DisIdentifications - OutWrite Newsmagazine (Spring 2018)

Table of Contents 04

La Leyenda Real de La Llorona

06

Over the Rainbow

11

Moon to Sun

12

The Purest Hero

14

Libertad

18

Hero’s Visit by Chastity and Love

20

Fuchsia

26

the place where we didn’t exist

Over the Rainbow

Libertad

The Purest Hero

Hero’s Visit by Chastity and Love

Fuchsia

Letter from the editor This edition of OutWrite is comprised of works of fiction. Inspired by queer theorists such as Judith Butler and José Muñoz, the theme “disidentifications” describes a deliberate recycling and rethinking of encoded meaning. Herein, our authors draw upon classic works of fiction in attempts to reconstruct their messages in a way that accounts for, includes, and empowers queer identifications that are otherwise eluded or disavowed.

I hope you will be as inspired as I am by the creativity, imagination, and talent of our authors, illustrators, and designers.

Thank you for supporting our organization by reading and sharing. Most importantly, thank you to the entire OutWrite staff for your dedication, hard work, and passion. I feel extremely blessed to have worked with every single one of you.

It is said that La Llorona weeps for her children whom she drowned as revenge against her husband.

She walks an ethereal plane, searching for their lost souls that they may enter the afterlife.

That tale is a fabrication, one that was heteronormatized and used to dissuade women from abandoning their supposed commitment to a “womanly,” maternal lifestyle.

This is the real legend of La Llorona.

La Leyenda Real de La L lorona written by Austin Mendoza illustration by Shay Suban, layout by Astrid W

DD

uring life, he was Alejandro… most of the time.

You see, Alejandro was a gay man living in la Colonia Tabacalera, widely known throughout the land as a haven for queer people. Despite this, it still wasn’t entirely safe to be queer, and Alejandro felt that he shouldn’t express his more feminine side in public...as Alejandro.

He created a drag persona instead.

At first, she was just María. Her appearance mirrored those glamorous wives Alejandro had seen walking around the streets, but one day, she accidentally smudged her mascara as she was getting ready for a gig.

She liked how the smudged line ran down her face from her eye, but people in the underground scene snidely remarked that it looked like María was crying black tears.

Instead of heeding their snarky words, Alejandro embraced the tears as representing La Llorona’s sorrow for all the queer people he had seen humiliated and arrest-

04 | OutWrite, 2018

ed – or worse. María was reborn as La Llorona – “the weeping woman.” With her symbolic black tears, long flowing gowns, and unparalleled status as a chismosa, La Llorona quickly become an icon for the local queer community. She even added a marigold in her hair to further honor all of the queer people who had passed to the Land of the Dead. Everyone loved La Llorona.

One day, Alejandro went to a grand ball in la colonia.

There was to be dancing, drinking, and of course, a drag performance featuring La Llorona. Much to everyone’s surprise, forty-two people showed up to the gala, the most the underground scene had ever witnessed. Many of them were even dressed in drag, inspired by La Llorona. Even the mayor’s son was there. There were drinks aplenty, and Alejandro had heard some especially gag-worthy chisme that morning. This would be a night to remember.

And remember it they did. Hours into the party, the house was raided by the police. Only one of the forty-two escaped arrest. The forty-one were all made to clean the streets in front of the gathered onlookers with their feminine attire serving as rags, and Alejandro was exiled to the ongoing war in the Yucatán.

Alejandro died in that jungle, and what’s worse – his spirit was bound to this plane. This confused Alejandro, as he had assumed he would accompany the sun on its journey across the sky in his role as a fallen warrior, albeit a forced one. His spirit even took on the mournful appearance of La Llorona. Alejandro was constantly stalked by a shimmering bat with emerald eyes, who did nothing but whisper in a deep growl, “Remember the forty-one…”

Alejandro hated that bat. Surely it was sent to torture him and mock the way he had lived as a gay man.

Maybe he was unworthy of the sun, but what other explanation could there be, that not even the arduous trials of the underworld were suitable for his soul? He was being punished for being gay, and for dressing as a woman, by remaining in the jungle and being mocked for eternity with the memory of that disastrous gala.

For years, Alejandro sat on the steps of the old temples among the vines, imploring Mictlantecutli, the king of the underworld, to grant him entrance to somewhere, anywhere but the world that had mocked and destroyed him. Alejandro never got a response; just that accursed bat, screeching its cruel message through the trees.

One day, as he was sitting on the temple steps, a teenage boy appeared from the vines. The boy looked like hell, and was wiping tears from his eyes. This was the first time Alejandro had seen a living person since his death, and to his shock and surprise, the boy approached him. Alejandro wasn’t even aware that he was visible – he had assumed spirits were imperceptible.

“Why do you shed these tears?” Alejandro asked, somewhat gruffly. The boy managed to choke out words through the tears; “My family found out that I’m gay. My father beat me and kicked me out and told me to never come back. I have nothing left, so I’ve come to throw myself at the mercy of the gods. I don’t know what else to do, but when I recognized you here, Llorona, I found it a sign of fate. I can’t go back there, my father’s the mayor…”

“Remember the forty-one…” whispered the bat in Alejandro’s ear.

My father’s the mayor. This was the forty-second person, the boy that had escaped arrest at the gala.

Alejandro’s heart broke. He saw so much of himself in this boy, and suddenly it all made sense. The spirit of La Llorona was not bound here as divine punishment, but because she could make an impact. Alejandro could use the memory of the gala as motivation to empower other young queer people like himself, so that they wouldn’t have to suffer like he did.

“I can help you,” Alejandro interrupted the boy.

Alejandro told the story of La Llorona, the symbolism of her tears and marigold, and what had happened to her. “You seem old enough to live on your own, perhaps you should move to the colonia where I once lived. It’s not perfect, but it’s much more accepting of people like us than your father. And fuck what he thinks! If they can’t accept you, you can find your own chosen family in la colonia, and they’ll never judge you for being who you are. I’ll guide you there myself.”

So the boy emerged from the jungle and went to live in la Colonia Tabacalera, accompanied the whole way by his newfound spirit guide. Once there, La Llorona continued to travel around and give guidance to queer people, who spread word of her kindness within the community.

La Llorona still visits queer people in their times of struggle to offer a voice of support and compassion.

She dries their tears, and it’s said that people are still comforted by her own ubiquitous weeping appearance. She tells everyone she visits of her mascara and marigold, just as she did that day so long ago on the temple steps. She may even share the latest chisme from la Colonia, which remains a refuge for those she helps. Even her bat accompanies her on some visits, still whispering its message: “Remember…”

So remember the legend of La Llorona the real one.

The one discarded by those who would erase us from their history.

Remember her, and remember our past.

If we don’t, who will?

OVER THE RAINBOW written by Anastacia Kellogg illustrations by Carmen Ngo, layout by Andrew Evans

I

n the civilized countries there are no witches left, nor wizards, nor sorceresses, nor magicians. In the civilized countries there are no towns delicate as china, nor cities made of jewels. In the civilized countries there are no armies of pretty faces and knitting needles, nor wild beasts with grace and manners, nor boys who turn into princesses wearing flowers and gauze.

But, you see, the Land of Oz has never been civilized.

On a warm, pleasant day, which had been spent half attending to important affairs of ruling and half doing nothing at all, Ozma suggested to Dorothy that they should go on a journey together to a corner of her kingdom that they had not yet visited. “After all,” she said, “it has been a curiously long time since our last adventure, and I am not used to so much quiet!”

Ozma was the Ruler of Oz, and though she looked like a young girl she was widely considered to be the fairest and the wisest Ruler the country had ever had. Dorothy Gale had once been a little Kansas girl but was now a Princess of Oz and Ozma’s constant companion.

“We shall make it a whole procession,” said Ozma decidedly, “and we’ll invite anyone who wants to come along. And you must bring your aunt, for she has seen so little of the beautiful country for all her time here.”

“I’m sure I’d be glad of the trip,” agreed Dorothy.

“You know, my dear, it’s very strange, but continues to be a mystery to me. That is, I always find her a touch odd when we speak, and never know why. Perhaps it is because she isn’t from Oz to begin with—but then, neither are you. You must tell me more about your Kansas!”

“There isn’t much to say ‘bout it,” replied Dorothy. “Least, not that I haven’t already told you.”

“But you’ve told me so little,” said Ozma. “I know of your farm, and your fields, and your cyclone cellar. But here in Oz you have travelled from one side to another, and you have brought back so many stories that you must know my own kingdom better than I do!”

“That’s dif’rent,” said Dorothy. “Oz is very new and queer to me.

You know I grew up on the prairie, where everything was gray. You could travel for miles across that country and still see everything looking the same, but you can’t go more than ten feet in Oz without meeting someone stranger an’ stranger.”

Dorothy was ten years old, sitting on the broad Kansas prairie, and had just found Aunt Em softly crying while Uncle Henry tried to comfort her. Then Dorothy asked them to tell her what was the matter. They had not told their niece the sad news for several days, not wishing to make her unhappy, but now they told her how desperately poor they were, how they were about to lose the farm and the house, how uncertain they were of food. The girl listened quite seriously.

“Do you suppose you could manage to return to your 06 | OutWrite, 2018

fairyland, my dear?” asked Aunt Em. Uncle Henry shook his gray head doubtfully. “These things all seem real to Dorothy, I know; but I’m afraid our little girl won’t find her fairyland just what she had dreamed it to be.”

They were uneasy, for this is a practical humdrum world.

Every morning, they stopped for Bill, the Yellow Hen, to lay her daily egg. Aunt Em waited impatiently to collect it, an old habit of hers from living on a farm.

“I can’t und’rstand why she won’t let me put the ‘eena’ on the end” declared Dorothy earnestly to her friend as they stood to the side.

“Surely ‘Billina’ is a prettier name than ‘Bill’ anyway.”

“Oh, it isn’t any concern of yours,” said Ozma carelessly. “And if it’s such an easy name to change, perhaps there’s really no difference between them.”

“But it’s all wrong, you know.”

Ozma looked sternly at the Kansas girl. “Really, Dorothy, that’s a rude thing to say about anyone’s name.”

Dorothy, as even her friends had to admit, had one notable deficiency in speaking, which was that she did not often think before she did it.

She felt rightly embarrassed by that now, however, and tried to mend matters by explaining, “It’s just that all the Bills I know have been—” “—have lived in Kansas, not in Oz. Perhaps you find her name unusual, Dorothy, but everything in life is unusual until you get accustomed to it.”

“I s’pose so,” replied Dorothy with her pride a little bruised, for she did not like arguing with her friend.

“After all,” said Ozma, “is Billina a girl?”

“No-o-o,” said Dorothy, “she’s a yellow hen.”

“Then perhaps it is best left to a yellow hen to decide what name is right for a yellow hen.”

In the Country of the Gillikins, which is at the North of the Land of Oz, lived a youth called Tip. This boy remembered nothing of his parents, for he had been brought quite young to be reared by the old woman known as Mombi. Tip was made to carry wood from the forest, that the old woman might boil her pot. He also worked in the corn-fields, hoeing and husking,

“‘That’s dif’rent,’ said Dorothy. ‘Oz is very new and queer to me.’”

and he fed the pigs and milked the four-horned cow. So, he grew as strong and rugged as a boy may be.

But Mombi was not a good guardian. She indulged in the magical arts, though the Good Witch had outlawed it. Tip thought she was a terrible old woman, for often her cruelty made him shudder, and he frankly hated her.

And so he ran away. As he journeyed down the road of yellow brick, Tip turned his thoughts to the people and history of the land of Oz. He knew that there had once been a who that came here from Kansas, a place in the big, outside World. Dorothy Gale had journeyed to the Emerald City and found her way home.

Perhaps, Tip thought, if he made the journey, he would find the same.

Ozma’s party stopped to refresh themselves at a ranch. Next to the road was a lovely little ranch-house, neatly painted, with sparkling windows and a tidy path. A girl was sweeping the front porch with such energy that no speck of dirt would have stood a chance. At Ozma’s call, she stopped in her task and came over to drop a low curtsy before the chariot. “Your Highness, I’m very honored by your visit.”

“This is Jinjur,” said Ozma politely to Dorothy’s aunt, who had never met the pretty dairy-maid before. “She’s a good girl, honest and sensible. She once assembled an army of women and drove the Scarecrow from the throne of the Emerald City and fought a battle with the powerful army of Glinda the Sorceress, but now she owns nine cows and is happy and contented to lead a quiet life and mind her own business.”

“That sounds likely,” said Aunt Em. Jinjur prepared a very pleasant meal of bread and milk for the travelers, who were glad of the refreshment. While they ate, she sat with them and made cheerful conversation.

“Where are you headed?” she asked when it was time to tidy up, and, upon hearing Ozma’s answer, continued, “I’d like to travel with you, if you don’t mind. It’s been years since I’ve done anything so regal as ride in a chariot, and you know how I love regal things.”

“I have no objection,” said Ozma, “but what about your husband?”

“What husband,” replied Jinjur, calmly.

Ozma asked no more questions, and the party moved on again.

Ozma had journeyed across Oz twice before. She had travelled by foot both times.

When Ozma heard that there was a girl being held prisoner in a tower, and that the girl’s name was Dorothy Gale, she called immediately for her golden chariot, a great Lion and an immense Tiger, her ivory staff of glistening diamonds, and a company of twenty-seven soldiers.

The next morning, Dorothy looked out from the tower and saw a broad green carpet unrolling itself upon the desert, while advancing across the carpet was this wonderful procession. She guessed at once that the lovely driver of the chariot must be Ozma of Oz. “Why did the Princess lock you up, my dear?” called Ozma from her chariot. “I will see your captor at once, and liberate you.”

Dorothy knew, as soon as she heard the sweet voice of the girlish Ruler of Oz, that she would soon learn to love her dearly.

When it was time to rest for the night, Ozma selected a smooth, grassy spot, waved her wand in graceful curves, and chanted some mystic words in her sweet voice. In an instant a village of handsome tents appeared before them.

“Come, dear,” said Ozma, taking Dorothy’s hand and entering one of the tents.

There they found beds with satin sheets, warm blankets, and pillows filled with swansdown. Low lamps lighted the interior of the tent with a soft, rosy glow. The tent was beautiful, but small, smaller than any room in Ozma’s palace.

Dorothy looked around the space with her heart pounding.

“Say, Ozma,” she said in a low, unsure voice. “Don’t you ever get scared?”

Ozma looked up from the pillow she was fluffing. “Whatever do you mean?”

“Well, I’ve always been rather fright’ned of small places like this. Not—not right now of course,” she added as she felt her friend’s small hand reach quickly for her own. “I’m quite all right here with you.”

“There are a number of things that quite frighten me, my dear,” said Ozma in a low, serious voice. “It’s a heavy duty being Ruler of Oz, you know, and things need to be done just right in order to be done at all. There are many times when I know I must say a certain thing to someone and, though I know it isn’t dangerous, I am anxious about the result.”

“I think you do a great job,” said Dorothy resolutely.

“And I thank you very much for that, but remember that you have always known me as a Princess, whereas in truth I was crowned only shortly before I met you, and am nearly as clueless as you are.” Ozma’s breath seemed suddenly shaky.

“You have no parents, my dear?”

“I’m an orphan.”

“I grew up on a farm, like you. You had your Aunt Em, who loved you very much and worked so hard to provide for you. Mombi was.…” Ozma paused. “Nothing like that.”

She was quiet for a second more, and then burst out: “Oh, Dorothy—I hated that old obstinate witch!”

Those words, coming from the delicate fairy girl’s pretty lips, jarred Dorothy. Never had she heard this strand of anger in Ozma’s voice, and it struck her suddenly that the Ruler of Oz must have much to hide. On a whim, she darted forward to put her arms around Ozma and pull her close into a hug.

“Ozma! I won’t tell, I swear.”

Ozma replied nothing, but they were quite close enough that Dorothy could sense her trying to smile.

Dorothy was much interested in the story of Ozma.

“The former King of this City, who was named Pastoria, lost the crown to the Wonderful Wizard. Pastoria had a daughter, who was the rightful heir to the throne of the Emerald City. The usurping Wizard brought the girl Ozma, who was then no more than a baby, to Mombi, and begged her to conceal the child. Mombi transformed her—into a boy.”

Dorothy was much interested in the story of Ozma.

“When the Ruler, my grandfather, was hunting one day, one Wicked Witch named Mombi stole him and carried him away, keeping him a close prisoner. She was my grandfather’s jailor, and afterward my father’s jailor. When I was 07

born she transformed me into a boy, hoping that no one would ever recognize me and know that I was the rightful Princess of the Land of Oz. But I escaped from her and am now the Ruler of my people.”

Dorothy was much interested in the story of Ozma.

“Oz was not always a fairyland. It was shut in by a dreadful desert of sandy wastes that lay all around it, thus preventing its people from all contact with the rest of the world. Seeing this isolation, the fairy band of Queen Lurline, passing over Oz while on a journey, enchanted the country.

And Queen Lurline left one of her fairies to rule this enchanted Land of Oz, then passed on and forgot all about it. My authority comes from the Fairy Queen Lurline, of whose band I was a member. What and who I am is well established.”

“What about Mombi?” Dorothy asked.

“What Mombi,” replied Ozma, quietly.

Oftentimes, Dorothy wished she could know the story of Ozma.

The travellers stopped for a picnic on a grassy slope, and Aunt Em made herself busy spreading out the blue-checked picnic blanket into a neat square while the others searched for a basket of food. She made quite a contrast against the vibrant landscape, for she was a very colorless sort of woman.

Kansas had taken the sparkle from her eyes and the red from her cheeks and lips, making her thin and gaunt. It was a kind of grayness that could not be changed even by the magic of a fairyland.

Still, she was cheerful as her niece approached with several friends and they arranged themselves in a circle to eat.

“This is a lovely picnic,” she said. “Who made it?”

“It was provided,” said Jinjur.

“The people in Oz are always providing for each other,” explained Ozma. “Each person is supplied by their neighbors with food and clothing, and a house, furniture, ornaments, and games.”

Aunt Em was left feeling quite bemused by the strange system. “You do things differently here than in Kansas, that’s all I can say,” she said eventually, “and I just hope you’ll have patience with all my misunderstandings for some time.”

As they ate, they discussed an incident that had occured on the previous day of travel. The party had been attacked, and the attacking beasts vanquished.

“You fought well,” Jinjur complimented Bill; she had become quite good friends with the Yellow Hen over the course of this trip. “It does my heart good to have been in a good fight once again; the ranch can get so terribly monotonous.”

“I know that’s true about ranches,” said Aunt Em. “Still, I don’t think fighting is the best diversion. Isn’t it rather… undig’n’fied?”

“I don’t see what’s so dignified about letting some speckled villain lord it over me, when there’s no right or reason,” countered

Bill gruffly.

“But I must agree,” Ozma broke in. “Fighting ought to be a last resort, not a pastime.”

Jinjur took a sip of tea. “You got an entire army to dethrone me.”

“Glinda’s girls did an excellent job avoiding battle.”

“Excuse me—” Aunt Em interrupted. “Glinda’s girls?”

She had been surprised enough to hear about Jinjur’s army of women, but a second army of women was simply unfathomable.

“Of course,” said Jinjur, rather surprised. “Glinda is a very wise and powerful witch, and would never keep an army whose constitutions are as weak as men’s.”

“You mustn’t be so s‘prised at everything, Aunt Em,” Dorothy rushed to say. “Remember you’re not in a civilized country any more.”

“I’m personally glad of the fact,” declared Bill. “Civilized countries are too full of cocks for a hen like me.”

This was something on which everyone could agree.

The next time the travelers stopped for a rest, Ozma caught Dorothy’s hand and pulled her toward a stand of flowering trees on top of a nearby hill. Dorothy laughed at first, expecting some new sight or adventure, but then she caught a glance of her friend’s expression.

“There are other things which frighten me,” Ozma began suddenly, as if they had never stopped talking the previous night. She clasped her friend’s hands and held them in her own between their hearts.

“Like what?”

The Princess didn’t reply, but planted a quick kiss on Dorothy’s fingers.

For several minutes, there was silence except for the rustle of the summer wind across hills and through trees. Looking down at their traveling party, Dorothy could see the road of yellow brick winding back the way they came, tracing back to the faint glow of the Emerald City in the distance. In the other direction, the pink flowers and grasses blended into blue farmland, and the road cut across toward the horizon.

“See now,” Ozma said. “I’ve kissed you a hundred times before your aunt and uncle, or in the middle of my court, now haven’t I? It ought not to scare me anymore.”

“Of course not,” said Dorothy, in such a tone of voice that Ozma couldn’t tell what her reaction was.

Tentatively, she kissed her hands again.

Dorothy giggled. “What are you doing?”

“Don’t laugh at me,” Ozma scolded, perhaps a little more sharply than she meant to.

That only made Dorothy smile more.

Ozma was always so petulant now that she was accustomed to always having her own way. “I didn’t mean to.”

If Dorothy had the deficiency of not speaking before she thought, it must also be said that she too often did not think at all—at least, not too thoroughly about things that were right in front of

her. This had served her well in some ways, as no over-thinker could possibly travel across a fairyland without stopping every few feet to cry, “But this is impossible!” But Dorothy had travelled far and wide across the Land of Oz and had met many strange people and seen many queer goings-on without overusing her faculty of surprise. Few things struck this young girl as queer anymore.

It didn’t strike her as queer when Ozma leaned in very close to her under that beautiful, flowering tree.

Nor did it seem queer when she touched Dorothy’s chin with the delicate fingers of one hand or rested the other on

the farm girl’s shoulders.

Nor did it seem queer when her lips touched Dorothy’s as they had done a hundred times before.

It was only after the kiss had lasted several seconds longer than Dorothy was used to that she uttered a surprised “Oh!” and pulled away.

“My dear?” said Ozma.

“Oh!” cried Dorothy again.

Ozma stepped slightly back. Her voice was uncharacteristically tremulous as she asked, “Was I right to be afraid, then?”

“No—” said Dorothy with a smile. “I’m rather shy myself.” And then, quite in spite of herself, she let out a snort of laughter.

Aunt Em hurried to adjust her dress and her bonnet as the Princess Ozma approached her, then dropped into a deep curtsy.

“Please,” said the young girl, “you are among my friends now—there is no need to do that.”

“I’m not going to put on airs at my time of life, you know.”

“You may as well,” said Ozma. “Your own niece is a Prin-

cess of Oz! But if you think that is a small matter, then know that she is also my chosen companion in life. I was so happy when she at last agreed to come to my palace and live there always! She never would come, out of loyalty to you; she loves you so.” With this, she reached for the woman’s hand.

“Because Dorothy loves you, I love you, and I hope you will allow me to think of you as my own Aunt, for I have never had a family to love.”

“But of course,” said Aunt Em, who like no other kind-hearted woman could resist so earnest a plea. She embraced Ozma, then watched with wonder as the Princess made her way to Dorothy. There was a quiet joy she couldn’t express as she watched the gentle way Ozma took Dorothy’s hand, but there was a quiet kind of fear there as well. She remembered the days when she herself had been a young, pretty wife, and recalled too the days that she had screamed at a child’s laughter.

But that had been in Kansas, and one dealt with children and with husbands as best one could. Now Aunt Em slept in her own bed and wore bright silk dresses and her days were unnumbered.

And what did it matter if she couldn’t understand the excited way that Ozma led Dorothy about by the hand, or the awestruck tone in which Dorothy praised Ozma’s beauty and wisdom, or the loving kisses the two exchanged when they thought no one was looking? It would all be unheard of back in Kansas. But this was Oz, and it was an uncivilized world.

Dorothy was twenty years old. It had been ten years since she first set foot on the road of yellow brick. She had kept count of the birthdays she had celebrated and the candles she had blown out, and she made sure that one candle was added every year, as was proper.

Dorothy did not look like she was twenty years old, nor did she look like she was fifteen, nor did she look like she was ten. Dorothy’s years were unlimited in the Land of Oz, and her face reflected it. Oftentimes this made her aunt uneasy to look at her, for Em was still set in her ways.

The travelers knew that they would be welcomed wherever they might go in the Land of Oz, and that the people would feed and lodge them with genuine hospitality. So at about noon, they began to search for a homestead or a small farmhouse where they might be given a delicious luncheon and rest a while.

But it had been a long time since they had passed any dwellings. The country was very pretty around them, with neat fences at the sides of the road, painted a dainty blue color, and beyond them fields of grain and vegetable in abundance. They came to the end of a cornfield—and it seemed to Dorothy that Ozma untensed, ever so slightly— and passed into a long stretch of road surrounded by wheat.

“Soon enough we are sure to pass by the owner of this field,” Ozma said.

And it seemed the girl Ruler was not entirely wrong, for before long Dorothy gave a shout and pointed.

This house was rather different than the houses they had passed recently, which were each round, with a big dome for 09

a roof, and painted blue. This one was very square, and made of wood that was dull and gray.

“It doesn’t look like a very friendly household,” said Ozma, “but that is no matter. Many things look like they aren’t a certain way, when in fact they are. Not to mention, quiet and loneliness can be very sad, so I have no doubt our lively presence will bring cheer to our hosts.”

It was very quiet and lonely as they approached the house.

Dorothy took Ozma’s hand, and was conscious of her aunt walking behind her, but still the blueish landscape seemed very vast and the travelling party very insignificant.

Nobody came out to greet them, so Ozma went up to the door herself. The moment she knocked upon it, however, it swung open, having been long unlocked. Ozma pulled Dorothy in after her as she entered.

The house was small. There were four walls, a floor and a roof, which made one room; and this room contained a rusty looking cookstove, a cupboard for the dishes, a table, three or four chairs, and the beds. There was a big bed in one corner, and a little bed in another corner. There was no garret at all, and no cellar—except a small hole dug in the ground, and covered by a trap door in the middle of the floor.

From outside, Dorothy heard Aunt Em give a cry of recognition.

Ozma stood near the edge of the house, where she was mostly sheltered from the wind. From the doorway, Dorothy could see that the girl Ruler was gazing motionlessly out over the wheat fields. After some time, she went quietly over to her.

“I think my aunt will be inside for a while,” she said.

“She’s thinking.”

10 | OutWrite, 2018

Ozma turned to her friend with a grave face. “I thought that I had done away with all the bad places in the Land of Oz. It seems that job isn’t yet done.”

“I forgot that this old house was still here,” said Dorothy.

“It seems odd that nobody’s done anything about it.”

“What would you like me to do about it?”

“Oh—you needn’t do anything. It’s only strange to have seen it again after so many years living in your palace.”

“To think,” said Ozma quietly. “I’ve always been so curious about where you came from, and now it seems to me it must have been something like this.”

“Something like this,” Dorothy agreed, “but not entirely; nothing could be quite like that gray prairie, and I’m glad of that. I was almost glad to forget it. I think to visit was a good thing, even if it hurt.” She paused, then, tentatively, asked, “Would you like to visit… where your farm—” “No,” said Ozma shortly, turning back to face the wheat field.

Dorothy nodded. She slipped one arm around the other girl’s waist, and rested her head on her shoulder.

“This was an odd sort of adventure,” said Ozma after some time. “When we return to the Emerald City we ought to telegraph it to Mr. Baum as we do our other stories.”

“You know, I think he may not understand it. It’s rather an odd story. I don’t know if he’ll know what to do with it, for he is a civilized man.”

This story borrows characters, settings, plot points, and a large amount of word-for-word text from the Oz book series

by L. Frank Baum. The books were published 1900 - 1920 and are in the public domain.

Moon to Sun Written by Siobhán Chapman Illustration by Angela Zheng, Layout by Siobhán Chapman

You, and your effortless pull, The way all things come to you— Inexplicably, inevitably— And how eyes can only briefly glance your way As if taking in too much of you is a sin.

Us, and the way I’m ever-­drawn to you, Yet cannot exist by your side— Forbidden, fated— And how all of me is your reflection Because this is the way the world needs us to be.

We understand what they never will.

We see colors that can only appear when the universal layers fall into place, overlap.

I imagine us overlapping: The unparalleled pleasure and pain in our secret anomaly, Contradictory and necessary.

Until we eclipse, I’ll gently fade away for you each dawn, As surely as you’ll extinguish each dusk— Our connection always strengthened by sacrifice, Hidden in plain sight.

The Purest Hero written by Jasper illustrations and layout by Nick Griffin Author’s Note: Most people hear a single story about India’s repressive politics towards LGBTQ+ issues, causing them to generalize the views of all of South Asian societies and cultures as queerphobic. This view neglects to mention that British colonizers in India, and their enforcement of adherence to Western gender and sexuality norms, are a primary reason for the queerphobia that exists in India today. The following is an interpretative retelling of a story drawn from Hindu mythology found in ancient religious texts. This retelling uses historical information compiled in an essay by Ruth Vanita.

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oday, the river Ganges flows through India and Bangladesh. Ganges, symbolized by the goddess Ganga, is deeply sacred to Hindus, who live off of her waters, using them for bathing, sustenance, and rituals. Just as Indian culture changes over time, the Ganges is ever-flowing, yet constantly a symbol of India. The reasons why Ganga came to Earth in the form of the Ganges can be explained by numerous stories.

One such myth begins with a king.

King Sagara had two wives, but no children. He deeply desired to sire children, particularly motivated by the need for an heir to the throne. Thus, for years, he practiced a severe penance to the Hindu gods, and prayed for sons.

Finally, one of the gods answered his prayers, and allowed one of King Sagara’s wives to become pregnant.

After nine months, she gave birth to a gourd. The king and his wives were deeply perplexed, but proceeded to split open the gourd and preserve each seed in a separate jar. With time, thousands of sons emerged from the jars. Thanks to his prayers and penance, King Sagara bore a total of sixty thousand sons, who all grew up to become brave, strong men.

As is traditional in the Hindu religion, King Sagara and his sons regularly engaged in ritual spiritual practices to please the gods and convince them of their undying devotion. In one such ritual, King Sagara decided to sacrifice one hundred horses to the gods. As the sacrifice proceeded, the gods were pleased with the king and his heirs.

However, one resentful god was unhappy, believing that this sacrifice would increase King Sagara’s power until

it was too great for a mortal man. The god snuck to the sacrificial courtyard and stole one of the horses and flew away.

He placed the horse at an ashram1 he saw in the middle of the forest.

Upon discovering this theft, King Sagara was dismayed that sacrifice was disrupted, ordering his sixty-thousand sons to retrieve the horse. The sons searched and searched, and eventually came upon the horse. Unbeknownst to them, a powerful sage resided at the ashram. Deep in meditation, he did not notice the presence of the horse or the sons.

The sons saw the old sage sitting on the spiritual residence of the sage

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the ground, and hastily assumed that he was the thief. They immediately defaulted to violence, and as they launched their attack, the sage became aware of their presence and opened his eyes. Due to his sheer power, as soon as his eyes opened, all sixty thousand sons instantly burned to ashes.

Meanwhile, King Sagara grew concerned about the disappearance of all of his sons. He sent his grandson, Anshuman, to investigate. Anshuman followed the path of his uncles, and discovered their ashes at the ashram of the sage.

The sage informed that, instead of calmly asking him for the horse, the men

immediately attempted to attack him, leading to their incineration. While the sage allowed Anshuman to bring the horse back, he told him that in order to purify the souls of sixty thousand men, a descendent of Sagara would have to direct the sacred river Ganges from the heavens to the Earth in order to cleanse the ashes. According to the sage, only someone truly pure of heart, as pure as the waters of the Ganges itself, could accomplish this task.

Anshuman brought the horse and this news back to King Sagara, who immediately began to pray, as did his remaining descendents, to the goddess Ganga of the Ganges River. Years and years passed, but no one was successful in convincing Ganga to help. At this point, one of King Sagara’s descendents, Dilip, was the king. Dilip had two wives, but no children to ascend to the throne.

King Dilip’s co-wives, Chandra and Mala, lived in close proximity and spent more time with each other than they did with their husband, who spent most of his time involved in political affairs of the kingdom. They felt no such resentment and jealousy towards each other, as many co-wives do – only love. Through their companionship, Chandra and Mala developed a tremendous bond that transcended any definitions of sexual

Nine months later, Mala gave birth to a beautiful son. The god Brahma named him Bhagirath, as he was metaphorically created by two bhagas, or vaginas. Chandra and Mala, although widowed from their husband, lived happily together in the palace and raised Bhagirath with immense love and care. Raised by these two women who bestowed the deep love they had for each other upon their son, Bhagirath was raised without the immediate instinct to resort to violence that centuries of kings taught to their sons. Thus, Bhagirath was kind, gentle, and pure of heart.

Bhagirath was ostracized in school because his classmates believed that he was the product of adultery. Even though Chandra and Mala were widowed, it was considered impure and sinful for widows to engage in any pleasurable activity, particularly if it was sexual in nature. However, his mothers told him the truth, along with his responsibility as a descendent of King Sagara, to finally or romantic attraction. They loved each purify the ashes of his sixty thousand other in the purest manner possible. ancestors.

King Dilip, meanwhile, was elderly When he became a man, Bhagirath and dying. He feared that he would began his penance to the gods. He die before he could sire an heir to the prayed to all of the gods, specifically throne. The gods could not allow this performing penance for Ganga, crucial lineage to die out. The creator the goddess of the Ganges. He god, Brahma, with the assistance of the demonstrated his dedication by love god, Kama, noted Chandra and living in isolation in the forest, eating Mala’s bond of true love, and bestowed and drinking just enough to survive, a divine blessing upon the two women and spending all of his time in deep that would allow them, together, to meditation. produce a rightful heir to the throne.

After years of Bhagirath’s penance, Soon after, King Dilip did indeed die.

Ganga responded to his prayers.

His wives carried out the mourning rites, She saw that Bhagirath, unlike every but their companionship and love for other king who had performed the each other only grew stronger without same penance, was pure of heart and the presence of their former husband. intention. She granted his wish, and On a stormy and overcast night, flowed down to Earth in the form of the as lightning flashed and rain poured, river Ganges.

Chandra and Mala acted on their desires The Ganges’ waters flowed over for each other and made love. With the the ashes of the sixty thousand sons assistance of Kama, the love god, swans of Sagara and cleansed them. The sang and peacocks danced and magic sacred water absolved the sons of their crackled in the air. In the act, with Kama’s misdeeds and liberated their souls to blessing, the energy of their sapphic love rest in peace. The Ganges then became entered Mala’s womb, and Mala became a major river, flowing through India. pregnant. The women were initially Today, Bhagirath, a man conceived perplexed on how the pregnancy was by two mothers, is hailed as a hero for even possible, but Kama informed them dedicatedly bringing Ganges down from of the divine blessing and told them that the heavens to the Earth. In his honor, their child would be an incarnation of one of the streams of the Ganges is God due to his supernatural conception. named the Bhagirathi.

Libertad

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written by Michelle Jaimes illustrations by Nieves Winslow, layout by Siobhán Chapman

nce upon a time, not so long ago, not so far away, there lived a girl who could smell curses.

They smelled of sulfur and open sewage and made the hairs on her arms stand warily. She was surprised to find a sickeningly sweet smell clinging to her best friends and believed she was cursed to fall in love with each one of them, but falling for straight people is a curse that befalls many queer folk, not just her. That wasn’t her main concern at the moment, however. A more foul smelling, and surely detrimental, curse had settled itself deep beneath the concrete roads of South Central Los Angeles.

A monster lived beneath the community’s feet.

Its huge tentacles stretched from Exposition Park to Watts, curling itself around every neighborhood, every house, every family. It dug its way up through sidewalks and roads, cracking them open into potholes and uneven roads that jostled cars and punctured tires. It discharged hot fumes that drove the youth wild and made them act out against their teachers and parents. It made mothers chant under their breaths and fathers bang their fists on tables. It made teachers slouch in their desks and the police draw their weapons.

It fed from the power lines, drank from the water pipes and found warmth from the gas tanks, sucking electricity, water and heat from homes.

Nobody but her best friend believed her. She was going to find it. And she was going to kill it.

“So, how do we find this… cucuí?”

“It’s not the cucuí, Lupe.”

“Whatever.” Lupe flipped her long black hair dismissively, but she failed to meet my eyes. She didn’t want me to know how scared she actually was.

“El cucuí is something our parents made up in order to scare us into obedience. Like the boogeyman for white people. But this thing don’t affect 14 | OutWrite, 2018

no white people around here.”

“What white people?” she asked.

“The USC kids,” I replied.

“Oh. I guess they don’t count. They’re not part of our neighborhood,” she said.

“They have security guards posted around campus, protecting them from us. They kick us out of our homes to build dorms. Of course they’re part of our neighborhood.”

She shrugged.

We were sitting outside Doña Sofía’s house eating raspados before going inside. If there was anyone who knew about the monster, it was her. She does brujería, witchcraft. My mom took me to her once. I don’t really remember what it was for. Sofía just rubbed a whole egg over my body, then cracked it open over a glass of water.

I think it was to detect evil magic cast upon me. Why my mother thought someone was doing witchcraft on me, I have no idea. Maybe she sensed the flaming gay demon living inside me.

Doña Sofía had a tiny jungle in front of her house. It was dense with the citric fragrance of orange trees, the minty scent of rosemary, and the sharp smell of cilantro. I could only see the roof of the house. La Sonora Dinamita sounded through the door. She must’ve been cleaning.

I hesitated in front of her door. I used to think she was some sort of con artist, but one day while my mom and our neighbor Luz chatted on the front steps of my apartment, she passed by. When she was out of hearing range the neighbor turned to my mother with the look that

meant she was about to share gossip.

“Did you hear about what happened to Niña Ana?” “No,” my mother shook her head.

Luz knew everything about everyone in and outside our neighborhood. She was that type of person.

“Remember how I told you her husband was cheating on her? Remember? With that lady in Figueroa? With three kids?”

My mother could only nod between the words.

“She paid that bruja to put a spell on him! And guess what?”

This time my mother had a chance to interject, “What? What’d happened to him?”

“She turned him into a frog.”

At this, I had to cover my mouth to hide my giggles. The spell was supposed to make him so ugly that no woman would want him, and according to Luz, he turned into a frog. His belly swelled, his neck disappeared, and his voice croaked, deep and low from his throat.

The thought of holding so much power delighted me. Niña Ana was my babysitter and she used to pick me up from school along with her daughter and take me to her house. I hardly ever saw her husband before that. But after I overheard my mother and the neighbor talk about him, I saw him every day when he came home and tiptoed to lift his shrunken form to give his wife a kiss.

Lupe shoved me forward. I was about to knock when Doña Sofía’s voice sounded through the door.

“The door is unlocked. Come into the dark.” Her voice croaked in raspy with raspy vowels.

Lupe and I stared at each other.

“Yo, that’s scary as fuck,” Lupe whispered to me, her dark eyes wide.

I nodded but opened the door anyway. Scary or not, I needed answers.

“I’ve been expecting you.” Doña Sofía said.

She sat in the lazy swirling ribbons of smoke with the only light peeking from between the curtains.

There was a black cat lounging on her lap, its green orbs following us apathetically, mirroring her dark ones.

She waved at the couch opposite her and we sat.

“Here,” she took out a card with La Virgen de Guadalupe. I reached for it but she handed it to Lupe instead.

“What’s this?” Lupe asked.

“Protection,” she answered.

“Protection?”

“Yes. You’ll need it. There’s a darkness surrounding you, mija. Just because your name’s Guadalupe doesn’t mean you don’t need extra

protection from the supernatural.”

“Supernatural?” Lupe asked, her voice small.

Lupe was scared of everything, especially things like ghosts and demons.

Sofía only nodded.

“But what could she possibly need protection from?” I said because she looked too spooked to speak.

“I see a darkness around, getting closer and closer.

You’ll need a savior when it finally reaches you,” Sofía said.

“But that is not why you are here, I assume,” She continued.

We both nodded. I expected her to tell us why we were here, but when she didn’t say anything I scrambled for words. She looked so powerful sitting there with a black cat on her lap, guarding her like a black panther, mystic incense slithering around her dark skin. She looked like a deity. I momentarily believed she knew everything.

“We’re here to ask you about the monster under our city. Kids are disappearing. People are being chased from their homes by something. They think it’s a demon, but I know it’s not. I can feel it. Can’t you?” I asked her. If she truly did magic, she could sense it, too. I couldn’t be the only one.

“Oh! That demon is nothing new. It has been here for years. My grandmother saw it come in the 20s, and it grew and grew in the 50s and my mother saw it devour angry young boys and poison homes in the 80s. Its brothers and sisters plague many parts of the world.”

“But how do I defeat it? How can I defeat something so old and so powerful?” I asked.

“It won’t be easy. You are so young. But you are not so easily pacified and that will make you strong.

Here,” she said and handed me a prayer candle. It didn’t have a saint on it. “This will light your way through the tunnels. And this will keep you awake.

The black fog makes you sleep. Do you know the song ‘La Llorona?’” she asked.

I nodded.

“Good. Sing it to the creature. The entrance is in Menlo Elementary, the underground staircase. You’ll know when you see it,” she said.

“Thank you,” I said and took the candle and teabags. The cat on her lap launched itself off her. Lupe and I shrieked. It caught a large shiny cockroach and taunted it between its paws before it grew bored and ate it. ~ “I don’t know about this, man,” Lupe said through chattering teeth.

“You chickening out on me?” I asked.

15

“Nah. It’s just, why we gotta do this at night?”

She hugged herself.

“Like they’re gonna let us walk into the tunnels under the school during the day, no problem.

Don’t worry man. You got your Virgen.”

We both looked at the image of the saint lady.

It was the same woman we’d prayed to our entire lives, except she was browner and looked less like a white woman and looked more like Lupe and me. When has a white woman protected me anyway? The strongest woman I know is my mom, and she’s dark as hell.

“What am I supposed to do when the el cucuí comes after me, huh? Throw it at it?” she asked.

“How am I supposed to know? That woman gives me the creeps, and your ass sure as hell wasn’t about to stay any longer to ask la bruja about her magic.”

“Whatever.”

The moonlight was weak against the shadows of the elementary school. The lights were on, but it just shielded whatever was in the darkness. Anything could be hiding in the shadows, watching us.

“What if the police come? They’ll see two brown girls and think we’re tagging or something, or doing some gang shit,” she said, her breath making the candle flame flicker.

“That’s not gonna happen. C’mon.”

We descended the steps and I was instantly hit with the putrid smell of sulfur. When I was a student here, kids used to say some ghost haunted the place. They used to say it came up when a kid was all alone, lure it into its underground lair and eat them. There was no one when I peered into the darkness “Okay, ready?” I asked her. She looked like she was about to cry but nodded anyway. Was I being selfish? I didn’t want to do this alone. “You don’t have to do this, you know.”

“Don’t be stupid. You’re my favorite person in the world. I don’t want to grow old without you.”

I scoffed to hide the bubble of emotion that rose to my face. She was my favorite person in the world, too. I reminded myself that we were friends and she would never see me that way. She was straight.

“Whatever. Here, take a drink.”

Before bringing it to her lips, she asked, “What does magic taste like?”

We each took a sip of the tea Doña 16 | OutWrite, 2018

Sofía had given us. It tasted like regular manzanilla, but who knows what type of magic she put in it.

We crept into the darkness. She clutched my arm, which would have been nice if I wasn’t so scared.

“Hey, I gotta tell you something, y’know, before we die,” she whispered.

“We’re not going to die.”

“Yeah, yeah. But, in case we do, I just want to say that I like you. I know you’re not gay like your mom thinks you are. But, you know, I don’t want to die and regret not telling you.”

“Lupe, I’m pansexual,” I said.

“Say what?” She released my arm so fast I was startled and accidentally knocked the candle from her hand. The glass shattered on impact and the light went out. I blindly patted the floor in search of the candle, trying my best to avoid the glass, and felt something smooth and velvety. Disturbed, I retracted my hand. Thankfully I brought a lighter. I found the candle intact and lit it.

“Lupe, babosa, don’t scare me like-” I was stunned mid-sentence because in place of Lupe was a child.

“Hi!” he said. I screamed.

“Where the fuck is Lupe?” I asked.

“Who’s Lupe?” ge asked.

“My friend. She was standing right there,” I pointed.

“Oh! You mean pretty girl with long black hair? She’s asleep,” he said.

“Asleep? Asleep where? What do you mean?”

I asked.

“Calm down. She’s just over here. Follow me please,” he said and walked ahead of me.

It was when my eyes adjusted to the light that I realized that he wasn’t any ordinary child. He was bony everywhere except for his belly, which was rotund and protruding. His skin was pale blue, almost white. Perhaps it was because he didn’t have a shirt; the only barrier between him and the chilly tunnel was a colorful blanket across his shoulders. He had a straw hat and his feet were backward and left dark foot-sized pools of water behind. White lilies lined our path, glowing under the candlelight, but they did nothing to mask the smell of rot. In fact, the smell might’ve been coming from them.

The longer we walked the more the fog pressed down on my back. The weak flame hardly touched the black tendrils around it now.

I followed the child only by the sharp sound

of his footsteps. The steady click click click of his heels fell on the dirt ground like horse hooves.

The sound stopped and in the child’s place was a white man with blonde hair and blue eyes who looked like he walked off the set of a Shakespearean play, except he had a smartphone in his hand and his feet were still backward.

“Who are you?” I asked.

“Where’s Lupe?”

“Sleeping,” he answered.

“Where?” I asked.

“Behind you,” he said.

I turned, and there she was sitting on the the floor, surrounded by lilies, with eyes wide open.

“What do you mean she’s asleep?

She’s awake.”

“Ah. That’s where you are wrong.

She is clearly asleep. Ignorant of the world.”

“Alright. How do I wake her up?”

“Only she can wake herself.”

Clearly, this was the monster, right?

The monster ruining people’s lives is a mad white man living in underground tunnels. So I sang the song Sofía told me to sing, the song I’ve heard my mother sing to be countless of times.

“No se que tienen las flores llorona...”

The earth around gave a great tremor. The poignant smell of dirt overwhelmed the tunnel.

“Hay de mí llorona, llorona que un campo lirio…”

A great roar came from deeper within as chunks of earth crumbled and crashed to the ground. I couldn’t see the man anymore, but I kept singing anyway.

“El que no sabe de amores llorona no sabe lo que es martirio.” It was hard to sing now because I was crying.

My voice carried the shrill haunting tone of my voice throughout the tunnels.

“Lupe, c’mon. Get up.” I lifted her to her feet.

We ran and ran. Finally, when we were out of the tunnel and out of the school I set her down and let her stare at nothing for a while. She looked up at me and stretched her arms out for a hug. I leaned down and embraced her.

“I saw it, Libertad. I saw the darkness,” she whispered to me.

“It’s okay. He’s gone, buried under the Earth,” I told her, but she shook her head.

“No. He’s still alive. He lives inside of us all,” she said.

“Lupe, what do you mean? Are you okay?” I asked.

“Yes, I’m fine. But we still have work to do.”

“Okay,” I said to appease her, but really, I had not idea what she was talking about.

“Let’s go home,” I said.

“Dos besos llevo en el alma llorona, que no se apartan de mi,” she sang.

I shivered.

It’d been a week since our journey under the tunnels and we were finally on our first date.

We stood in the fumes of the taco stand waiting for our carne asadas. The sound of police sirens sounded nearby when she clutched my arm, the same dazed look in her eyes as that night.

“Do you feel it, Libertad?” she asked.

“Feel what?” I asked.

Her eyes swam with tears and she turned away from me before they fell.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, trying to get her to look at me.

“It’ll never end, will it?” she asked.

“What will never end?”

“The monster. It’ll never die. We can’t kill it. It’s not like that,” she said.

I shook my head before giving her a hug.

“No, we can’t. But it’s okay, as long as we’ve each other, we can face any monster that comes our way,” I said.

I stepped back to look at her. She didn’t look like she believed me, but she held my hand anyway and crossed herself.

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Hero’s Visit by Chastity and Love: A Feminist, Lesbian Rewriting of Marlowe’s Hero and Leander written by Jessica Humphrey illustration by Jeanine Lee, layout by Angela Zheng ~ ~ ~

Headnote: In Christopher Marlowe’s retelling of the classic Greek myth, Hero and Leander are two youths in love, but Hero is conflicted because she’s a priestess who also idolizes Venus. Leander desperately tries to convince her to abandon chastity, and she ends up agreeing to meet him in her tower at night. As he swims across Hellespont to be with her, he is confronted by Neptune, who holds him back after mistaking him for his lover Ganymede. Because Marlowe’s poem doesn’t show what’s happening with Hero during this time, I created a homoerotic scene for her that strives to both challenge the cultural idealization of virginity and the pressuring into sex.

“O

Leander, Leander!” she cried oft, 1 And Hero awoke in her dreaming loft.

Her sheets rippled like the watery plain, She pled to her pillows to dream again.

Her wish was granted: a divine sight stood In the doorway to keep safe maidenhood.

Hero’s great tower stretched to Heaven’s gates; Her lustful snores had rattled their meal plates.

Three nymphs immediately swarmed the room And began bathing in Hero’s perfume.

While wrapping themselves in her chains and robes, One eyed the flowery veil in the ‘drobes; 2 They swooned when they imagined Hero crowned And like bees, they danced and circled around, Using their tongues to catch the nectar sweet They believed dripped from her neck to her feet. 3 The queer caresses made Hero near choke, She swatted the femmes and Diana spoke: 4 “I am here to denounce the urge to plow; 5 Join my commune and to purity bow.

Don’t abandon your chastity and fall To the lowly passions of lust and gall; Be rewarded with much honor and praise 6 Instead of disgrace and disease ablaze.”

Hero was quick to obey the stern plea (Though what else could she do, but bend the knee?).

“I, of course, pledge my allegiance to you, Live with shame and regret, I shall not do.

If my young soul would be taken away, I swear to stay chaste ‘til my dying day.”

But the cruel storm outside made Hero sweat, For it seemed her yield made the sea upset.

She thought she could hear her love scream aloud, But his voice always chased her, so she bowed.

At Olympus, Venus’ slumber broke; When Diana lectured, she always woke And in one jump off Galatea’s page, She entered the stage to resume her rage: “I come hither in heat for love’s defense, My dear follower, reject Frigid’s sense.

Your only regret will be a missed flame; To be unhappy like her is the shame.

She hates delights and envies desires, 7 With venom, she stomps out the world’s fires.

Deny yourself joy? Please do not be stupid; Give into your passions and dance with Cupid.”

At seeing her idol, our Hero froze;

The Roman Aphrodite tapped her nose: “Resisting love is as worthless, my lamb, As every abstinence-only program.”

Hero was torn in two as the high feud Grew and the goddesses yelled, “Whore!” and “Prude!”

Left too weak by the warring around her, She sunk into bed to drown with Leander.

All of a sudden, the nymphs were banished; Diana breathed, “Don’t open,” and vanished.

Fine Venus, sprawled at the foot of the bed, Posed a bacchanalia, then she too fled. 8 Hero guessed it was her distressed cheek tear That convinced both almighty gales to clear, But when the dazed maid heard knocking, she knew; She cried, “Love, I come!” and not leapt, but flew. 9 Honor was still dear and there was still scare, Yet her mind, clothed in voices, wanted bare; Thus, she stayed not in her robes, but straight ran With drunken madness to bare her bare man. 10

An adapted parallel to Leander’s exclamation, “‘O Hero, Hero!’ thus he cried full oft” (Marlowe 631).

Abbr. “wardrobes.” Reference to the “veil” of “artificial flowers and leaves” that Hero wears (Marlowe 19-20).

Reference to the bees that follow Hero around due to her “sweet smell” (Marlowe 21-23).

4 “Femmes”: French for women, or slang for feminine lesbians.

5 Diana attempts to persuade Hero to live in her homosocial community in the woods.

6 Allusion to Diana’s remark to Neptune in John Lyly’s late 16th century play Galatea, where Diana and Venus similarly fight over chastity and love (Lyly 5.3.23-25).

7 Allusion to Venus’ remark to Neptune about Diana in Galatea (Lyly 5.3.31-33).

8 “Bacchanalia”: reference to Bacchus, god of wine and ecstasy, meaning a drunken feast or orgy/threesome. Hero and Venus’ homoerotic interactions stem from the fact that Hero has taken a vow to Venus (as well as Venus’ status as the goddess of erotic love).

9 Another parallel to Leander, right before he jumps into the water to swim to Hero, “And crying, ‘Love, I come!’ leapt lively in” (Marlowe 638).

10 Alteration of lines, “She stayed not for her robes, but straight arose / And, drunk with gladness, to the door she goes; / Where, seeing a naked man, she screeched for fear…” (Marlowe 719-721).

1

2 3

L

written by Sarah Jensen illustrations and layout by Shay Suban

ove was in the air, so Alicia packed up her laptop and some notebooks and evacuated the premises. She liked her roommate, and didn’t mind her roommate’s boyfriend visiting, but the two of them were inching closer while watching some rom-com and she saw where this was heading.

Her floormates were shouting and blasting One Direction in the floor lounge. The building lounge was hosting some midterm stress relief event.

Alicia was starting to entertain the idea of actually making the trek to a library for once, but a text stopped her.

Chris: Yo I’m doing chem in my lounge if anyone wants to join.

Kumiko: I’m down Alicia considered it. Study groups usually weren’t great for her productivity. That said, Chem was her weakness this quarter. Kumiko and Chris were doing well in that class, based on the first midterm. And a free lounge was a free lounge.

Alicia: omw She realized then that she’d forgotten her laptop charger in her room.

It’s not even a real anything. It’s just them walking down the rain-soaked street, holding hands with arms outstretched because they have the room, skipping a little in the night. The air smells clean, freshly bathed.

One twirls into the other’s arms. She turns around to hug her properly. They could say something, but words wouldn’t be enough. So they hold each other for a second, and then continue on their way in the crisp night air.

There’s a real world out there somewhere, but it’s not their concern right now. Their only worry is

20 | OutWrite, 2018

trying to keep the fuzz in their hearts from getting wet, which is both an easy problem and not a bad one to have.

And what is there to say? It’s a feeling that’s warm but not too warm, smells like rainy leaves and her shampoo, the softness of a chinchilla and the light chill of an autumn night. It’s like her body is free and her heart is in her hug. It’s as contradictory and beautiful as love itself.

There is nothing to say. Just them two walking down the rainy road, holding hands with arms outstretched to take up the space they’re given.

“How’s it going with Carla?”

Jack grinned as he changed lanes. “Pretty chill.

I think we’ve established we’re official but on the DL.” “Why so secretive?” Alicia asked.

“Uh… She’s worried people will judge her for getting in a relationship right after breaking up with Neal.”

“Right after? Bullshit, it’s been two months.”

Jack shrugged. “Her words, not mine. Shoutout to double standards, ‘cause I broke up with Gabrielle around the same time, and I know I won’t get judged for being with Carla.”

“Also bullshit. How long is Carla in mourning for?”

Jack laughed out loud. “I think she wants to wait another month, at least. A quarter of a year is a respectable period of mourning for a young gentlewoman,” he said in an affected tone.

Alicia snorted. “Honestly, it’s nice that she’s moved on already. She’s heading into her next love story instead of rereading the last one for too long.”

“Instead of prolonging the period of sorrow and

tragedy.”

“Exactly! And I mean – aw, man, not this song.”

“What’s wrong with ‘Thinking Out Loud?’” Jack said, seeming taken aback at the thought that anyone could be less than enthusiastic about Ed Sheeran.

“I dunno. It’s too sweet. Like drinking syrup.”

Jack shrugged and changed the station. Alicia made a face at “Stitches,” but didn’t comment. At least it wasn’t sappy.

“Anyways. Carla broke up with Neal, so she wasn’t even in real mourning.”

“Right, so, on the topic of double standards…”

“She’s still expected to mourn at least a little? As the girl in the relationship?”

“And if she mourns a little, she’s expected to mourn fully.”

Alicia groaned and threw up her hands, hitting the car roof a little. “Remind me to never get into a relationship with a guy.”

“I mean, I didn’t think you ever would?”

“That’s fair.”

Life as they know it is pink. A bit of a dry, light pink, a color you’d call rose and identify on the walls of an old-fashioned café. The color of jazz trumpets and strawberry lemonade.

They take a stroll – there’s no other word for it in this pink weather – in search of ice cream, but when the ice cream parlor is closed, they opt for lemonade. It’s not strawberry, and looks deceptively yellow, but don’t be fooled – it’s pink too.

It’s half a degree cooler than beach weather today. It’s warm and sweet and tart out, like the lemonade sticking in their throats, and if you look around you might see a blue sky, green leaves, a gray walk – but today, for them, life is tinted with rose-colored glasses, and there’s nothing in their way.

Alicia: Anyone’s lounge free? There’s a rom com playing in mine .-.

Kumiko: You don’t like rom coms?

Alicia: idk Alicia: The characters’ bad decisions are stressing me out?

Chris: My lounge is free The study group wasn’t completely efficient – mostly because Alicia’s sister texted needing relationship advice, which Alicia was fully unqualified to give – but it was certainly better

than having to watch 27 Dresses.

Sometime in the first hour, Kumiko asked her about a Chem practice problem. Alicia looked and cringed internally – proton NMR spectroscopy.

Her weakest weak point. She could see it now: Kumiko exposing Alicia as a fraud who didn’t know anything about chemistry, Chris reacting in shock, both of them kicking her out of the study group.

But then she realized– “Oh, the chemical shift is farther upfield for this one because…”

Alicia explained her way through it, and it made sense. “Oh, okay. Thanks,” said Kumiko.

“No problem,” Alicia said, completely taken aback. She’d scored solidly below average in her last two Chem classes, and bombed the first midterm this quarter. By now, she’d given up on really understanding Chem. Getting NMR right, and especially being able to expound upon it, was unfathomable. So how…?

Alicia couldn’t explain why she thought Kumiko had something to do with it.

Over the next few hours, their separate work converged. They solved practice problems together. It blew Alicia away – she had forgotten what it felt like to understand chem, and to see science with a sense of wonder, and to work with someone this well. She kept getting the sense that they were on the same wavelength.

They dance (they don’t really). They walk to the side of the hill to see the city lights. This isn’t something they’ve ever done before.

Neither of them care for the view. The distant city is too far and detached from their little world above. But music soars in her heart, though she doesn’t know the words, and there is a warmth in her that’s more gentle than thermal.

They hold hands and wonder if they’ve finally fallen in love.

The music takes her over and she pulls her into a ballroom embrace. She can’t hear the music, but she steps and follows her and they only step on each other’s feet a few times. She hopes what’s in her heart – the color gold, smooth as satin, a flame warmer than the lights they aren’t looking at – is in hers too.

Their steps slow as the music slows, and they draw nearer. Her head rests against her shoulder, a cheek resting on top of her head. They could kiss, but why would they when they can stay in this embrace instead?

This is what it’s like to stand in love, they think.

21

It was so thoroughly not-a-big-deal, Alicia couldn’t even pinpoint what happened later.

She remembered getting to the lecture hall early and listening to the Hamilton soundtrack. She remembered Kumiko and Chris arriving in chem and sitting by her, like always. And at some point Alicia thought to herself, “____________” (She didn’t remember.)

(It was something along the lines of, “Kumiko’s kinda cute,” but the words don’t capture the feeling, which was more about the person and less about her looks.)

“So what do you like about her?” Jack asked her five days later. Five days of Alicia’s feelings snowballing down a hill, in which the hill was getting steeper and the bottom was nowhere in sight.

“Um…” Alicia kinda shrugged. “I’m still trying to put words to it. She’s… I want to say genuine?

It’s like she knows exactly who she is, and doesn’t have any reason to be anything else.”

“Confidence is sexy,” Jack said, nodding as he poked the boiling tortellini. “Shit, can you… Can you hold this for a sec?”

Alicia took the colander and held it over the sink while he poured a bit of water out of the overflowing pot. “I don’t know if sexy is the right word,” she said. “I mean, she’s cute, I just… I dunno. That’s not why I fell for her.”

Jack placed the pot back on the stove. “Is genuineness the main thing you like about her?”

“I think so? I’m still working it out. Don’t worry, I’m sure I’ll manage to overanalyze both her and my attraction to her over the next… however long I like her.”

She – Kayla – is kind of badass. Not like leatherjacket-dyed-hair-deep-violet-fight-me badass. She’s genuine. That’s pretty badass. She geeks out over chem and superhero movies and Kina Grannis.

Her favorite color is pink, a dark shade, almost magenta. She doesn’t play by any of the lesbian stereotypes, flannels or beanies or softball, but she – Alex – doesn’t get the sense that she’s avoiding them. Kayla isn’t trying to be anything in particular; she’s just being.

It’s little things, like the way Kayla reaches up to brush the low-hanging leaves on the way back from class, or the change in her voice when she sees a dog, or the way she gets excited by the color of the sky. They stop one evening at the top of the tennis courts to look at the magenta-andgold fire painting the sunset.

22 | OutWrite, 2018

Alex sneaks a look at her face. Kayla’s eyes are full of light.

She can’t pinpoint why she’s fallen in love, but she knows these little things have made it happen faster.

They were theoretically studying for Friday’s chem midterm, but the study break was stretching into an hour and there were Buzzfeed quizzes happening. Alicia looked over Kumiko’s shoulder.

The question was, “What color are your eyes?”

Kumiko’s cursor drifted between the separate answers of “brown” and “dark brown.” She must have known Alicia was looking, because there was no explanation when she looked up and implicitly invited her to stare into her eyes.

Kumiko’s eyes were lovely, Alicia thought. There shouldn’t have been anything remarkable about them. They were a shade darker than chocolate and a shade richer than coffee, and Alicia couldn’t figure out what made them so lovely. She wanted to describe the exact color of Kumiko’s eyes, but she didn’t trust her adjectives right now.

“Dark brown,” she said.

The entire world has turned gray, and Alex has never loved the color more. Puffy gray clouds spanning the whole sky, sheets of gray drops falling from above, cool gray puddles on gray concrete walks. The smell of petrichor floods her lungs.

Kayla kicks a puddle at Alex, who chases after her. Two adults on a grown-up stroll through a university have transformed into a pair of kids.

Water flies as their feet smash through puddles, soaking their socks and the bottoms of their jeans.

Laughter and rain and fresh air make running feel like flying, instead. Kayla slips on a leaf, and Alex catches up, concerned but mostly giggling.

The trees and buildings hum a song as old as the oceans. Kayla inhales deeply, and Alex knows the petrichor has reached her core.

Alex finally opens her umbrella so they don’t get wetter, and they continue their walk in a more sensible manner. Their damp hair and soaked legs are the only evidence that the colors of the whole world reside in their souls.

Alicia hesitated to knock because she knew full well that Kumiko was in there. She had real reasons for going over to Jack’s apartment, but the fact

that Kumiko was nevertheless there made her worry that Kumiko would think she was only there for that reason.

Eventually she did knock, and Jack’s roommate Oliver opened the door, and when Kumiko saw her she said “Alicia!” like she was genuinely happy to see her, and Alicia’s heart lit up like a warm coal because this meant the world to her.

Alicia planted herself at the dining table, opposite Kumiko. “Are you here to study too?”

Alicia asked.

“Kind of. Aaron invited me here to hang out, but he’s got a midterm tomorrow,” Kumiko said, gesturing towards one of the rooms.

“Solid planning.”

“I know.” Kumiko picked up her phone. “Do you mind if I play music?”

“Not at all.”

At this point, Jack walked through the room.

“Hey Alicia,” he said, grinning and wiggling his eyebrows behind Kumiko’s back. Alicia glared at him a little, but he plopped himself down on the couch instead of noticing her stare.

Kumiko put her phone down and pulled a stray thread from her faded purple tee. Guitar notes drifted out of her phone – Alicia didn’t recognize it, aside from knowing it was Ed Sheeran.

She and Kumiko got to work, Ed Sheeran’s tinny voice singing between them.

Nothing important. Maybe Alex will forget it completely one day.

It’s just two of them in a room with many others.

They’re not alone at all. Two of them at the table, others flitting in and out of conversation. The room is always occupied by more than just them.

They’re studying at the table, their laptops askew so they can talk to each other. Neither of them can focus because the whole room is abuzz. They talk about things anyone can talk about, like the music that’s playing from Kayla’s phone, or their favorite movies, or how the quarter’s going. No big deal.

Alex will forget what they talked about. She’ll forget what everyone else in the room is doing, and what she’s wearing, and what she’s working on.

In the end, what she remembers is the songs Kayla’s played. She remembers Kayla singing a little off-key, and the kind, unguarded way she looks at her, and walking home with her at two in the morning. Everything else fades into a soft lavender feeling that captures it all.

Alicia couldn’t remember the last time she’d been so silly-in-love.

She’d never looked forward to chem so thoroughly before. She woke up in the mornings excited and ready to go, even though her first class was three hours before chem. She laughed at herself whenever she realized it.

She’d been at lunch with Chris and Kumiko, and Alicia asked them what they’d do if a friend asked them out. Kumiko’s answer was situational – “It depends on the person.” – which wasn’t much use.

Alicia still couldn’t believe the nerve of herself for asking the question, or for cautiously adding follow-ups. She was pushing her luck, but she was too dumb-in-love to care, and she knew it.

Chris: brave of you to ask Alicia: lol too bad she didn’t answer the real question Chris knew, and seemed to approve. Alicia took this as a good sign, because Chris knew Kumiko well. It gave her hope.

She’d never really taken a look at the fuchsias growing across from the chem lecture hall. They were in full bloom, the short point in a flower’s life when everything about it is perfect. They were full of joy, their petals outstretched, their magentas and purples in full vibrance.

Things were going well. It was life in love.

Wind sweeps Alex’s hair and spirits into the sky. The occasional rose petal twirls past her face, one hitting her in the mouth. There’s a song in the air which has nothing to do with sound, and everything to do with everything.

And everything dances. Everything is full of life and color – the roses around her are sweet and raspberry pink, the grass is a deep, healthy green.

She can’t actually smell the roses in the wind, but everything tricks her into thinking she can. In her third-degree state of life-in-love, the wind could have tricked her into thinking anything.

I think I know why I’ve fallen for you.

The wind picks up enough to pull freshly fallen petals up from the grass. The air around her flutters wildly, a flock of birds in Kayla’s favorite color taking off. Petals kiss her cheeks, and she carries a rosy shade of pink inside. Dark pink, almost magenta. Fuchsia.

I think we have the same color soul.

23

Alicia felt guilty, as though it was her fault Kumiko had fallen asleep right beside her. She avoided looking in Kumiko’s direction, because the soft feeling that surfaced in her heart whenever she did felt like a betrayal of trust.

Alicia: ngl dying a little over here Chris: do you want to trade spots?

Alicia: lol it’s ok. She’d wonder why we switched.

Chris glanced at their sleeping friend. Kumiko’s head lay on her arm, face turned toward them, a pair of electric pink headphones resting nearby.

Alicia didn’t look because she already knew how Kumiko looked right now.

The midterm had gone well for Alicia. The others were trying not to talk about it, which made her sad because they were the entire reason she’d been able to solve anything. They were sort of halfheartedly starting finals prep, although it felt ages away. Hence Kumiko taking a nap instead.

Alicia: Have I told you the plan?

Chris: No? What plan?

Alicia: I’m gonna try and hang out one-on-one with her a few times before break, get to know her a little better Alicia: Next quarter I’ll ask her out She’d have loved to dive right in. Alicia was so ready for something to finally happen. But it was for the best, and if it made things more likely to work out, then she had to keep telling herself she was willing to wait for it.

There’s something autumnal about walking back from the library tonight. They’re not sure if it’s within them, or if the way their breath hangs frozen in the air has anything to do with it, or if it’s because finals are drawing near and things are ending. The night is a deep, solemn blue, somewhere between navy and royal, but if you pay attention you can see the turquoise streaks in the night.

Alex drinks in the almost-winter air and catches Kayla’s eye. She smiles.

Maybe it’s because of the weather; maybe it’s because of them. But the solemnity of the night is interwoven with a relaxed kind of optimism, cool and blue-green.

The end is upon them, but the true beginning has yet to arrive. There is so much promise ahead.

Alicia: Chris, do you mind flaking on lunch tmrw?

Alicia: So it’s just me and her?

Chris: Sure, good luck!

24 | OutWrite, 2018

It wasn’t… the most awkward lunch Alicia had ever had. But it was up there.

It seemed like Kumiko had something on her mind the entire time. She’d mentioned finals early on, so Alicia figured she was just stressed out.

They tried. Alicia asked questions; Kumiko answered them. Sometimes Kumiko bounced a similar question back. Every conversation hit a wall. Kumiko still seemed preoccupied, and Alicia worried about how to get her to relax and save their lunch. They’d been alone before. They could handle this.

Things didn’t improve, and they headed out.

Alicia blamed herself for roughly twelve seconds.

“Can I talk to you for a minute?” Kumiko asked.

Oh. Kumiko was careful with her words. She wasn’t sure if this was true or not, disclaimer, disclaimer, trying to be gentle but direct, but if Alicia liked her– “Where did you get this idea?” Alicia wanted to know.

“Does that mean…?”

“Just… hypothetically,” Alicia said, knowing full well there was nothing hypothetical going on anymore.

“Um… You know when you asked me and Chris what we’d do if a friend asked us out?”

She’d figured it out herself.

“So… You don’t have to say anything, but if that’s the case… I want to make it clear that I’m not interested. I mean, I’m flattered, but I really don’t want to lead you on. I recently started dating someone.”

Alicia nodded.

“You don’t have to say anything,” Kumiko said again.

“No.” There was nothing hypothetical. “You’re right. I slipped up.”

“It’s okay. I just wanted to make it crystal clear.”

Alicia nodded again. Sure. Crystal. Like ice.

“Okay… I guess I’ll see you later?”

Study group later. “Okay. See you.”

It’s raining again. Someone told you rain couldn’t be fun and blue and gray couldn’t be happy. So here comes the sky, letting you down.

There’s two girls… It’s not Alex and Kayla. You idiot. There never was Alex and Kayla. There was just Alex and her hope.

It’s the internal version of when you go out without a coat or an umbrella and it starts pouring, and your shoulders and everything up to your

thighs are drenched. There are better ways to phrase that. It’s raining internally? Does that imply crying? Is that too much? I don’t know. Just imagine being miserable.

She fell in love and hoped to stay this time, but now she’ll have to climb slowly back out. Again.

It’s a long, slippery way to the top, and she’s exhausted, and she wants to stay here but can’t.

One girl. Standing in the rain. Nowhere to go.

Never mind. I can’t do this.

Alicia’s fingers stilled on the keyboard. The spacer ticked on the page, pestering her to continue. She scrolled down so she wouldn’t have to see it.

It was one in the morning. She was at Jack’s. The study group had gone badly – she and Kumiko didn’t talk and the atmosphere was weird and eventually she gave some excuse and left. Chris said he was there for her, if she needed him.

Which was nice. Right now she didn’t want to disturb the study group. Finals prep would go fine without her.

Alicia didn’t know what to do. She’d had all these plans… none of them accounted for this.

Alicia pulled her earbuds out. She wasn’t actually listening to anything. Jack was dozing off on the couch against the far wall, with Carla curled up next to him. They weren’t cuddling – they were barely touching – but their arms were outstretched so that their hands could meet.

They’d found a new love story to be happy in. And to have problems in, and find solutions in, and to be hurt in. At least something was happening.

Alicia closed her laptop. Jack woke up long enough to lock the door behind her. She started her trek down the lopsided apartment stairs.

Maybe she should’ve been used to it by now.

This idea of her love stories ending before they could even begin. Maybe it was the world compensating for the love stories she wrote.

The night was cold and still. Alicia walked herself home.

25

“the place where we didn’t exist” written and illustrated by Kit P we fell in love in the place where we didn’t belong: where you never smiled, and my hair was too long. every touch was defiance; every act caused a fuss, and we knew that the stories weren’t written for us. we fell in love in the place where we couldn’t be seen, and the town laid a curse; we were only sixteen, but we minded the dragons and fought with the sword, and we hoped for a future we couldn’t look toward. climbing bleachers like towers, aware of the looks, and they’d laugh in our faces and knock down our books; we’d lacked our grand title, our name and our crown, but we fought, tooth and nail; we were going to get out. we fell in love in the place that wanted us dead, where we couldn’t be loved and it couldn’t be said; but we said it, we did, and we shook with the sound: too young to be careful, too brave to lie down. we fell in love in the place where we didn’t exist: where we fell through the cracks, disappeared in the mist, but we loved and we fought, and used love to resist, and i felt revolution every time that we kissed. there wasn’t an enemy we could see with the eye; we couldn’t count the monsters, as hard as we tried, and no one sang our praises, or penned our ever-after — but maybe we’re more than a storybook chapter. we made our own story; we wrote our own words. we fought for the future we couldn’t look towards. and we based it on impulse, on faith and on trust, fell in love in a story not written for us.

26 | OutWrite, 2018

C ontributors Cover & Backpage Letter from the Editor La Leyenda Real de La Llorona Over the Rainbow Moon to Sun The Purest Hero Libertad Hero’s Visit by Chastity and Love Fuchsia the place where we didn’t exist

Jeanine Lee Andrew Hall Austin Mendoza Anastacia Kellogg Siobhán Chapman Jasper Michelle Jessica Humphrey Sarah Jensen Kit P

Editors

Layout

Copy Editors

Graphics & Illustrations

Andrew Hall Siobhán Chapman Sarah Jensen Anastacia Kellogg John Solan Shay Suban Shayna Maci Warner

Siobhán Chapman Andrew Evans Nick Griffin Shay Suban Astrid W Angela Zheng

Emily Dearborn Dharma Cami Miceli Tiffany Tang Angela Zheng

Nick Griffin Jeanine Lee Carmen Ngo Kit P Shay Suban Nieves Winslow Angela Zheng

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