THE OLIVETREE REVIEW
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ISSUE 61 FALL 2017
The Olivetree Review The Literary & Arts Journal of Hunter College
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THE OLIVETREE REVIEW
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ISSUE 61 FALL 2017 Leying_Zhang-_MG_3505.indd 3
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Š The Olivetree Review, CUNY Hunter College, 695 Park Avenue, Hunter North 115, New York, NY 10065 theolivetreereview.com Fall 2017, No. 61. This journal is funded by Hunter College's student activity fee and is distributed free in the university committee. The artwork featured on the cover is "Self Portrait in a Door Mirror" by Eunice Ng. The fonts used are Helvetica, CODE light, and Biko. Layout design by Julia Bannon and Jason Lalljee. Submissions are reviewed September through November and February through May. We consider submissions of visual art, fiction, creative non-fiction, poetry, and plays. The Olivetree Review is completely staffed by undergraduate students of Hunter College. All submissions are reviewed anonymously and then chosen by Hunter College students. Permission to publish the content in this issue was granted to The Olivetree Review by the artists and authors 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 St. Cloud, Minnesota
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The Olivetree Review
ISSue 61 FA L L 2 0 1 7
The Literary & Arts Journal of Hunter College since 1983
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A d m i n i st r at i v e a N D E di to r i a l Sta f f FA L L 2 0 1 7 Editor in Chief
Social Media Manager
Rachel DeCesario
Ahmed Hassan
Vice President
Graphic Design
Ariel Tsai
Treasurer Tanisha Williams
Secretary Stefania D'Andrea
Drama Editor
Julia Bannon Jason Lalljee
Associate Editors Ahmed Hassan Raven Hicks Andrew Shkreli Phuong Vo Tanisha Williams
Julia Bannon
Poetry Editor Oscar Vargas
Prose Editor Jason Lalljee
Publicity Manager Raven Hicks
Publicity Assistants Allison Greenberg Phuong Vo
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Ta b l e o f C o nt e ntS Art MIDTOWN RAYS Raphaella Claudette Ramos
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WOODSTOCK Jim Kelly
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REFLECTIONS Katarina Epino
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PASSING Sarah Stofko
UNLIMITED AVOIDANCE Kutay Agardici
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HYMN Ariel Tsai
FLOWING Anonymous
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SELF PORTRAIT IN A DOOR MIRROR Eunice Ng
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MARIA HASSABI'S PLASTIC Eunice Ng
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UNTITLED Anonymous
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Drama
Poetry JIBARO: TIO CARLOS Marcus Alvarez
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NO DEAL Kara Burke
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CYCLICITY Emily Hernandez
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EVENINGS ARE ANOTHER KIND OF SLEEP John Robinson
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THE SWORD IN THE STONE Miguel Francis
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TO WRITE Sarah Rozenblat
I'M JUST TRYING TO EXIST, DO YOU MIND? Sophie Bramnick
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OF GOD Evan Leone
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Contributions
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Meet the Staff
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Bios
Prose FOR NO ONE Julia Bannon
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Bios
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L et t e r f r o m T h e Sta f f
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his spring has been one undoubtedly eclipsed by uncertainty. The sense that so much is at stake for our community at Hunter, in New York City, and beyond is one that has deeply influenced our perspectives and thoughts in this first part of 2017. Such climates have often shaped the art and literature of generations. We would not have Hemingway or Picasso without World War I. We would not have George Orwell or Arthur Miller if it weren't for the era of Mcarthyism. Nor would we have Maya Angelou or Richard Wright or August Wilson without the countless and continuing struggles for racial equality. The works of Virginia Woolf, Margaret Atwood, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, would be obsolete if it weren’t for ever-looming gender injustice. Countless names and works that have molded our behavior and the way we think, act, and live our day-to-day lives would not, and could not have ever been made if it were not for the daunting obstacles that drove our favorite artists to work. Art is action and reaction—this is a fact with which we at OTR are intimately familiar. From those of us serving on staff, to the community we have built through workshops and events, to the writers and artists featured in this issue and the many preceding, we have epitomized diversity, strength, and creativity. So, as we continue moving forward, perhaps the art and the voices making noise around us gives us more to be optimistic about than not. We hope that the hard work and the beautiful results that have come to fruition as Issue 61 will represent these sentiments as much to you as they do to us. Our sincerest gratitude goes out to those who have helped to craft this edition and support our organization this semester. All the Best,
T h e OT R sta f f
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H i sto ry o f t h e o l i v et r e e ince 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 Olivetree's original staff members, Pamela Barbell, Michael Hariton, Mimi Ross DeMars, and Adam Vinueza,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 original first issue. Digital printing allows for both the inclusion of full color images and extra design elements to be available for all projects. We began including photography submissions 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've also begun accepting drama writing submissions as of Issue #52, meaning we're finally accepting and printing all forms of creative writing and art that it's currently possible to.
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To W r i t e
Sarah Rozenblat Poetry There’s something in me that wants to say something profound to touch hearts to change something — if not the world to put into words what has eluded us for so long to transcribe the feelings raised by a song to form so eloquently a description of life — the swells of the heart, the bittersweet ironies to bring everything forth to connect hearts and souls to create something so profoundly human — a thing of truth for all.
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M i dto w n R ay s Rafaella Claudette Ramos Art
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W o o d sto c k Jim Kelly Prose
snapshot might help here. Crop the scene a bit. Narrow the focus. Lose a few of the distractions. The mud the music and the crowds. The non-stop bustle and racket. I don’t have one, but if I did it would show a skinny guy smiling by his open trunk, his greased up Elvis pompadour glinting in the hot August sun. This was farm country. Upstate New York farm country. Dirt section roads, a vast grid network of them, criss-cross, connect the whole area. They cut along, between the fields. Link up with bigger roads, with small towns. One stopped, dead ended into another that ran right behind the stage. So forget the famous bird’s eye of the main road in. That two lane macadam useless, invisible under all those cars. Miles and miles of abandoned cars, five, six and seven across, pointing this way and that. Off behind the stage the section roads stayed open. All during the festival people came and went. Probably, that’s how he got in. “Hey Hippie!” he’s yelling. “You hungry?” Who he’s yelling at is unclear. His car, a lime green, two tone fifty seven Chevy is parked, pulled off on the grass at the edge of the road. This road is
A
solid people, all baby stepping in the same direction. A million foot, dirt daubed organism shuffling along slower than slow. Hard asleep on a patch of mowed grass, in the hot morning sun, I blink awake to a boot in the side, to someone close by, above me somewhere, saying “get up, get up and get off my lawn.” This farmer’s house is surrounded by the festival. One section road runs along the edge of his front lawn. A few hundred yards to the south is the back of the stage. In every direction the fields are filled with cars and busses, tents and campfires and people, crowds and crowds of people. I am, just then, one stranger too many. Goofy from lack of sleep, I stand, apologize and reenter, become again the shuffle. A short bit later, hearing the guy’s pitch, I stop, step free and listen. He has a small crowd around him. Dangling, from the top of the open trunk, is a hand lettered sign on a string. On both sides it says, “Sandwiches $5.” “When was the last time you ate Hippie? You want a sandwich? A homemade peanut butter and jelly sandwich? They’re five bucks apiece. No limit. You can buy all you want. How about you Hippie?
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You look hungry, real hungry? And your girlfriend there, she looks like she hasn’t eaten in days. How about it big shooter, buy the little lady some food? Show her what kind of a man you are?” A scruffy guy in bell bottoms is offering less. Is holding out what looks like a single dollar bill. The skinny guy isn’t buying it. “Money talks Hippie, bullshit walks. You got five bucks, you get a sandwich. You don’t have the fare, take a hike. No deals. No discounts. How about you? You hungry? You want a homemade peanut butter and jelly sandwich? Talk to me Hippie. Buy a sandwich or get lost. No window shoppers. I got merchandise to move. People to feed. Don’t block the goods. How about you Hippie, you hungry? You got the price of admission?” That’s when the big guy, big guy with the long gray ponytail showed up. He looked down into the open trunk. We all did, crowding around, getting in close. There were four large cardboard boxes, their tops cut off, full up with sandwiches. Sandwiches wrapped in wax paper. Each sandwich was sealed at the top with a price tag. A ragged swatch of masking tape with “$5” written across it in black crayon. Not speaking, the big guy picked up the sandwich hawker and set him down a few feet
away from the car. “Anybody hungry?” he asked then, lifting out a box of sandwiches,handing them out one at a time. Eventually, when all the sandwiches had been given away, he put the empty boxes back in the guy’s trunk. “You want to help out here” he told the skinny guy “bring food to share, to help feed your brothers and sisters. That’s what this is about, not ripping people off.” Feed the myth? Why not, it really did happen just like that. The baptism too. Only that happened on our way home. We were filthy. Hadn’t changed clothes since we showed up. Five days and nights living in the same sweated through jeans and t-shirts, socks and sneakers. Sleeping on vinyl car seats, in wet grass, in the mud. So we stop in a small town and buy new everything. Jeans, t-shirts, socks and bars of Ivory soap, three big bars of Ivory soap. The pull off was just where the guy told us it would be, the hitchhiker we’d given a lift to. “Best swim ever.” he said. “Pull off is by this little bridge a mile, mile and a half out of town. There’s a path down to the river. You buttslide down these wide, smooth rock shelves for awhile then the river dumps you into a deep clear the pool at the bottom. It’s maybe eight feet deep tops. You won’t regret it, trust me.”
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E v e n i n g s a r e a n ot h e r kind of Sleep John Robinson Poetry Bruised blue cloud-cover hangs beyond a hazed verdant, summer woods. Fireflies rise upward from the lawn in that dreamlike stillness of dusk. Ivory has bloomed, almost glows, a fading light. Nocturnal creatures make successive calls, impounding a feeling almost ineffable: gestalt of July. This mood, so convincing order compels meaning forth, yet, if there were no forms of being, intellect or soul would not impose an order of their own, shaping words with thought reclaiming possible impressions of all truth.
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R e f l e ct io n s
Katarina Epino Art
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OF god
Evan Leone Poetry My spiritual sense is The inexpressible nets cast Into uncaring cold seas And drawing up bits That’s we’ve all seen to saturation Like krill millions & seaweed bits But in the imagined space Between each lattice crosshatch And each sinew of careful stitched string We have worlds slipping through As we cast the net up, tee-total and say; “Routine, nothing new, it’s just a normal kind of day.”
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Hymn
Ariel Tsai Prose
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n the amber of my memory, my grandmother’s house is always hazy with humidity and incense, dimly lit by flickering, bare bulbs. In my childhood, she counted her sins on a clicker, muttering prayers like mantras under her breath. She was training herself; a dog rolling overbelly-up, expecting salvation (want a treat?). Her attic was a shrine to the gods. The statues in the alcoves had eyes that followed me around the room and haunted my nightmares. She tried early on to save my poor little soul, but I tripped over her prayers and cringed at the smell of incense (see: pavlovian conditioning). I became a religious failure at the ripe age of seven years old. Her devastation chased my out of the house and into her backyard. My grandfather found me hiding in the shade of the trees he had planted. Here was a man who, like me, could no more memorize prayer than he could compose a symphony. I asked him in my fractured Mandarin how his lack of piousness had not gotten in the way of his love for my grandmother, and he laughed. Quietly (he was quiet where she was loud), he told me that he had already found God, or the gods. They slept in the earth, he said, but awoke and reached for the heavens in the form of trees and flowers and all things straining against gravity towards the sky. I was seven years old, and God
did not walk among the trees for me. I considered myself to be a spiritual failure in all senses (I’m sorry I’m sorry), doomed to never see the world the way I was raised to. My grandfather told me that he saw my father in me. He had wandered, said my grandfather, away from the trees and the house that reeked of incense; towards the stained glass and ringing church bells; then towards the temples in the mountains; then away, far away. My father ran an ocean away for breathing space. (Was it enough?) My grandmother is forgetting things nowadays. There are days where the incense goes unlit, where she calls my father and asks what time it is and he has to remind her that it is three in the morning here, half a world away (time is only an illusion but distance, distance is what gets you). My grandfather worries, because age is a disease that he cannot prune from this tree. I hear my father praying sometimes, almost silently, eyes closed. In his expression I see my grandmother, clicking, counting. I see my grandfather looking at the sky through the treetops. I see the bird with clipped wings, straining to fly (go on, you’re free now). We are all searching for God. We are all searching for salvation. We are all searching for each other.
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S e l f p o rt r a i t i n a d o o r mirror Eunice Ng Art Leying_Zhang-_MG_3505.indd 18
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No deal
Kara Burke Poetry we are all conversation and furrowed brow, sigh. grunt. u would think im starving by the way i devour the news feed, multiple eye roll but the days drone on like the whirr looming under this artifact dome. would rather speak of protest inside mansions than take the train to the rally, today your witty-picket-sign march is a privilege, but two years down these toe-tramplin-police streets, barricades of specters ex-lovers, your mother’s brother, the redhead who massaged you into crunches tombstones - threat of obliteration microcosms of Cold War across the nation, got us like deer in headlights blind, still, facing the stranger of whiplash ideological Pangea nothing separates us despite the threat of brick and mortar between the Divided States and the scapegoated progeny fear a dark past and dark skin, solution: darken the future. shoving the body into CIA shredding machine, we are tree stripped of roots chop us down watch us gush we are forrest eradicated til there there is no aiiii where? and no body to breathe it recycled into graveyard molded into emptiness, whatever the state wants us to be. asthma normalized, the threat of ash my neighbor born a carcass as if the veneer of bones marks desert worthy of desert education is rebellion depending on the teacher, breaking away from the kumbaya circle i drew magical facade of hope, the clown in the White Supremacy House preoccupies himself with hand speculation, using his to tighten the rope and we just hang, like its no big deal, no, no deal.
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T h e swo r d i n t h e sto n e Miguel Francis Drama
CHARACTERS RANDY A commercial actor cast as King Arthur. An upbeat, positive guy. STANLEY An uptight, classically trained thespian cast as a jester. Utterly loathes Randy. Speaks with an English accent but is from Scranton, PA. SETTING An elevator in a network studio. TIME Modern day. (An empty stage. A ding is heard as lights come up. Stanley is in the “elevator”. Both men are in full costume.)
(running) Hold it, please!
RANDY
STANLEY
Oh dear Lord.
RANDY Almost missed it! Thanks, Stanley!
Hello, Randall.
(Randy goes in for an unreciprocated high-five.) STANLEY
RANDY (High-fives self.) D’ah that’s okay! You excited to shoot today? STANLEY We are not “shooting.” We are filming. (aside) Imbecile. RANDY Po-tay-toe, po-too-ta— this is a fun commercial.
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Whatever you say.
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STANLEY
Suddenly, the lights flicker and both men stumble as the elevator halts. RANDY Whoa, Nelly! Looks like we’re stuck! Wait, no, what—
STANLEY
RANDY No worries, handy-dandy-Randy’s just gonna hit the call button like so… No, no, NO!
STANLEY
RANDY We’ll be fine! Out any minute. HELP! I’M TRAPPED! Just breathe.
STANLEY RANDY
STANLEY BARBARA! SOMEONE! ANYONE! They can’t hear us. HELP!
RANDY STANLEY
RANDY This is an opportunity to spend some quality time together! This is my nightmare.
STANLEY
RANDY (sitting down) Better get comfortable. Oops, don’t wanna sit on my sword—if I had a nickle, amiright fellas haha wink wink nudge wink? STANLEY
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OTR Help…
(slinking down, feebly)
RANDY (miming) Pst, Stanley, check it out! I’m in a box, IN A BOX! A long silence. Stanley takes out his phone and starts playing a game. RANDY (CONT'D) Do you ever think about how penguins are monogamous? STANLEY
No. I think it’s so sweet.
RANDY STANLEY
Hm. (Pause.)
RANDY Hey, Stanley? How come you didn’t RSVP to my birthday party? Excuse me? My birthday party.
STANLEY RANDY
STANLEY I’ll do it when I get service. It was two weeks ago. Didn’t see it.
RANDY STANLEY
RANDY I saw the notification pop up on your laptop when we were getting our makeup done.
Slipped my mind.
STANLEY
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61 RANDY I’m not mad, I just—y’know… everyone else who said they weren’t going responded… and no response is as good as a “maybe”…… and all those “maybes” are practically “yeses”………and every “yes” means I have to calculate how much bean dip to make for everyone… STANLEY What are you blathering on about? RANDY Why didn’t you come dip your chips in my beans, Stanley?! STANLEY Are you five years old? So I didn’t come to your little party. Grow up, Randall. RANDY My name is “Randy”—“Randall” is a dead white guy name. STANLEY A twit by any other name is just as insufferable. RANDY Why do you speak like that? You’re from Pennsylvania! STANLEY (breaking into his natural Pennsylvanian accent) Liszen here, jagoff, youse has got no right—! (He covers his mouth and clears his throat.) How I choose to carry myself is first and foremost a professional preference. RANDY You act as if you’re important. STANLEY I have worked on several Sundance films and was a key player in the off-Broadway hit, Le troisième testicule, which was a huge— RANDY You were extras and that show means “The Third Testicle”! STANLEY How dare you ridicule my career when you’re stuck here doing commercials!
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OTR RANDY You’re in the same commercial! And I’m the lead! STANLEY I am a world-class, well-traveled, highly esteemed thespian and you will respect me as— The lights cut out and Stanley shrieks very shrilly. RANDY We’re okay, I think they’re just restarting the system. (sniffs) Ew, what is that? STANLEY
What’s what? (Sniffs) That stank.
RANDY
STANLEY (Quickly) I don’t smell anything. RANDY Stanley, did—did you just poop your pants? STANLEY
No.
(A long pause.) RANDY …I think you pooped your— I thought I was dying!
STANLEY
(A pause. Randy breaks out laughing.) You can’t tell anyone. Please, please, I’m begging you. It will ruin my reputation. RANDY I think you need a reality check. STANLEY (As Stanley gets emotional he devolves from his British to his Pennsylvanian accent.) Please. I stand before you a humbled man asking you to please keep
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this between us. I know you’re of good character, Randall—Randy. And truthfully… I’m quite jealous of you. You make acting seem so effortless and all I’ve ever done is complain to make it look difficult. And everyone likes you! I saw your party’s guest list and it made me sad because even the people who couldn’t attend wrote things like, “Wish I could make it!” I don’t have that in my life. I’m sorry I’ve been such an ass to you. I know I don’t deserve your help, but I beg you, from one… professional to another—please, keep this a secret.
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RANDY Wow. I didn’t know you felt that way. The lights sputter on. STANLEY
I do.
Door dings, elevator says: “Ground floor.” STANLEY (CONT'D) What do you say? RANDY (running out) HEY EVERYONE! STANLEY POOPED HIS PANTS! (Curtain.)
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M a r i a H a s s a bi ' s P l a st ic At t h e m o m a
Eunice Ng Art 25
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For No One
Julia Bannon Prose
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he grunting of the black metal folding chair as my sister dragged it across the concrete basement floor should have been enough to shake our parents from sleep as they laid hovering two floors above us. “Sleeping angels.” I couldn’t tell if Maggie was being sardonic or something else, patronizing or maybe nostalgic. I wished it were the latter. My fingers were getting twitchy while I observed her arranging our set. She slid the chair in front of where I stood under the fluorescent ceiling light, center -stage. My thumb nail found itself between my left incisors, which were grinding against it, creating a gnawing noise only I could hear. She moved to the other side of the room and crouched under a table where she rummaged carefully through a red plastic toolbox that had been repurposed some years ago into a treasure chest of craft supplies. She pulled out safety scissors and snipped the prop in a subconscious eagerness as she walked back over and landed in the seat in front of me, facing away. Her long brown and gold and in-between colored hair fell against her back. Sixteen inches long, I guessed. She held the scissors over her shoulder as an offering. With a chomp, the tip of my nail came free, and I used the now-unoccupied hand to accept the gift. As she felt the weight of
the scissors lifted, her hand slackened and retracted into her lap. Her command: “short.” This was all in the plan she had subtly dictated to me the day before, but her resigned frankness in that moment stumbled me. I knew she had made up her mind in leaving, but she hadn’t made mine. I scrambled through my thoughts, searching for some final plea. Something to get her to change her mind, or find some way around all of it. “Maggie, I don’t know—” “Dude,” she sighed. Not sad, but exhausted. She had this was how it was going to be, and there would be no more conversation about it. There wasn’t really to begin with, that’s just how she was. A few words would suffice to tell you anything she was willing to share; if you didn’t glean her message or whatever secret codes she was purveying, that was at the fault of your own thickness. I was doing my best not to be thick. As I cut the first chunk out of her heavy hair, it felt like I had plunked a petal off a daisy, picked on the very last day of summer. When she was 11 and I was eight, we set out on the same mission in our basement. Probably even with the same blue and white safety-scissors and the same uncomfortable chair. I could still see the young doe-y locks floating the short distance down through the air, landing bluntly on the floor to the back drop of virginal laughter. My hands so easily brought the
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blades against the strands. This was the crooks of her red-tinted nose and joy, and it was monumental and love- chin. “What did you do? Oh my god, ly and all I wanted from her. The final it’s so short! It’s too short!” blow of the sheers was satisfying, and Her sobs were so loud they mufI sprinted upstairs to find a hand mirror fled our mother’s roar from the kitchto show Maggie her new look. en. I only heard the vibrations of her As I burst through the cellar door steps as she made her way over our into our kitchen. I was met with the heads, ready to burst through the endearing concern of my mother as door and down the steps to settle I moved swiftly past whatever had hapher on my mispened. I stood I knew she had sion, euphoria with my pinky made up her mind in in my shadow. nail bearing “What are the friction of leaving, but she hadn't you girls up to my front teeth. made mine. down there?” “I’m sorry, “Nothing!” I Maggie,” I cried blurted through giggles. She would inaudibly. love the haircut too. It all replayed in my head in A minute later I was back with less than a minute, and I became Maggie. Shaking with excitement, aware of the vague smile widenI faced her, hiding the mirror be- ing over my face as I continued hind my back, holding her in my trimming her hair. With a bit of a suspense. Her face was so sym- laugh, I halted and asked, “Remetrical. Her nose sloping bare- member the last time I cut your ly downward, a few freckles over hair?” Maggie paused for an indark summer skin, plushy childish stant, it felt like the time between brows, the slightest gap between a slow, resting heart beat. her front teeth. Every detail of her “No,” she said. “Not Really.” round, special face was so perBut she did. fectly familiar to me then. A face When I finished, the hair fell that could be so happy and then unevenly and stopped abruptly fade so quickly to red harshness against her bony, speckled clavicle. in a tantrum. Even that was a com“It’s no masterpiece,” I defendfort. Her new, short hair, slightly ed. But she didn’t look at it, just ran lopsided, a product of my enthu- her fingers over the shortened softsiasm, felt like my contribution to ness as she rose from her throne. an identity I basked in. I loved her “It’s perfect,” she assured, plainand I wanted more than anything ly. She moved briskly to the stairs and for her to love me. crouched under them to pull out my Pink-cheeked with pride, I finally dad’s old duffle bag from the crawl flipped the mirror to look back at her. space, newly stuffed with her favorEverything flushed blue. Hot ite sweaters and two pairs of jeans tears in her eyes, she screamed, “It’s and anything else one needs when too short!” Salt water drizzled into running away at age 20. She slung
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the vessel across her shoulders and silently mounted the carpeted steps in her bare feet. I followed silently behind her, less gracefully, with each step creaking under the quick weight of my feet as if to get out some last goodbye to her. It occurred to me then that this was the last time my family would be together in one place. Us silently in the kitchen and my parents asleep in their room. Yet I could tell the three bedroom home, with scratches on the legs of my dad’s armchair from our old dog, the Persian rug I vomited on when I was four, the doorledge of my parents closet where we had clocked in our heights on January first each year, was empty to her. She pulled a folded piece of loose-leaf from a pocket of the duffle bag, it had fringe along one side from the spiral notebook she had drafted it in. Maybe she had written more than one draft, spending time to carefully devise the words she would use to declare her freedom, her choice. She placed it in front of the coffee machine, where it couldn't go ignored. I followed her to the front door. She slid on a pair of flat, brown, leather mules. She twisted the bolt free, and pulled the port open. I figured she’d walk out then. She wasn’t one to linger. But as she put her hand on the knob of the glass door it lacked her characteristic decisiveness, and she simultaneously reached out and squeezed my limp upper arm with her face angled out toward our yard, a momentary glance at the browning grass. Her long unpainted nails
poked barely through my sleeve, and just as I began to relish the pressure, she was out the door and halfway down the driveway. In that second, as the chilly morning breeze slipped in the narrow opening of the door as it shut itself, I didn’t want to see her anymore. But I stood still and watched until she made it past the scraggly birch that lined the street in front of our neighbor’s house, blocking her from view. I bolted the door behind her and went up to bed, forgetting about the heap of hair abandoned on my basement floor. A pile of leaves. I didn’t read the letter but I gathered what it had said, and she was right—as aways—about how they took it. When my dad found the note, he read it over with his morning joe like the local newspaper. Shrink-wrapped, black and white print that you run over with your car most days, unless you want to read an acquaintance's obituary. When my mom read it she cried for hours. She prayed for even longer. They hated that she would get a Coach Shortline bus from the stop around the corner to Milwaukee, home to the nearest Planned Parenthood 3 hours away. That she was going to move into a small apartment there with a guy named Ed. That Ed wasn’t so bad. That she didn’t feel bad about any of it. They really hated it and I hated it all too, to be honest. But I still loved her.
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Emily Hernandez Poetry I know of a little boy who wakes every morning by the sun pouring in from broken blinds, And the first thing he sees, Is the mold on the shower walls, Dressers with no drawers, Clothes strewn on the floor, and Plates, cups, spoons, piled on the sink. No one will wash them, as No one will take out the overflowing trash, or rotting tomatoes from the refrigerator, or clear off months old mail from the dining table, But despite this, he still Puts on his best “I don’t live in squalor” costume, And goes to school for free. Though, while he forgets how inhabitable it is at home, He is reminded how hard it is to break free from poverty, As the teacher collects the homework he couldn’t and didn’t do, And shakes her head at him in disapproval, And then he comes home, To the cable cut off, No dinner made, And the bed bugs that bite Until he that bastard sun wakes him again.
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J i b a r o : T io C a r lo s Marcus Alvarez Poetry
I still remember that pana tree. It stood tall and righteous with its stretching leaves like hands, your hands, large and wide shading over me. The way you climbed up its tall wind breaking branches as if it was familiar, an old friend you tended to and who shared its fruit in return. The cuts and scraps along its trunk; make me think of what was, like the many stories you weren’t able to share. The sap that ran along its bark, oh how it resembled your usual undershirt and rolled up khakis covered in paint, oil, grease, dirt, and rust. The roots that stuck out above the ground uncovered like your feet in chancletas, a worker never constrained by shoes, a true Jibaro.
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U n l i m i t e d Avoi d a nc e
Kutay Agardici Art
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Pa s si n g
Sarah Stofko Prose
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hea shielded her eyes from the sun as she read. The pages collected sand as she turned each page. She paused to look around. The gulls circled overhead. Two more fought over a fallen french fry nearby. The beach was crowded. Jamie and Cole were in the water somewhere. Shea compared herself to the others on the beach. The others had deep tans and bright swimsuits. They looked healthy and robust, a thin layer of fat clinging to their muscular frames. Her own skin was like paper, white and thin, revealing the sinews and bones beneath, the blueness of her veins. She gathered her things and walked barefoot back to the rental house. Her sister would be getting back later. Jamie and Cole had been spending every minute of light sunbathing. In the evenings the two girls would beg Shea to buy them beer and sneak them cigarettes, the latter she refused. Yesterday’s sunset had been spent with Shea taking pictures of them on their bikes. “How do we look?” “You’re a couple a’pin ups. Can I go inside?” Shea had enjoyed the beach despite her reservations about the island’s population. She enjoyed the salt in her hair and on her skin, the feeling of the saline water drying on her body as she lay in the sun. She enjoyed the oppressive heat, the unblemished sky, the yellow dunes, the stout rental houses. Every morning that they had been
here Shea had woken up early and left the cool green light of her and the younger girls’ shared room to walk to the Mom and Pop style coffee shop a block up the road. She would sit on the porch of their rental with her coffee and read before following Jamie and Cole to the beach. Shea tended to go with the younger girls, but did not like to hover. She would get her fill of sand and sea and be off. As she stepped into the rental house, its floor already sandy and the rooms smelling like fresh salt, she stripped for a shower to rid herself of the brine that coated her skin. No matter how she scrubbed she still felt the polish of salt water. She did not mind this. She combed her hair and put on her sun faded shorts and t-shirt, with her worn canvas shoes to go walking. Her hair dried up in the heat within minutes of going outside. She walked to the bay on the other side of the narrow island. All she had to do was cross the main road and pass a couple rows of brightly painted bungalows and she was facing the bay, rather than the Atlantic. She looked at the white boats of varying sizes anchored in the calm water, smoked, watched the gulls. They circled the sky, landed near her, formed scavenging groups. One of them had half a hot dog bun in its beak. It was larger than the others and in its effort to keep it from them it came to near her. She kicked at it anxiously. Their empty eyes unsettled Shea and she hated when they got near to her, but they were a near constant pres-
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ence on the narrow island. She had been reading on the At home Shea lay in her bunk for porch for a while. She was losing light, a while. It was coarse with sand and so she folded her page in Season of she tried to get as much off as she Migration to the North and simply sat could. The room was cramped with watching the sun set. Jamie and Cole two bunkbeds. Shea’s sister and her stepped through the sliding door and friend’s things lay exposed. There told her that they had gotten permiswere ruffled bikini tops, floral shorts, sion to have Shea take the car to the shoulderless dresses, backless tops, boardwalk on the south side of the isall in gooey pastels laid gracelessly land which was too far to bike. Apparagainst the green bedclothes. Their ently that was where all of the people bulging suitcases had been convert- Jamie’s age hung out at night. They ed into dressers/hampers and re- wanted Shea to buy alcohol for the vealed a tangled mess of teendom. occasion and Shea obliged, going to The nightstand was a shrine to all the the liquor store and walking out with inky eye enhancers and bubblegum her backpack bulging. glosses that had not made it to the The two younger girls rode bathroom. Each had brought a copies in the back. Jamie held her phone, of beauty magazines that had gone connected by a chord to the radio, unopened during their stay. In the and played that summer’s popular minutes before sleep the two prefered music. They sipped on the watery to huddle together and scroll through beer Shea had bought, splitting their phones whispering and giggling. one between them. They poured Jamie seemed to find her sister another into a water bottle. most tolerable when she was silent. Shea said little as she drove. It She doted on her as if Shea were a was already dark and she apprecihandsome older brother, until she ated how straight the road was. The said something that offended her es- traffic moved quickly. She followed oteric, pubescent sensibilities. She the pick up behind her, breaking was very sensitive and accelerating to anything that with the change No matter how she might embarof the bumper rass her in lights. To her scrubbed, she still felt front of Cole. left, white the polish of salt water. Shea found headlights that she was sored through not driven to say the blackness. Shea anything controversial to her kid sis- rolled the window down. ter and so they got along fine, and When they got to the boardwalk besides Jamie thought it was better the two girls were already tipsy. Shea than having their mother accompany had forgotten how little that girls of her places. Shea made a neutral su- that age could drink and berated pervisor on the bike rides which were herself. She would not buy them any embarked on in pursuit of ice cream more. As they parked the first thing cones and beach accessories. Shea noticed was that parking lot
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was crawling with high school boys. As Shea approached it she They wore boat shoes and khaki pulled out a cigarette. shorts with brightly colored t-shirts. You dropped something.” “Do you guys want to try the ferShe turned. There was a group ris wheel? It might be nice to look out of boys and girls in sportswear, at everything from up sitting on the ledge. high,” Shea said, She looked down The island was trying to sound and saw a resimply friendly. ceipt had fallnothing but lights, car “Not realen out of her lights and streetlights ly.” pocket. She Shea foland house lights, breaking picked it up lowed the and put it in its flat and formless face, two of them the trash. She a shallow galaxy of movwho were walked on. As walking toshe cleared ing stars. wards a playthe group she ground that shelheard laughter tered groups of neatly and indescript words. dressed boys who had an antic- One boy nearly shouted, “There’s ipatory if somewhat bored air. no way that’s a girl.” Their figures menaced Shea and The laughter followed her for the made her want to leave. One boy next few steps. It was as though a accidentally bumped Shea. blunt force had suddenly pressed “Sorry, man.” itself against her stomach. She “No problem.” Her voice au- pushed away the shock as she tomatically lowered. This deep- cracked her volume of Hemingway ening came so naturally to her in short stories. They probably don’t moments such as this that it was even know who he is. She paused convincing. She could not repli- for a moment to consider that Hemcate the sound if she wanted to; it ingway would be more interested in only came to her when necessary. the thoughts of these boys than her Jamie and Cole soon had a own. It was likely, but still his syntax couple of boys asking them in- greeted her like an old friend. nocent sounding questions about Even as she read, Shea found school. Shea knew what they that she could not drown the memory were after, but she figured her of what had just happened, how they sister could handle herself. She had wanted her to hear, that after two handled herself with the boys at years in college she was still subject school. Also, they were in a public to the whims of high school boys. She place. She said goodbye without was uncomfortable with the power introducing herself and walked that they still had over her. along the edge of the bay towards She walked a block to the an empty bench which sat under amusement park. It was small, with a solitary lamp. only a few rides. Shea thought it had
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UNTITLED
Anonymous Art
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the feel of a small-town fair, an impermanent pile of rusting metal. She bought a ticket for the ferris wheel. She was the only person standing alone on the line. She did not make eye contact with anybody, fearing the looks she may be met with. The operator tried to seat her with a couple, but she refused, meekly insisting on her own unit. The operator shrugged. The couple looked relieved. From the top of the Ferris wheel the island was nothing but lights, car lights and streetlights and house lights, breaking its flat and formless face, a shallow galaxy of moving stars. The buildings were low and uniform. She heard laughter around her. She looked up at the actual stars, peppering the inverted black profundity above. When the ride was over she felt no different. She went to find Jamie and Cole. They had not gone far from the spot where she left them. They were talking to different boys now. Shea asked them if they wanted to get food and they seemed willing enough to leave the guys. As they walked from the playground to the area with all of the shops, boys continued to vye for Jamie and Cole’s attentions in the most misguided and clunky ways. The things they said were of so little significance, so arbitrary that it would have been better if they were not said in the first place, let alone be repeated here. Shea bought the girls burgers and fries. They ate them at a splintering wooden picnic table. Jamie and Cole told her about the boys they were talking to, how they were
boring and too aggressive. Shea was glad to hear it. “Did they keep making random comments?” “That honestly happened more when you were with us.” The girls were tired and their buzz had worn off. Shea was trying to hold back the story of what had happened. They would not care or understand. The story pressed and poked. The overly enthusiastic voices of the teenaged boys and girls around her made her feel like a caged animal. The boys on this island hung out in packs. Their little groups blotted the boardwalk, the playground, the sidewalk, the lot, the shops. The look in their eyes was hungry, empty. They performed feats for each other. They shouted, ran, and jumped sometimes, got into arguments. Debates were settled based on which one of them shouted the loudest. As they walked back to the car one of these nomadic tribes approached them. It was one boy in particular. His friends slowly drifted towards Shea and the girls, keeping a strategic distance. They did not acknowledge Shea. They were speaking in their language, babbling about nothing, trying to wrestle themselves some attention from the sidelines. The boy who had approached was older than the others, or looked it. The others were thin. He had a suspiciously thick coat of muscle under his tight t-shirt, a varsity athlete no doubt, shot up with steroids to fulfill the frustrated hopes of a petty high school level bureaucrat. He was about an
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inch taller than Shea. Roids held out a card to Jamie, “Here you go.” Jamie read it. Lady Killer M.D. Specialty Big Pimpin and Physical Remedies Call 1-800-Doctor D
Jamie’s face contorted into a look of disgust, “Is this a joke?” “Nah. One hundred percent serious,” said Roids. “I don’t like this,” Jamie said dismissively. She tore the card in two. Roids started ranting about how his friend had paid to make those business cards. His pack, who had been holding their distance began to descend like a plague. What’s going on? What’s going on? They said. “Nothing, just this little bitch ripped my card.” At the word bitch all of Shea’s docile blood was churned like the rudders of a boat in a still lake. The word was like a summons to all of her dormant and foolish courage. My sister. She thought. She looked at the boy and knew that if he were to hit her she would be defenseless, but the heart which forced itself against her ribs as if to break them, as if to remind her that she was alive and therefore could act, forced her voice. “Don’t call her a bitch,” she said. She could not live with herself otherwise. My sister. “What are you going to do about it, bro?” Shea was oddly undaunted, “Nothing. Don’t call her a bitch.”
One boy, who had been off to the side looked from Jamie and Shea, spotting the resemblance, “Is that your sister?” “Yeah,” Shea said. There were a few things said after that, but the tension had been broken. They would not insult another man’s, who they thought was another man’s, sister. Suddenly the challenge which would be intolerable otherwise was understandable. Shea and the younger girls walked to the car. At home Shea gathered her sleeping clothes and went into the bathroom while the younger girls changed. She took off her binder. There were deep red marks under her breasts where the binder chaffed and squeezed her skin. In the mirror she saw the shoulders and narrow hips of a delicate boy, interrupted by balloons of alien flesh. She dressed and left for the beach. She walked to the water’s edge. She was alone. It was dark and the sea was no more than a howling black mass. It seemed as if she stepped too close it would reach out a hand to pull her under, into the depths. For one moment she had been a man. She had done nothing, only spoken, and belligerent teenaged boys had backed down. She had been a “he” and all the promise of white male privilege had been proven true. She did not want to think of what would have happened if they had realized what she was, not a boy or girl, but a queer. She remembered the humiliation by the water’s edge. “There’s no way that’s a girl.”
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CONTINUED "There's no way that's a girl" That. As she stood and stewed, every indignity of her life came back for her to suffer once again, flashing behind her eyes like comets propelled by the pressure of the night’s events, adding to her sense of righteous hate. There was nothing she could think of to reconcile herself to the world around her. Everything she recognized of herself in it was that which she loathed. She could not deny to herself that what had motivated her to stand up for Jamie was not sisterly love, but brotherly ownership. She could not deny that she cared less about her sister being insulted by a peer, rather she cared about what it would say about her if she did not stand up
for the young girl under her watch. Her eyes stung with salt, burned with the same rage that choked her, rage which threatened to send her down to attack the sand, hurl insults at the ocean, but she did nothing, admitted none of her anger by any physical act. She stood very still, almost as if she were paralyzed, a dark figure outlined barely by the moon before the sea. If someone were to pass by, they would simply think that a young man had gone out for some air.She looked at the sea before her. It was obscure. Nothing but the pale light of the moon which flecked it distinguished the water from the sky. If it drowned you, it would not even know it. That’s power, she thought.
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F LO W I N G
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I ' m J u st T ry i n g to e x i st , d o yo u m i n d ? Sophie Bramnick Drama
INT. COLLEGE LIBRARY, DAY ABBY is working quietly at a desk in the “no talking” study area, minding her own fucking business. She has her headphones in and is clearly not looking to start up a conversation with some fuckboi. A FUCKBOI working at the desk next to hers leans over for no apparent reason. FUCKBOI
Hey.
Abby does not hear him. Fuckboi speaks to her again, this time a little bit louder, as if she is not busy although anyone with a functioning brain could tell she is not trying to start shit right now. FUCKBOI (CONT’D)
HEY.
Abby takes out her headphones reluctantly to be polite because her mother raised her to be a polite young woman, goddamnit, even when some random-ass dude is bothering her at the library. ABBY
Hey. What’re you doing?
FUCKBOI
ABBY I’m sorry, do you need something? Fuckboi feels emasculated and irrationally angry because he is a Dumb Boy and that is how Dumb Boys deal with women not wanting to engage in conversation with them 24/7. His pea-sized brain feels one of the few emotions it recognizes: anger.
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61 (In case you were wondering, the other emotions his brain recognizes are hunger, lust and the feeling you get right before you’re about to drop a major deuce.) FUCKBOI Damn, I was just asking. What’s your problem? Abby somehow keeps her cool even though her day has beenextremely stressful. She chooses to not tear out his eyeballs with her long, manicured fingernails and answer his ridiculous question. ABBY (Said with a surprising amount of chill) I don’t have a problem, I’m just trying to do my homework. Note: Fuckboi should deliver this line like he wholeheartedly believes that all women exist solely for his entertainment, regardless if it is 9:46 pm on a Tuesday and the woman in question is just trying to finish her homework so she can go home and watch Seinfeld reruns before going to bed. FUCKBOI You didn’t have to be so rude. I was just being friendly. Fuckboi packs up his belongings and walks towards the door. FUCKBOI (CONT’D) (said dismissively over his shoulder, as if he is an important person whose words actually mean something) Have fun with your homework. Bitch. Abby’s eyes roll back into her head. They roll back so far that they leave her eye sockets and fall out of her face. They roll away under the table. Her arms and legs start to twitch and they pop out of their sockets. Her arms crawl away, fingers cracking, out of the building and on to the street. They lie down into the gutter to die, shivering in the brisk fall air. Her legs run out of the building. They don’t know where they’re running, but they’re running fast. Maybe to a place where the sun always shines and men aren’t terrible. Who knows. Abby’s head disconnects from her torso. It rolls away, down the hallway, not unlike a bowling ball. It rolls into a dumpster twelve blocks away. Abby dies. It is good. The pain is over. It’s good.
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C o nt r i b ut io n s Kutay Agardici is a senior at Hunter College. After graduation, he will be
pursuing an MA at the Graduate Center in liberal studies. Kutay has always enjoyed paying close attention to the concepts that we grow to be dependent on and not notice in our daily lives. Although the Empire State Building is a major landmark, it is exactly what Kutay is interested in terms of the way native New Yorkers look to see about it. If it were placed somewhere else, we too, like the tourists we make fun of, would be amazed at its beauty.
Marcus D. Alvarez is 22 years old and attends Hunter College as a biology
major with an English minor. He hasn't started writing and editing my own work in poetry until last fall.. Much of his inspiration is taken from his childhood, family, heritage and the major events that have molded his perspective of the world.
Julia Bannon likes writing and reading and other stuff. She hopes you like her story. If you don't, that's cool too.
Sophie Bramnick is currently a freshman at New York University's Tisch
School of the Arts where she is studying dramatic writing. She hopes to one day create art and tell stories that matter, but for right now this is cool too. Contact: Check her out on Twitter (@sophiebramnick) and on NYU's independent blog, NYU Local where she blogs about sad men and dogs.
Kara Burke was a super serious not supercilious senior at Hunter. She is
from one of those southern states and has flapped her Hawk wings for a couple years. Ideally, if she flies back (to finish her degree), she will major in theatre as activism. She loves pizza and that was a lie. Contact: kay.ay.burr@gmail.com and tricklesofthetruth.wordpress.com!
Kenny Eng is a student at Hunter College who grew up in Queens, New
York. He is currently pursuing degrees in English Language Arts and childhood education. Kenny hopes to have a positive impact on his future students, like his own teachers had on him.
Katarina Epino is a senior at Hunter College with a double major in
psychology and studio art. She is an aspiring artist, taking advantage of the many art classes at Hunter to experiment with different mediums. Her heart forever lies in drawing and writing, and hopes to one day become a graphic novelist. Photography is definitely fun, too.
Emily Hernandez is in her second year at Hunter College. She recently
switched from a a Physics degree to Creative Writing. She has been writing
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61 for about four or five years. She started because of recurring nightmares involving her dead dad. She likes classic rock and roll (Jimi Hendrix is awesome) and unfiltered cigarettes. Asking USG why they run out of cups is pretty high on her list of goals.
Jim Kelly is a retired traveling salesman who has been writing for over forty years. His work has appeared in War Literature & the Arts, Harvard Review and is forthcoming in Chicago Quarterly Review.
Eunice Ng is a freshman math major. Her primary media are painting,
drawing, and sometimes amateur film photography. She enjoys Canadian geese, coffee with milk tea, and Wikipedia browsing. Contact: neunice98@gmail.com
Claudette Ramos is an East Harlem native who was born in the Philip-
pines and holds a deep love for political science, creative writing, and production. Her life goals include double majoring in Media Studies and Political Science, minoring in English, and visiting every ice cream shop in NYC.
John Timothy Robinson is a traditional citizen and graduate of the Marshall University Creative Writing Program in Huntington, West Virginia with a Regents Degree. He has an interest in critical theory of poetry and American Formalism. John is also a fan of Creeley, Louis Zukofsky, William Carlos Williams, and Richard Kostelanetz. John is currently working on a creative dissertation in contemporary poetry, though outside the university.
Hannah Rozenblat is a writer born and raised in New York. She is currently working on her master's degree in Art History at Hunter. Although she enjoys working with all genres, she particularly loves reading and writing non-fiction and being exposed to new points of view, which reinforces her belief in the beauty of humanity. During her free time she enjoys travling, photography, theater, ballet, and going to museums.
Sarah Stofko is an undergraduate student at Hunter College. Her maininfluences are Ernest Hemingway, Flannery O'Connor, and James Baldwin. Her writing is focused on attempting to analyze queer and women's issues through narrative
Ariel Tsai is a freshman at Hunter College who writes mostly poetry, but
occasionally prose. However, she writes too little, swears too much, and takes herself too seriously to aspire to be or truly identify as a writer. Instead, she plans to become an editor and marry rich.
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M e et T h e Sta f f E di to r i n c h i e f Rachel DeCesario is a double major in anthropology and English litera-
ture. She likes art, books, dogs, vegetarian food, knitting, and getting a full 9 hours of sleep. She spends most of her time in OTR's office fretting about unnecessary things, but its all just part of her charm.
V ic e P r e si d e nt Ariel Tsai's one and only talent is pretending to know what is going on. Her life is a farce.
Treasurer Tanisha Williams is not an android.
S e c r eta ry Stefania D'Andrea is an English major who has been part of OTR for eight semesters and a member of its Executive Board for four semesters. You can find her somewhere around Hunter begging for the universe to give her a break, usually while her mouth is full of pizza.
D r a m a E di to r Julia Bannon is a sophomore, double majoring in English and anthropol-
ogy. Julia loves reading, writing, taking long walks on the beach, and eating KINDTM Bars.
P o et ry E di to r Oscar Vargas is a square.
P r o s e E di to r Jason Lalljee does a mean Gollum impression and not much else.
S o ci a l m e di a M a n a g e r Ahmed Hassan Graduating Senior, Ahmed H, has made it through the
labyrinth that is College. He sees the Triwizard Cup, shimmering in the center. With his last amount of energy, he trudges through Midterms that pop up from the ground, Papers that whizz towards him, and Finals placed neatly on a desk before the cup. He passes each hurdle with a little bit of sass, reaching the gold glow of his goal. He slowly lifts his writing-fatigued arms, and firmly
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61 grasps his well deserved trophy. Alas! He is transported to a new location, falling onto the floor of the Department of Labor, with an English degree in his hand, at the end of the Unemployment line.
P u b l ici t y M a n a g e r Raven Hicks is a senior at Hunter who's pursuing a double BA in English
linguistics and rhetoric and women and gender studies. In her spare time, she likes eating mac and cheese, ardently collecting memes and dragging people on the internet for their racism, misogyny, and homophobia. She hopes to one day become a published author that crushes the capitalist machine through the awesome might of her words and saves the world. Or, become a writer on The Walking Dead. Whichever comes first.
P u b l ici t y A S si sta nt Phuong Vo is currently a sophomore Yalow Honors Scholar at Hunter
College. She is pursuing a double major in biological sciences and a minor in psychology. She aspires to become a physician one day. Some of her hobbies include photography, exploring new cuisines and traveling!
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CONTACT US
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