The Olivetree Review
Permission to publish works appearing in The Olivetree Review is given by their creators through a license. All copyright is owned by the original authors. Submissions cannot be returned. Spring 2011, No. 49 This magazine is published using Hunter College student activity fees. For more information, visit us at www.theolivetreereview.com, or e-mail us at olivetreereview@gmail.com. The Olivetree Review CUNY Hunter 695 Park Avenue Thomas Hunter 212 New York, NY 10065 Cover Art: Truly Headed Somewhere Danielle Bohmer
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Managing Editor Senior Fiction/Non-Fiction Editor Senior Poetry Editor Senior Art Editor Publicity Manager Design Manager Treasurer Secretary Art Editors
Fiction/Non-Fiction Editors
Poetry Editors
Victoria Sharoyan Angela Dunne Crystal Rivera Megan Marino Jessica Taghap Nora Milman Malvina Shishmanian Ben Corman
Soorya Deepak Angela Dunne Munirah Quadri Crystal Rivera Connie Salvayon Victoria Sharoyan Malvina Shishmanian Jessica Taghap Tamara Turner
Nolan Bohorquez Leslie Corona Esther Ko Emmanuel Sanchez Victoria Sharoyan Angela Dunne Esther Ko Ayelet Parness Billy Pedlow Connie Salvayon Victoria Sharoyan Jennifer Jade Yeung
Staff
Art
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Brighton lady Jennifer Jade Yeung
Culinary Arts Contest Feature Salmon Texture Sandra Cordero
The Building 4 Mimiko Watanabe
Truly Headed Somewhere Danielle Bohmer
Sound
Connie Salvayon
The Building 2 Mimiko Watanabe
Lobster Dinner Sandra Cordero
The Building 3 Mimiko Watanabe
Lobster Texture Sandra Cordero
Entangled When Not Amidst Danielle Bohmer
Despondent
Connie Salvayon
Inhabitants of Past Residences Danielle Bohmer
Float
Connie Salvayon
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Fiction
12 NUDE JOGGER NAILED BY TASER jessi james
24 Hiraeth
Esther Ko
42 The Stem Bends to the Current of the Sea Angela Dunne
48 In the Name of Good Service
Poetry
Nolan Bohorquez
9 Just a note Jennifer Jade Yeung
11 Found Poems
Victoria Sharoyan
19 Our Orange Brownstone Connie Salvayon
20 ode
Crystal Rivera
28 and on the eighth day Lucia Cappuccio
30 Beginners
Lia Manoukian
32 Reunion
Bjorn Winberg
35 carefully jessi james
39 My Favorite Robot Lia Manoukian
7 Managing Editor’s Note 59 Contributors
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Dear Reader,
Managing Editor’s Note
Thank you for picking up a copy of The Olivetree Review, the undergraduate literary and arts journal of Hunter College. This magazine was founded by Hunter students in 1983, and it is still entirely student-run to this day. Our staff is comprised of student volunteers, working in three editorial departments: poetry, fiction & non-fiction, and visual art. Pieces are selected through open deliberation and majority voting at editorial meetings. All work is anonymous to the editors, in the interest of keeping the selection process as unbiased as possible. If you would like to be an editor for our magazine, please contact us. I am proud to say that this has been a truly exciting year for the Olivetree. We held two successful open mics, on the themes of childhood and missed connections, featuring dozens of talented poets, spoken word artists, and musicians. Also, our website, theolivetreereview.com, was redesigned, and we launched our own channel on Youtube. Feel free to visit them both for information about how to get involved with our publication. After nearly four years of commitment to The Olivetree Review, it is my time to graduate. As I step out into the so-called real world, I can’t help but feel that my experience here has been as real as any I’ll encounter in the future. My time at this magazine has been incredibly formative and meaningful for me. When I first stepped into TH212 in March of 2008 and asked to be a poetry editor, I was someone with an enthusiasm for writing but a severe case of writer’s block. I confidently claimed to be an avid reader, but I struggled to name a favorite poet. Now I can honestly say that I write as frequently as inspiration strikes, and that my favorite poets are Rebecca Kish, Crystal Rivera, and Jade Yeung, not to mention all the other excellent writers whose work I’ve had the pleasure of reading and publishing over the last few years. It has been an honor to be involved in such a worthwhile endeavor, and it is my hope that The Olivetree Review will continue to bring together the creative voices of the Hunter College student body for many years to come. Sincerely, Victoria Sharoyan Managing Editor Fall 2010-Spring 2011
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Jennifer Jade Yeung
Brighton lady photography
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Jennifer Jade Yeung
Just a note
I had to be at the cemetery early today, and did not wish to wake you before you made your way over here. In the fridge, are half-done photographs still fragrant with darkroom liquids, and Polaroids winking beneath gentle age, on the counter, there, a harvest of fruit sits, of skin and flesh blushed sanguine. Look further, see fresh Persian rose candles beside an unfinished jar of instant coffee. And tainted stale brown at its viscous bottoma pallid mug sits untastedPlease don’t forget to empty my Father’s ashtray. On the desk, yellowed postcards addressed decades ago and clear reflective discs, with a cacophony of world music burned into the smoothness. In the drawer, spearmint oil and a beaten music box. Tap lightly, and perhaps you’ll hear Beethoven whisper.
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In the pantry, its tall neck yet to be fondled, is a bottle of blood red wine. I apologize for my mess, but there’s jasmine tea leaves sown all around the tile floor. Please don’t forget to water my mother’s flowers. Meet you at the Iron Gates.
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Victoria Sharoyan
Found Poems It’s so strange to go rifling through poems from fifteen before I knew what I meant by “I love you.” There’s more knowledge now behind the glint in my eyes when they hone in on Vera Wang’s White Collection in the shop window, more “I should try that on” than “someday…” Those poems from fifteen were rife with clichés, the vaguest abstractions of love, hurt, and angst. I learned life’s ABCs AB AB, I didn’t know verses could be better formed free. At fifteen, love meant sharing fingerless gloves, now it means sharing a bed. Commitment meant hiding when the parents came home, now it means coming home to you. Dancing meant prying wallflowers to prom, now it means energized kisses in the studio elevator. When I look back on poems in faint purple pen, I think I was trying too hard with that ink. I wanted to find the poems that said it all, but now I know when you’re living your future, the poems find you.
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NUDE JOGGER NAILED BY TASER jessi james
Oh geez. This can’t be happening. It’s Monday. It’s seven freaking a.m., for cryin’ out loud. The bum looks at me through his scruffed up, matted hair, scratching the corner of his lip with his grimy, cracked fingernail, and continues to aim the 9 mil at my crotch. He opens his cracked, chapped lips and grumbles, “Get away from the damn car—you think I got all day? Sheesh.” I have corporate breathing fire down my neck, a pissed off client (who’s just as trigger happy as this guy) who’s gonna be at my office, behind my desk, smoking my cigars, in half an hour, and I should have left twenty minutes ago. This cannot be happening. I step slowly aside, hands up, casually holding my cream cheese bagel away from my best (read: most expensive) suit, shuffling my feet down the concrete driveway. He looks me over. “Take off ya suit.”
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“Excuse me?” I gape.
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“You heard me, take it off—no, don’t reach for anything in your pockets, just leave it all in there. I’m sure I can find good use for it,” he grins with gapped yellow teeth, waving the gun carelessly. I fix my bagel in my mouth to free my hands, and I start his private peep show, using every word in my head that my mom always told me not to—viciously. He strides over and nicks my bagel, too, lavishly chomping down on my favorite poppy seed and low-fat combo as I hand him my beautiful gray suit with the pinstripes in all the right places. “The shorts, too.” I splutter. “What?” “The shorts, take ‘em off.” Dazed, I oblige. The man holds a convincing argument in his right hand. I toss him the shorts, maintaining my shriveled dignity as best I can with my left hand, trying not to care while he tosses my suit, pants, tie, and Batman shorts into the open, waiting door of my beautiful black cougar, sitting there purring for this grotesque, laughing man. As he speeds my baby past me, beautifully executing the fishtail I practiced all throughout high school, he tosses the 9 mil at my feet with an explosion of laughter. I instantly snatch it up and aim (sorry, baby, I’ll just take out a tire)…The chamber clicks empty just as I hear Long Island’s finest pulling up with a loud “whoop” and a “Drop the gun!” The furious, chubby owner of the 9 mil waddle-runs up to me, wildly waving his taser, and the last thing I recall before I hit the ground foaming is, “Shit, it’s only Monday.”
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Winner
Sandra Cordero
Sandra Cordero was born in Wisconsin and lives in New York. She is a Studio Art major at Hunter College and a member of the Sperm Whale Collective. Her work has been shown at the Queens Museum of Art, Rubulad, and Google’s New York offices. She is inspired by the complicated relationship between humans and the rest of the planet and by how we arbitrarily apply concepts such as beauty and utility to other living things.
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www.sandracordero.com
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Culinary Arts An Art Contest
“Dip into the world of the sweet and savory, sometimes together, leaving nothing untouched.” - Megan Marino
Every semester, The Olivetree Review holds a writing or art contest and awards a deserving Hunter student with a giftcard to the Strand Bookstore and a feature in our magazine. This semester’s contest, conceived by our Senior Art Editor, Megan Marino, was inspired by the culinary arts. Ms. Marino herself is an avid chef, food writer, and photographer. Her recipes and photos can be found at her culinary blog, To Cook a Mockingbird. The winning entry of our Culinary Arts Contest is Sandra Cordero’s stunning painting, “Salmon Texture.” The editors were unanimous in selecting this piece and a turn of the page will show you why.
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Sandra Cordero
Salmon Texture oil on canvas
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Mimiko Watanabe
The Building 4 photography
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Connie Salvayon
Our Orange Brownstone Crammed on the fire escape on the first night in our orange brownstone the buzzer rang out, jolting me away from the words you were saying about passerby ballets on quiet streets like this one. I smoothed the moonlight into my hair. And you climbed back inside, to meet the bicycle man with the take-out Chinese food. I heard the hollow patters of your socked-feet recede as you were swallowed by the shadowy hollows of the empty room. Inside the bedroom was just a hardwood floor and a blanket. Later, I’d spill all the hot and sour soup on it, but we’d sleep there soundly together huddled, naked.
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Crystal Rivera
ode I. i jump like today’s weather 36 degrees to a high 61 i am constantly uncomfortable and comfortable in Nueva York and damnit, you are that wind, blowing in northwest direction 28 mph this spring, same time as last. II. i appreciate you leavin’ again: i prefer the rain. III. My caring for you could be temporary. See? Facial expressions do change. “That is not a cross look!” But it is. “it’s a sign of life” says O’Hara. my looks were known to you once, you allowed yourself to look you told me this. i remember. it was on the corner of E14 Street in march where the wind picked up and you looked kept looking it was around 11:41 you looked and you saw me and it made me kiss you made me wild made me wildly me it made me. IV. I love the feel of 6 on the beaufort scale, but there’s no sea, absolutely nothing to see here. But there is that wind. “Your breathing is like that history lesson” I must’ve skipped that class to drink afternoon whiskey, But I remember what kissing you was like it was like drinking for the first time—I told you this. I remember.
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The Olivetree Review Into my ear you said I was definitely a poet in need of her pen. Whiskey fell onto my hand, I wiped it onto your shirt. I remember. The window was open wide the wind kept brushing skin the wind kept blowing in dancing around the space we kissed into I remember. Your leaving is pretty much like that history lesson. I stuck around for that one. V. temporary. should’ve put my hands away, ode to lovely IPAs and PDA should’ve looked the other way but then again, I did not, could not, see you coming. [ode to wind.]
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Danielle Bohmer
Truly Headed Somewhere photography
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Connie Salvayon
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Sound
photography
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Hiraeth Esther Ko
1. Something large picks you up and sets you down whenever you get comfortable. You are barred, strapped, moored on the Alcatraz of your high chair. 2. Your teeth tear through your gums which makes you angry enough to want to bite flesh. You do not know how to say, I am hurting. I am hungry. I need you. So you cry, and the only thing you know how to do angers the only people you know. 3. Your mother jokes about shitting machines designed to induce insanity. She uses the word ‘regret’ then looks uneasily at your big, dumb eyes. 4. Everybody uses words they know you don’t understand. Strangers talk about you as if they do not see you in front of them. You are forced to wear clothes printed with laughing rodents. 5. Your brother is born and you realize that you were created by your parents and not the other way around. Your father makes a remark about planning things out this time. 6. You are never allowed. 7. Your brother vomits on your favorite toy and it is buried in the trash with the rancid cabbage and the stewed fish bones. 8. You start a diary and you write about how unfair your life is. On
the first line of a new page you write
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Friends: You think about writing the name of the boy who sits next to you in class but you reconsider when you remember that he is very mean to you sometimes. Instead you write down the name of the girl who showed you her new pencil-case and how to operate its clicking levers, but you are not sure how to spell her last name. 9. Your father throws dishes at the walls and your mother takes you in the car for a drive. Together they ask who would you rather live with. You say you can’t choose and you wonder if it’s because you don’t like either of them very much. 10. Your teacher asks the students to make a collage by cutting out words from magazines that describe themselves and pasting them on poster board. Your mother refuses to buy glue and insists that steamed rice works just as well if you smush the grains like insects. You pick the word ‘eccentric’ because you saw it in a book describing a character you liked. When it is your turn to present your collage the teacher says, Oh, sweetie, you’re not eccentric! Now this is better: goal-oriented. You’re definitely goal-oriented. You don’t remember cutting out that word but you must have. When the teacher moves on to your classmate you peel ‘goal-oriented’ off your collage. There is a crusty smear of rice on the poster board and you scratch that off as well. 11. Your cousin tells you about sex and you say you know what it is because you’ve seen kissing in the movies. He laughs at you and explains about girl things and boy things but he doesn’t seem to know the details either. When you are lying in bed at night you wonder how it all works and you touch yourself between the legs which you guess feels sort of good. 12. You imagine scenes in which a cute guy asks you on a date even though you are not sure what people do on dates or how you would convince your mother to let you go on one. In your fantasy he takes you into the woods but it isn’t cold and you are safe with him. He kisses you on the mouth and holds your hand. He asks, Have you heard about this thing called sex?
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The Olivetree Review 13. You claw small craters into your face, digging around the bloody pulp for the kernel that pops out. You know everyone is staring at your scabs. Your mother says you need to wash your face more and that you had such beautiful skin when you were younger. 14. Everyone you know refuses to understand you. You have nothing in common with anyone. No one listens. Everyone is painfully stupid, especially the adults. 15. Your best friend loses weight. During lunch she looks at the textbook for health class and says she’s lost over twenty pounds in the last three months which is one of the warning signs. Everyone at the table looks at their turkey sandwiches and their tater tots. You say quickly that you’re sure she doesn’t have it. 16. In your English class your teacher asks the students to write a five-paragraph essay on the ways they feel like an ‘other’ and you think he is looking at you as he speaks. You write about how your ethnicity sometimes makes you feel like an ‘other’ but you know that isn’t quite right because you feel the same way with your family. 17. Two of your friends show each other their scars and their cigarette burns. Deep, one says. Yeah, says the other. You regard the smooth expanse of your forearm and feel excluded. 18. When your stepfather pinches your waist you go to your room and pull out a pair of safety scissors. You hold one blade in your hand and saw into your wrist. You barely break the skin and the wound looks more like a rug burn. It also hurts like hell so you go back to crying. 19. You make your mother cry and you hesitate because you have never seen her look so sad. She asks, What is wrong with you? You do not know how to say, I am hurting. I am hungry. I need you. So you shout, I hate you and I know you hate me too. 20. You think you know everything. Overnight, you realize it is impossible to know anything. You look at a painting of a steamboat in a snowstorm and the only thing you can think about is all the life that happens outside of you. You try to imagine the thoughts of the person next to you, then of all the people in the lecture hall, the school, the city, the country and pretty soon there are so many voices you feel
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like you are suffocating.
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21. Your favorite word is Wanderlust. You move across the country. Or you study abroad. Or you plan to. You forget what color the front door of your childhood home is until one night when you are lying awake in your boyfriend’s apartment or a hostel in Santiago or a homestay in Provence. Then you recall the exact shade of sepia and you can trace the whorls in the wood with your fingertips. 22. In six months your mother has become old. She has twisted her ankle and you watch from the bottom of the stairs as she plants both feet on each step. You want to pick her up and carry her in your arms. It occurs to you that you probably could. 23. You are jettisoned into something called the real world but you are not sure which parts are real. Strangers mistake you for an adult. You mistake the strangers you see every day for a patchwork family. You break up with your boyfriend because you think anything that easy is not worth having. 24. You drink wine out of crystal stemware. You wear a suit in exchange for a direct deposit. You have a savings account, a 401k, two credit cards and no money. You remember being ten and wishing you were twenty-five. You wonder why you were in such a hurry and wish you could tell your ten-year-old self that there is no correlation between age and freedom. 25. You speak to me of the past as a better time. Which year is the one you’re longing to go back to? No year in particular, you say. You miss them all, the missing years. You have counted your steps to the edge of the world. What awaits you there? The seagulls and the hermit crabs clamor of realms unknown. The air gleams with salt and spray, an unreal mirror-world. The ocean undulates likes some amorphous leviathan skulking toward its prey. You dig your toes into the sand and watch the frothy crawl of water break against your ankles. The sea recedes, washing away the land beneath you. You feel yourself sinking. You imagine you will sink in this spot, inch by inch, until the tide rolls in over your head. You think of the earth at your back, all of that sturdy ground you roamed. You think of the roads you never traveled and the homes you never entered. There, it must be there—the life you were meant to live.
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Lucia Cappuccio
and on the eighth day‌ When God decides to switch off the light that he accidently left on upstairs, I will be next to you, holding you until we are left only with self-made sounds.
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Mimiko Watanabe
The Building 2 photography
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Lia Manoukian
Beginners I is the word for amateur lovers tucking all other pronouns under the damp covers scuttling like curious crustaceans. We is the word in the corner of your mouth where confetti collects where dust gathers and sleeps with the crumbs from our breakfast of bagels. You are my favorite clown. They are the party we run from. It is sleeping beneath the covers. I think we can finally call ourselves lovers.
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Sandra Cordero
Lobster Dinner
linocut
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Bjorn Winberg
Reunion He’s on his back with a notebook pillow between ripe vines and the barn, staring at Napa stars, grass itching through deet as he palms white wine in a plastic cup and listens to the unwrapped handcrank flashlight-radio an uncle gifted him an hour ago. He’s grinning at nobody, he thinks, about self containment when the Chopin nocturne comes on in three inch mono. For four minutes he feels the same sinking love he felt for the smiling blonde
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polio girl whose suddenly dead electric wheels made it hard for him to get off the airport elevator. This comes: Classical radio makes me love my dead dad. He handles that snapped line. Sits up and fumbles the radio off. He regrets his old poem and wants a new one so he opens his notebook. But, flipping to my stupid fucking mother, he winces again having answered nobody’s question. So he leans back over to turn the radio on, except thirty feet away, at the barn corner, he spots his little blonde cousin Myra in a moon white dress, standing with a beach ball between her hands, staring at him. She drops the ball and runs away.
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Mimiko Watanabe
The Building 3 photography
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jessi james
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carefully~ carefully, i turn on the hot water waiting for the right temperature, i look up into the lackluster mirror, seeing. the lukewarm water splashes softly against my forearms, hands braced on the white sink, yellowed by the week; it’s the right temperature now, i take the worn white square of cloth and heat it with the rushing water’s warmth, i
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touch it to my tired face gently, rubbing the smudged black mascara away, leaving me vulnerable my hooded eyes staring up through long, naked lashes as i wash the rest of my face, tucking the soft of my lips, the bridge of my nose, the lids of my eyes
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into the warmth of the damp towel, feeling the small wet droplets cling to my skin’s surface as i finish with one last circular rub. i take
a slow breath...
and turn to open the old wooden door and let you in-----
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Sandra Cordero
Lobster Texture oil on canvas
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Lia Manoukian
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My Favorite Robot You are a refrigerator I toss words at you like magnets I hope some might cling to your sleek cold exterior but you you shiny robot are silent except when you hum
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Danielle Bohmer
Entangled When Not Amidst photography
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The Stem Bends to the Current of the Sea Angela Dunne His blood begins to slow and his lungs gently throb from the lack of oxygen. The water acts as a soft restraint as his arms sway like seaweed above his head. His body is both suspended and gently descending deeper into the cold. He briefly hears a ringing at the core of his head. Everything is silent now. He looks up at the surface of the sea above and sees the waning crescent of the moon; the stars, billions of them holding their places on the split between water and air, even with the slight movement of the water. All is still and calmer still as he slips below. The instincts that he had been born with or nurtured into have given up: the fight to live, the struggle for air; he let it all go, as one would a burden. The pounding inside of his head subsides and he sees an image of his mother from outside of her kitchen window projected onto the surrounding darkness. She can’t see him, her eyes stare downward, she perpetually pushes her smooth brown hair behind her tan shoulders. She is washing dishes, the dishes that pile up over and over
The Olivetree Review again, the dishes that will never stop piling up. She is dead; her life was those dishes, cleaning them, at that window, every night. The amount of rings on her heart were nowhere near the many rings inside of a middle aged Great Oak. The image scatters abruptly and his body jolts. He feels a twinge of suffering at the break in his tranquility, until he tells his lungs that they won’t breathe again and they relax in acceptance. His shoes, saturated with water, have slipped off of his feet and are on their way down, beating him to the bottom. He sees a tree. Its bare, black and saturated branches seem to be coming up at him from below. He remembers, when he was young, looking out a window at the large American elm in the park across the street. Its branches were full, filled with green, and its bark was dry. The vast area of the surrounding liquid dilutes the recollection until it is gone. He looks down and sees himself descending into a neat forest, a garden. As it nears him he notices that it is filled with familiar flowers and foliage. When he was a little boy, he collected plant books and pulled flowers to give to his mother. She would put them in plastic cups and he would hang a tag on each one, listing its proper name. He remembers when the sun came through the porch door, and shone into the water and through the petals inside of the plastic. Sometimes the wind would come through the kitchen window and make the tags of paper and crayon plant names dance at the end of their string. His feet land inside of the garden and he slowly begins to sway in place. He recognizes some of the flowers in rows. The Apple of Sodom with its un-ripe and poison yellow fruit, dull against the background of the pure white Juneberry petals. He kneels on the earth in front of the Rose Milkweed. As he digs them up, the pollen falls down from the stamina and onto his hands, making them a milky purple. A single bubble escapes from his mouth and makes a rapid attempt to the surface. He blinks and then closes his eyes. The tops of his eyelids feel the water as cold silk, gently flowing against their nerve endings. He remembered her skin against the sheets. They were not silk, but cold cotton feels just as good in the summer. They met
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The Olivetree Review when he saw her sitting next to some bittersweet nightshade flowers. She was picking the plant’s red berries. “They are poisonous, you know.” “Aren’t they all? I just like to see what is inside.” She walked closer to him and he saw that she had a scrape on her knee. He asked her for one of the berries, he bent down and squeezed it onto her scraped skin. She winced and jerked her leg away, “I thought you said they were poisonous!” “Only if you ingest them. They are used as an herbal remedy for the skin.” He saw that her eyes were looking at him and he was struck by their shade of green; it reminded him of the Indian Hellebore. He opens his eyes and finds himself in the black water. He closes them again and moves his head to feel the silky motion of the water. Her skin was smooth, with the oils of the peppermint plants that grew in his backyard. He loved when they would spend the day lying in a field and saturate the sheets with the smell of the rye grass. He would pick her flowers and teach her their many common names and uses. She would uncover her parts and teach him their many common names and uses. He wanted to find flower that smelled like her. He opens his eyes and on the dark of the water her image is projected as he watches her leave through his window, surrounded by an outer frame of Wild Cotton and Wineberries. --- -- He knew that it was always just them, that they were the only two people on the planet with their plants and bodies. He saw the entire earth, a suspended ball of rock on the plane of an infinite universe, slowly spinning in place. He saw her in his mind. He saw them both on the long-sun baked road surrounded by trees, which stretches across the span of the world and they are always traveling in different directions; they, the only people in the world, to their empty continents, to their empty towns, to their empty houses.
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The Olivetree Review He thinks and he hopes that she is thinking. Our two minds hold the contents of the universe, and I only know my half. I am searching for the water and when I find it, I know that you will be there, taking it in through your eyes. You are looking for the water, I know this, and when you find it I will be inside, taking it in through my pores. We will meet there, at the beginning and the end. There is a light coming from the core of the garden. It gets too bright for him to focus on anything else. It begins to cover him and warm his skin. The closer it gets the more tranquil he becomes and the more his limbs loosen and relax. He feels his blood come to a standstill inside of his veins. His red cells stop at a loss with no oxygen to carry on their backs. His body is buried deep in the earth beneath the sea, where his lifeblood no longer flows, but his blood-root has taken hold.
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Connie Salvayon
Despondent
photography
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Danielle Bohmer
Inhabitants of Past Residences photography
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In the Name of Good Service Nolan Bohorquez Standing behind the counter, Aaron couldn’t help but feel a bit of satisfaction. Not that this was improper. He had led a very satisfying life. In fact, most of Aaron’s memories were happy ones - memories of sitting on the grass listening to the radio, his mother’s homemade macaroni and cheese and, his personal favorite, the glorious sensation he got when he finished a day’s work, sat down at his local bar, and enjoyed a drink with friends. It had been a satisfying life, but now that he looked at it Aaron was coming to realize that it wasn’t a particularly significant one. It had always been his mother’s macaroni and cheese, the radio DJ’s choice of song and his jobs had always been with one big corporation or another as another cog. Even the beers had been opened by someone else.
The Olivetree Review Aaron looked at the beer in his hand, popped it open (after a try or two) and toasted the bright future in front of him. He looked around the bar, at the various glowing logos, the pinball machine, even the crummy shades in the back. At his old office there had been motivational posters. His favorite had been of a monkey, in a suit, smiling at the camera. He’d heard once that monkeys smiled out of aggression, not pleasure. Still, it had looked the same to him. Aaron looked around the bar until he found a bucket full of rags. He picked one up and began cleaning it, which was something he was sure he had seen bartenders do. A man pulled up to the bar in a blue sedan, got out and walked towards the bar’s door. The man was holding a suitcase and was dressed in a brown business suit with pleats. A grin split open Aaron’s face. Ok, you can do this, thought Aaron. You don’t have any formal training, but you’re done with formal training. Just open the beer and smile. Easy. There was a ding, the door swung open and the person walked in. Aaron picked up the glass from the bar and continued wiping. It had been clean, but he wanted the customer to know he was devoted to making it cleaner. The man walked up to the bar. “You don’t have a dishwasher?” “What?” said Aaron, putting down the glass. “Yeah, we do. It’s, uh, in the back.”
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The Olivetree Review The man bent over the bar and looked. He pointed to a black box, with a sink full of sudsy water. “Isn’t that a dishwasher?” he said. “One of them,” said Aaron, dumbly. “I mean, we’ve got another in the back. For bigger loads.” The man squinted at Aaron. “You didn’t have one last time,” he said. “Do I know you?” said Aaron. “Oh,” said the man, reaching into his jacket. “Sorry, I’m Mr. Sanders. The Health Inspector.” Sanders pulled out his ID and Aaron inspected it, his mouth frozen. He took a deep breath. “I can handle this,” thought Aaron. “I haven’t seen you here before,” said the man. “Oh,” said Aaron. “I’m new.” “Do you have a name?” asked Sanders. “Jeremy,” said Aaron. “Huh,” said Agent Sanders. “Wasn’t the last barman named that?” A_aron blinked. “Yeah, I think it’s the boss’ son’s name or something. Guess I’m looking at a nickname, huh?” “I guess…” Agent Sanders’ turned back to the room. He reached into his pocket,
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The Olivetree Review pulled out a pair of glasses and then began inspecting. Sweat hung on Aaron’s neck. “You could come back, like I said,” said Aaron, “I won’t tell anyone you were here.” “That’s not how it works, but thank you,” said Agent Sanders. The health inspector walked along the room’s perimeter, running his hand over the walls of memorabilia. Suddenly, he stopped. “What is this?” he asked, poking a hole in the wall. “Oh, that’s from a while ago,” said Aaron. “We were almost robbed, but the person ran after that happened.” “Oh, I didn’t hear anything about that,” said the health inspector. “We’re trying to keep things hush hush,” said Aaron. “Hey, why not have a beer? You know, on me and all that.” “Again, thank you, but I can’t. On duty and everything.” The inspector began looking around again, continuing across the wall and then down into the corners. “Must be a hard job, huh? Being a safety inspector. I bet you never eat out.” Agent Sanders smiled. “You wouldn’t believe some of the things I’ve seen. I’ve been to dozens of restaurants that grind their own beef? And almost every time they open the machine we’ll find bit of insects and fur.” “That’s incredible!” said Aaron. “Horrifying really. What else?” Agent Sanders smiled and then shook his head, no. “I can’t,” he said. “I don’t want to keep you up at night. Besides, most kitchens are wonderful, clean places.”
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The Olivetree Review “Or at least tolerable, clean places,” said Aaron smiling his widest. The health inspector looked around and Aaron watched as something in the man broke. This was what Aaron had been waiting for. He had seen it happen a million times before, usually to himself, and he grinned as the health inspector came to his decision. “You know what? Let me get that beer.” “Coming right up,” said Aaron. “What’ll you have?” “Anything dark and in a bottle.” Aaron reached for a glass and pulled it down. He began filling the glass but the Health Inspector gasped. “What?” asked Aaron. “You’re doing it wrong,” said the inspector. “Not that I’m trying to get in your way.” “No no,” said Aaron, showing his teeth. “Please.” “Well,” said the inspector, “you need _to hold the glass at a 45 degree angle, so the beer doesn’t splash and foam up too soon. Then, tilt the glass up slowly when you’re around two thirds done.” “Oh,” said Aaron. “Right. Thanks.” Aaron finished pouring the beer, being careful to follow instructions, and then handed it to the Inspector. “How long have you been working here again?” asked the inspector. “Not long enough, apparently,” said Aaron, grinning even wider. The inspector stared at his beer until the foam dissipated, leaving a cup as dark as coffee. He leaned back and took a long drink.
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The Olivetree Review “So, how are we doing?” asked Aaron. “On the inspection I mean.” “Excellent,” said the inspector. “And not bad on the inspection either! I’ve found a couple of violations, that hole and the drapes torn in the back, but overall this is a good place. Clean and well-kept.” “It’s the neighborhood,” said Aaron, beaming. “Couldn’t have a dirty bar here if you tried.” The safety inspector took another sip of his beer. “All I have left to do is check the back,” said the inspector. “Oh?” said Aaron. “That’s it?” “Well, that and to get a few things signed by the owner.” “Mr. Taylor? He’s usually here right now,” said Aaron. “I don’t know what to tell you.” “What’s really odd is that I called him just twenty minutes ago and he said he would be here.” “Stranger still,” said Aaron. “He must have run out.” “But you just said you haven’t seen him.” “Well,” said Aaron. “I only got here a minute or so ago myself.” “Maybe I should check the back while we’re waiting,” said the inspector. Aaron blinked. “Alright,” he said. “It’s right behind the bar.” The health inspector stepped behind the bar and Aaron turned away to give him the necessary space. While he was turned, Aaron grabbed the inspector’s bottle and glass off of the counter.
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The Olivetree Review The back room was a silver-lined kitchen, with freshly wiped counters and an island countertop in the center. The health inspector went around on the right, while Aaron went around on the left. Aaron watched the inspector carefully. Were the drawers the wrong height? Were there rat droppings in the corner? He kept quiet, walking along the other side of the counter, waiting for the health inspector to notice the biggest violation of all. He watched as the inspector reached the other side of the island and noticed, leaning against it, an older man tied up and gagged. “What the--” said the inspector, bending slightly to examine. His thoughts were interrupted by another violation, in the form of a bottle crashing down on his head. A splash of blood ruined the countertop, there was a flash of pain, a screamed curse from Aaron, and the safety inspector went down onto a floor with no safety mats. A kick to the chest, thought Aaron. That’s a point off. Same for the two kicks to the stomach. He wasn’t sure how the kick to the head would get graded. The inspector didn’t seem to even notice it. Aaron ran out of the back room, picking the still dirty rag off the bar. The bottle had broken down the middle, leaving a chunk of glass in his palm, and he nursed it as well as he could. At the same time he reached under the bar and grabbed the last of the extension chords, which he brought to the back room to tie up Sanders. “Mr. Taylor,” said Aaron, grinning at the man on the floor. “I think you know Mr. Sanders.” The old man winced, trying not to look at Aaron.
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The Olivetree Review “It wasn’t supposed to go this way,” said Aaron. “People get fired all the time. I just wanted a chance to try something different. I was supposed to come in, get the money and leave. It was Mr. Taylor who thought it was a good idea to pull a gun and who had the bad sense to miss.” The safety inspector moaned. “Don’t worry,” said Aaron. “I just need to buy some time. Someone is going to be around in a couple of hours. I’m sure of that. I just need to tie you all up so that I have a little time.” Aaron reached into the safety inspector’s pockets. He took the money from the inspector’s wallet and his keys. “I’m almost happy this happened. You don’t know how desperate I was getting,” he said. “My car was repossessed, my mortgage is due and all I could think was that people were finally paying attention to me. And I’ll probably get caught, but at least for once I’ll get a little excitement in my life.” Aaron took one of the rags, still dirty, and shoved it into the safety inspector’s mouth. He then ran a piece of tape around the safety inspector’s head. “Thanks for this by the way,” he said. “Mr. Taylor drives a stick shift. I honestly had no idea how I was going to get out of here.” Aaron laughed and patted the safety inspector on the shoulder. “So there you go,” he said. “Way to make a difference.”
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Connie Salvayon
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photography
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Contributors Danielle Bohmer is a Psychology major who has always valued creativity and the unordinary. She dabbles in photography, drawing, painting, and writing and makes experimental electronic music. Danielle feels that rather than consciously thinking up her creations, she serves as a medium for them. She appreciates anything that gets her thinking and enjoys transcending the commonality. Nolan Bohorquez is a supercomputer designed to review webpages and create stories, ranging from science fiction to comic realism. It was invented by Dell in the mid-eighties and has worked for The Olivetree Review and The Youngtown Edition. It enjoys singing “Daisy” slowly and asking humans about their emotions. It was last seen in the Olivetree Review office saying “What is this...‘deadlines’?” Lucia Cappuccio is a sophomore double majoring in Creative Writing and Media Studies. When she isn’t interning at a literary agency or wasting time with friends, she enjoys reading great books, writing poetry, blogging, and cheering on her beloved Yankees.
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The Olivetree Review A senior at Hunter College, Angela Dunne is in the last semester of her undergraduate studies in Creative Writing. She began writing in the realm of poetry and soon found her true place in short fiction. The sequence of her journey has grounded her writing in a dimension called poetic fiction. Her main interests and inspirations include: God’s Word through His prophets, existential philosophy, dreams, and the Abrahamic religions. She writes to give another perspective on the contemplation of human existence. She can be reached at TheKnowledgeFlow@gmail.com. Jessi James is a person who is interested in many things, a few of them being writing, good tea, reading, painting, drawing, chocolate, photography, thunderstorms, Japanese language and culture, good friends, tacos, and generally being a lazy bum as much as life will permit. She also enjoys spending time with her boyfriend and their dog, chillin’ on the couch, watching movies together. Esther Ko has been majoring in Creative Writing for seven years and is successfully becoming ill-equipped to do anything else. No, she does not know when she will graduate. No, she does not know what she will do once released by the administrative offices of Hunter College. For now, she prospects in the words of dead writers: “I want to escape from the eternal push & rattle of time into the coolness & poise of a work of art. But all this requires peace & calm and time time time which I haven’t got oh blazes, hell I haven’t got it.” Lia Manoukian has ink, chocolate, music, and love coursing through her veins. This is her first time writing about herself in third person and Lia kind of likes it. Crystal Rivera studies Creative Writing at Hunter College, where she has been poetry editor of The Olivetree Review since fall 2009. She believes in the art of collaboration and conversation. Also believes in Frank O’Hara’s words: “You just go on your nerve”—and so she writes on her nerve. Her muses are rooted in city tongues, halfempty whiskey bottles and the wind—which could never be rooted. She writes on bottles and menus all over NYC.
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The Olivetree Review Connie Salvayon is an artist working in several media of expression, including poetry. She is driven to create art conceptually expressing human emotion. For her, artistic expression is a vital form of selftherapy and communication. She is currently pursuing an undergraduate Studio Art degree with a focus in Sculpture. For more work, check out: www.wix.com/crsalvayon/openwindows Victoria Sharoyan does not know what her life would have been like without The Olivetree Review. It has given her the urgency to write, the daring to perform, and the inspiration to make a living out of literature. She is on a mission to read at least 50 books by the end of 2011. Her poetry, essays, and photography can be found at: victoriasharoyan.tumblr.com Mimiko Watanabe first discovered the building in her photos when she was fourteen, bored, and exploring with her friends. She took pictures of it that first day and has continued to revisit the building with her camera. It is constantly changing, evolving, deteriorating, and over the years, her camera has captured it in many different lights. Bjorn Winberg is a twenty-something year old musician from Los Angeles who started attending Hunter College more than two years ago. He took all the germane classes for a degree in English and is now working up the enthusiasm to complete his foreign language requirement. He resides in Clinton Hill, Brooklyn. Jennifer Jade Yeung
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For my mother: “He put a belt around my life, I heard the buckle snap, And turned away, imperial, My lifetime folding up, Deliberate...� - E. Dickinson
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