white suit
issue #1
featured in this issue: isabella kurilec-cruz cynthia lee tianna lee junior vue
A collaboration with student creative writers.
“There is always some madness in love. BUT there is also always some reason in madness.” – Nietzsche
table of contents pyro ....................................................................... 4 circle of love .......................................................... 7 because i hated cabbages .................................... 8 ease .................................................................... 12 the knight ............................................................ 13 strawberry fields forever ..................................... 14
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pyro
written by cynthia lee
Wild fire moved across the scene and back again. The woods remained intact but blew up in flames in a second over and over and over. I didn’t like to watch the little flashes of horror but I couldn’t look away either. My head was hurting and I felt like I was going to throw up. The sky was too blue and the air too crisp for a day like this. But why were the woods burning? And why weren’t they? Just burn the fuck down or not. Make up your mind. You’re some god’s creation too. You can do whatever you want. Free will and all that shit. And even though it was eighty degrees out I felt a sudden rush of cold air blow through me. The sliding balcony door was closed so I didn’t have anything to blame it on. “Blame it on.” I muttered as I gripped the railing of the balcony. I got a room on the ninth floor and knew I would die if I ever jumped off. But I couldn’t help but continue to be curious. It was like touching a hot stove just to see if it would continue to burn you. Staying with an abusive lover just to see if they would hit you again. Childishly falling in love just to see if your heart would break again. Again and again and again. I heard the sliding door open and cringed as the stench of Alana’s perfume filled the air. “Are you gonna pay me or what, Joe?” Alana said. Her short red skirt was riding up her scarred up thighs and the leather jacket that sat on her bony shoulders was just waiting to fall off. I studied her frame in the doorway. Its frailness bothered me making me run my hands through my brown hair and yet it excited me at the same time. I ignored the quick electricity that went through me
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as the fire from the woods quickly licked the back of my neck before retreating back. Without answering I walked pass her and into the overly furnished room. The bed was still messy from last night and the half finished bottles of alcohol were tipped over and carelessly placed on bedside table ledges. I grabbed one of the bottles with a clean cup, placed it on the table, took a seat and poured myself a drink. The movements felt like a practiced dance I’ve gone over and over and over with an expert of the waltz or mamba. What would this expert call this sidestep dance? ‘This-Whiskeywas-Expensive’ had a nice ring to it. But what did I know? I wasn’t a expert. “It’s eight in the morning,” She said, taking a seat on the chair across from me. “This wasn’t for you, ya know,” I sighed again, looking down at the brown liquid I could see a spark starting in the depths of the raging waves I created by stirring the alcohol around. I held it up and looked at it against the morning light making it flicker and glow. It was a spark so small I knew Alana couldn’t see it and no one would have been able to see it coming and they’ll let this little spark burn everything down. The thought made my head hurt and I quickly forced the spark filled liquid into my throat and heaved a heavy howl which made the pain easier to swallow. Gripping the glass cup tightly in my hand, I felt it scorch my palms and fingertips before throwing the cup across the room. It hit the wall behind the bed and broke trickling like rain onto the bed. It also left a wet mark on the wall where a
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blazing fire started and reached its flames towards me before retreating back. The girl was startled but I could tell she was use to the violence and didn’t care that her handbag on the bed was now covered with broken glass and left over whiskey. But she didn’t see the fire. She couldn’t have. “Where’s my pay?” She repeated, crossing her legs. Her red pumps dangled from her toes and the calluses on the heels of her feet looked frayed. Her elbow rested on the table ledge while her other arm reached across her thin body as she leaned forward in a slouch. The lace tank top she had on under her leather jacket didn’t conceal her breast which were covered with the black bra I had thrown on the lamp last night. Chapped lips
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were stained with red and it looked like she tried to wash away the mascara that had ran down her cheeks and the dark eye shadow that had smudged down under her eyes. I reached into my back pocket, retrieved a couple bills and threw it on the table. “You can stay here for a while too if ya want. I’m headin’ out.” Grabbing my jacket on the kitchen counter I walked towards the door. “The fire looks like it’s not going anywhere.” She said as if it was just a distant thought of hers. A distant thought for her but for me - I stopped at the door and massaged my temples. “There is no fire.”
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circle of love
written by cynthia lee
The flower pin in her hair made her feel like a kid again. She decided to put it on that morning because she was feeling extra gloomy. As if this grown-up self she had transformed into was deprived of magic and fairy dust. She had broken up with her boyfriend of two years the night before and the mystical unicorn they seemed to ride together was an ass if anything. She had come to a conclusion that she was an idiot. That he cheated on her because she had let all the signs of a broken relationship slip her by. Oh, well. She thought grabbing her keys from the couch before heading off to the coffee shop. I still have a better personality than she does. And the thought made her cringe. It was a bad breakup. The crying and the hitting and the yelling in a public place had her blushing at the thought of it. Sorry. He said. I just don’t love you anymore. He repeated over and over. The cheater had broken up with the cheated. Idiot. She thought to herself again. She exited the building and began eyeing every man she saw. I hate everyone. She thought to herself. Especially, you and you and you. No,
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especially you! She said giving this one guy across the street side glances of death as they seemed to walk down in sync. You and your grey sweater looking all smug like. Judging him just because of his mysterious features and blue jeans. His headphones were black and...The music you’re listening to is probably something pretentious like Mozart or The Beatles! She thought and broke their sync and entered the corner coffee shop. She ordered her usual and took out a book to read in the corner. The doorbell jingled and the man with the black headphones listening to The Beatles or was it Mozart, came in. Looking around the room he spotted a girl with a flower pin in her hair. She’s probably reading something pretentious like Fitzgerald or Hemmingway. He thought to himself feeling his face scrunch up together. He had broken up with his girlfriend of eight months, three weeks ago. His dream of being her hero, shattered. I hate everyone.
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because I hated cabbage written by tianna lee
When I was ten, I loved egg rolls. It was timeconsuming to prepare and fry enough for a family of six, so the kids always helped. Egg rolls were a group project. I peeled and divided the egg roll wrappers; my sister cut the vegetables; my mom mixed the filling of ground pork, carrots, soy sauce, sugar, and cabbage. I hated cabbage. Usually, either my sister or I would ask: “Mom, can you make plain ones for me?” Plain meant ground pork only. Pork was more expensive than carrots or cabbage, which also served as filler. Mom would stare for a few seconds before relaxing and giving in. “All right, but it would be nice if you ate some vegetables.” She didn’t tell us about the cost. One October day, I asked for plain egg rolls. Mom agreed to my request, like always, but only if I helped prepare the egg rolls. I was in charge of setting up the work station. I moved the ingredient bowls, spoons, and plates to the table. The egg roll wrappers were frozen, so I had to wait for them to thaw, so they wouldn’t crack. The most important part of set-up was separating the wrappers from each other so the rolling would end before the first egg rolls became soggy. After the table was set, Mom took a cup and a half of the ground pork and set it aside in a separate bowl, one of those white
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plastic bowls with the little red flowers on the side that we bought at the Asian market. She seasoned and mixed the fillings with her hands. I watched. She sat beside me at the table and moved a stack of wrappers to her plate. “Don’t overfill them, or they won’t cook evenly. First left, then right. Tuck it in when you roll. You have to roll them straight and tight,” she said. “And make sure you spread the egg wash on all the edges so it sticks. If you don’t, the liquids can leak out, and it will spit in the oil.” Left, right. I tucked the wrapper under the filling and pressed firmly as I rolled, just enough egg wash at the edges. Mom smiled and continued her work; she rolled three egg rolls for every one I could complete. Soon, I had a small pile of plain egg rolls ready for frying. I imagined the flaky golden exterior and the flavorful filling hot out of the pan. I wished I could eat them right then, straight off the plate, but I waited. Mine would be the last she cooked because Dad’s dinner always came first. By 6 o’clock, we finished rolling, and Mom heated the oil, canola. She placed six egg rolls in the open wok, 18 inches across. This allowed her to turn them at the precise moment that each was the ideal golden brown and make sure that the sugars from the filling didn’t burn.
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I stood beside her with my head stretched over the stove. “I’m hungry! When is it going to be finished? Can I cook mine?” An egg roll spit oil onto my outstretched arm; I drew it back with a sharp breath. “You’re not old enough for this yet. See? Go sit down and wait til I finish with your father’s. It will be a few.” She turned back to the wok and flipped an egg roll. Not done yet. I paced the length of the living room. My stomach roared and tightened in on itself. At eight minutes per batch and twenty-three egg rolls for Dad, it would be forever before I could eat! I tried to distract myself with some toys the other kids had forgotten. Pastel Wee Waffles paved the floor. Absently, I shifted the pieces into a simple house with a pink fence and a gate. The television provided little more entertainment. I stared impatiently at a cartoon I disliked when I heard something out-of-the-ordinary behind me. I had not stayed with my mom at the stove because I had been angry with the oil for hurting me, not because my mom told me to. I was plenty
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old enough to cook the egg rolls by myself if I wanted to. But I heard my Mom scream and the thumping of her feet on the floor from the living room. The stove was only fifteen feet away, and when I got there I was surprised to find the kitchen empty, the stove still on. I heard my grandma first. She was peering around the half-closed door of the bathroom. Her height and her loose sweater filled the open space so that I couldn’t see into the room, but I heard the water falling against the tub and my dad’s worried voice. I pulled the corner of my grandma’s sweater. “What happened? Is Mom in there? Why is she in the shower?” My grandma turned to face me. “Yes, let her be.” She sent me, confused, away. I flopped down on the couch and stared. It’s surface was tough, an old, faded tan leather, scarred by scratches and stained by my siblings’ accidents. I did not sit on the pee-stains. Instead, I was careful to throw myself into the left corner against the armrest. I furrowed my brow, contemplating. It was strange for Mom to shower
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because i hated cabbage (continued)
at dinner time. “I hope she hurries up so I can eat soon. I’m starving!” I grumbled. The experience of crunchy wrappers and juicy pork filled my thoughts. I knocked down my Wee Waffle house. Twenty minutes later, my Dad left the bathroom and disappeared up the stairs. He returned with some folded clothes: a pair of jeans and a burgundy sweater. I followed him to the bathroom, but he shut me out. After a minute, he opened the door again. “I’m taking your mom to the hospital. Keep an eye on the kids until we get back.” It was nearly midnight when I heard the car door slam in the driveway and my dad led my mom to the front door. My grandma let them in, and they made their way to the leather couch. Mom collapsed in the center of it--right on the biggest pee stain. My spot was open, but I sat on the floor instead to give her space. She held a soft white cloth to her face; a square, pale blue bucket stood at her feet. Four partly melted ice cubes floated on the water. A soft groan urged me to finally look at Mom. Her face was peopled by patchy red blotches ranging in size from one half to two inches, throbbing from her forehead to her collar bone. Her voice was scratchy and quiet but constantly escaping from her throat. “What’s wrong with Mom?” I asked. My dad rubbed her shoulder. “She had an accident. She was burned really bad.” “Did it spit at you?” I turned to face Mom again. “The egg roll...exploded.” Her head rolled back on the couch, slowly turning side to side as she groaned in pain. “The pork ones have too much moisture and nothing to soak it up.” I stopped. What did she mean? My egg rolls exploded? But Dad always gets to eat first, and his egg rolls weren’t all cooked yet. How could mine have been in the wok? She continued, “I don’t think I can make those again, not after tonight.” She passed her cloth to my dad, who dipped the corner in the bucket and handed it back to her. “Water and oil--God, I don’t
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want to think about it--” She breathed hard as if speaking was too difficult through the pain. So she made my egg rolls after all--the ones I had rolled. Her words flashed back to me: “make sure you spread the egg wash on all the edges so it sticks. If you don’t, the liquids can leak out, and it will spit in the oil.” Had I rolled them tightly enough? Did I overfill them? Mom was twenty-seven. She had pale, clear skin and blond hair. I looked at the red blotches again. They ended in a perfect line where her shirt collar had been. Her skin was no longer smooth and flawless, as it had been before the accident. It swelled around the burns and, in some places, blisters were developing. My burn was only a speck on my forearm; hers was multiple, varied, on her face--the most visible location.All this at only twenty-seven because I had hurried her in cooking. Because I had rolled my egg rolls. Because I hated cabbage. After a while, we bought a deep fryer. It had a cover and a handle to lift the internal basket while the lid was still on. We were invited to a party, and the host requested that Mom make egg rolls. I helped roll them, as I had practiced with other foods. The deep fryer would protect Mom now even if the egg rolls did explode. Everyone always loved my mom’s egg rolls at parties or visits; they were the most requested in those days. My relationship with cabbage was no better than before; still, I did not ask for plain egg rolls. I was afraid that my selfishness would hurt Mom again, or someone else. Her face had healed in the months it took to overcome the shock of the incident, so well that not even a single scar remained. I stared at her skin as we rolled, straight and tight, each egg roll. The accident was invisible. She took the plate over to the counter, arranged the egg rolls in the basket. The deep fryer locked with a click; the handle lowered the basket; and the distant sizzle pricked my ears.
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ease
written by isabella kurilec-cruz
I need to lie down, but “the carnival is in town.” Your voice pleads for cotton candy entanglement, and the dizzy vision of couples on the Ferris wheel.
All I asked for was that twinkling smile, music and laughter of your voice. The man near me matches me stride for stride, but I feel only empty space at my side.
All I see is twinkling string lights too bright, making the face in front of me vanish. The voice that call me out now drowned out, by music and laughter near the merry-go-round.
Hand me my purse, I’ll take out an aspirin. “Are you alright?” I needed to lie down.
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the knight
written by junior vue
My horse is not white, My lance is rusted, My sword, dull, My shield is dented. I am not Your Knight in Shining Armor. I am no prince of highstand, Nor lord of great lands I hold no mountains of silver or gold, No gems, rubies, emeralds or pearls… Perhaps not even; A simple rose. But, for You my sweet Dear, I have braved many dark lands, Crossed deep rivers and through desert sand. All for You! My journey is marked truly from my mortal heartIt’s so emotive that the mountains shall sing To the fabled gods of my epic tale. I wish not to possess all the wonders of the world, ‘Cause the only treasure that i seek of is, Your golden smile. So my Dear, how can my mare be white? My lance has slain, my sword has cut, My armor has withstood the dragon’s breath. And yet You expect my armor to still shine? I am not Your Knight in Shining Armor. I am just Your knight, my Love, I am just Your knight.
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strawberry fields forever
written by isabella kurilec-cruz
I used to braid Jonie’s hair like Mamma braided mine before. That’s why the girls in my family always went too long between haircuts, forsaking split ends for the sake of decadent hairdos. The love with which Mamma and I could braid hair would make a potbellied biker cry. I had never seen more “LOL’s”, more smiley faces in the texts sent to me before. They were there always, as if daring me to be unhappy in the face of terminal illness. I was unhappy. I would miss life, why wouldn’t anyone commiserate with me? Yes, this does suck, Maxine, I’m sorry this happened to you and not someone worse, like some kind of war criminal. I could never stomach a lie, and this was what I attributed the twisting feeling in my gut to, more so than any symptom rattled off by a physician. “Strawberry fields forever.” I had it plastered all over my bedroom as a teenager. Neuroticism was always there, right from the start. Disguised as eccentricity, they are actually one in the same. The name you give it simply denotes your tolerance for those unabashedly crazy from the start. The joie de vivre may have existed only because I was destined to leave quickly, with a bang. Willows always look as though they’re weeping
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and sunsets always remind me to cry. Pauly was the only one to ever sleep next to me, and I’ve always thought of the pillow next to me as his pillow. I take Pauly’s pillow now, after he is years gone, and hug it tight. Then I pretend it’s actually Jonie and I’m weeping into her hair, my tears being absorbed by her unreasonably long tresses. I tell her I’ll wash it before we sit down with our cocoa and blankies, movie on and then we’ll let the braiding commence. Last time, we watched “Polar Express” and I couldn’t understand why she wasn’t crying at the end. She shook her head, saying, “You cry at the end of every movie, even if it isn’t sad,” and I said, “Even if it isn’t sad, happy endings are so beautiful and rare, they’re so nice that they make me want to cry.” Now, I can fit in that dress, the one I thought was so pretty, with the strawberries printed so tiny you had to get up real close to make out the pattern. Now I’m crying, eating strawberries, and I know that I’m not going to get a happy ending this time. “I hope your garden overflows with color and you fill your mug with something warm every day and night.” My last text from Pauly didn’t have any
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“LOL’s” or smileys and it still made me want to throw my phone out the window of my sixth story hospital room and never talk to anyone I loved ever again. Not because it sounded so final, but because I knew he would have never have sent it if he didn’t know that soon he would never have to deal with me again. He had the broadest shoulders of anyone I ever knew, and when he would wrap me in his arms, I would forget about “strawberry fields forever.” If I had something to say to him, it would be, “I’m sorry I broke your favorite mug. I knew you weren’t going to stay, so I wanted to make sure you had been changed in some way by having met me. So I wouldn’t have to miss the same old you I used to hold at night. I’m sorry that for a while there, you were smiling less than ever. I love your smile, it reminds me of the sun in ways I didn’t know that smiles could. Before I met you, I had no idea smiles could even
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vaguely resemble the sun. I could use some sunlight now, but I guess I’ll suck it up, since I’ll be dead soon anyways.” I couldn’t get out of my own head if I tried, and I’m sorry if I ever eclipsed the sun. I wish I didn’t feel everything twice as much as I should. It’s only when I hear a song that’s saying the words that I should have said to you, when we were running through the fields hand in hand, fast and clumsy as kids, how alive and happy I felt that day, I wouldn’t trade it for anything. So, I pick up a marker and piece of poster board Jonie left here that’s supposed to be for her school project, and since I don’t really see the point in school projects anymore, I instead write it again. I pin it above my bed and close my eyes, remembering to breathe for what seems like the first time in months. I fall into myself. “Strawberry fields forever.”
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