STUCK
IN THE
LIBRARY
MARCH 15, 2015
Brooklyn College’s Poshest Literary Magazine
STUCK
IN
THE
LIBRARY
MARCH 15, 2015
Our Staff: Paulette Gindi President Florencia Salinas Vice President Dovie Eisner Editor in Chief Kami Salman Chief of Publications Yoni Akerman Treasurer Chana Beylin Senior Editor Dassy Heinemann Senior Editor Lovashni Khalikaprasad Senior Editor Faiza Khalid Senior Editor Merav Kraitenberger Senior Editor Moshe Bressler Associate Editor Amanda (Elkie) Lanter Assistant Editor Carolyn Aboudi Assistant Editor Dania Masood Assistant Editor Jillian (Ariella) Lanter Assistant Editor Karen Shaefer Assistant Editor Nisha J Nusrath Assistant Editor ReneĂŠ Esses Assistant Editor Ari Ziegler Senior Member of Event Committee Courtney Takats Senior Member of Event Committee Effie Klestzick Associate Member of Event Committee Yocheved Strum Associate Member of Event Committee Daniel Bressler Assistant Member of Event Committee Gitty Davidson Assistant Member of Event Committee Kristina Markovic Assistant Member of Event Committee Yoni Stern Assistant Member of Event Committee Shalom Lichentsein Assistant Member of Event Committee Mo Khan Chairperson of Stuck in the Cafeteria Constantine Onishchenko Photographer Mohammad (Chomio) Nasrullah Photographer Sean Bown Photographer Sanjida Bintekamal Photographer Salomeya Lomidze Head Videographer Rony Portillo Videographer
Page 4 Prompt 1: Do all shoplifters get prosecuted?
Page 7 Prompt 2: The afterlife.
Page 18 Prompt 3: Grab your controller!
Page 25 Prompt 4: Money isn't the only thing that contains value.
Stuck in the Library aims to facilitate a space where creativity can flourish by creating a magazine which publishes often and encourages its enthusiasts to meet its contributors, resulting in a thriving literary sphere in Brooklyn College.
CONTRIBUTING WRITERS: Algonquin Jones
fake gold egg
Moshe Bressler
Bernard Akshay Gomes
Inna Dulchevsky
Noura
Dominic Grieco
Irina Dulchevsky
Paulette Gindi
Faiza Khalid
Jacob Woodbourne
Susan Thomas
2
Incoming & designated position
STUCK
IN
THE
LIBRARY
MARCH 15, 2015
My Dearest Readers,
PAULETTE GINDI Pres ident
I wish I can pile the right words to express my excitement on my very first publication as President. The last editorial I have published was during my reign as editor-in-chief of my high school paper, which concluded between the lines of, "I guess the next editorial you will read from me will be published in Vogue" evidentially, I was wrong. Here I am, writing to the Stuck in the Library community. My transition here at Stuck in the Library is smoother than I have hoped. Each staff member has been so welcoming and kind. My predecessor, Yaakov Bressler, has been holding my hand through the entire publication process. I was able to experience the thrill of introducing the magazine to new students, as well as offer free coffee and a magazine to complete strangers. I have experienced the fun of formatting as well as the passion our editors had while receiving an outstanding number of submissions.
FLO SALINAS V ice Pres ident
DOVIE EISNER Editor in Ch ief
I am so honored to be the new president of Stuck in the Library. As president, I plan on expanding the diversity and culture of the magazine. I hope to inspire more young passionate writers to continue to write and publish their work. Stuck in the Library will soon become a magazine of creative expression, overall. Our community is building on aspiring writers, artists, musicians and film makers to collaborate and create outstanding art. I feel thrilled to see my visions come to life shortly. This is just one of many editorials you will read from me. Thank you all for your continuous support and dedication. I hope you enjoy this wonderful issue of Stuck in the Library.
KAMI SALMAN Ch ief o f Publica t ions
PAULETTE GINDI President of Stuck in the Library
CONTRIBUTING VISUAL ARTISTS:
CONSTANTINE ONISHCHENKO Photo graph er
Constantine Onishchenko Kristina Markovic Mitzi Tena Mohammad (Chomio) Nasrullah Sanjida Bintekamal 3
Incoming & designated position
Prompt 1: You are caught shoplifting. The shop owner says that s/he won’t call the police in exchange for a personal favor‌
4
Back to the gun, that tip was starting to hurt and tired old grumpy was getting angrier. “Sweetums! I said you want me to blow your freakin’ head off? Get the mop!” I listened. “Now listen up you, I want you to clean these floors nice and shiny. Then I want you to clean them again until they glisten and gleam. That’s your job.” He chuckled. I grabbed the mop. Round and round the shop I went. God, it must have been months since it’s last cleaning. Old Grumpy watched me the whole time, grinning stupidly beneath his hairy mustache.
OFFICE WORK By: Moshe Bressler I felt the distinctive poke of a shotgun on my back before I heard his tired, grumbly voice. “That’s a nice looking jacket you’ve got there sweetums. Lets have it.” Shit. Somehow I knew this wasn’t going to end well. As I’m taking it off, a soup can clunked to the floor. We both stared at it. Clunk! Clunk! A whole damn shelf of soup cans came pouring out of my shirt waist. “What you think we’re running around here? A freakin’ soup kitchen! Listen sweetums, you look like a tired old sicko. How ‘bout a deal?” He kept the shotgun pointed on my spine.
Round and round I went, waiting for his glance to slip, waiting for my chance to break free. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes and a match. Just as his lips dove down to meet the flame, I rammed the mop head straight into his fat ugly belly. He doubled over and I slammed a good one up his nose. My boots connected with his belly again and this time he fell to the ground clutching his face. I kicked away the shotgun and threw away the mop. On my way out, I calmly reached for the whole row of soup cans and walked out with them in a spare box. My arms and back ached, god it’s been a long day at work.
BAM! That’s what I was imagining right now. No way in hell was I striking another deal. That’s what got me into this shithole of a supermarket anyways. You see, it started with my grumpy old boss. He had me run, for lack of a better term, errands. Yeah, I was his little errand boy. One day, for the old man, I’d jump people. The next day I’d pour corrosive paste into the cracks of our neighbors sidewalk, a friendly repair job. I’d always swipe things off shelves, you see, we like to keep our running costs at a minimum.
5
HOPE, KINDNESS, INSPIRATION BUNDLED INTO ONE By: Susan Thomas look for jobs. Every evening, he would come back disappointed with no calls or letters came asking for his service. But every evening he would be reunited with his daughter. He would hold her tight and kiss her because she was his last hope. Giving her this candy would bring a huge smile to her face, which would leave a lasting impression on his heart.
As he was walking down the aisle 13, trying to find his daughter's favorite brand of chocolate, the shop owner was observing him. The shop owner wasn't staring him because he looked out of place or sketchy, rather because his stoic, unexpressive facial expression did not match his body language. He was hunched over, as if he was trying to protect himself from the evils of the world, as if he was afraid, as if he has been tortured, as if he has been bullied, hurt, broken.
The owner's eyes filled with water as he was listening to the poor, humble, man talk about his misfortunes. The owner told him told him the consequences of stealing. Instead of punishing him, he told the man that he can keep the candy if he made him a promise. The man nervously agreed, not knowing the unpredictable future.
In the mind of the man, a million thoughts were running through his head. Is this the right thing to do? I need to do this. She deserves this. Am I a bad father? Quickly in the flash of a second, he stole a yellow packet of peanut M&Ms for his daughter. Still worried, the father tried to scurry out fast enough.
The store owner said," Find a job even if it isn't as respectable as being a doctor. Live for your daughter. Live an honest life. Cheating is not within the scope of your character. Live a life that your daughter would be proud to brag about. Your choices change the world. Live well, my friend."
The store owner observing the man's peculiar body just realized what had happened. He quickly jumped up and stopped the man from exiting. Instead of making a scene, the store owner hugged the man as if he recognized an old friend and welcomed him into his office.
With that being said, the owner left the office shortly. The man was dumbfounded. How did this random gentleman appear in my life, offer me food and advice, while I stole from him?
Recognizing that the man didn't seem malicious or deceptive, the store owner offered the man a cup of coffee and cookies in his office. He explained to the man that he noticed everything. Then the image of the once strong man shattered. His 6 foot frame trembled as he started quietly weeping. He told the store owner that he had a daughter who had just graduated from the 1st grade and that he didn't have any money to buy her a toy, but M&Ms was her favorite candy. Candy has become a luxury in his household.
The owner appeared again, but this time with a huge bag in his hand. It contained food, water, toys, snacks, treats, and some clothes. "Take this, my friend. Just as I did good to you, do good to others. Cause no harm." With gratitude and happiness overfilling his heart, the man left with an endless amount of joy and hope. Years has passed, and the father still teaches his daughter this story of kindness, as he takes her on mission trips around the world, offering peace in the hearts of those who don't have any.
He used to be educated doctor who had lost his job due to the corruption in the healthcare system. No one was hiring him because of his last firing. The mother of his child had passed away the last month. Everything has become so dark and dreary around the house. He doesn't know how to explain death to his daughter without completely breaking her. Every night, he would sing her the lullaby that her mother would sing to her. Every morning, he would get up make her breakfast, send her to 6
Photograph by: Sean Bowen
Prompt 2:
We regret to inform you that you’re dead. (What happens after? Heaven? Hell? Purgatory? Reincarnation? Something else? Use your imagination.)
7
were still throbbing from injury; I do not know. I could conceive nothing of that lifeless female form.
DEATH By: Noura
I only know the scents, the tastes, and the sounds. I had studied them. I watched and felt destruction run into me again and again with the full force of death we humans glorify and fear.
The Church teaches that there is a beautiful sanctuary up among the clouds waiting for you. It waits for you, and me, and for our brothers and sisters who rejoice in God… But foolish are they who preach this simple entry to paradise. Little do the living know, the Dead must wait to enter...
When at last my flesh was dissolved into dirt, and my bones shone pale in the moonlight, I walked and left my body behind. As I drearily strode along a freeway I recalled the words “De mortuis nil nisi bonum: About the dead say nothing but good.” I heard my attacker far off thinking of my hips and how he liked the way they had torn when the axe had… “Let no one be found among you who sacrifices their son or daughter in the fire, who practices divination or sorcery, interprets omens, engages in witchcraft, or casts spells or who is a medium or spiritist or who consults the dead. Anyone who does these things is detestable to the Lord” (Deuteronomy 18:11). It is all lies. The Scriptures teach us that there is no in between, that there is no such thing as a spirit walking the Earth. Yet here I am. I walk, I stand, I fly the scourge of the living. Mind you, this is not freedom. No. It is not. It is not, it is not, it is NOT! Life was much like an insatiable hunger and Death is just the absence of all.
I was raped and murdered July 16th, 1872 in Calgary, Alberta. I was twenty-two, I loved music, I read often, and I was a wonderful mother. My grand and painful exit from this world seemed at that moment the worst possible fate. Those feelings wash over me to this day in icy waves: pain, humiliation, fear, defeat, complete and utter helplessness. Worthless, the one who had stolen my life had whispered. I am only glad for death for it released me from my Earthly bonds of suffering.
Everything. It is all black and drab. My wandering would never cease. I saw many others like myself walking, crying, even singing. Many had a brutal death like mine, but some had been blessed to die happy.
Immediately after I collapsed dead, my body began its process of falling apart. It festered, farted, and steamed with putrid sin. Colonies of insects gorged themselves on the feast that was my wretched body. Sweet, pumping blood has stagnated and soured. The slashes on my neck and thighs still seemed alive. Were they swollen with expanding guts or busy little bugs? Could it be the wounds
I envied them so. People who knew me still called my name and I could do nothing but follow. I knew not why I sought them. I could not feel as my body had before. Love was just an empty trough left to quench livestock who drank only blood. I felt fear for the sensations I felt when I lived… and this is all.
8
I visited my family in nightmares and while they went about their daily chores. This was my afterlife. None could see or hear me or perhaps they didn’t care. Nearly a century later an odd child was born into the family. I had seen many births in the years I spent walking but this one had been special. Gifted, sorceress, witch, miracle, demon, vessel of hope, medium, blessed, whatever name she was given by God she could see me. And for the first time in a thousand moons I saw into another person. From the moment she entered this world I felt what she felt, for she felt for me. Everyday she saw me, sensed me before I even could make myself known. She feared me but always acknowledged my presence. Sometimes she cried for the sheer immensity of my sorrow that she naturally drank in. Slowly, the deep wounds of my past healed when she began to greet me with smiles. And one day, as I swung on the backyard swing and she slid down the great slide she spoke: “Who are you?”. I smiled for the first time in two hundred years. So much pain had worn away when the supernatural no longer seemed a vast stretch of land separating me, isolating me in darkness. I smiled long and hard. When I finally fought through the weariness the dead must bear roaming the Earth I responded: “I am your angel, Eternally.” 9
DIALOGUE WITH ARISTOTLE By Inna Dulchevsky You said, The use of object Must satisfy Its design No wonder I feel So unhappy
SENSELESS By: Moshe Bressler did you ever see a snake trying to bite its own ass off? how would it know snake lunch
if the rattle isn’t just
they aren’t very picky eaters you know
the humans they are picky as constipated shit men blow their own brains out women eat their insides bare until their bowels are hollow and filled with dread
snakes have no room inside with dread but people are empty filled
to be filled desperate to be
with desperate shit pathetic empty replacements for bowels that shit ain’t real 10
My Last Journey By: Bernard Akshay Gomes I remember experiencing sleep paralysis. An intruder would just come in my room and press his hand against my mouth trying to suffocate me. I could not move in that semi-conscious state. I knew he was not real. So I gathered all my strength to pull myself up. When I tried, only my soul would screech out of my body. It would scare me at first but eventually I trusted the link between my body and soul. No matter what, I knew my soul would return to my body. Today, the link seems to have betrayed me. I cannot go back into my body. I tried, but I failed miserably. What is happening to me? Is this a different kind of hallucination? I cannot scream. Where is my mother? Is this it? Am I dead? Already? I am gently and unwaveringly being pulled up. As I reach up to my ceiling, I take a good look at my room. My friends were here today with a basket of fruits. It is still lying on the table untouched. Did they already know I was going to die tonight? I suddenly look at myself lying on the bed as still as a corpse. My face reflects a veneer of calmness. My mind seems to be at peace now. Gently I pass through the roof of my house and into the sky. The sky is illuminated with stars and a crescent moon.
can see the landscape view of my beautiful city. Which place is this? I see my school at the northeast corner. I don't think people noticed me there. The thought makes me happy because no one in school will miss me much. Why did my friends bring me a fruit basket? I miss my best friend. He doesn't live in this city anymore. I don't know where he has gone to college. All I know is that, he is doing pretty well. I remember when I met him last, we played bowling. He beat me, but he never bragged. He kept stressing on how "fun" it was. I only wish the best for him and everyone else. The shape of my body is changing now. The world in front of me is getting bigger and bigger. I wonder if I apologized to people, to whom I might have wronged. Someone sent me a handmade "Thank You" card a few days back. I wonder if I thanked my mother for everything she has done for me. Whoever and wherever she is, I miss her. I have started to exude light and I realize that I am flying all by myself. Maybe this was one of the wishes in my "Things to do before I die" list. Did I have one? Did I do all those things? I wish I had an amazing life down there. I suddenly come to rest. I am at ease now because I don't remember who I am. I am shining now and extremely sleepy. The world in front of me is so beautiful‌
I remember last going to bed. Did I wish goodnight to my mother? Did I tell her that I love her? As I continue to rise, I look at my garden. I used to play with my siblings there. I feel like an awful brother for not remembering their names anymore. I remember arguing with one of them a lot. In spite of all the arguments, she used to ask for my help with her school work. Was I the smartest one in the family? I look at my neighborhood now. I learned how to ride the cycle on these streets. There is someone treading down the street. He suddenly halts in front of my house and stares at it. Did my mother call a doctor when she found me unconscious? Whoever it is, I hope he provides comfort to my family. I don't want them to cry a lot. I can't help but notice how fast I am being pulled now. I 11
THE WAITING ROOM By: Algonquin Jones
“I’m not a kid,” said Seth. “You’re not,” he said. “You’re a corpse.”
There was running, he remembers, there was running. Footsteps on the concrete. Laughter. Money in his hands. Little metal casings bouncing on the concrete as he ran. And then there was silence and everything went white.
Seth’s mind rattles like a jigsaw puzzle in a box being shaken so that some of the pieces actually fall in with one another. Snake bite. White everywhere. Soft pillowy carpet. Strange older man conveying wisdom.
Seth wakes to find that he is sitting in a white chair in a white room. He doesn’t know the room is white. He thinks that someone’s holding a lit fluorescent bulb to his face. But, then he blinks once. Blinks again. And blinks a third time for good measure. The room is still stark white. Blindingly white except for a pair of aluminum doors on the far wall. He sits up and his toes touch the soft white carpet.
“Am I dead?” he asked. “Of course,” said the man. Seth gulped. “And so you’re God then?” The man began to laugh until he began to cough violently. He turns to face Seth. “Do I look like God to you boy?”
There are others in the room. Sitting in chairs just like his. Staring at the white. Some are asleep. Some are nodding. Some have little white earbuds in their ears, bobbing their heads.
With the man’s head turned he sees it. Half of his face was burnt off. The man’s other arm is on the floor at his feet. “They make me lug that around. You’d think they’d put it back on or something.”
“How’d you go kid?” asked the man sitting next to him.
“What the hell happened to you?”
“How’d I what?” he said.
“The Great War,” said the man.
“How’d you go? Was it a snake bite? I bet it was a snake bite.”
“You mean World War I?” asked Seth.
“Where am I?” Seth asked. He looked up and down his lanky arms for any sign of a snake bite. There was none.
“If there were others like it then probably, yeah,” said the man. “Name’s Earl Washington. You?”
“The waiting room,” said the man. He doesn’t turn to Seth. The man looks young, brown and straight ahead. He looks to Seth like half of those vase-kissing people illusions with his brown skin--a silhouette against all the blinding white. Only the right side of his face is visible.
“Seth,” he said slumping back in his chair. He couldn’t remember his surname. “Just Seth.” “Well, Seth, meet the crew, that old broad, there’s Maggie right across. She got hit by a bus while running across the street in 1985. She’s been waiting for quite a while. Not as long as old Earl though. That little kid playing with that top don’t talk much. Grew up in Ancient Greece I reckon. The rest of them have got tired of talkin’. Where are you from?”
“The waiting room?” “Did the snake venom take out your hearing before you passed?” asked the man.
“New York,” said Seth. “What are you all doing here?”
“I wasn’t bitten by any snake,” said Seth. “Dammit,” said the man. “I always hope it’s a snake bite. But it never is. Too few people die of snake bites. When I was about your age, I thought snakes would be a much bigger problem than they turn out to be when you grow up. Then you realize that it’s the everyday stuff you gotta look out for. You’d have learned that eventually kid.”
“Same as you,” he said. “We’s waiting.” “Why are we waiting?” asked Seth. “How’d you go kid?”
12
“I- I don’t remember,” he said. Seth pushes his fingers over his eyes and tries to recall what he was doing. He was next to a building. He was running away. There was a man with a suit. And a gun.
hoping for someone like that. Someone who had no fault at all in their own death. Like he was just sleeping in the wrong place at the wrong time and a snake bit him. None of those kinds of people are ever here waiting.”
“Well, if you knew how you went you’d know why you’re waiting. They say when you figure out how you went, you can get in.”
Seth searches the rest of his pockets. There’s nothing but the money and a small plastic bag. He should’ve had more of these. Footsteps. Running away. Something gone bad.
“Who’s they?” Seth looked around at the other people in the room, sitting and waiting apathetically.
“Are you saying it’s my fault?” Seth asked. “My fault that I’m here?”
“The proverbial they,” said Earl. “You know, you hear things.”
“Those are your words,” said Earl. “Not mine. I just said that no one who died of happenstance has ever come through this room.”
“You can’t trust everything you hear,” said Seth. He started going through his pockets. There was a wad of crisp 100-dollar bills.
“Well how did you go then?”
“Pastors say that other people will burn in hell and they’ve never been there. I had a chaplain in the army who used to say that war was hell and that we’d go to heaven because the hell of war will have cleansed us of our sins. But here I am anyway.” He pointed at the money I’d taken out of my pocket. “Also, that’s worthless here. Snack machine’s been empty for decades.”
“The Great War,” said Earl. “I told you.” “And why are you waiting?” “Maggie,” said Earl. Maggie looked up from her seat. She was bruised bad. “Why am I waiting?” “Beats me,” said Maggie. “You probably did something horrible in the war.”
The aluminum doors hum..
“I told you never to talk like that,” said Earl. “I didn’t do nothin’! I was fighting for old tonkies like you back home.”
“What are we waiting for?” “To leave, to live again,” he said. “Are you sure it wasn’t cancer? A disease or something? Sure it wasn’t a snake bite?”
“I wasn’t born yet,” said Maggie. “You were fighting because you liked it probably.”
“Why do you keep asking about a snake bite?”
Earl fell quite.
“I told you I think about snake bites a lot,” he said. “Keep
“What does she mean?” asked Seth.
13
“She’s senile,” said Earl. “The old broad thinks that I like sending youngbloods to their deaths. Like some kinda perverted chess game. Let me tell you something, ain’t nothing that killed me more. Not even the mortar that took my arm.”
place? Is it heaven? Is that what’s behind those doors?”
“Then why are you here?” asked Seth.
“You get to live again,” said Earl. “Once you take ownership of your death, those doors open and you walk through and you get to live again.”
Earl and Maggie turn to one another. “We only know what we hear.” “Tell me that then,” said Seth.
“He liked it!” said Maggie. “He liked every bullet he fired!”
“Have you ever seen them open?” asks Seth.
“I told you to shut that ancient trap of yours!” said Earl. “What do you know about war?”
“He has,” says Maggie, sitting back down and folding her arms. “He saw it before I even got here. Or so he says.”
“Why are you here Maggie?” asked Seth.
“What’s it look like?”
She looks at the big aluminum doors through which we are apparently waiting to be allowed through. “I’m here because I didn’t look both ways,” she says. “You could blame that bus driver all you want, but sometimes, it pays to take ownership of your own actions.” She flicks her eyes over to the big aluminum metal doors again, as if she expects them to open. When I look at the aluminum doors, I hear footsteps. Running footsteps and the money in my hand weighs me down. No, I started to remember, it was just fun. He didn’t need it anyway. He had everything.
“Do you remember how you died yet?” Earl asked looking at the floor and nudging his severed arm back to the chair with his foot. “I think I do,” said Seth. “And was it your fault?” Seth looked to the aluminum doors. “I don’t know, I don’t think it was.” “Well, when you realize that it was your fault, when you come to the painful recognition that you in reality killed yourself, then you’ll see what it looks like.”
“You thought that would work,” Earl said. “Taking ownership of it. But you can’t just say it, you have to mean it. You can say it was your fault all you like but you still just a bitter old lady.”
“And what’s that?” asks Seth. “Enough with the games. What does it look like when the door opens?”
“And you’re an arrogant young soldier,” said Maggie.
“It looks,” starts Earl sitting back down burying his face in his hands. The aluminum doors hum. “It looks like the life you would’ve had if you chose better. And frankly, it looks like heaven.”
“I been dead here for 100 years woman,” said Earl. “Yeah, but you only lived 22,” she said. Maggie spits on the floor. “I was 60 before I went.” The kid on the floor doesn’t know better than to take ownership of his death, I suppose. He has been waiting thousands of years without realizing that he’d killed himself. “You ain’t never getting through those doors!” said Earl standing. “You bet your ass I am!” Maggie yells, getting up so that she could look Earl in the eye. Earl’s arm is still on the floor in front of him. “Stop!” screams Seth. He is standing too now. “What is through those doors and how the hell do I get out of this 14
A LETTER FOR DANIEL “How do you know ‘Life’ isn’t a dream? Also, you’re Christian?”
By Dominic Grieco “Hello, Daniel. We regret to inform you that you’re dead.”
“Not exactly by choice, and no, I guess I don’t know. So if this isn’t ‘Life’, where am I?”
“Oh… …okay then.”
“Turn around.”
I sat down on the… chiseled sandstone floor, next to the temple entrance marked with a mixture of Mayan, Egyptian, and Sanskrit text. A four-winged raven glided through the cloudless azure sky and landed on the ground beside me as I gazed upon the golden humanoid beam of light.
When I turned, I saw a field of canary grass leading off into the violet horizon, elderberry patches dotting the distance. Humans of all ages and colors soared through the sky, each catching air with their six body-length wings, white as fallen snow. “Heaven has elderberries…who knew?”
“Wait, what?”
“Who said this was Heaven?”
“You’re dead.”
I turned around again to face him, but didn’t see him… Instead, I saw a pillar of fire, in the distance, rising without end into the crimson sky, as the brimstone stairway that I stood on bubbled over with blood. The blood ran off the edge, swallowed into the lightless pit beyond the edge. As I strained my ears, I heard faint cries… ‘Kill me. Please…end me now, you no good sonuva-’ ‘Oh god…help! Help me! I don’t want to die… no…No…how can a chainsaw be on fir-…i-it’s s-s-so c-cc-cold?! Ergh-’
“That… that makes no sense. How can I be dead if I was alive only a moment ago?” “You tell me…how did you die? Remember.” “Okay…um, I was…” Sitting at home. Sitting on my oak-wood armchair, resting my head on a pillow made of feather down. The crow had sounded three times to mark the end of day, as usual. That one-eyed crow with a white stripe down the length of its jet-black beak and back…hey, wait a minute…!
“Hmm…I guess ol’ Pap-pap was right when he said I’d burn in Hell for not going to Church.”
I looked at that one-eyed, four-winged crow next to me and noticed the white stripe running down the length of its beak and back.
“Who said this was Hell?”
“What…the…?”
I closed my eyes. When I opened them, I saw only green, and my mouth bulged with foliage as something wooden caressed my tongue. When I pulled myself out of the bush, I saw a vast old-wood forest heading off to a teal coastline with golden sand. Two-tailed robin-eggs... blue colored monkeys with green eyes shined rainbow light, brighter than a 100-watt bulb.
“Okay…what’s next? Purgatory?”
“Focus.” Right. So…I was resting my head, in my cottage by the elder-wood forest…and…I heard a high-pitched squeal… everything went up in flames…and then I heard a BOOM! rippling through the house. Then…I woke up here...to this…Oh.
“I see the ‘िजज्ञासु छोराछोरीलाई” are feeling well today.
“Now you get it…”
Their higher auras are brighter than usual.”
“Oh God, I thought it was just a dream…”
“The what? 15
“Aren’t you going to ask where you are?”
“HELL Yes.”
*Sigh* ”Why bother? The moment I say anything, you'll just change the scenery to prove me wrong. I’m probably not anywhere in particular. But I like this area, so I’ll stay here a while if that’s fine with you…”
And I turned around again. And saw a light infused with color. The more I looked at the light, the more colors I saw. And as the lights faded into gray, I saw a single white circle of light.
*Ha…hah hah hah!* “GOOD. YOU UNDERSTAND NOW. THIS IS EVERYWHERE AND NOWHERE. IT HAS AN INFINITE AMOUNT OF NAMES AND ATTRIBUTES. I LIKE TO THINK OF IT AS THE ‘ASTRAL PLANES’. THE LOWER ASPECT, WHAT YOU CALLED “HELL” IS THE ‘LOWER ASTRAL PLANE’, WHERE SOULS ARE PURIFIED OF WHAT YOU CALL “SIN”. THEY LIVE OUT THEIR MORE MATERIALISTIC MATTERS, SUCH AS PAST REGRETS, UNFULFILLED DESIRES. DEEDS THEY HAVEN’T FORGIVEN THEMSELVES FOR…MOSTLY.”
“God is a circle? I thought he was a humanoid light thing like you?” “RIGHT ON BOTH ACCOUNTS. KEEP WATCHING…”
“Oh…I get it. You mean God hasn’t forgiven them for… right?” *Wink* *Pout.* “WHO IS GOD?” “I…thought I wasn’t supposed to ask this? Good Christian, all that jazz?” “WHAT IF YOU DID, EVEN FOR A SECOND?” “Hm…okay then…a giant sky daddy with a really long white beard, wearing a white toga and garland? Basically, a sober version of Zeus.” And then…I saw something so bizarre that I knew for certain I wasn’t in Kansas anymore. The humanoid beam of light rolled around on the floor laughing. His laughter came out as rose-pink light and crystalline bell chimes. Everywhere he rolled, sunflowers spontaneously grew into full bloom. *WHEW…* “I CAN TELL YOU FROM EXPERIENCE THAT EVEN AT THE END OF THE LAST GREAT COSMIC CYCLE, ZEUS WAS NEVER CLOSE TO SOBER. THE DAY HE IS, HELL WILL FREEZE OVER. ANYWAYS, TRY AGAIN. YOU’RE NOT WRONG. YOU’RE ALSO NOT ENTIRELY RIGHT. WHAT IS GOD?” “Hm…well, I’m going to go out on a limb here and say a massive ball of energy? Since you’re here and everything. It has to be at least as complex as you are, right?” “WOULD YOU LIKE TO SEE?” 16
The white circle of light split perfectly into two circles.
“YOU ARE ME. YOU ALWAYS KNEW THE ANSWER TO-” I SAID.
“Meiosis.”
“Life. The purpose of Life is Life.” I said.
The two circles became three, then six, then seven.
“EXACTLY. TO LIVE. TO EXIST. TO EXPERIENCE, AND LEARN.” I SAID.
“Whatever the heck that is…” Then thirteen, then nineteen. Then the light started up again and blinded me. And even as I lost sight, the light wouldn’t shut off. And I didn’t want it to…
“Fat lot of good that’ll do me now that I’m dead…” I said. “YOU KNOW, DEATH HAS NO SET MEANING, JUST AS DOES IT USUALLY SYMBOLIZES CHANGE. DEATH OF A MINDSET, FOR EXAMPLE. DEATH OF A PHYSICAL INCARNATION TO RELEASE THE SPIRIT BODY WITHIN. ALL YOU REALLY HAVE TO DO…IS---” LIFE.
*SPLOOSH!* “Wha? Where am I?” “WHERE YOU WERE…BEFORE.”
----
“Now that I think about it…who are you?”
“Wake! Up!”
“I…AM…”
“Gragh! What! Who? W-where am I?” Daniel screamed, shooting his upper torso off the hospital bed, into his friend’s bosom.
And the light took form, and sinew and muscle. Sand-tan skin, chocolate hair, and turquoise blue eyes, wearing a Charlie Brown T-shirt and dirt brown dungarees. It…was me!
“My god, Danny! I thought I lost you…” Emily moaned as her salty tears wet his bedpan.
“Impossible…”
“Emmy? What are you doing here?”
“WITH ALL THE THINGS YOU’VE SEEN AND DONE? NO. I AM YOUR HIGHER SELF. YOU ARE ME. I AM YOU. WE ARE US.”
“Are you daft?! I’m the one who dragged you to the Nightingale Hospital. If they hadn’t gotten you to the ICU when they did…I told you getting a summer cottage there was a bad idea, you idiot! The bones told me so! Besides, that area is fraught with lightning in the summer. By the way, why are you glowing golden?”
“Wait, stop. First, you talk about Christian stuff like ‘sin’, and then what you called those monkeys, sounds like something my Burmese friend John Ka’thura would say. And now this… It sounds like you’re blending religions…”
“What?”
“TELL ME…WHERE DID CHRISTIANITY COME FROM?”
Hey, me, it’s me. You have a letter for you from Emily.
“Oh, I know what I’m thinking, and I at least know my religious history. Most modern religions descended from one of a few elder religions.”
“Emily has a letter for me?” Daniel blurted. “How did you know? I found it on the burnt remains of your doormat, addressed to you without a return address or name of sender.”
“WHERE DID THEY COME FROM?”
And I opened the letter. Inside was written only two words: “Aut erat?”
“TELLING ME WOULD RUIN THE FUN. I’LL GIVE A HINT TO GET ME STARTED: ‘THEOSOPHIA’. BE WARNED, THOUGH, THE BRITS GRANTING THIS INFORMATION ARE RATHER ARROGANT, AS PER THE TIME.”
“Hm. Looks like Latin to me… -END-
“Okay then. So…me. What is the purpose of life?” 17
Prompt 3:
Write a short story that takes place inside your favorite video game.
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GHOSTS IN FADED BLUE By: Algonquin Jones 2134 A.C.E. Peter has returned from his second tour of duty on Centurion 4. The world, the Earth’s climate, is returning to normal. The seas aren’t swaying in restless fervor. The skies aren’t hurling angry stones. The sun is beating slowly, but no more strongly than it ever has before. New Mexico is enjoying a fine summer, New Mexico, United States, Earth, is completely and utterly unaware that somewhere above them a battle is raging. Peter’s truck is blue and white, the colors of his old brigade, except there’s a yellow circle with a slice cut out of it over his gas cap. He pulls it slowly into the pharmacy parking lot and gets out. He looks up and notices that he can’t see any stars. Somewhere in that sky, there are people fighting for the safety of humans the solar system over, not just on Earth but on Mars and Titan. There are soldiers choosing whether to fire at young tentacled children or hold back. Across the asphalt of this peaceful parking lot on earth, there are four men Peter remembers. He can hear their voices and screams, their orders. Their reports coming in from some distance away. No, he thinks, squeezing his eyes shut. They’re not real. When he opens his eyes those astronaut soldiers are gone. You’d think it was the tentacles, the insect-like beasts that would haunt a man returning from war. But it’s not. It’s the sounds of laser fire, plasma exiting his firearm, hurling through the air. The cries of other men. It’s the weight of a uniform he no longer has to wear.
“What was that you said?” Gladys asks. “Nothing,” Peter says. “Is the prescription ready?” “In just a moment,” she says. “I was just telling Hermes about you.” She pats the little boy behind the counter with her. “Wasn’t I telling you about Colonel Peter Ackman, honey? Didn’t I say he comes in here all the time?” “It’s an honor to meet you, sir,” says the boy. He wasn’t more than 10 years old. He’d be able to enlist in five short years. “And you too,” said Peter, looking out onto the street where the astronauts were still standing.
Peter shakes his head.
“Momma tells me that you killed 300 crawlers,” he says.
Gladys is happy to see him when he walks into the pharmacy. “The usual?” she asks.
“She does, does she?” “Mhm, she says you’re a hero.”
“The usual,” Peter says. He waits at the counter and looks out the front windows. The astronauts, the four of them, are back and watching him from the street. “They’re not there,” he says to himself looking down at his shoes. The shoes he wears still, big boots, thick soles, meant for walking on alien planets not Earth. He carried them with him.
Peter gulps. The astronauts from across the street, with lasers strapped around their shoulders are just outside the window now. One of them, named Pinky has his hand on the glass. “That’s nice of her to say,” says Peter. 19
“When I go out there, I want to kill as many crawlers as I can,” says the boy. Gladys comes to the counter and places the capsule between them.
window on the front of the house. “Yeah, we do,” said another of the astronauts. This one’s name was Mack. The one on the couch was named Clyde. The other two, standing quietly in the corners of the living room were Pinky and Muck. “We just don’t get why you need them… it’s not like there’s something wrong with you. Those pills make you weak, how’re you going to get back to killing crawlers when you’re weak?”
“30 dots,” she says. “That should hold you over until next month.” Peter thanks her and gets into the pickup truck and as he drives away the astronauts turn to watch him go. He repeats the mantra that bug-eyed therapist at the Mars reintegration center taught him. It’s not your fault. It’s not your fault. The universe has a way. It’s not your fault. The asphalt makes a solid humming sound as his tires roll along and he makes two rights toward the house. It’s not your fault, he repeats. They’re still there. In his rear view mirror. Standing in middle of Namco Road. Just watching. Getting closer and closer.
“I don’t want to kill any more crawlers,” says Peter pacing quickly and double-checking that each curtain is pulled fully across. He made his way into the kitchen and opened the fridge. It was stocked with fruit. Cherries. Apples. “And I told you not to visit me anymore.” “You’re not our commanding officer,” says Muck. “You were same rank as us, you weren’t better.”
The sound of the slamming truck door startles him and, fumbling for his keys and holding onto the pharmacy bag with his other hand, he pushes inside. They followed him home. All the way home. So far. For lightyears they followed him.
“Yeah,” says Clyde from the living room. “You just got lucky, packman.” That was the nickname they had for him back in boot camp. On the first day, one of the commanding officers, a man named Toru with think shoulders and thin eyes, said that Peter would have to wear a pack at all times during training. He got so used to it that he wore it all the time. Even after graduating into a separate class.
Peter holds his breath and leans off the closed metal door only to press his eye against the peephole. Outside the street is empty, nothing but the New Mexico sun heating up the pavement. A haze obscuring some of the trees across the street. Peter exhales long and slinks down to the floor where he reaches into the plastic bag and takes out the capsule. 30 dots. One dot a day for a month. Prescribed by Dr. Fletcher of the U.S. Intergalactic Marine Corps.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m really sorry.” Peter paced back and forth from the kitchen to the living room, past the door. He had the capsule of 30 dots in his hands.
“What’re those for?” comes a voice from the living room. “Keeping you regular?”
“Are you sorry?” Pinky asked. He was standing near the fireplace and looking through photos on the mantle. “You don’t seem so sorry. Sitting at home. Eating delicious farm-grown fruit. Going to pharmacies. Getting saluted and called ‘a hero.’ Seems like you’re living the life.”
Peter gets up from the floor in a sweat. “You know what they’re for,” he says, walking past the blue astronaut now sitting on his couch and reaching over to pull the curtains shut so that only a few slight rays of that warm beautiful sunshine can get in. He repeats this for every 20
“No one ever means for their friends to get hurt, packman,” said Pinky. “But here you are. Mrs. Packman is going to pick up the kids and cook dinner when she gets home. You’re back on good old Earth and we were fired off into a star. Hardly seems fair.” “Shut up, shut up, shut up,” says Peter clutching his fists to his forehead. “Does it seem fair?” Mack asks Clyde. “Hardly, seems fair at all,” says Clyde. “Please, just go away.” Peter grabs the top of the capsule and reads the words over again. 30 dots. Doctor Fletcher. U.S. Intergalactic Marine Corps. “Don’t do it,” says Clyde. “You trying to kill us again?” Peter doesn’t listen. It’s not your fault. He unscrews the cap. The universe has a way. The dots roll into his palm One a day for 30 days. There are seven in his hand right now. Pinky is standing right behind him now. Mack and Muck are to his left. Clyde is looking at the dots in his palm. There’s a whole in Clyde’s chest. Mack and Muck are each missing an arm. Without thinking, Peter swallows all seven dots.
“Please,” says Peter. He sits on the couch next to Clyde. All their helmets are on. Clyde’s visor is down. He puts his hands over his eyes and repeats. It’s not your fault. It’s not your fault. The universe has a way. It’s not your fault.
“You really did it this time,” says Pinky, brushing his hand along the open yellow helmet on the fireplace mantle. “You might’ve gotten rid of us for good with those.”
“Do you really believe that?” asks Mack. “You should been with us. You spend one extra second looking for that backpack of yours and the commanders ship us out without you. How is that not your fault?”
The rooms are dark. The house is quiet. The fridge door is just a crack open and the light cuts the darkness in the kitchen like a knife. Peter’s head falls back against the back cushions of the couch and his head turns loosely on his neck. Clyde is flashing blue and white. Pinky, Muck, Mack, they all are. “See you next time,” one of them says, but Peter can’t tell which.
It’s not your fault, Peter repeats. It’s not your fault. The universe has a way. “Does it now?” Clyde asks. “A way with what, Pete? Some way the universe has.”
Slowly but surely, the ghosts fade, and Peter is left alone again in his empty house. Soon his wife will be home. Soon his two daughters will walk through the front door. They’ll take good care of him. He empties the bottle and swallows deep. The world begins to fade to blue and at least, he thinks, the ghosts are gone.
“Shut up,” says Peter. “Please, just go away. I didn’t mean for any of you to get hurt.” The visions happen again. The sounds. The reports coming in. An ambush up ahead. The whole caravan sent in, torn apart by crawlers. Only Peter survives from his troop. Only the sucker who lost his backpack and missed the shuttle while trying to find it gets sent home. 21
Trojan By: Jacob Woodbourne Author’s note: The following was overheard in the library and was (diligently) documented by the author. That’s right, this is a work of non-fiction. It appears to be a Trojan. It must be a Trojan in here. I can’t tell where the Trojan is because the Trojan is in here. It’s finished. The place where the spot was put. In here. It wasn’t trying to. The Trojan, I think. Finished. The Trojan. The Trojan finished. With the spot. I think the Trojan finished with the spot. I’m not sure. It always has to do with the website. And the paper guns. Paper guns in its waist. That’s what I found on the website. That’s all I could find out. I looked. It was on the website. In the paper guns. On the spot where they put the Trojan. The paper guns. It wasn’t like the time it was broken. On the website. I heard last second time it took up and saw the spot. The spot where they came in. With two paper guns from the website. Then after they came there was the Trojan. And the making out. Making out. The time of how the Trojan was there where they were making out. Making out with the Trojan in here. The paper guns and the website. It’s the Trojan, that’s why. I have to go. 22
YU-GI-OH
I took five cards in my hand and scanned them with my eyes as Kaiba did the same.
By Faiza Khalid Yu-Gi-Oh!: The game and show of the time, created by Kazuki Takahashi and aired by Toei Animation. I’d just bought the CD for my PlayStation and couldn't wait to start dueling. I reached towards the game after a hot bath with the towel still on my shoulders and hair dripping. Absentmindedly, I plugged in the wire with my wet hands, and at the moment a huge spark of current was seen, realization hit me like a ton of bricks. Was I crazy? Touching a wire while I was dripping all over the place? Soon the electricity moved freely in my body and I thought I was dead for sure this time. Until I was able to crack my eyes open again. It was pitch black with only a door that glowed from afar. I opened it and entered a vast room with a dueling station set up. My opponent waited on the other side of the stage. He was tall and thin with straight brown hair barely showing his ocean blue eyes.
“I'll let you go first since you're a novice,” the he offered. I took a breath and placed down my first card with 800 life points. The monster immediately appeared holographically in the arena. Kaiba drew his card in the same manner. His first card was a mighty deity with axes. It sliced my monster in minutes, taking away 800 points from my life points. I drew another card from my deck to maintain the five cards in hand rule. Skimming through my cards again, I lifted a trap card and another monster. “I put one card facedown and activate Baby Dragon in attack mode.” I told.
“Kaiba?” I asked to confirm.
“ Let's see how long that’ll last. I place X-Head-Canon and Y-Dragon in defense mode.” I can't attack while they're in defense. With no other options I add another monster to the field: Big Shield Gardena with 2600 life points in defense mode. This mighty guy has three times more points in defense than attack mode.
“So my reputation precedes me. However, I've never seen you before.”
“Your move.” I call. He forces another card onto the field.
“It's Faike, but I doubt you'll remember that.”
“Z-Metal Tank, and now with this card I can finally collaborate the three to give me the ultimate XYZ Dragon Canon. 2800 points. Now attack his monsters with all your life points!”
It was Seto Kaiba, one of the main characters from the game. He gave an impatient look which said that he didn't have all day.
“Let's begin.” The lights became dimmer and the stage lightened up. I reached into my pocket and felt my deck of duel monster cards. Wow, how is this happening? I must have really teleported into the game itself. Taking them out, I placed them on the high tech desk before me. Our life points appeared on the sides of the middle arena reading 4000. The game is simple, you take turns placing a certain number of cards down at a time, with five cards in your hand to begin with. Each card, excluding a spell card, has a monster with a definite number of points that must be higher than the opponent’s in order to defeat them. As the game proceeds, life points decrease with each attack. The one left with zero loses and the rest is self-explanatory.
Just great. This guy is mopping the floor with me. To be expected from the second best duelist in the world. “Not so fast Kaiba! I believe it's time to reveal my faced down card Re...uh…” I paused to recall the full name of my card. “Don't you even remember your own cards?” He scoffed. “I don't really play this game so often,” I answered with a shrug.
23
“I'm dueling against a nobody that doesn't even know his own cards.”
faced down card which automatically gave him 400 life points. Ugh.
“Oh shut up, rich boy.” Did I mention this teen was the CEO of a billionaire corporation?
“Oh yeah, well I activate this card!” “Then I activate this card. Come out Blue Eyes White Dragon!” I'm dead, that's a legendary dragon and his best finisher yet. I think I'm going to start hating this game. Next time I want to go to Dragon Ball Z. I wish I had a God card or at least a card that grants wishes. I drew a few more cards.
“Anyhow my Refuge card is capable of blocking your attack to one of my monsters in which case I chose Big Shield, hence he'll be returning to my hand. Aren't I lucky?” “Humph, don't start celebrating yet, it's only started.” After that XYZ Canon became invalid and so did my trap card.
“I'm bringing back Big Shield and using this spell card: Polymerization to fuse both my monsters on the field. Now I have enough life points to get rid of your Blue Eyes. Attack!”
“It's still my turn; the next card I play will be Newdoria 1200 points. Attack his life points directly! Didn't think I could do that now didja?” He winced as 1200 points were deducted automatically. So far I have 3200 against 2800 life points. Not bad at all.
“Enemy control!” He motioned another card that lit up and a jumbo controller appeared on the field. This card changes the target of attack.
I activated Dark Magician on the field after Kaiba summoned Dark Lord Zerato, 2800 and destroyed Baby Dragon, leaving me with only 400 life points. On the safe side I was hyped when I found the ‘Monster Reborn’ magic card in my deck. This card is famous for bringing back any monster from any side from the graveyard, i.e where monsters report to after they are annihilated. I placed that magic card faced down again, I guess that's just how these things work. He used two faced down cards in which one: Mystic Explosion had the ability to destroy all my active monsters and take away 300 life points. I'm left with 100 now.
“ No!” I yelled. I'm done now. The blow hit me instead and decreased my life points straight to 0. No fair. I mentally cursed. “And the best man wins.” Everything dulled and I prepared to turn back. “Faike. You're not from this world aren't you?" The brunette caught my attention. "Let's duel again sometime. You've got what it takes, I'll give you that much.” I turned to face him surprised but soon grinned. “Heh. Of course. And next time I'll kick your ass for sure.” I waved my fingers off my forehead towards him as a 'peace out' goodbye. "If there really is a next time." I whispered to myself. Hey, it was still a huge honor to meet the famous Seto Kaiba.
As soon as he was done I lifted my spell card too. “Monster Reborn. This allows me to bring_” “We know. You don't have to explain the cards.” He rudely cut me off. Jesus, this guy. “Well excuse me for being informative.” I rolled my eyes and continued. “I bring Dark Magician back from the graveyard.” Honestly that’s probably my only strongest card. After my attack Kaiba came to 10. “It's not over yet.” He called. Now he used his second 24
Prompt 4: Write a story which has an ultimate moral of your favorite quote.
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TO GREAT SPIRIT By Inna Dulchevsky “The hero journey is inside of you; tear off the veils and open the mystery of your self.� --Joseph Campbell "At the center of the Universe dwells the Great Spirit. And that center is really everywhere. It is within each of us." --Black Elk
You are the centered point in any destination. This is the very core of any of your journeys. While you are going outward, farther and farther away, you are really going deeper and deeper inside of yourself, into your own core. It is like a Mobius strip; as much you are on outside, you actually are on inside; the deeper you travel the more centered you do become. Or, if you wish, you travel into a higher density environment of your own self. At first, you feel as if the rapture of vibration would suck every cell of your body into non-existence. You become paralyzed by your own fear. But as soon as you allow your body to burst into an infinite space you feel as if you shade your body off you. You do not feel the vibration anymore because you become a vibrating in unison Being. When you reach inside of the vibration of the wave you pull inside of your own wave. Now you know you are the wave of Energy, your Great Spirit. During my meditation I see myself becoming big, and at some point I see myself as if I am holding the Earth in my hands. Then I see myself traveling around the Earth. My body is stretching, just like a rubber band, hugging the whole spherical structure of the planet. When it is completing the whole circle it is coming out of the inside of the Earth and going around again and again on the outside. As much I am traveling around the Earth, I am inside of it too. As much I am outside and around of the small Earth, I am inside of it. And while I am inside of the Earth I also am inside of myself. I can smell the bio of my stomach, and while hearing the sound of lap-dap of the heart I can see my heart, and I can be inside of it and see the work of the valves of the ventricles. I can see the space inside of the heart before it gets filled up with the blood. It is incredibly beautiful vision. It is I, my Great Spirit.
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AMOR FATI By: Irina Dulchevsky Be careful in casting out your devil 'lest you cast out the best thing about you --Friedrich W. Nietzsche When you look at yourself in the mirror While you are in viscous darkness What do you see? You see your shadow Through the sketches of your fears The frantic world of your mind Inside your empty reflection In the projection of gray There are millions of you Looking back into you From the void of your silhouette When you find the eyes through the hectic reflections And you are aching to scream Clench your teeth Do not scream! Do not dare! Do not let any sound escape announcing your fear Do not let the shadow know that you are afraid When it comes it smiles at you By one corner of half-curled lips Hypnotizes your heart by the power of terror It tries to grab you by your throat Let it do it! Let it break all that is fragile in you! Show how peaceful you are with your smile Indentations of comfort along your face Say ‘hello’ to all that is in you Embrace what is in need to be blessed Let your heart see perception of you It accepts when your mind is silent When you look at yourself in the mirror While you are in viscous darkness What do you see? You see yourself Through the glory Of a shining victory of your inner light Inside of your peaceful reflection In the colorful shades of gray There is only you Looking back into your spacious plenum 27
Photograph by: Constantine Onishchenko
CHESS GAME By: Jacob Woodbourne “We learn little from victory. Much from defeat.” – Japanese Proverb They’ve lost sight of the chess game. The pieces. Darkness. The pieces have got darkness. The darkness is in the pieces are more than the pieces seem. That’s why they’ve lost sight. White pieces. They see white pieces. Also the black pieces. Yeah, haha! That’s definitely why. Chess has black pieces which is why some of us think the chess game is a game of darkness. Darkness! But that’s not why the moves have darkness. The moves have a darkness. A special kind of darkness. The chess game is a game of darkness because they’ve lost sight. They can’t see the darkness. That’s why. That’s why there’s a lot of darkness in between the moves. The moves! The chessboard! The chess board has darkness. The moves have darkness. But the chess board also has darkness – a deep darkness. Yeah, the chess board. Haha! There are black and white pieces. But can you imagine taking a dark piece from a light square to a dark square, a dark place? No! No. Haha. No, no, no. See, that’s the darkness I’m describing. The chess is darkness. The chess pieces, the chess board, the moves – all of it. All of the chess game is darkness. All they see is the miniskirt. That’s right. They’re lost in the darkness and can’t see past the move. Flash! Leg! Thigh! The miniskirt! That’s all the move means these days. The miniskirt! Chess move – they can’t see the chess move. How can you see the chess move if you’re covered in darkness. Not a regular kind of darkness. Darkness is when you can’t see because there’s no light. In a usual chess game, there’s light. There can be light. But there’s no light because the chess game became dark – there’s darkness in this chess game because the eyes are busy with the miniskirt. Darkness. They can’t see the darkness. All they see is the miniskirt. The miniskirt! The femininity, it’s darkness. Femininity. No, not the female. Female doesn’t mean the femininity. Female doesn’t mean the miniskirt. There are plenty of females that don’t have the miniskirt. Feminisms has the miniskirt and they darken the chess game. White pieces. Black pieces.
spaces. There’s depth to the chess game. Depth: there’s more depth to the chess game than the miniskirt. More than the miniskirt will let you see. Losses?
The losses of the chess game is part of the depth and darkness. Winning doesn’t give depth. Depth and darkness is learnt from defeat. Losing the chess game is how the chess game becomes more than a chess game. But no. The darkness and the miniskirt, you have to see the black pieces. The white pieces. Black squares and white squares. But also see that they’re all chess squares and chess pieces – and see the depth, the depth of the chess game. What do you think of America?
There’s more to the chess game than the crossing over of the chess pieces onto the chessboard. White spaces. Black 28
“A PICTURE IS WORTH A THOUSAND WORDS.” By: Faiza Khalid Blue, green, purple and lime, Space, earth, moon, time Food, hunger, apples or wine, Anger, hate monogamy may shine. Love, desires are higher; life, Despair, joy, company in every line. Creation, articulation, animation, sublimation. Keep examining… Nature a faker, chaser or maker, Magnitude, attitude, latitude, gratitude Smiles, lies, cries, ties, Power, towers, flowers, all shower Money, honey, sunny or even funny Dots all over, spots spread, pots, and knots There is hope, soap, mope, and a rope. A miserable calling? Everything entirely in that drawing. The list goes on, And on Until you might yawn But Now you know what a picture has to say. More than you or I Can weigh.
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Photograph by: Sean Bowen
“Only on one thing,” said Rubin. “And what was that?”
A Wonderful Fiction By: Algonquin Jones
“The universe.”
“If you’re offered a seat on a rocket ship, don’t ask what seat! Just get on.” – Sheryl Sandberg
“I don’t understand,” said Nessy, placing his black case down on the front porch stairs. “If he hasn’t died and you get along, then why will you never see him again?”
Since the early morning the sky had been overcast with nothing but bright indigo. There were only a few scraped clouds near the horizon and Rubin Darker, the farmer was walking along the dirt road with Nessy Haddock, a veterinary surgeon who spent the large part of the day tending to one of Rubin’s pregnant cows. They’d spent the morning discussing whether the new calves were being bred for milk or meat. “Both” was the answer they settled on. Milk for a little while but eventually every cow on Rubin’s farm made its way to the slaughterhouse. This was the only way to keep the business afloat.
“You wouldn’t believe it if I told you,” said Rubin. He sat on the front steps and looked out over the farm. In the distance there were the low triangle rooftops under which the cows would lay to rest. There were hundreds now. And there were hundreds before. Farther, just beyond the grey triangles, were the columns of the slaughterhouse. One of the columns was a chimney. The other was filled with salt. Just beyond them, there was an endless field and beyond that, God only knew but you’d hit a city eventually.
“You know,” said Rubin, his grey hair tied back behind his head as he went. “The sky today reminds me of the last time I saw my brother.”
“Then it must be a hell of a story,” said Nessy, taking a seat one step lower. “It is,” said Rubin. “But I’m not in the habit of telling stories that I know people scoff at.”
“Your brother?” asked Nessy, stepping more quickly so as not to fall behind Rubin’s longer strides. He carried his equipment in his right hand and the thick black case hovered only an inch above the ground. “I didn’t know you had a brother.”
“I promise not to scoff,” said Nessy. “Even if I don’t believe it, I’ll just consider it a wonderful fiction and move on.”
“I did,” said Rubin.
Rubin ran his hand over his scalp and his eyes narrowed on the horizon. “Me and my brother,” he began. “We grew up in the same home. Shared the same room. Went to the same schools, you know? Our brains worked in very much the same way as we were growing up. Our father was a preacher but he died very young so we hardly remember the way his voice even sounded. Our mother raised us. Me and Michael, two years younger than me. When we were kids we’d fantasize about estates, places in the world where we’d carve ourselves into the land and stay there. ‘I’ll find myself an island,’ he used to say. ‘I’ll find an island and I’ll name it after me. Michael Darker Isle it’ll be called.’ I never wanted an island to claim, I was simple. I wanted a house. A business. A family.”
“Where is he?” “I don’t know.” Nessy wiped the sweat from his brow with a handkerchief from his pocket. “Does he not come to visit?” “No,” said Rubin. He slowed as they came up to the farmhouse, a big old thing with green shingles and white siding. “I’m never going to see him again.” “I’m sorry,” said Nessy. “May I ask how he died?” “He didn’t die,” said Rubin.
“Worthy desires all around,” said Nessy adjusting his circular spectacles on the crook of his nose.
Nessy peered at his friend quizzically. “Do you disagree?”
30
“He was a good man and I loved him, but I never sympathized with his desires to explore and eye these far-off goals,” said Rubin. “I used to tell him that a man only needed six feet of land to live and he’d tell me that corpses need six feet. He always wanted more. When I went to school, he decided to roam the streets and learn from the people he met and the places he saw. We’d lose track of him for months at a time. My mother would wake early and run to the mailbox to see if there was word. He’d sent pictures back. Once he sent a picture from Hawaii. It had a palm tree and he was standing with a girl in a grass skirt in the ocean. And the water was so blue that if you turned the card upside down you’d think they were swimming in the sky.
For nine years, we didn’t go a month without a picture new picture.” Nessy was rapt. “And after nine years?” “After nine years, I got a call,” said Rubin. “I was at the slaughterhouse with our head butcher just taking records of shipments and my phone rang.” “It was him?” “No, it was mom. She called me and was frantic. ‘He’s back!’ she said. ‘Michael’s back!’ Her voice was trembling. Like she was afraid of him or something. ‘Come quickly,’ she said. ‘Rubin, come now! Before he’s gone again!’ By the time I got back to these here steps, he was nothing but a dirt cloud on the horizon.”
“God knows how he got there in the first place,” Rubin mused.
“Why’d he come back?” In the distance, the cow Nessy had been checking on earlier that day was mooing loudly. She was going to give birth soon.
“I only have one of them, the rest are gone.”
“To get the pictures,” said Rubin. “He came back to steal back the only memories we had of him. Mom says he was rambling about erasing who he was. That he needed to get rid of as much evidence as he could that he was ever on God’s green earth. He took all the pictures and disappeared.”
“What happened to them?”
“All but one,” said Nessy.
“I’ll get to that.”
“What?”
The sun was high overhead. They say from space the sun beams white and only on Earth it gets that yellowish color. Rubin thought about that as he looked out.
“You said you only had one picture left, so he took all of them but one.”
“Can I see the pictures?” asked Nessy.
“No,” said Rubin. “He took all of them and for months mom cried. I think, in her mind, she’d lost her son completely. No more pictures came for six months after that. And life just went on. We kept shipping out milk and meat to town and they’d take it out to the cities and from there people would buy it and make cheese and burgers. Like they always did. We got back into routine. Then, one day, we got a photo in the mail. Mom didn’t check the mailbox anymore, I picked up the mail and I was going through bills and advertisements and there it was. Laminated. Michael, in an orange spacesuit, in front of a silver shuttle, and with a sky as clear as today’s as the backdrop.”
“So where did he end up?” asked Nessy. “It went on like this. He only showed his face in pictures. He was at the bottom of a canyon with three mules he befriended in Arizona. He was flying a plane in California, one of those planes that drag advertisements behind it. In New York, he scaled the Brooklyn Bridge. He was in the newspaper for that. Tokyo, Sydney, Jerusalem. Johannesburg. Michael was all over the world. And I was here tending cows with mom. ‘One day he’ll come back,’ mom would always say. ‘One day he’ll show up and we’ll treat him to lunch.’ For nine years, she’d say that. 31
“He became an astronaut?!” asked Nessy.
hair was grey and his hands were wrought with a lifetime of hard work. Nessy’s hands were still youthful and pale in comparison. “Would you do it?” Rubin asked suddenly.
“I don’t know what he became, some government program. They were firing people, young people, off into space. Without any direction, without a plan. Just on a craft they could steer at the speed of light. On the back of the photograph he said that he wasn’t even supposed to send that. He said that he was off. That the mission was to go and not come back. That he’d send back signals from where he got and NASA or whoever would pick them up and learn about their story. He said there were three others with him, one man and two women. He said that in 50 years from now, the entirety of the spacecraft’s travels would be relayed back to Earth. Since they’re travelling so fast, it’d take a while for even the signals to make their way back. He said that the government would release those finding when they arrived. And that’s the last day photo we got. And that’s what the sky today reminds me of. The sky in that picture.”
“Do what?” “Fire yourself off into the universe without knowing where you're going?” “I’m not sure,” said Nessy. “Do they have cows in space? Or cats or dogs? I don’t know what good I’d be as a vet up there.” “I think I would,” said Rubin. He surveyed his farm. The farm his mother inherited and lived on. The same patch of land she’d worked and lived on. Her grave was near the city past the field in the distance. His brother’s would probably be somewhere far above him. “I wonder sometimes what I would’ve found out there,” he said. “I just hope he found his island.”
“You don’t really think that’s true though, do you? That your brother was shot into space never to return?”
Nessy shook Rubin’s hand and Rubin went inside to get Nessy a check. Down by the grey triangle roofs, the cow was giving birth. She was moaning away. It takes hours for a cow to be born. Sometimes as much a full day of labor. There was the mud and the pasture and the slaughterhouse. And then there was nothing but the chimneys, like a leaky pen, spreading smoke into the otherwise clean and perfect sky.
“I don’t know,” he said. “All I know is that he was the kind of person, if you offered him a seat on a rocket, he wouldn’t ask if he was flying first class or coach or in the storage hold. He’d just get on. I suppose we’ll know in about 48 years when those signals return.” Rubin got up from the porch steps and wiped his hands with a cloth from his pocket. Nessy followed suit. His
32
INFORMATION AGE By: fake gold egg
so they say thatcha can't smoke weed and ya can't smoke cigs and you can't do drugs and you can't have fun and you cant believe that a god exists there up above
Author’s note: this is a rap song, not a poem. Also, a recorded performance of I"nformation Age"by fake gold egg can be found by searching for f"ake gold egg information age"on soundcloud.com
[verse 3] and you cant make love and you just cant live if you do that you might die so take our tests and if you fit right in than you deserve to survive
“It is the greatest truth of our age: Information is not knowledge.” ― Caleb Carr
can't choose your purpose in life just do the work you're prescribed the rules make cops. now you get shot can't prove the murderous vibe
[verse 1] i just sat down to write some verse my heads hurtin i got wiped out nerves not night no more its 5 in the morning why am i still up? not sure
something's different in kids today so many little you's misbehave and you see and you wish u could sit in place long enough to teach them to sit in place
got a white paper and a new bic pen feels nice i ain't never used it yet and i write on the top its a New Best Rap and i lean back and the music entraps me
eyes on our screens, hands on a phone a creative idea ain't standin' alone retweet it appears on a thousand phones and the ones it appeals to pass it along
1, bang and a booming beat clapping 2, and i can hear my feet tapping headphones block out sound from the past and all that's left is a slight meek laughing
[verse 4] favorite like it save it enlighten if it dont uncover a message, who cares what color the dress is?
drift away to a different place constrict your brain to give it space it's a thing i say 'bout raps and rhymes expand your mind and it fits in place [verse 2] these hands of time, they give me age they burn my strength like an inching blaze it's the price i pay for the cigs each day it's a bad habit it'll dig my grave
send me true news articles send me two new thoughts of yours if you keep forwarding me the spam sorting through it's impossible
but i love that taste and i love that smell and it helps when i write that it comes out well leavin' my thoughts on a page or a screen it remains to be seen how come that helps
be a part of the smart ones starstruck with the art of learning more and creating stuff the ones out starting the startups
blazin' the weed is another crutch i discovered such about a year ago smoke 'n puff and you open up and maybe thats what they fear the most
if you don't read books you stay the same you die every time you play the games you can try to lie but the straighter edge survives in the information age 33
THE TWIX BANDIT—BASED ON A TRUE STORY By: Paulette Gindi Today is a Monday disguised as a Friday. My day is slowly decaying into a conscious nightmare. I am feeling hopelessly disordered to the point where Lily Allen’s playlist cannot even bring me to an uplift. I crave a high that seems out of reach. I’m feeling lost and will never be found like a little child in a one-person game of hide and go-seek. I feel betrayed, lied to and cheated. As I try to remove the knife from my back, the most ironic thing happens: the knife gashes deeper into my soul, piercing my alreadybroken heart. Eventually, the knife exits out of me from my chest. I kick it to the side, put on a smile and walk away from it. I tell myself that I will be okay, hoping that I believe my own lie. After all, if I was oblivious enough to believe all of his lies, what will one tiny fib do? I look around the room. Crowded but quiet. Just like my mind right now. All I can hear is my swelling bifurcated heart pounding loudly, the pieces trying to hold on to one another, knowing that if they let go, they may never get to be together ever again. I rise from my seat, fix my skirt, congregate my personal belongings and get going. As I walk across the room, I feel eyes glued to me. I’m not sure if it’s because of the short skirt or because of the metaphorical blood seeping through my sweater. I know there’s no actual blood on my cream-colored zip-up, but I still feel tempted to look down at my chest to make sure. Clean.
on a blissful cloud, higher than the sun, and I refuse to come down. I exit the building with a smile from my right cheek down a mile.
I’m about to exit the building, when something absolutely beautiful to the eyes shines like gold and stuns my eyes. I want it. But more importantly, I need it. I walk towards it. My two-pieced heart screaming in joy. My conscious nightmare seems to turn into this pleasurable sensation.
I start walking, in search of the perfect place to make love to my new lover. No one compares to you, my love…. Love? I shillyshally in fear when I got no response.
I finally found you.
I look down at my hands, only to find my Twix not there. Tears start to form in my left eye. My heart starts to weep in despair. How could I be so stupid to leave my love behind?
I take out my wallet from my backpack. Take out a dollar and a quarter and insert it into the vending machine. E3. I watch breathlessly as the machine complies with my demand. I place my wallet back into my backpack. I’m 34
Photograph by: Constantine Onishchenko
heart shatters into a quarter. I watch from afar, as she unwraps it. I contemplate whether I want to enter the warzone, or just mourn from afar. Her eyes glisten with delight to a point whereas I cannot control myself any longer. "That's my Twix." I say with brutally red eyes as I walk up to the bandit. "I found it. It’s now mine." She answers while tasting the caramel and cookie filling of my chocolate bar. "I can get you a new Twix," she kindly offers Yeah, I could just as easily get a new Twix. But I want that Twix. Any other just won’t be the same. I am lost for words. I don't want it to see me cry, so I just swiftly walk away. I walk away from everything we've been through. Then I remember him. The one who walked away from me. Thoughts fill my mind as I continue to walk. These steps I take are the ones I hope he takes when he returns to find me in the arms of someone more worthy. I run back to the building and form an apology in my mind on the way. Something along the lines of: Babe, I'm sorry for leaving. I know what it feels like to be walked away from. I know it's so painful, but if you give me one more chance, then I will enjoy you in one whole and appreciate your deliciousness. I promise you. Please take me back.
I realize that that Twix bar deserves someone who doesn’t make promises that they can’t keep. I realize that that Twix bar deserves someone who will accept the fact that it makes mistakes and someone who will love it eternally even though it may get stuck between teeth. I realize that I am both—the girl who has been robbed and the Twix bar. Both in different dimensions and time zones.
Only because these are the words that I wish for him to say. But he won't. He walked away, deliberately. He left me out in the cold, on purpose. For absolutely no reason. I'd be a fool to do the same to the one I love.
To the girl who stole my Twix bar: Thank you for giving Twix the love it deserves. And to the girl who will get him: Run as fast as you can.
I approach the entrance with jittery hands. Let's say he moved-
“Letting go means to come to the realization that some people are a part of your history, but not a part of your destiny.” ― Steve Maraboli
There he is. In the hands of some other girl. My wrecked 35
Photograph by: Constantine Onishchenko
I saw Ari in the elevator a week later with his swollen blue jaw trembling. I could tell he was weak because his back was hunched. His head hung low over his frail frame. It was clear he was not eating. I guess after you lose your control on speech, food is the next to go. I could swear Ari sniffled as he shuffled out of the confined rickety elevator box. As he left to get to his floor, he whispered ever so lightly “no.”
DEFIANCE By: Moshe Bressler “The best argument against democracy is a five-minute conversation with the average voter.” –Winston Churchill Ari’s only remembrance in this world is his bright blue beard. Some people say he is 6”4, others argue he’s a midget – barely reaching 4”1. Fat, thin, you name it. He isrumored to have never spoken once in his life. Legend has it that he had his voice box extracted and given to the Japanese emperor as a gift. While Ari might have been the most mysterious man on Earth, everyone acknowledged his bizarre blue beard. Every curl, twist, and bristle was universally agreed upon. Nobody really knows how he died.
They found him 14 days later. The smell gave him away. A rotting corpse can make no noise, but the stink travels in every direction, permeating every crevice. The police didn’t know what to make of it. They found no food in his fridge, his pantry was empty. It must be easy to fast if you can’t find any food, especially if you lock your doors and throw away the keys. The detectives scratched their balding heads and wrote on the police report “unknown cause of death.” They should’ve made their lives easier and simply written hunger strike or better –murder.
Or should I say – murdered – by himself. I was his neighbor, at least before he starved to death. I watched him slowly die. You see, we would occasionally talk politics, actually we would discuss politics by not talking politics. I would get a text in the noon asking to visit and discuss mid-eastern elections. At 5:00 pm over a steamy cup of mint tea we would sit and just stare at each other. Neither of us would whisper a single word -a starvation of oration. Our non-violent argument against each other and the world. One time, I asked him silently why he doesn’t speak, he looked at me. His eyes explained everything to me. I had nightmares for weeks.
He had a private funeral. I was the only attendee. Was this his final revenge? What was he trying to tell me all these years? Does it even matter? As I shoved his ashes off to sea I remembered his last words. I realized now that it all made sense. What a waste of genius! I nodded sadly as his mound blew away in the wind. “You were right,” I whispered as a tear rolled down my cheek.
This would happen every other Thursday. One night – I’ll never forget it, we were staring into the massive space between our faces. We were in the middle of a heated debate about ongoing elections. I was in the middle of convincing him to vote for a more leftist party when the damn Ari had tried so hard to contain broke loose. He uttered the first words he ever said to me – or possibly anyone else in that matter. He said “no.” It was barely a whisper. I blinked. The “no” still echoed throughout my skull. NO! NO! NO! The sound thundered around the room. We could both feel it. The NO built up like a tidal wave until it swept us off our feet and hurled us into a corner on top of each other. “IT’S ILLEGAL!” I yelled as my fist connected with his blue jaw. “NO!” I see stars. “AGAINST (shove) THE (slam!) LAW (my shoulder crushed against something very hard).” We both left covered in blood and bruises. 36
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WRITE THE NIGHT You're invited to come exercise your creative muscles in a freewriting workshop with other Stuck in the Library writers, readers, and editors. Brought to you by STL and hosted by Algonquin Jones & Courtney Takats Photograph by: Constantine Onishchenko 37
PARTING WORDS FROM PAST PRESIDENT, YAAKOV BRESSLER Dear Readers, Not even the sincerest of embraces could quell the heave of nostalgia I feel rising through me. Life is an emotional journey, whether you realize it or not. My experience with Stuck in the Library has certainly been a sprawling journey and, I’m realizing now, a vividly emotional one, too. Can you believe that a little over years ago, I wanted nothing to do with writing, let alone preside a creative writing magazine? Can you believe that when we began, we received a budget of $250, a mere 3% of our current budget? Can you believe that when we asked for enough funds to produce a magazine of our current magnitude, our request became the laughingstock of year? Can you believe that the students of Brooklyn College stood up, stood forward, and made Stuck in the Library theirs? That dedicated writers joined? That dedicated staff joined? Dedicated readers? Can you believe that all through this process, there were people who believed in us? Can you believe that we achieved referendum status, became an official Brooklyn College publication, and achieved our lustrously “unachievable” budget? Can you believe any of that? I know I have a hard time believing it all. But believe it. It’s all true. I’ve seen it. Experienced it. Felt it. Felt it all. And I part with you with this story, this story of non-fiction called Stuck in the Library. That’s the difference between fiction and real life; one exists in the real of pages, the other takes effect in real life. Believe it, your fiction can grow feet and walk. I had the wondrous experience of having my piece of fiction, my tiny idea of a creative writing realm, become real. All of your fiction can be real. As long as you believe in it – as long as you believe your idea can, and should become real, it will. Take these words and allow me to part and take my journey towards its next course. Hold onto the real idea of Stuck in the Library for me. Believe in the things you feel you need to. Don’t forget to experience life. Feel its emotions: laugh during good times and brace for bad times. Turn this page, leave me here. But don’t forget to turn back every once in a while, reread this story and let it fill you with belief in something.
YAAKOV BRESSLER Former President & Founder of Stuck in the Library 38
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A CALL FOR SUBMISSION: Stuck in the Library, Brooklyn College’s sliest literary magazine is now accepting submissions for their upcoming publication! Our next publication date is Monday, May 4th. The deadline for submissions is Thursday night, April 23rd at 11:59pm. You can receive our magazine by attending our publication events or find one floating around campus. An online copy is available on our website (see below). Guidelines for submissions: Just follow the prompt and have fun, let’s see what you can come up with. There are ZERO rules! (although we kindly ask you keep your piece PG-13). Send us all your poems, fiction, play-writes, illustrations and photos: as long as it falls into domain of one of the prompts. . Our word limit is 1500. Keep in mind that STL is a Brooklyn College magazine and can refuse work that doesn’t agree with the mission of the university. Send your work to:
SUBMISSIONS@STUCKINTHELIBRARY.COM Or visit us on the web at: WWW.STUCKINTHELIBRARY.COM
Brooklyn College’s Poshest Literary Magazine
Prompt 1:
Write a horrible cliché.
Prompt 2:
"Two paths diverge in a wood. One is heavily trodden. One wants wear."
Prompt 3:
The REAL purpose of Brooklyn College’s clock tower.
Prompt 4:
Make us cry.