and wept

We looked inside ourselves and saw only windows

* *

* The night said nothing and we liked it that way * We woke up following a horizon of salt

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Stepping into the Dynamic Equilibrium Oscar Lopez ART

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Queries

James Dean Jay Byrd PROSE (1983) “I suppose you wonder why I’ve asked you here.” These are not my mother’s words, but this is that kind of situation.

“Yes, of course.”

“It has come to my attention – and by ‘mine,’ of course I mean ‘ours,’ and by ‘ours,’ naturally I’m speaking of the Possum, your stepfather, and myself.

“Of course; naturally.” My mother would never have called her new husband Possum, by the way; she also would never have called him my stepfather.

“It has come to our attention that you’ve been spending an inordinate amount of time lately with your uncle and cousin.” Again, not her words.

“Inordinate?”

“Which begs the question –” “Does it really – begs?” Maybe I shouldn’t be using quotation marks here, but it does help set the stage.

“Is Sonny queer?”

Woah! I didn’t see this coming! Sonny is my mother’s cousin, so he’s mine, too. Oh, and these are my mother’s words. (I told you it was that kind of situation.)

Perhaps I should set the stage more clearly. We’re on the patio of my mother’s Mission Street house. I no longer claim it, and barely recognize it. A fence across the back-property line closes it in, blocks out the outside world; a tacky above-ground pool hums and gurgles behind my back, a reflecting pond of crisscrossed electrical wires and sickly clouds over this sad little square of Goose Creek, Texas. My father never got around to installing the Byrd & Son aluminum patio cover – which may have had something to do with the Son – but when the Possum showed up, so did the patio. I don’t know if it was mere coincidence, but I’m fairly certain my father paid the tab in absentia.

Ashtrays dot tables, planters and other decorative furniture on the patio, anywhere there’s a horizontal surface. My mother took up smoking again after my father died, me too. A braided column of smoke rises from the ashtray between us, itself a souvenir from a courting trip the Possum took my mother on, to the Virgin Islands.

Because the Possum’s wife left him for a woman, I’m pretty sure I know who put my mother up to this inquisition. “Is Sonny queer?”

“Where is this heading?” Another question I don’t ask.

My mother takes a swallow of her sweet iced tea; I take a gulp. Our glasses sweat amoebic shapes of condensation onto the tabletop. The atmosphere is so tense, even the concrete floor sweats. My mother loves this weather. “Like a warm, wet blanket,” I’ve heard her say. It’s definitely thick enough to 49

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64 weigh down any emotions that might come up in this situation.

Her long, thin, vanilla-scented cigarette casts a shadow across her whole face. She’s a clock; pale, ticking, pushing the heavy seconds forward one at a time; tick, tock, took.

How do I answer my mother’s query? Should I look into the future and see Sonny on his Queer Cancer deathbed then check back in with the rhetorical question: “What do you think?” Do I tell her about the night, not long ago, when I asked Sonny to try not to act so nelly when we’re out in public together?

That should count for something, shouldn’t it? The Possum would be proud of me for that, wouldn’t he? If I had a recording of Sonny’s laughter in response to my request, his oh-so-queer guffaw, I could play it and the questions would end right then and there.

She takes a nervous drag; I follow suit. She smokes a brand I’ve never heard of; I smoke Benson & Hedges Deluxe Ultra Light Menthol 100s. I enjoy befuddling convenience store clerks with that mouthful. Uncle Dalt got me hooked by offering access to a bottomless carton, top dresser drawer, when I first moved onto Polk Street.

“Is Sonny queer? Sonny’s the queerest of the queer,” I could say, but I don’t. “I don’t know; I guess so,” is what I do say. A lie and a truth all in one. queer?”

But she’s not done. She’s only getting started, it seems. “Is Dalton “Oh, my god, where is this heading?”

Let’s return again to the words unspoken. “We’ve become concerned about your future. Concerned about the company you keep, that it might be influencing you, turning you queer, the way that dyke turned the Possum’s wife queer.”

“Oh, I seriously doubt that.”

“Which part?”

“All of it. Why don’t you just come out and say it?”

“Say what?”

“You know what.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“If I could freeze this moment right now and pull out of your brain the very next thing you’re going to say, the very next question, what would it be?”

“Hm,” my mother says, “We’re having chicken tonight. Do you want green beans or new potatoes?” Those are my mother’s words, but not to that question. After asking if her big brother is queer, and I say, “I think so,” with an artificially innocent inflection, she stubs out her cigarette, stands, picks up her glass of melting ice, and asks what I want with my chicken.

“You’re the chicken!” I want to say. Not to her. I’m talking to myself now: I’m a goddamned chicken shit queer, hiding in plain sight, playing the game they want me to play, not standing up for myself, my uncle, or our poor queenie cousin, may he rest in peace.

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Autumn Feast

Denise Penizzotto ART

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A Hobo Walks into a Train Lorena Caro POETRY

A hobo walks into a train. He strains his hand outward. Callused. Tired.

“Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen,” He recites in a monotone voice.

As if on cue, some look away. Anonymity through dissociation is easy, If you can hide your eyes.

And for a fraction of a second, If you look really close, You can see their faces squirm, Twist into discomfort, And gasp for static bliss, Before they jump, headfirst, into the safety of their phone screens.

If a tree falls in a forest and no one is there to hear it, It does not make a sound. Does the same apply if we’re mentally checked out?

“If anyone could spare one dollar...” But no one is left to listen.

Discovery

Panagiota Efstathiadis ART

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The Desert Tastes Green Sharon Young PROSE To: gracie875@gmail.com From: itsheather@yahoo.com Sent: Thurs, 05/16/13 10:56 PM Subject: Dear Gracie, It’s been a week since I lost you.

When I heard Mom sobbing on the other end of the receiver I hung up immediately. I was never good at solace. You were always the one who rushed to her side, who kept us sane. Graduation is only a few weeks away and I’m trying to type my dissertation to get you out of my mind. But how can I write about the boundless curiosity of the American dream, when all I can think about is death?

To: gracie875@gmail.com From: itsheather@yahoo.com Sent: Sat, 05/18/13 5:37 PM Subject: i’m eating honey cake and saving you a slice There’s a knot in my stomach every time the local tragedy story is broadcasted. Strangers describing you with that monotone voice, as if reading from a textbook.

Gracie Elson, aged 26. Known for her quiet, charming demeanor. Loved by all whose lives she touched, a volunteer for the red hearts society specializing in art therapy.

They still haven’t found a body since you walked into the river. Only a pair of Adidas sneakers and white socks left on the rocks. So for all I know you could be strolling the streets of Japan or hiking mountains in Hawaii like you planned for the summer. And I really hope so, because I’m not finished talking to you just yet.

To: gracie875@gmail.com From: itsheather@yahoo.com Sent: Mon, 06/10/13 2:16 PM Subject: guess who found a job!

Some days I wake up and everything’s normal. The smell of Mom’s sausages rises up the stairs and I hear the usual morning birds. But then Mom burns the sausages again (she’s always dozing off nowadays). I walk past your room and see your empty bed. The sheets that haven’t been slept in. The dust collecting everywhere.

As an unemployed graduate I did the practical thing: go into babysitting. I was at IKEA the other day and there was a little boy by the ball pit. His name is Dylan, and he was waiting for his dad. I don’t know why I felt responsible for him, but at that moment I remembered when Mom would forget to pick us up at school and we would sit by the steps until Mom’s station wagon finally 53

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64 pulled into the parking lot. I asked an employee to make announcement for his parent, Harrison Kibuishi. He didn’t have Dylan’s button nose or black licorice hair. He thanked me for finding him and when he hugged Dylan I could tell it was just an honest mistake. A couple of weeks later I got a call from his dad who found my number in the phone book asking me to babysit Dylan.

It’s scary to be responsible for another person, since I was always your little sister. But I love taking care of Dylan. The Kibuishi estate is so huge that I have to yell to find him after a defeat of hide and seek. It seems ridiculous that only two people live here.

Let me tell you, Dylan is the smartest twelve-year-old I’ve ever met. He’s really into archaeology so one of these days I’ll take him to the museum. His room is filled to the brim with books. His mom was a scholar of history of some sort, no wonder this kid is so smart. She left him when he was only six.

To: gracie875@gmail.com From: itsheather@yahoo.com Sent: Thurs, 06/13/13 9:14 AM Subject: Mom had me see the psychiatrist. Probably because I walked right into the middle of the road. I thought I saw you, with your messy hair swept up in a hasty ponytail and black tortoise sunglasses in a too familiar Rolling Stones band tee, hugging a brown paper bag of groceries. We made eye contact for a split second but then a tractor trailer blocked us off. The doctor says it was my neon yellow tee that saved me, or else the Volvo wouldn’t had hit the brakes. Was that really you I saw?

To: gracie875@gmail.com From: itsheather@yahoo.com Sent: Fri, 06/14/13 7:25 PM Subject: melting! (Sacramento hit an all time high today) It’s crazy that Dylan’s never been to the science museum before. His eyes got big and dreamy, like when kids walk into a toy store during Christmas time. We checked out every floor and every wing. The planetarium was his favorite. It was a big domed theater and all the seats are positioned as if we were going to be shipped into space. Dylan was bored at first, but then the lights dimmed and the stars appeared. It reminded me of the nights we used to sleep in our backyard. The sky was alive and burning. Or perhaps it’s been so many years that my mind has filled in the gaps of my memory with glittering descriptions from movies and books. Dylan told me he’s never seen the stars. So then I told him about our desert.

We used to live in the desert. The heat. The sun. Although it rarely rained, the desert smelled of life. You could sense it even when the landscape looked so still. One time on a hiking trail I swore that I saw a fawn in the distance before it saw us and got spooked. But you and Mom refused to believe me. Only later when we came across some deer droppings that I continued to shout for the rest of the day that I had seen a deer.

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OTR I remember asking Mom years ago why we lived in the desert, of all places! She said something like: “The desert tastes green, Heather, or so I’m told. When you hear it calling, you have to answer it. Like birds to the south, waves to the moon.”

It must had crushed her to leave after they couldn’t afford Grandpa’s place anymore. Sacramento with its concrete sidewalks, buildings blocking the sun, stars surrendering to light pollution. This was no place for a desert girl.

It’s been the hottest summer yet. And the sky is overcast constantly, taunting us with wind and the occasional drizzle. When you type California on Google, the first thing that pops up is the California drought. Mom stopped buying almond milk since almonds suck up all the water. Seems like the desert comes with us, wherever we go.

To: gracie875@gmail.com From: itsheather@yahoo.com Sent: Sun, 07/16/13 11:47 PM Subject: art shows are bad news Guess what? I attended Dylan’s art gallery. Only because Dylan personally invited me. He was pretty disappointed since his painting was hung in the far upper corner by someone who thought a fifth grader could see it. So I stood on a desk to take it down and taped it to eye level. Halfway through the evening Harrison showed up. I think Dylan was pretty shocked too. But he quickly went to explain the vision for his artwork. You could see the happiness in his eyes. Then a parent walked by and commented on what a lovely family we were.

Dylan didn’t talk for the rest of the evening.

To: gracie875@gmail.com From: itsheather@yahoo.com Sent: Wed, 07/26/13 3:21 PM Subject: SOS! Sorry I haven’t been writing lately. There’s a lot on my mind that I’m trying to forget. Mom came by the house the other day when I asked her to pick up some of Dylan’s things I left in the house. She told me people were getting the wrong impression of me and Dylan’s father, Harrison. That I should be careful.

And that maybe it was time I stopped this hiatus and went to find a real job.

But how can I leave Dylan? His dad is never around. He doesn’t deserve to be neglected.

Just to ease Mom and everyone else’s worries I stopped going to the Kibuishi estate for a while. But, last Friday afternoon I got a call that Dylan had a laceration accident at camp. I took him to the ER and he got three stitches on his finger. All is well, thank god. Afterwards we marathoned Doctor Who and sipped Yoohoo chocolate milk with snickerdoodles.

Hey Gracie, remember when we were kids, how we would wake from our nightmares, screaming at the top of our lungs? And Mom wouldn’t know what to do with us so she’d send us to our neighbor, Miss Lowry, who fed us warm milk and chocolate oozing cookies until we fell fast asleep? Turns out that was a very helpful method to getting kids to sleep.

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64 To: gracie875@gmail.com From: itsheather@yahoo.com Sent: Fri, 06/28/13 6:02 PM Subject: greetings from interstate 80!

It’s Friday and I’m running away.

Sort of.

After I picked Dylan up from camp I said, “Guess what? We’re going on a little road trip to see the stars. For real.” He asked if there were any museums we could stop by. So I told him about the world’s largest ball of yarn, the enormous sandcastle competition, the endless desertscape. We stopped by a gas station to fill up and grabbed a couple of maps, just in case my phone’s GPS failed us all.

Last Sunday when I was doing laundry I realized I still had that picture in my jean pocket. The one that you used as a bookmark when you lent me your copy of “On the Road” the week before you vanished. On the back was mom’s scratchy handwriting: December 25, 2000, Dawton Ranch, Nevada. And suddenly I had a thought. What if you were there? And this was your clue, telling me to go there, to find you.

“So which way is Nevada?” Dylan asked.

“East,” I said. “East to the desert.”

It’s pretty silly writing this out. But right now, I feel exhilarated that nobody will be able to findus. Like my own Into the Wild excursion.

Was that how you felt when you left Sacramento?

To: gracie875@gmail.com From: itsheather@yahoo.com Sent: Thurs, 07/04/13 6:02 PM Subject: god bless america We’ve stopped at a motel that screams its name in neon pink. Dylan was so exhausted that I had to lug him upstairs. It’s a tiny square room with a buzzing lamp and peeling cabbage wallpaper. But I say to myself it’s only for one night. I wonder if Harrison even notices that we’re gone. I think about the wanted signs on milk cartons, highway amber alerts. The mass search that’s going to involve the state police.

Oh Lord. What have I done?

Now no one will hire a graduate with nothing but kidnapping babysitter on her resume. Outside I heard a frenzy of popping. At first I thought it was thunder.

Perhaps the sky had finally decided to get the rain out of its system. I tugged the thick cotton curtains to find the sky littered with candy colored fireworks.

The fourth of July was the only marker of time during these past few weeks. I watched them in silence. Dylan continued to sleep undisturbed by the crackling festivities.

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OTR To: gracie875@gmail.com From: itsheather@yahoo.com Sent: Fri, 07/05/13 1:16 PM Subject: close call I woke up to messages of Annie inviting me to hear her open mic, Mom asking me to buy some jam from the farmer’s market, a voicemail from Harrison that he’s going on another business trip to LA. And to someone banging on the door.

The police?

It was just the motel manager. He told me that my credit card had declined. I gave him fifty dollars in cash and said I’d pay the rest later.

To: gracie875@gmail.com From: itsheather@yahoo.com Sent: Fri, 07/05/13 11:33 PM Subject: I didn’t know the car would swerve like that. It was late, and I should’ve stopped to rest. But you know how much I hate driving at night. I didn’t know how long I had dozed off. I woke up the car shuddering; I’d run into the side of the road.

I went out to inspect the damage, too dark to tell. Then Dylan cranked downed the window and shouted “look!” The stars were shining. I could see that the sky was spherical and that I’ve colored the night sky wrong all these years. It isn’t inky black, it’s an explosion of colors. I can’t even describe it, and I don’t think I can ever recall what the colors were.

To: gracie875@gmail.com From: itsheather@yahoo.com Sent: Sat, 07/06/13 5:44 PM Subject: Dylan saved us!!

Dylan and I slept in the car overnight. Then next morning we inspected the tires properly in the daylight. There wasn’t much damage, but the front tires were stuck in a goop of mud. Without a car, we would still have miles more to walk.

Disastrous in this desert climate. Then to my surprise Dylan suggested that we gather some rocks and shrubbery. With no other options in mind I followed his lead. We piled our stash into the mud behind the tires. He told me to drive in reverse.

“Why am I doing this?”

“Just trust me.”

On the first try the tires screeched against the cakey mud. Dylan threw in more rocks. After losing count of the attempts, the car drove over the makeshift surface. My jaw actually dropped like in the movies. I kept driving until I hit the pavement of the road. Dylan jumped in and beamed.

“I knew watching TV would be useful one day.”

I don’t know what I would have done if we hadn’t found the house. It looked so familiar but foreign at the same time. Instead of Grandpa reading his paper on the front porch on his creaky, wooden chair, it was replaced with white patio furniture. The curtains weren’t canary yellow with little daisies. It was a seafoam 57

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64 blue. So this must be how it feels to haunt a house when you’re a ghost.

The couple who rent it are so nice. How do I know? Because they welcome strangers into their home at 7 in the morning.

To: gracie875@gmail.com From: itsheather@yahoo.com Sent: Sat, 07/06/13 5:44 PM Subject: they knew who we were That morning Dylan ran around in the backyard, excavating the sandy earth for fossils. The woman who sewed blue curtains sat with me on the patio. She said she knew who I was. I panicked at first. Was she going to phone the police?

They might have been hiding in the bushes, ready to ambush us at any minute…

Then she explained about the picture on the kitchen wall. Of me and you, Gracie. We’re wearing matching princess costumes, because we refused to be anything else. And that went on for three consecutive Halloweens.

“I thought you might come back,” she continued. “Are you looking for something?”

I asked her for the nearest gas station.

I told her the stars were lovely last night.

Sorry, we were unable to deliver your message to gracie875@gmail.com. The email account that you tried to reach does not exist.

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OTR

While the Sun Sets

Merari Hernandez PROSE

“I’ve never been outside this late. At least, not without my parents.” I can hear Joselyn trying to hold back on her laughter as she tilts her head to look at me.

Joselyn laughs anyway. “It’s only 7:30, how is that ‘late’?” She has this weird way of sometimes making her questions sound like statements. It’s easily ended up at the top of my list of Best Joselyn Habits. I’d have to rank it after the way the she flares her nostrils when she’s upset and how she tucks her hair behind her left ear when she laughs so hard she cries.

I laugh too, though I’m not sure if it it’s out of embarrassment or happiness.

From where we’re sitting, up on a hill mostly covered in empty beer cans and plastic bags, the breeze is oddly cool and refreshing. We slip our shoes off and press the soles of our feet against the ground, stray grass sticking up between our toes. The sky is dressed in the same shades of orange and pink as the ripe peaches we shared earlier. We ate them while hopping along the rocks bordering the part of the bay garbage is collected in. I’ve never tasted anything as sweet.

We sit in silence, the only sounds coming from the tide splashing against the rocks and seagulls scavenging for stale fries and crab carcasses. It’s not like we don’t have anything to talk about, it’s just nice to sometimes enjoy the view without conversation.

And the stillness is comforting, but a few more minutes of this suddenly overbearing silence and I don’t want to be left with just my thoughts anymore.

“Joselyn, tell me what you’re thinking about.” She doesn’t turn to look at me, but she leans forward, slowly wraps her arms around her knees. She keeps her eyes on the pebbles scattered throughout the grass in front of us. The faint sound of kids laughing and dogs barking coming from the playground we passed by gets louder and louder.

“I’m thinking about how much is left on our Metros. We might have to hop the train.”

“I’m not trying to get arrested,” I say, only half-serious. She laughs, pushing air out of her nostrils.

“Actually, I’m kinda sad.” The words come out as a sigh and the ends of her mouth awkwardly turn up. “Maybe it’s because you go back home tomorrow.” She straightens her back and stretches her legs out, hardly passing my own legs because she’s only two inches taller, even though she swears she towers over me. She slides her hand onto mine.

The sun is hovering over the tops of the trees like it’s just as reluctant about setting as I am about taking the two-train trip back to her grandma’s place.

The fifty-minute ride to her grandma’s apartment in Grand Concourse to get to Orchard Beach was, honestly, the worst. But the sooner we get on that train, the sooner tomorrow comes, which means the sooner I go back home. My parents, the pastors of an eighty-five-member Pentecostal church, had a conference to attend in another state and instead of dragging me along they left me with Joselyn’s grandma, only because the woman’s been a devoted member of their 59

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64 congregation for the better half of a century.

“Do you love me, Camila?” She suddenly asks. Her voice sounds far off.

Joselyn stands out even more against the sunset, her brown skin radiant in the sun’s afterglow. The way her thick curls surround her head like a crown makes me wonder if she might have been royalty in another life. I reach out to push a curl behind her ear, brushing the tip of my finger against the birthmark resting on her temple. She showed it to me once while she walked me home from my church’s youth group, told me no one ever notices it because it’s always covered by her hair. If I look at it while squinting it kind of looks like a flower in mid-bloom. Maybe a bird.

“I don’t think you know how much I love you.” My response is too quick, like the words were forced out of my head and out of my mouth.

I take a moment to breathe in. I rub my thumb in small circles on the base of Joselyn’s hand, but it’s not enough to satisfy me. Something inside of me makes me want to touch all of her, all at once.

“If it makes you feel any better, I’m feeling sad too. I mean, obviously I’m happy because I’m with you but,” I pause, thinking about my words, “it’s just not fair, you know?”

I feel like I’m going to choke.

At first, Joselyn doesn’t say anything but shifts her body to face me. She looks me dead in the eyes and part of me almost wants to turn away. The air feels thick and heavy and the choking feeling gets worse.

“I know it’s not fair. It’s not fair that we have to keep this a secret. I don’t get it,” she says, messing with a loose thread on her shorts. We both turn away from each other. It gets quiet again and she pulls her hand away only to return it again after hesitating and rests it flat against mine.

I think about that time someone’s mother came to my parents after Sunday service in hysterics after finding out her son was gay. My parents wanted me to observe their consultations for that day. They wanted me to know how to handle all kinds of situations, what advice to give, how to console the most dramatic of the congregation. I sat on a small metal chair next to their desk, waiting with my Bible centered on my lap.

This woman was the first we’d be meeting with that day. She rushed into my parents’ office, throwing herself into the cushioned seat in front of their polished wooden desk. She was already crying, heaving like she was suffering from an asthma attack. She pulled a package of tissue out of her purse, struggled to open it before loudly blowing into a tissue. Through choked sobs, she wailed about her son being possessed by a “gay demon” except gay wasn’t the word she used. Her mascara started running, black streaks traveling down her red face like small centipedes. I bit the insides of my cheeks to stop myself from laughing.

There wasn’t much my parents could do in terms of comforting her. They gave her the whole “The Bible Says Homosexuality is Wrong” spiel, warning her about the life of sin her son would be immersing himself in. I looked down at my Bible, this book my parents had used to say it was wrong for that woman’s son to love other men. They offered to pray over him, to “pray the gay away” I guess, like he was suffering from some kind of terminal illness.

She nodded after hearing their advice and looked up at me through her snot-covered tissue. She smiled.

“Your daughter is so beautiful, she’ll give you grandchildren one day. My son never will.” I smiled back, and her violent sobs began again, but it seemed 60

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OTR forced this time, like she wanted to get pity out of us.

I sat quietly next to my parents the rest of the day, thinking about the girl who kissed me only three days before. Her name was Jasmine, a girl who lived in the building next to ours, and she kissed me behind a tree in the heat of May, the rough bark pressing against my back. She was two years older than me with brown eyes so wide I always wondered if she knew what I was thinking.

Listening to the rest of the church members who filed in one by one the rest of the day, I kept getting the urge to touch my lips, to kiss Jasmine again and again.

Four months later, the woman came back with news her son moved in with his fiancé. They were planning a fall wedding. My parents gave their condolences like he’d died.

I realize my hand is starting to feel damp in Joselyn’s, but I don’t want to move away.

“My parents say this kind of thing, you know, this kind of love,” I pause to get rid of the lump growing in my throat, “is condemned in the Bible. But, is it really wrong?”

Joselyn replies, reaching over to trace the lines on my right palm, “There’s nothing wrong about this.”

“If this isn’t wrong then….” I pause again. The more I think about what my parents taught me and what Joselyn’s shown me in the past year, the less everything makes sense.

Her tracing starts to tickle my hand, but it feels good.

“I think my parents would kill me if they found out.” I laugh, though I don’t mean to, because a part of me believes it’s true.

“I think my dad would kill me, then my mom, then himself. They’d both rather be dead than live with the fact that their daughter is….” Somehow the clouds start moving slower. A numbness is developing in the tips of my fingers. I lean on Joselyn’s shoulder and she wraps her arms around me, maybe hoping to comfort me. To comfort us.

“Didn’t Jesus love everyone?” Her voice comes out of nowhere and I sit up a bit.

“Well, yeah.”

“He had sympathy and compassion for prostitutes, thieves, murderers.

That was like, his thing.” I’m not exactly sure where she’s going with this, and Joselyn notices because she continues. “So then, wouldn’t Jesus have accepted you? Us.” I think about it.

I can tell Joselyn is thinking about it too, her dark eyebrows coming to meet in the middle. She pulls on a piece of grass, swiftly yanking it out of the earth and twisting it between her right index and middle fingers.

“And isn’t the whole point of Christianity to ‘walk in the path of Jesus Christ our Lord and Savior’?” Her mocking tone makes me laugh harder than I should.

“Well, yeah, that’s why we’re called Christ-ians.”

“So, your parents should accept us, right?” It sounds more like a demand than a question.

It was hard enough to come to terms with my sexual orientation, but to have this conversation with my parents? You know, there’s that saying, something about paint and watching it dry. I’d rather drink paint.

“It’s kinda sad isn’t it, because they don’t even know their perfect, heaven sent child is in love with another girl.”

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64 The first thing you’re taught in Sunday school is God is three things.

Or more like six things. He’s the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit, but He’s also omniscient, omnipotent and omnipresent. He’s all-knowing, all-powerful and literally everywhere. Don’t lie to your parents about the test you didn’t get a perfect score on. Don’t steal that pen you think is pretty. Don’t be envious of the boy in your math class who started dating the girl you really like. Don’t fall in love with other girls. Don’t do any of these things because these are sins and God is watching.

Joselyn’s hand finds mine again. She holds on so tight I can feel her heartbeat pulsating through her palm.

The sun is almost completely set now. While I wasn’t paying attention, the sky became bathed in blues and violets I’ve only been able to admire from my bedroom window. It’s time to leave, but we continue to sit on this hill mostly covered in empty beer cans and plastic bags and hold onto each other, as if time would somehow stop in this embrace.

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OTR

Contributions

Edwin Bode is a writer, chef, and student from New York City. he has previously published in Good Foot.

Sofia Bolido is a sweet-toothed aspiring writer who studies English at Hunter College.

She loves reading poetry and prose of various genres, and enjoys writing poems and short stories of her own as well. She is particularly passionate about organizations dedicated to spreading literacy and is constantly on the lookout for volunteer opportunities. When she’s not reading or writing you’d most likely catch her munching on a fruit (most probably an apple,) listening to classic rock music, and/or working out.

Lorena Caro is double majoring in English and Studio Art at Hunter. Some of her

hobbies include reading, writing creative nonfiction, and painting. She submitted a poem that she wrote for her poetry workshop class.

Amrita Chakraborty is a senior at Hunter College, majoring in English with a

concentration in Creative Writing. Her work has previously been published in the Rising Phoenix Review and Vagabond City and is forthcoming in Augur Magazine, Winter Tangerine, and The Brown Orient. She has also self-published a chapbook entitled Incarnate.

In her spare time, Amrita enjoys romantic comedy marathons, listening to a lot of Sufjan Stevens and stargazing.

Alli Cruz is a junior at Stanford University majoring in English & Creative Writing with

a minor in Theater & Performance Studies. She is deeply interested in narrativizing parts of the body through poetry as an exploration of the human psyche. Cruz has previously served as Managing Editor for Arts & Life at The Stanford Daily and the Artistic Intern at American Conservatory Theatre in San Francisco. Currently, she is the Literary Manager for Stanford Asian American Theatre Project and the Artistic Intern at New Georges in NYC.

Mimi Dobelle submitted a photographic portrait of their friend. They wanted to

investigate their neurological diversity as it exists along with the overwhelming social and financial privilege that they have with the resources to allow them to work around and practice art.

Matthew Goldman is an emerging writer seeking his first publication. He is I am

a writer and graduate student in the dual degree program (MFA Creative Writing/MA English) at Chapman University. He writes fiction and creative nonfiction while teaching creative nonfiction to people with mental illness at a local non-profit organization during his free time. He hopes to teach creative writing to prison inmates once he finishes his degree. He currently lives in Orange, California with his pitbull, Rocko.

Merari Hernandez is a Hunter senior born and raised in the South Bronx and just

wants people to respect storytelling as the art it is. Merari also wants to give a big shout out to all the first generation kids who left the STEM field to pursue a major in the art field despite our parents being worried.

Nyusha Iampolsk is working towards my BA in Psychology and plans to get an MA in game design and/or digital media. Some day they would like to create therapeutic software that will make mental health care accessible to anyone.

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64 Renae Jarrett is a playwright living, studying, and working in NYC. She recently

received her B. F. A. at New York University for Dramatic Writing and is an M. F. A. candidate at Hunter College in Playwriting. Her other interests include English literature, art history, film, and travel. Over the past few years, she has workshopped 4 full length plays and produced various short films. She has travelled to 11 countries around the world and counting in search of what rests at the core of all storytelling--human connection.

James Dean Jay Byrd is a writer, performer, and musician in Austin, TX. In the

90’s, he played in the queer country folk duo Y’all, appearing on The Jon Stewart Show, Comedy Central’s Premium Blend, and an MTV2 commercial. In Austin, he has performed in shows with, among others, The Rude Mechs, Capital T Theatre, and Salvage Vanguard Theater, including his one-man show Naked as a Gaybird. He’s currently finishing his collage-style memoir Fumbling for the Knob.

B Kim drew this picture listening to a weird song about gods and hedonism. It was pop.

They’re aiming to declare a biology major next year (for a wildlife career) and minoring in Media.

Oscar Lopez is the Vice President of Happenings. Arts. Presence. Art and spiritual

life for Oscar has been the sources for knowledge and understanding of the physical and spiritual plane. His work has been an exploration of the fragility of the mind and the emanating effects of color under given circumstances, especially in relation to dialogue.

The loss of the stability of the body, our mind, effects in our body, and in our cognitive processes tend to generate new ideas about what the body its limitations, and our place in the world.

Maria Andrea Luna is a senior at Hunter College majoring in Media Studies with a concentration in journalism.

Catalina Meza is an immigrant from Costa Rica with Georgian roots. They believe

animation is an underrated, underexplored art form and has the power to change minds!

If asked, their friends say that they’re loyal, thoughtful, and sometimes a little off. They’re really passionate about telling stories, especially because a lot of people don’t have the opportunity to tell theirs.

Tobias Nikl took this series of photos from their summer trip to Japan. All of them

were shot on 35mm Kodak color film, some on the Minolta X-700 and some on the Canon Prima Super 105u.

Michael Onofrey grew up in Los Angeles. Currently he lives in Japan. His stories

have appeared in Cottonwood, Evansville Review, Kestrel, Natural Bridge, Terrain.org, Weber - The Contemporary West, and in other fine places. A novel, “Bewilderment,” was published by Tailwinds Press in 2017.

Denise Penizzotto’s artistic influences began with a family set of the Encyclopedia

Britannica because they grew up in the rural mid-west a far distance away from a chance to absorb museum gained impressions. Self-studying the renaissance masters gave roots to a style that, combined with their experiences living in culturally rich New York City, reflect the juxtaposition of a romanticized historical past with the discomfort of our modern day concerns.

Frank Scozzar’s fiction has previously appeared in various literary magazines in-

cluding the Kenyan Review, Tampa Review, Worcester Review, War Literature & the Arts, Pacific Review, Eleven Eleven, The Emerson Review, South Dakota Review, Hawaii Pacific Review, Minetta Review, Reed Magazine, Berkeley Fiction Review, Ellipsis Magazine, The Nassau Review, and The MacGuffin, and have been featured in literary theater.

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OTR

Meet the Staff Editor-in-Chief

Tanisha Williams is a person who is still learning how to adult, wears mismatched

socks, sleeps in, calls everyone “bro” and steals junk food from from her nieces and nephews. On her free time, she goes to Hunter College where she majors in Film and minors in English.

Vice President

Ariel Tsai is so clumsy that it is amazing she is still alive. She thinks that perhaps God

keeps her around as comic relief. She uses humor and excessive amounts of Honey Nut Cheerios to mask the pain of existence.

Treasurer

Kana Tateishi is a mess but it’s okay it’s a good type of mess like when you put literally

every candy bar you can think of in cookie dough. She likes spending a lot of money on books. Her angst is expressed through her love for Sylvia Plath. She hopes everyone has a wonderful day.

Secretary and Art Editor

Melissa Rueda loves art history, cats, and gummies.

Art Editor

Kenny Perez likes socks, drugs, and rock and roll.

Poetry Editors

Doria Wohler, fifth grade spelling bee champion and owner of several striped shirts, is

determined to capture all of her antics in this small body of text. She is left-handed, has illegally streamed the Jane Jacobs documentary several times, and hopes to one day find herself a life partner who loves her as much as she loves kimchi.

Sheena Rocke is a passionate poet in love with none other than (herself) poetry.

Prose Editors

Andy Lopez is an overwhelmed student, aspiring writer, and hard working dad to a

three year old Shih Szu. What keeps him going each day is knowing that Lady Gaga will probably win an Oscar for her performance in A Star is Born.

Gabrielle Luna believes in aliens.

Senior Publicist

Sharon Young is a Junior majoring in Political Science. You’ll probably see her on the

streets of New York with a book tucked under her shoulder whilst photographing dogs.

Publicity Assistant

Srinidhi Rao is a sophomore student at hunter majoring in Tv Studio Production. She

solely pursues this major because she likes pressing red buttons. She is an avid Harry Potter and Percy Jackson fan and wishes she was caressing them both in her spare time.

She is a level 10 Memer and has mastered all the tiers of dankness. She looks like a twelve year old and acts like one too. Requires cuddles. 10/10 would recommend.

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64

History of The Olivetree Review

Since the fall semester of the year 1983, The Olivetree Review has been a Hunter institution allowing a place for student writers to submit their work and see it published. Under the auspices of their faculty advisor, Professor David Winn, a small group of Hunter students successfully petitioned Hunter for the funds to start a publication. This allowed The Olivetree’s original staff members, Pamela Barbell, Michael Harriton, Mimi Ross DeMars, and Adam Vinueva to create their issue of student work and dedicate it to the memory of the late Hunter College professor and poet, James Wright.

The Olivetree Review has come a long way since that first issue.

Digital painting allows for both the inclusion of full color images and extra design elements to be available for all projects. We began including photography submissons in Issue #7, and advancements in scanning and digital photography have allowed for us to accept nearly any form of art that can be captured in one or more frames.

We have also begun accepting drama writing submissions as of Issue #52, meaning we are finally accepting and printing all forms of creative writing and art that is currently possible to.

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ISSUE 64.indd 76

11/16/18 1:18 PM

ISSUE 64.indd 77

11/16/18 1:18 PM