STUCK
IN THE
LIBRARY
MAY 4, 2015
Brooklyn College’s Coolest Literary Magazine
STUCK
IN
THE
LIBRARY
MAY 4, 2015
Our Staff: Paulette Gindi President Florencia Salinas Vice President Dovie Eisner Editor in Chief Kami Salman Chief of Publications Yoni Akerman Treasurer Aaron Abramov Incoming Treasurer Chana Beylin Senior Editor Dassy Heinemann Senior Editor Faiza Khalid Senior Editor Lovashni Khalikaprasad Senior Editor Merav Kraitenberger Senior Editor Moshe Bressler Associate Editor Amanda (Elkie) Lanter Assistant Editor Carolyn Aboudi Assistant Editor Jillian (Ariella) Lanter Assistant Editor Karen Shaefer Assistant Editor Reneé Esses Assistant Editor Ari Ziegler Senior Member of Event Committee Courtney Takats Senior Member of Event Committee Aaron Guyette Associate Member of Event Committee Effie Klestzick Associate Member of Event Committee Shalom Lichtenstein Associate Member of Event Committee Daniel Bressler Assistant Member of Event Committee Gitty Davidson Assistant Member of Event Committee Regina Menahem Assistant Member of Event Committee Yoni Stern Assistant Member of Event Committee Mo Khan Chairperson of Stuck in the Cafeteria Constantine Onishchenko Photographer Mohammad (Chomio) Nasrullah Photographer Sean Bowen Photographer Sanjida Bintekamal Photographer Salomeya Lomidze Head Videographer Rony Portillo Videographer
Page 4 Prompt 1: Horrible cliché
Page 7 Prompt 2: Which path will you chose?
Page 18 Prompt 3: BC’s clock tower.
Page 25 Prompt 4:
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.
Make us cry.
CONTRIBUTING WRITERS: Aaron Guyette
Avraham Steinhardt
Gabriel Pariente
Niseno
Ahuva Buchbinder
Bernard Akshay Gomes
Jacob Woodbourne
Ying Wu
Algonquin Jones
E. P. S.
Jensine Sajan
Yuliya Young
Arooj Alam
Faiza
Lauren Cohen
Zahava Glucksman
Moshe Bressler 2
STUCK
IN
THE
LIBRARY
MAY 4, 2015
Dear Readers,
PAULETTE GINDI Pre sid ent
With the semester concluding, and the last edition of Stuck in the Library of the year in your hands, I urge you to feel the progression of this literary production. By that I mean the development into a masterpiece to be admired by those who encounter it. By next year, I plan on developing STL’s website, along with its logo, color scheme (it’s about time we were other than black and white), and overall schematic. However, these details are merely pastels to a canvas – much is known about the need for artists.
FLO SALINAS Vic e Pr es ide nt
DOVIE EISNER
This where I believe a stepping stone towards success is necessary. After all Mark Twain once said, the only time success comes before work is in the dictionary. This is where I point to you, reader. Do you want to help paint this masterpiece? Do you want to partake in creating something amazing?
Edito r i n Ch ief
With the effort and time put forth into creative endeavors, we will succeed as a group and take Stuck in the Library to the next level. Enjoy these tiny words plastered onto these sheets. Good luck on finals and have a marvelous summer. KAMI SALMAN
PAULETTE GINDI
Chie f o f Pu bl ic at io ns
President of Stuck in the Library
CONTRIBUTING VISUAL ARTISTS: Constantine Onishchenko Kristina Markovic Merav Kreitenberger Mohammad (Chomio) Nasrullah Taisha Brehaut Zen Khan
SALLY LOMIZDE He ad Vide ogra p her
3
Prompt 1: Write a horrible cliche.
4
DE RERUM MORTIS By: Zahava Glucksman Lucretius, do you believe in the gods?
Setting: 55 BC, in a murky and dark limbo of an afterlife. The soul of Socrates approaches the newly deceased Lucretius and begins to philosophize about the afterlife.
Lucretius: Of course, the gods. However, they do not meddle in the affairs of the mortals. Socrates: And what is this world made of?
Socrates: Ah, Lucretius, I have long awaited your arrival. It’s a pity you died so young, you have so much more to learn.
Lucretius: Void and atoms, that’s why there is no need to worry about the afterlife, the soul is not immortal—
Lucretius: Socrates? This must be a dream. Where am I?
Socrates: Who created the void and atoms the world is made up of?
Socrates: Welcome to the afterlife. I have been sent here by the gods to welcome you and ask you to join us.
Lucretius: The gods, of course. Socrates: Does that affect your life? Could an individual live without these voids and atoms?
Lucretius: There is no such thing as an afterlife. (scoffs) I have already achieved the maximum level of greatness by reaching ataraxia. Your silly tricks will not worry me.
Lucretius: No.
Socrates: But Lucretius, this is in fact the gateway to greatness; I came here in my death, with the taste of hemlock still glued to my lips, tasting bitterer than Athenian politics. And now, I spend my days with the gods learning philosophy from the best. Tell me
Socrates: It seems that the gods are meddling then. Creating one thing so that another could affect a mortal. Lucretius, tell me, are you not a pious individual? Lucretius: I am. Epicureanism values virtue.
5
—who do you think made sure your book got FOUR POINT FIVE STARS ON AMAZON HUH!? You think that kinda stuff just happens?! (throws a lightning bolt at Lucretius, knocking him out of the afterlife) How do you like me now, meddling in affairs!?
Socrates: I too was not confident as to what happens after death, whether our immortal souls would be sucked into a life after death or we would all be destined to oblivion. But you are here now, and the gods want you to believe there is life after death. Would it not be impious to disregard their desires?
Hera (Juno): Please Zeus, let’s not talk about affairs.
Lucretius: I suppose it would.
Zeus: Hey, that reminds me…I’ll be back later…that new nymph just moved in next door. Don’t wait upleave some ambrosia on the stove for me.
Socrates: Well then, Lucretius, please step this way and you will enter a place more beautiful than dawn descending down on a clear spring day.
(Socrates and Lucretius leave limbo to enter a beautiful flowing garden filled with gods and goddesses sipping ambrosia and nectar)
Chorus: So now dear reader The soul of Lucretius is dead For Zeus gave him a knock on his head And now he lay in the neighbor’s bed While Hera is plotting to off that nymph’s head Socrates is watching dawn rise with her fingers rosy red—
Zeus (Jupiter): WHAT THE HELL LUCRETIUS!? (in mocking tone) ‘Doesn’t meddle in the affairs of mortals’
Hera: Shut up chorus, those works didn’t use choruses. Go bother Aristophanes.
Lucretius: Socrates, I am ready to enter the afterlife and accept the immortality of my soul.
6
Jeremy pulled out the haiku that the monsters had scrawled upon their arrival and read his fate with trembling hands.
MONSTER INFESTATION By: Moshe Bressler It was 10:00 pm on Eastern Drive and in the Froudlin house, things were getting rather unsettled. “Jeremey! I’m not going to say it again! Its way past your bedtime!” Mom’s voice rang out like a bell across the empty cold lawn. Sounds of small shouting and scuffling that could have only been Jeremy returned in protest. “Mom! I can’t go to bed now! There are legit monsters beneath my bed! They moved in last week and won’t move out until they EAT ME!”
Illustration by: Moshe Bressler
The jeering began.
SMACK! Moms voice yelled sternly, “You must go to bed now! This is no time for a 10 year old to be up.” Jeremy started crying and screaming.
“…listen here delicious Jeremy, let us eat you with dinner and tea.”
Mom dragged Jeremy up the stairs and hauled him off to bed. She ripped off the sheets and bent below the bed. They were there! All of them! Their ugly green faces twitched and their watery eyes waited. “You see? There are no monsters here.” Jeremy screamed “They are RIGHT there! Mom save me!” His Mom sighed a deep frustrated groan. “They are just in your imagination, monsters are not real, see?”
“Come beneath your bed –we’ll be real nice, let us cook you with black pepper spice.” “Evil monsters are really your buddies, after we roast you and put you in our tummies.” Poor Jeremy hunched in fear the whole night. By the time the sun rose and the monsters disappeared again, he collapsed in utter exhaustion. SHAKE SHAKE. “Time to wake up for school!” Jeremy’s Mom woke him from his much needed slumber.
AHHHHHH! They are RIGHT there Mom!” The monsters cackled, “Don’t you know –you stupid child –grownups can’t see us! We’re gonna eat you for sure now!” “I’ll never let you eat me! Even if I have to stay up forever!” Suddenly Jeremy’s Mom stood up. “My God! You’re talking to yourself now. This silly imagination game must stop now. Whew! Do I need a long nap and an aspirin.”
As he shuffled to school, as tired as he had ever been, Jeremy thought to himself, “Man! This has got to end soon! Otherwise I’ll dose off and they’ll eat my bones for breakfast!” As he walked his long and winding walk to school, he could not help but overhear some eighth graders talking about boarding school.
As the door slammed behind Mom’s growing shadow, Jeremy picked up his flashlight. As long as he made a protective tent under his blankets with a flashlight, the monsters will not be able to harm him. He huddled, terrified, for he knew that the instance he fell asleep or the light turned off – he’ll be dead meat.
“I heard the food is the best in VanVelkenberg Prep! They have a yogurt factory right next door and the boys sneak out and steal fresh yogurt every night!” “Oh yeah! My brother is there and he already gained 10 pounds in 1 month because the boys eat dessert for main course and for dessert they have just the powdered sugar and cherries from the first dessert.” 7
B y: T a i s h a B r e ha ut
He whipped out the folded brochure to VanVelkenberg Prep, “Take this booklet, it’s a menu for the fattest most horrible troublemakers around. You’ll be happy in VanVelk I know for sure. Just leave me alone and move out right now!”
“You know what they best part of VanVelkenberg Prep is? You can make as much trouble as you want because at night nobody makes sure you’re sleepin!” “Wow! This sounds so awesome!”
The monsters growled and they twitched, they scowled and they itched. The ugliest of all -clearly the leader,
No it doesn’t! Jeremy thought to himself. Actually, shuddered just at the thought of going to such a dreadful institution. Wait a second… Fat boys? No bedtime? Troublemakers….? I think I have the answer to my monster infestation! On Jeremy’s way out from lunch recess that day, he stopped by at the office and asked for the VanVelkenberg Prepetory School brochure. The old crinkly secretary Ms. Evans raised her penciled eyebrows as she handed him the booklet. That old witch! She never talks! She just gives you the eyebrows and stinks you up with her deadly smelling perfume! Jeremy breathed a huge sigh of relief when he got out of the office since he was actually holding his breath the whole time inside.
cleared his throat and said “We’re gonna leave here.” “This menu of children –the most horrible in sight, will taste so yummy and delicious –lets go there tonight! Fat boys and troublemakers are my most favorite kind, so it’s time to head –that is –if you don’t mind.” And just like that, one by one. They ugly mean monsters crawled out from under the bed. One by one they left for good. Each had their suitcase, coat suit and tie, and they said, “Farewell young Jeremy, I guess this is goodbye.” …4 years later… “Jeremy! We are so proud of you getting a full scholarship to this prep school out in the country! I have never heard of it before, and it’s so strange getting full tuition for free only days before the school year starts.” Jeremey was all proud sitting in his Mom’s car driving up in the country. “What a bright boy you are! I can’t wait to see the ground.”
That night, by the time 9:30 came around, Jeremy was already in bed “fast asleep.” He was actually waiting for his mom to disappear so he could finally get rid of those horrible ugly monsters. As soon as the cackling and jeering began, Jeremy ripped off his covers and shone his flashlight right at those horrible monsters faces! They howled in pain, eyes red at the corners. “Turn off that horrible horrible light! It’s dark and it’s the middle of the night!” “I won’t turn it off, never in a million years, I want you out of here tonight!” Jeremy declared bravely.
As they pulled up to the school, Jeremey stomach lurched and he felt sick. They walked to the front door and it creaked open. A tall dark figure walked out and shook his mom’s hand. “I am the headmaster Mr. Zildrool, and I must now welcome young Jeremy to our school.” As he shook Jeremy’s hand, he let out an evil familiar cackle. Jeremy screamed on top of his lungs as he tried to wrestle his hand out of the green scaly grasp. …to be continued… 8
NO PROMOTION THIS YEAR Diana was dreaming her last dream, a happy dream of smiling moons, happy birds, and good weather, a dream of home. In her dream, she saw herself as she had last seen herself in the mirror before she had departed from heaven to walk on this accursed Earth four weeks ago, with sexy, wild strawberry blonde hair, perfect skin that conveyed youth not only by its utter clarity but also by the presence of a few freckles, and a midriff-baring darkblue shirt.
By Ahuva Buchbinder Furga's steed, Chu Kwai, clip-clopped softly into the 43rd alley of the night. It was 2 in the morning. The sweet, putrid odor of dead stray cat mixed with about 50 years’ worth of poopy diapers hit Furga's nostrils especially hard due to the 90 degree heat. Chu Kwai pawed the ground, but stopped quickly when something warm and squishy got on his hoof.
This was not how she looked now. Her hair was an ashy blonde, with a calmer long-waved texture, her skin was still clear, but it had lost its youthful radiance, and she was wearing a relatively modest white toga which screamed respectability in a way that the midriff-baring shirts and mini-skirts and combat boots she had favored in heaven just didn't. If she would have awoken and seen herself in a mirror, she would have been devastated at her appearance.
"Furga, do we have to stay here?" he neighed quietly. "Mushrooms grow where there is decay," Furga answered shortly. "And we need the magic mushrooms. Abaddon Himself sent us to find them." Furga crouched down on his stumpy brown-green legs, pressing his loincloth to his body so it wouldn't touch the ground, to see what the moonlight was bouncing off of. There was a round window with a grate just above the ground. Perhaps the magic mushrooms he had been searching for over the past 3 years would be growing on the other side of this window. It was a curious practice of these Earthlings to store their pets in basements—and cats and dogs would often kill an animal for sport and leave the carcass around to decay, and their humans were too lazy to clean it up.
Furga's jaw dropped. It was Diana the Goddess! He'd recognized her immediately even though, as low-ranking demon, he had never seen her in person. Diana the Goddess was in charge of the Pretty Toga-Wearing Gods and Goddesses Benevolent Society, the prissiest organization in Heaven. This organization was officially in charge of killing the magic mushrooms, although the word on the street was that the high ranking people in the Pretty Toga-Wearing Gods and Goddesses Benevolent Society didn't really aim to wipe out the magic mushrooms, but to monopolize them. Whoever controlled the supply of mushrooms was effectively in charge of life in all of the worlds.
The basement Furga was peering into certainly smelled of decay. There was the usual moisture—he could hear a dripdripdrip that was rapidly starting to drive him mad, and his overly sensitive demon nose could pick out water immediately—but more importantly, he could see the water drip dripping.
This was because, as anyone who had received a basic Otherwordly education knew, a potion made with groundup magic mushrooms was released into the waterways of all the worlds and caused the creatures in those worlds to feel lust. If the creatures in all of the worlds did not feel lust, then they would not reproduce and there would be no one for the otherworldly Gods, Goddesses and Demons to rule over. With no one to rule over, the Gods, Goddesses and Demons themselves would die.
This was because, in the middle of the cold black stone floor was a luxuriously made up mattress with red blankets, and on that mattress lay...a goddess. She was obviously a goddess, he knew that by her shockingly white tunic that couldn't naturally be that white in such a dingy place. Her skin glowed in the dark as she slept, supinely, divinely, but even as he watched, her skin lost some of its luminescence.
9
looking pretty and getting others to do things for them instead of doing actual physical work. This was the only way that he, a demon of low rank, could be having such an easy victory over such a high-ranking goddess. "Let's talk about the magic mushrooms. As you are no doubt aware, there is a shortage of them in the Otherworld at the moment. I need to get a year's supply to Abaddon. You have the mushrooms. I think that we can either come to an agreement or I can just sit here for a long time."
All thoughts of hunting for magic mushrooms went out of Furga's head. If he could somehow get control of Diana, why, Abaddon would have more magic mushrooms than he'd know what to do with! More importantly, he, Furga, would rise to the rank of second-to-the-demon-king if he could accomplish such a feat. "We're going in there," he hissed to Chu Kwai. "Diana the Goddess is in there!"
"I will be a martyr for the cause," Diana glared up at him.
With 3 swift kicks from Chu Kwai's front hooves, the window swung in on its hinges. Furga, a small demon, barely squeezed through, but Chu Kwai, as a mist-demonsteed, was able to pass into the basement with ease.
"So it's true. You really do have them. You're not killing them. You save them for yourself!" Furga declared triumphantly. Diana's silence was all the answer he needed. "You know that because of your stupid organization the entire universe is going to die, right? How can you be so selfish, letting the universe rot and die just so that it can remain true to your twisted version of purity? What good is perfection if it's dead?"
Once they were in the basement, it became apparent that whoever owned this dungeon—for once inside it was impossible to think of it as anything else—was able to keep Diana there by regularly tipping a powder up her nose, as the only thing in the room aside from Diana and her mattress was a bedside table with 2 containers of purple mucoid powder and a tipping box that bore traces of the powder.
"It won't die," Diana whimpered. "I have the mushrooms, okay?" "GIVE THEM TO ME,” Furga leaned forward, his rough palms reaching the base of her neck, pressing his weight into her. Her form, perfect as only a goddess's can be, gave under him, distracting him from his original goal of choking her.
Furga marched up to the sleeping Diana's head. She was much taller in person than she was in pictures. His only physical advantage against her was his density. He sat down on her abdomen, right above her hip bones. Chu Kwai settled at the foot of the bed.
He was unpleasantly aware that he was helpless, spellbound by such a body. A crazy idea, brought on by his own involuntary reaction, came to him. "YOU JUST WANT THE MUSHROOMS SO YOU CAN GIVE THEM TO THE HIGHEST RANKING GODS, SEDUCE THEM, KILL THEM AND SEIZE THE HIGHEST DEITY POSITION FOR YOURSELF!"
Diana gasped. The sudden increase in pressure on her kidneys after a lifetime of weightlessness was incredibly painful. "Get off of me, you filthy beast!" she shouted, flailing weakly.
Diana's eyes opened wide. How had this nasty little demon of low rank seen through her so easily? He was pressed into her, clearly enjoying her body, and she could not get rid of him.
You know that no one can hear you, right?" Furga leered down at her. His blood was singing in his veins. A weak punch of hers glanced off of his chest harmlessly. It dawned on him that Pretty Toga-Wearing Gods and Goddesses had chosen to channel their strength into 10
P h o to g ra p h b y : C o n s t a n t i n e O ni s h c h enk o
Upon seeing her expression, Furga saw red with rage. "Then it's true. You really don't care a whit about purity. You just care about control. Goddamn you. How can you feel pain from my sitting on your kidneys and yet feel nothing good? You fucking ice queen. You don't even know what lust is anymore, beyond a mere abstract tool that you plan to use to gain power. Well fuck you! I'm about to get fired because I haven't been able to find a mushroom in 3 years! I AM GOING TO MAKE YOU FEEL SOMETHING, YOU FUCKING ICE QUEEN AND THEN YOU ARE GOING TO GIVE ME THE MUSHROOMS!"
"YOU BITCH!" shouted Furga. Not only hadn't he gotten any mushrooms, but she had died as she had wanted to, without feeling anything. He found necrophilia repulsive—already the smell of death was seeping from her. He hated her more than anyone he had ever hated in his entire long eternal life. Left with no other option, he sat on her chest and voided his bowels.
Chu Kwai sprang up, and held her long legs down. Furga jumped up to the right side of the bed, adjusting his loincloth.
"Good thing your last meal was from Taco Bell," Chu Kwai laughed. "Diarrhea City!" Furga's shit was indeed watery, spreading out from under him in a perfectly round expanding foul-smelling dark brown pool, contrasting sharply with Diana's toga.
Diana jerked her body over the left side the bed, and using the last of her strength, picked up her right arm and pressed hard, hard, against the side of her head, forcing it to the left. Anything, even death, was better than this. A CRACK rang through the dungeon as her neck broke.
Furga didn't answer. He was concentrating on crapping out every last bit. Crapping on a Goddess was second only to raping one, and he intended to get his promotion.
11
P h o to g ra p h b y : C o n s t a n t i n e O ni s h c h enk o
Prompt 2:
“Two paths diverge in a wood. One is heavily trodden. One wants wear.”
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With my pitch black blankets
PREDATOR
And convert them
By: Arooj Alam
Into my beloved captives What’s my favorite weapon you ask? I gently and sweetly
Why, my eyes of course
Lure my victims With them I scan my preys
With an innocent stare
Capture my prisoners
And a sinless glance
And drag them Like a sweet siren’s song
To the emptiness of my soul
My black stars guide them With my two black orbs
Yearning to capture the life
I strip their bodies bare
Which illuminates their being
Admiring exposed beauty
In the depthless abyss
And relishing hidden frailty
Of my gloomy pearls, I hope to taste the warmth
In my dark pools
Of their spectacular twin suns
They become my subjects
Suns which burn red hot
My slaves
Hotter than a thousand hells
My objects
And set ablaze My cold flesh
In the lightless court of my eyes They become mine
So when they finally
To love, hurt, and discard
Peer inside my dark windows
To banish and readmit
They never know What awaits them
But before I attack 13
that’s all the difference you’ll ever NEED!
TWO PATHS LED OFF A CLIFF By: Moshe Bressler
CAN’T YOU SEE THE CLIFF DAMMIT! Just Turn Around! Go back
Sometimes it’s not your fault
back where way comes across way
you can’t see a truck barreling into the sidewalk
back to where it all started
until it strikes you off your feet
when you were a child. REALIZE
some paths have mist covering their ways
how you chose the right path
leaving an eerie angelic beauty that invites you into the unknown few roads have ashes and tears which wind down steep valleys into dark forests where nobody can hear the SCREAMS of the children and their mothers HOWLS which are silenced by bullets RATATAT roads that aren’t travelled have darkness —a depth that even light cannot penetrate the only enlightenment is its completion
When two paths lead off a cliff
but you DON’T NEED TO CHOOSE—
with no mist tears ashes or SCREAMS
Now. It’s easy to turn backwards.
No HOWLS no BULLETS
Reverse those footprints.
yet you know within lies a certain death your soul has de-ja-vu
Go Back to where two roads diverged in the woods. Take which ever path you FREAKIN’ FEEL LIKE!
and you understand
You don’t have to march off that bloody Cliff!
exactly what will happen
Turn around. Run. Reverse time. Make it better. Don’t do this to yourself.
when I take the path less travelled by the difference is
Nobody can save you anymore. We can’t see you. Or hear your HOWLS. You are making yourself disappear.
LIFE and DEATH your honor
You are dead end wrong.
14
THE GOOD GIRL By: Arooj Alam My Mother always said: Sit like a lady Lower your gaze Cover your hair Speak in modest ways
Respect your elders Including your neighbor When getting scolded Consider it a favor
Learn how to cook Be a good wife Please your husband To have a good life. Pain is part of life
I can’t be good
It teaches you a thing or two
It’s too late for me
When you have kids
I wish I was innocent
You will tell them too
And pure as can be
So don’t you fret
I am a rebel
Or cry a big river
A crazy spirit
Be brave and strong
Who wanders recklessly
Like a good girl
And crosses all limits
--That’s what men want
I love being bad
To have you obey and conform
Doing wild things
Not think for ourselves
Being devious and mischievous
And just go with the norms
And the joy that it brings
And don’t say a word
I wish I could
Want to tame me?
Just lay still
But I love to defy
Too late for that now
Even if it hurts
I need to feel free
You think you’re in charge
Love marriage? Out of question You know guys And their intentions
But don’t you worry We will find you one You will like him He will be fun
When he touches you Just blush and smile Even if you hate it Even if he’s vile Be meek as a lamb
Young, crazy, and alive 15
But I’ll never bow!
P h o to g ra p h b y : C o n s t a n t i n e O ni s h c h enk o M o d e l : S ha r a ni k a
DIVERGENT WOOD (INCORPORATED) wages they pay those poor kids. But hey, at least their exhausted mothers no longer need to do unspeakable things out of sheer responsibility ‘cause who else will feed the sick, dying, and newly born? Goddamn their choices. But who am I to judge?
By: Jacob Woodbourne Two paths diverge in a wood. Right. Focus on the woods. There’s such a thing as happiness in this world. There’s such a thing as right choices. I tell myself this quietly in my mind, I don’t dare speak a word because the world is full of choices and this is a choice I choose, goddammit.
Tapeworms. So one day this guy tries on his new pants which he bought because his new diet pill was so successful, but they don’t fit anymore. He lost more weight. His wife gets concerned. He gets concerned. And some genius gets rich. These kids working on Bangladesh don’t know how we’ll use these fluffy towels. They just see the polyacrylic coating on the outside of the pill – on the outside of this damn life. Blue and pale. Like plastic – of course. Because it is plastic. Cause it’s fake. Because this is all an illusion for the tapeworm kept inside, ready to latch on and begun sucking life out of each and every one of us so we can feel more alive. Alive. The stick girl goes into the water we keep in those giant
I work here. Divergent Wood Incorporated – the most successful remediating quick fix since the tapeworm pill of 1982. True story, those sly geniuses. Gave those suckers exactly what they wanted, pill form. Tapeworms. Jammed a whole colony’s worth of eggs into these capsules and sold em’ for a week’s worth of groceries. Gave em’ exactly what they wanted. I heard they pulled one out 12 feet in length. This world is full of choices. This twig looking chick snarls her upper lip at me as I try to smile, looking out of place with my cracked teeth and scarred skin. You look like you crawled out of a dishwasher, I think. But I don’t say this. I don’t say anything because she made her choices and I’m not one to criticize. She probably thinks I’m thinking about her without her clothes on and I am. But not in the way she thinks I am, because how can you think another person’s thoughts until you’ve been through what they’ve been through. Goddamn this chick, I think. Paying a week’s worth of groceries for a shot at making herself feel less more. Instead I think of the forest which has a path. I imagine myself being happy. I walk this path. Goddamn this. I don’t walk – I run! I feel alive. My legs like running, yeah. They love running. I’m an athlete. I can win races. Boom! Right there – Hey creeper. Shit. What? This I say because the twig chick is speaking to me. I need my towel, she says. I nod, biting the inside of my cheek because I want to keep a straight face and not get upset because she just brought me back to this miserable world. Of course, madam. The towels.
vats and I go back to woods where I’m no longer a runner but instead a world renowned explorer, about to make the most detailed exhibition of a new territory. Except no one heard of me because I didn’t show anyone anything yet – kind of like the tapeworm in the plastic shell. I’ll soon emerge. Don’t worry. They’ll hear of me. So I’m marking down everything I see in that forest, and there in front of me is a section of path that sends shivers down my spine. A crossroad, a split. Choices. Goddamn this life for having so many. I toss my maps into a fire, destroy my calculations, and drawing tools. Burn them! Make the choice. I choose to jump!
Towels with “Dive Woods” embroidered on em’. We bought em’ from a Bangladesh textile factory which hires children to work from morning till night for a nickel – you can’t even buy a day’s worth of groceries for the 16
The vats splash over, the displacement of a fatter balding businessman inside em’ cause the water to overspill. The water. It’s foul. It’s disgusting. If you ever come here, don’t look at the water. Don’t look at it, don’t even give it a tiny look. Don’t look at it in the tiniest drop. It’s a shell, a polyacrylic coating to hide the beastly fangs we keep inside. That’s why you shouldn’t look at the water – because it looks harmless and peaceful. Kind of like a diet pill that’ll keep the weight off in exchange for your grocery bill. Damn, I wish I had thought of the tapeworm first. Alright, I have this. Does it work? The man from the tub, he asks me this. Of course this works. I say this. It works wonderfully. I say this too. Why? He doesn’t ask me why the water works. He doesn’t want to know. People don’t want to know, they want choices to be made for them. Choice free. A plastic capsule around the tapeworm. Thanks. He thanks me. Haha! Can you believe that crap? Thanking me? Sure, I respond. Because life is full of choices and it’s also a choice to choose things or not to choose things. And I’m okay with this because this is how I’ll become something. Kind of like leaching onto a larger form of life in order to gain something – nutrients, shit – anything. The tapeworm. It’s inside of the forest, beneath the trees, beneath the choices. You can see it if you’d like, but people don’t like to. They like light plastic blue polyacrylic coatings. Until it latches on and grows and takes over your life. Life is full of choices. You know this! And the tapeworm grows. It knows this too! It gets huge. You hear? The tapeworm grows into a monster! A beast! It floats deep within your bowels, across the ascending colon, across your life. You lose weight and smile while this tapeworm grows, but damn you look good and this life is so easy because you don’t need to make meaning of this life because there’s no choices and everything is perfect. The whole world sings to you and you sing back. Goddamn you. And your whole world – it’s perfect and I hate you but I need to hold onto you because what’s your tapeworm without you? What’s life without substance? What’s real in this world? While you don’t think this, the tapeworm becomes 12 whole damn feet long. Congratulations, you’ve birthed a monster – let’s go fishing and pull it out. Life’s a forest. There’s the split. If you decide not to choose, come to Divergent Wood. It’s $240 an hour and we guarantee to make your world a giant plastic capsule until the tapeworm grows large enough for you realize that life’s full of choices and there’s such a thing as happiness in this world except not here. 17
Prompt 3:
The REAL purpose of Brooklyn College’s clock tower.
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BELOW THE CLOUDS By: Aaron Guyette His life changed one day, though; he went to stand over the Earth with the giant bell behind him and turn the sky from gleam, to gray, to a dark endless black with the storm he normally cast upon the inhabitants of that arrogant sphere. But as he stared his heart sank, he saw a man that reminded him of himself. He gazed upon a beggar in the streets, dressed in decrepit sandals, no trousers, and a shirt that was too small, a shirt that was so short that it revealed, much like Zeus himself, a small, shriveled, cold, and sad penis. It struck Zeus like one of his own lightning bolts that every day, in his anger, he was causing this man the same pain he experienced, worse pain. Zeus just felt the humiliation, while this small man felt the humiliation, freezing rain, and drenched concrete. That was the first epiphany of that way, how he shouldn't punish the world for his phallus that would forever remain uncovered.
A naked Zeus stares down from the Brooklyn College clock tower upon the world. A little more than 2,400 years after the world forgot his existence, and this is home now. The rent isn't bad, hundred dollars a month and all he has to do is play that jingle that you always hear. From up there he can make his decisions in relative peace, and gaze upon the mortal world that isn't so far below him. The world was infinitely closer than his original penthouse on Mt. Olympus. He often gazed upon everyone in amazement and disgust, staring down upon his creations and his creations' creations. He stood and stared at the same time every day, and the clouds would glaze over with gray in his fury. He was cast with jealousy that his creations had created clothes and he had not, and he would never be able to acquire any from up there in the tower, his latest home. All that he could do was stand there exposed. The gray turned to black whenever he saw wealth. A poison upon the world in too many forms, currency and the glisten of diamonds. All Zeus wanted was pants and his constant focus on the fact that the entire world could see his shriveled small penis made rain fall upon the Earth along with the crash of lightning. It was obviously cold up there and all people could think about down there was money and riches, never once thinking of how blood and diamonds are connected. Nor did they think of the extremes of poverty and gluttony. Some wander the world without basic necessities, pants in Zeus' case, and some wander the world with far beyond the basic necessities. This gap appalled, and all he could think of was how such an object or concept had never been constructed.
The second epiphany came during his study of this lonely wanderer, this beggar. He noticed from afar the polar opposite of what the poor man was approaching his cold and exposed body. A man dressed in the finest cloth approached him, and Zeus expected it to be for the means of referring to him as some poor excuse for a man, just something to throw in the beggar's face. The fine dressed man knelt down and fumbled around in the pocket of his fine hand pantaloons. After a short period of shuffling the man pulled out a handful of multicolored jewels. The light reflected off of these jewels so bright that Zeus forgot all of his malice and might. All he could see was every shape and every hue that reflected off of these small deformed cubes of bright light. The blue gleaming toward the sea out in the distance, the green glistened onto the West Quad, and the red sent its shine to the sky. Zeus was encased by the beauty finally seeing more than arrogance and greed, even if he had cast his storms today he felt as though they would be broken by this sunshine from below. When Zeus came to he had realized the fine dressed man had pressed the diamonds in the hand of the beggar. The beggar could finally procure a shirt that fully covered his body and pants to cover his genitals, and Zeus finally felt some sort of peace, that he could securely live vicariously through this man. On that day people noted that the jingle seemed more joyful, and it was. Zeus hadn't ever felt this way, he knew greed was an abomination that would forever be present in humankind, but he relied on the existence of generosity as well, and if the latter could win out over the former, then maybe there was some sort of hope for the world.
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P h o to g ra p h b y : C o n s t a n t i n e O ni s h c h enk o
WRUKKINE By Faike Where do most sayings come from? For instance, “school is a prison” didn't create itself, you know. Or where did the idea of aliens come from? From reality. But wait, weren’t we always told there was no such thing as aliens? That they were only fictional characters in cartoons? I'll tell you what I think, but don't tell anyone. In truth, just as there were dinosaurs, aliens also set foot on this planet (no wonder they're so famous). In fact, I'm currently working on a file examining Brooklyn College closely, and it's surprising to realize how much of a dungeon shell this place really is—literally. Time for some background history: aliens lived around the same time as humans, only they were slightly fewer in number. Despite that, their intelligence was rather exquisite, even if they barely had a comprehensive language. Unfortunately, their strength was nothing compared to ours and that's where they got beat. Hence as power precedes every story, humans took over the extraterrestrial creatures and in every state there was a campus that held them. In New York, Brooklyn College so happened to be that place. I'd say they were feared due to their difference and abnormality. If there's one thing we’ve learned in history it's that people have acted in the most cowardly way when they were face to face with a new environment. They also couldn't stay indoors very long which explained the empty space in the center of the campus, and maybe the abnormal art on the walls of the library. However, humans allowed some leniencies like they kept all kinds of books for the aliens because they were so fond of intelligence. But what about the tall sophisticated bell tower? The beautiful chimes? Peaceful? Hah! Would be what they say if they could. In truth those chimes were above the frequency of hearing range for those bug eyed creatures. Every fifteen minutes later the bell chimes and puts the aliens in a state of agony and loss because they can’t bear the sounds. It just so happens that our biggest strength starts from our biggest fear. So far, all I know is that the campus is a hostage for the aliens. However I have many doubts about what’s behind Brooklyn College’s clock tower… the only way I can find out is if I go investigate mysel– “You're actually writing all that?” A voice stopped my typing fingers. It was Dan again, a friend finally out of the hospital from a pool accident. “What?” I asked. 20
“Don't play dumb, I'm talking about your self indulgent report on Brooklyn College. I feel sorry for the people who will read that. You actually make it sound like you're some long lost nephew of Sherlock Holmes.”
past the fourth floor which was supposed to be the last floor. At the very peak of Brooklyn College's clock tower, right below the clock was a door left unguarded. We entered while I remained completely clueless yet impressed and my eyes totally opened when I saw the sight inside. There were countless tall glass containers filled with water and stored one alien each. Wrukkine began banging his lithe threefinger-hand on the wall of the container but his efforts were fruitless.
“Sonny, I might be.” I declared. “Now go away. You're distracting this descendant of a TV actor.” I waved him away and looked back at my computer screen. Yeah, nobody is gonna read this. The next morning I was allowed to enter through the front gate easily with a “you'll be solely responsible for any injury and are restricted from entering that clock building” welcome from the guard. That's the last thing I need to be responsible for. Now let's fast forward in time until I meet Wrukkine– trust me I only know how to spell that. I found him in one of the rooms alone in Boylan Hall. There's no such thing as communication, he was a young alien, i.e. older than a kid but younger than an adult. I only got that much information of him from his name tag.
“Hey, calm down little guy,” I consoled. That's when the whole top portion of the building shook and rumbled. The spherical ceiling of the tower opened slightly by forming a hollow hole, seconds later a narrow rocket stored beneath it shot up into the sky, disappearing completely. Wow, now that was even more unexpected, but I've finally mastered their ( the humans’) whole plan. They were shooting the aliens off to space! Like what?! How far is their madness going? This is even beyond discrimination. Yeah, okay I know that I complained a ton but in the end there wasn't anything that I or the masses I approached could do. You guessed it, this story doesn't have a happy ending. Soon all of them were shipped to some planet. Maybe Mars? And I never saw Wrukkine again. I wish I could've fooled the FBI somehow, but on the bright side at least he's with his friends. And hey, they’re aliens! They’ll probably survive just fine. Although I do swear I'll never forgive the humans for their cowardly actions; maybe that's why I just can't consider myself as one of them.
“Hi, my name is Faike. Do you think I can ask you a few questions?" I tried my luck. He only stared at me with dark pools of blackish purple eyes. 'Um...then can you show me around?" Still no response. Now I really wish I had paid more attention in class when they were teaching all about alien gestures. I sighed, waiting for my next step. Only, he moved and shook his head, then ran out the building as fast as he could like he was picking up some subtle signals. I had no choice but to chase after him. He led me all the way to the clock tower and entered with the code in his tag. Before the door fully closed I sneaked in right behind him. Location: first floor, appeared to be a normal library floor to me.
That, my folks, is how aliens existed in space and are hypothesized to be there on Mars. See, it all makes sense. So if you ever go to Mars in the twenty-first century, be sure to say “hi” to Wrukkine for me.
Except he didn’t stop, he climbed up the stairs, even 21
P h o to g ra p h b y : C o n s t a n t i n e O ni s h c h enk o
have to!” Nothing could be that bloody final and rigid. He would discover how to perform the magic trick himself if that's what it took.
THE ANANCE OF THINGS By Yuliya Young Only a few know how loud the continual turn of the gears is when heard from that room up in the Clock Tower. The bells chimed at regular intervals are deafening. Listening for prolonged periods of time in such close proximity can surely drive a man mad, if he isn't already...
******** “We're all concerned about you. If this goes on, Madame LaGuardia will have no choice but to—“ “William, have you ever thought about time?” John asked abruptly as they walked down the warm halls of Boylan.
There was work to be done and a light snowfall wasn't enough to keep him from the crucial task. He began climbing up the ladder that he set up. Squinting up through the snow, he could vaguely see the outline of the Clock. Halfway up, he heard a familiar voice calling him. “John, is that you up there?! What on God's green earth are you doing?”
“Sure, I think about it all the time.” William chuckled at his own pun. “Yes...yes, me too. Have you noticed how clocks don't measure it at all?”
The landscape looked white and bleak; whatever verdant plant life John admired had dried up what felt like a million and a half years ago. He honestly no longer had faith that the earth would ever be green again. Amazing, really, how easily he expected spring in his youth— without any doubt that the magic trick wouldn't not happen every year. Time was circular, after all, wasn't it? And didn’t nature have plenty of magic tricks up her sleeve?
“What do you mean? What else are they for?” They entered through a wooden door with an engraved plate that read 'William Ray, Dean's Council, School of Humanities & Social Sciences'. William cleared the stack of papers that looked ready to topple over on one of the leather chairs and gestured for John to sit down. “They measure...well, the position and rotation of the earth relative to the sun, but not time. That's something else entirely. Think of all the creatures who never saw the bloody thing and yet still manage to lead lives more orderly than ours.”
He placed his foot on a higher rung. No, not at all. Time, he discovered, was a one-way street with a dead-end. And the one magic trick he wished for with every nucleotide of his animated flesh, the natural forces were short on. “Are you insane? John, I know we had our differences but listen to me. Please. Get down before you slip!” The voice held an edge of desperation.
“My god! And here I thought my desk passed the inspection.” William winced as he glanced at what could only be called a cluttered desk. He was of the opinion that if something couldn't be found then he was better off without it. The only problem was that his superior didn't seem to share that particular viewpoint, especially around the time of administrative deadlines.
John looked down at the man who once told him that history always repeated itself, that this was the way of the world—an abstract idea that he carelessly laughed away. But there was no laughter now. “I am sick and tired, William—sick and tired!—of looking at these deadly arrows.” He pointed up to the hands of the Clock. “I feel their sharp points already buried halfway into my heart!”
“Do you suppose it was any different when candles and sandglasses were used?” William regarded him silently. None of his jokes took root anymore; humor had become one-sided in John's company. William tried to accommodate his friend's newfound interest in horology as best as he could. He believed that intellectual curiosity was a professor's most important trait and to diminish John's would be to take—
“John, wait—” Time kept going and his soul was circumscribed within its grasp, expected to carry on to the bitter end—helpless to revise a single pixel of the past or to physically relive a moment of it or to move as it willed. “I have to stop it. I 22
P h o to g ra p h b y : Ze n Kha n
as much as he could will Frederic Douglass back to life. When he would recall this moment many decades later, he would sometimes wonder perhaps it wasn't the prospect of a miracle that triggered John, as he originally assumed. Perhaps it was the element of chance or the notion of a universal force greater than them guiding their lives—the force that determined whether one person opened their eyes after an accident or another slept for eternity.
away whatever vitality was left in him. But even William had his limits. Besides, a man seeking to outrun the clock was more chained to it than the rest of them. “Does a finely-tuned oscillator override the phenomenon of relativity?” William waved his hand as if to dismiss the question. “The earth insists on turning despite what we mere mortals do, so what does it matter?” A life-long student of history, he found science a tiring business: a relentless race towards the unknown. To keep up with the cutting edge was beyond him. He'd barely adjusted to the available technology before it was updated and his knowledge was pulled from under his feet. Not used to being so overwhelmed, William decided he would live life at his own pace and if others thought him old-fashioned, so be it.
“A miracle,” John raised his voice, “is if I prevented it! A miracle is if I could just go back and bloody change it! I want to know that she's not suffering through every unbearable moment right now, trapped in her body—” John jumped out of his seat and threw his glass at the wall in frustration. The glass—now dozens of shards scattered over William Ray's office—was not the only thing that shattered as John stormed out.
“Are you sure your lab is in Ingersoll and not in the Clock Tower?” His lightheartedness had no effect. He sighed and looked at the other man with pity. He knew the cause of John's obsession; he just didn't know how to help. John didn't look like he was getting past stage one of grief any time soon. “Don't torture yourself like this. Let it go, John, it's been almost a year.” They didn't speak for a while. “What did the doctors say? Any change?”
******** There is a legend of a mad scientist who was so dissatisfied with the Clock and its inaccuracies that one winter he intended to take it apart piece by piece starting with the clock pointers and then rebuild it anew. “No matter how it is measured, time keeps going. But that's a poor reason, if I ever heard one, to have a defective measuring instrument.”
John sat with his arms on his knees and his head hanging down. William reached out and offered him a glass of water. “She was—is so young. Her whole life still ahead of her. To know that she will never experience any of it...” He shook his head as if unable to accept that. “Don’t you see? It doesn't matter that the hands of time are still in motion. For her, they might as well have stopped.”
Fortunately, he was convinced to abandon the project by his colleague, William Ray, or so the tale goes. Ray saw him climbing up the ladder and yelled, “Sir, I may not know how to stop time if that's what you're looking for but I know how to make it go backwards!” The scientist immediately climbed down and as a result the Clock has been preserved for generations and is used to this day. When he re-told the story, William Ray joked that he did indeed know how to make time go backwards—but only on Daylight Savings. Later, he also joked about knowing how to change history “but only on paper!”
“Don’t give up hope. She may open her eyes one day and—” “One day?” John let out a cold, humorless laugh. “Do you know how many days I've waited? How many minutes? Because I do. I feel every bloody second pressing down on me.”
Whatever the truth may be, if you look through the windows, the circular room in the Clock Tower appears to be empty... But late at night when the last student has gone home and the campus gates have been locked, you will see blue light emitted from the Tower and, if you're lucky, the faint shadow of the horologist still at work.
“A miracle can happen any time. There are people who come out of comas. The doctors—” Before William even finished, he realized it was the wrong thing to say; but the words were already out and he could will them back only
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P h o to g ra p h b y : Ze n Kha n
Prompt 4:
Make us cry.
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True Dreams By: Niseno What if this life you’re living wasn’t yours? Like all those dreams and notions you had as a child were fake? Life as a virtual imaginary tour, Wasn’t meant to be_ for Christ’s sake! Throw away anything you believed in Get rid of those flawless skills, Something you can’t be proud of here, Close your eyes and open them to no free will. Live a lie. Sigh. ‘Cause you can’t dress the way you want, Can’t look the way you’re supposed to …be there any less freedom to seek?
And then you’ll come to wondering: What the hell was the purpose of this life?’ Like you were born from an abandoned light, That probably never even shined so bright. Ever since reality hit you in the face, you’ve been in a fight, With your heart, soul, mind and sight.
Soon your eyes will hurt From being unsuited, Secluded, disputed, Excluded and wounded. So you can’t cry, There’s just no point.
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YOU CHOSE LIFE, BUT LIFE DID NOT
CHOOSE YOU
By: Jacob Woodbourne
No one is innocent. He says as he takes a swallow of apple juice from a glass, shattered. Blood trickling down his chin, he laughs.
Your dreams, he says, are stupid. Stupid.
Life fails.
The sour rind of an orange is shoved into your
He says this while pouring mustard onto a plain
mouth.
piece of bread, straight. Only pale sour water emerges from the bottle, though, a whole flush of it. He smiles sourly as he takes a bite from
Is that hard to swallow?
his awful sandwich. Yellow smears with the red on his face.
His meaty hand in your mouth reminds you that life is hard to swallow. Sometimes. But sometimes you need to swallow it anyways.
Don’t be surprised when life fails.
So you swallow.
He’s not surprised, he says. You wanted mus-
Bitterly.
tard, but it failed. You feel yourself failing.
So we stopped. Stupid.
Circulation ends. You’ve been sitting too long and it has cut off
Everything in this world stops. The aftertaste of
circulation in your legs. Blood flow has
orange lingers with bitterness.
stopped there, you point out. Much like life itself, he says, while itching at the raw red skin around the scab on his face. Yellow. Red. All
It stops.
the colors mush. Circulation will eventually He reminds you while picking at a scab on his
remain motionless. And emotionless. A steady
face till it bleeds.
trickle of blood makes its way down his neck.
Everything stops. Bits of scab falls to the ground.
Goddamn this life. 26
A RECOLLECTION can’t bear to say that I don’t love you anymore, because I do, I do, I do. Dear, how I love you.
By: Ying Wu Have you ever looked at someone and noticed how they have changed within a small amount of time? It’s a sad feeling, really, to see someone and realize that the person they were a few months ago no longer exists. Just the feeling that someone you know has moved on and changed while you have stayed where you have always been, stubbornly refusing to move forward. I know. It’s happening to me.
Every time I get mad at you, I get mad at myself too. I get mad at myself because I don’t have a right to get mad; because nothing changes just because I’m mad; because you won’t care if I’m mad. Every time I get mad at you, I get frustrated with myself. Why can’t I let it go? Every time you’re sad, my heart breaks a little. When you’re sad, I’m sad too. Sad because I can’t do anything to uplift your burden, because I’m nothing; because seeing you with that expression actually chips away at my ice heart. Why can’t I let you go?
At first, I didn’t really mind it. I thought that it was bound to happen someday. Nobody stays in a place forever. But I started noticing that everyone around me was changing, bit by bit. Some of them changed rapidly, while others gradually changed. When it hit me that everyone was moving on with their lives, I didn’t like it. I liked this place; a place that I didn’t know of, but didn’t mind because I wasn’t alone, not knowing. I didn’t want to change. And why should I? It was my life; only I could let it run its course. Of course, being stubborn can have benefits and drawbacks. I liked being in control of something in my life, but it came at a price.
Why do I feel like I’m crossing oceans for you, but you won’t even jump into a puddle for me? You can walk over me all you want, but I still love you. You can push me away, tell me you don’t need me, replace me, but I still love you. You can tell me I’m annoying, useless, unnecessary, but I still love you. You can make me as angry as you want, and you can hurt me as much as you want, but I still love you. You can be as selfish as you want, and you can rip my heart out as much as you want, but I still love you. You can do whatever you want, but I hope you never forget me…because I still love you.
Everyday during the two months of summer vacation, I had trouble sleeping. The future seemed so uninviting that I wished tomorrow would never come. I found myself staying up until the sun came out to fall asleep, not realizing that what was causing my insomnia was the emptiness in my heart. In case you didn’t know, loneliness echoes. Some days, I’ll be doing fine. The sun would be shining, and I would be functioning perfectly—but it’s was all a lie. Sooner or later, a memory would hit me—a memory that knocks the breath out of me, and releases the tears that I’ve willfully ordered to stay locked up. The sight of the chocolate that you loved, the warm weather that you so looked forward to, the chips we used to stuff our faces with—the time I woke up with your sleeping face next to mine, the happiness I felt then; the emptiness and sadness I feel now when I lay down on my bed in the afternoon without you. And that is why I was scared of falling in love with you—I was terrified that you would leave me like this, stranded, emotionally unstable, messed up. But I
Because I’ve pushed you away, hurt you, bothered you, and you still put up with it. Because I’ve made you angry, I’ve made you sad, and you still put up with it. I’ve been selfish, demanding, annoying, and you’re still here. Because sometimes I’ve fucked up so bad I thought you’d turn away, but you’re still here. Because whenever I feel like shit, just hearing your voice can calm me. I’m sorry, but I still love you. 27
and pay the rent and buy milk and pay for their Netflix subscriptions and go out to bars and restaurants and movies. They sit in boxes every day for eight hours so they can sit in larger boxes filled with other people and drink for a few hours on the weekends.
LIMA DREAMS By Algonquin Jones I’ve imagined myself as an old man. One flimsy little tooth peeking out over my bottom lip. It gives me a little whistle when I say the letter S. I imagine I’ll be the sort of old person who is still taller than average and starts up the stairs slowly but speeds up as he goes. My old eyes will likely crinkle and I believe I’ll be happier than I am now because I’ll be more used to the pointlessness of looking to the future constantly.
I’m tired of boxes. My dad used to say that we should make sure the box we put him in after everything and he’s finally kicked it is a nice one. So much thought into a box. He wouldn’t be alive to enjoy that box. But he wanted it to be nice. No one enjoys boxes. So I’m tired of boxes and being confined. I’m tired of being enclosed by the cardboard hours that I have to clock, lest I receive an annoying email asking me about a punch-in that I missed. I’m tired of the box I stare into and through which my emails come.
Let me tell you about now though. Before you get old you have to suffer your earlier years. These are them: I wake up in the morning and I’m tired. I have four alarms. You believe that? Four alarms. The first one is at 6AM. That’s for if I’m feeling really spry. If I got to sleep before 10PM then I’ll get up at that alarm, but I haven’t gotten to sleep before 10PM in years. The second alarm is at 7AM so an hour after the first alarm fails to drag me out of bed, I have another one trying to do the same. The third alarm comes an hour after that when the clock strikes 8. And the fourth comes soon after at 8:15. By the fourth alarm my eyes are open and I’m usually awake, having been nagged and pulled and poked and prodded by four loud clanging sounds from my cell phone at my bedside. Scientists say that you shouldn’t keep your cellphone at your bedside, they say its bad for your sleep patterns, but by the time I get home I’m too tired to find a new place to plug in my charger.
I’m tired of other people deciding that what I want and who I am is not good enough. I’m tired of not being able to change the world the way I want to. The way I’m told I can. The worst thing, the absolute worst of the things, is that I’m tired of ambition. Does that sound strange? To be tired of ambition? People without it are searching for it and people with it get disappointed so many times that they quickly become exhausted. Either way really, whether you have lofty dreams or not, you’ll be exhausted. But with ambition, you become more fatigued because you believe in the possibility that one day you won’t be.
And so I’m tired when I go to sleep and I’m tired when I awake. The only thing that pulls me out of bed is the sounds of those four screaming alarms. You know what else? I’m tired of sitting in a cubicle five days a week.
I imagine when I’m old I won’t have any ambitions beyond “live another day” and “go to sleep in a soft bed with my cell phone plugged in to the far wall.”
Every morning I come in and there are tired eyes peeking over four foot walls. Their eyelids are propped up by coffee and the necessity to live on. To keep making a living 28
That plant was tired from it all. And I’m tired of ambition now.
Even when I was in first grade, I had ambition. Wide eyes and bright dreams. This one time we had a project that I was excited for. The teacher gave us beans and we were to put them in soil and that soil was to be put into Styrofoam cups and we were to water the soil and keep it near the window and man did I have ambition! In my first two days I saw a little sprout peek out over the top of the soil and I saw a giant oak tree in my mind. I saw all the wonderful potential. My teacher once asked us what the largest organism that ever lived was. Whales, said some kid.
I’m tired of measuring women in relationships and weighing people against others to discover who will be the perfect person to spend my life with. I’m tired of having to choose which city to dwell in. I’m tired of deciding where I have to be and by what time I have to be there. I’m tired of those four goddamn alarms that pull me awake and out of bed every morning just so I can become tired again.
Dinosaurs, said another. Tress, she answered. Trees are the largest organisms that ever lived. There were trees the
But I’m less tired than I was before. The more time I’ve spent awake, the longer I push on the less tired I am of life, because I care less. I move on more quickly. The dreams hanging out of my ears are leaking and I feel like I should lament them as they shrink, but it’s so easy to let them get smaller and lighter and less burdensome. My neck feels stronger. I can hold my head higher. I need less caffeine to prop my eyelids up. As the time goes on I become less tired.
size of countries. And here was my little sprout. I imagined him older and bigger and taking over the whole of New York City. And there was going to be a prize for whoever’s little plant grew the tallest. And my little sprout grew and grew and grew. And he had ambition too because soon little beans started to sprout from his thin stem. And they grew just like him. They swelled up and became big round fleshy orbs hanging off of him. They weighed him down. My sprout’s beans were the size of hazelnuts and I bought him into class smiling. Proud of his ambition.
This is what I imagine. Me as an old man. One flimsy tooth. A whistle with every word. Crinkling eyes that are always smiling and never narrowing to discern the mysteries of whatever. But now, I’m tired. I’m still young so I’m tired. I’m tired of these lofty dreams that will never become giant oaks. Is that pessimism? Is that sad to think about? To imagine a young man who wants to do great things and watch him become that old man who cares for nothing, who has no ambition? I don’t think so. Ambition, I think is a young man’s game. So right now I’m tired of it.
But he was old and dragged by those large beans, those seeds that I’m sure he dreamed would one day become something great. My lima bean plant was weighed down by gigantic lima dreams. And another student won the prize because while his stem was thin and didn’t have any beans at all, it stood the tallest with no big round future plants to weigh it down.
There’s nothing that I think that old man in my future is tired of, when he looks back at me, with all my hopes high and inflated visions of the future. He’s not tired of anything as he looks out at that world, because he doesn’t care anymore.
My plant stayed in my window for year, it’s back bent over by the weight of those beans. As it got older and older the beans eventually fell off and it stretched upward toward the sun.
I hope that he’ll be happier but you know I think sometimes, he wishes he could be tired again. 29
IF ONLY THEY HAD TALKED IT OUT MORE… By Avraham Steinhardt She flashed before his eyes again, serene, perfect. He could still remember the last time he had seen her… her eyes reflecting the pain he had caused her, her long dark hair flowing down her back, the shine of a tear on her cheek. She brushed away the tears from her cheek, shuddering slightly as she did so. She could still remember the way his voice had broke, the sound of a barely suppressed sob, the way his eyes glistened with tears. The wind howled around him, the chill air causing goose bumps on his skin, but what was a little chill to the utter cold inside him? He was a monster, and what he did to her proved that. She would be better off without him… She shuddered, and sobbed again, new tears running over the trails left by the old ones. She felt terrible, like some sort of evil demon — a leech, something horrible, disgusting, something to be eradicated…the pain in his eyes… why couldn’t she have just kept her mouth shut?! The cold metal of the scissors against her skin was nothing to the chill inside her. He opened his eyes again, looking down over the precipice. A small pebble tumbled off the edge, dislodged by the toe of his boot; falling, falling… he counted to twenty before he thought it hit the ground. He briefly imagined the pebble as himself, and wondered, again, if what he was doing was the right thing. It would hurt her more, he knew. Yet, wouldn’t sticking around be worse? He shook again, fresh sobs wracking his body as he remembered the pain in her voice that night.
A man silently fell through the air towards the ground below. A woman’s blood silently dripped through the air to the floor below.
A ruby flashed at the edge of her vision, startlingly red against the silver of the blade. Briefly, she wondered, again, how much this would hurt him, but she knew it would be nothing compared to what she’d already done, what she’d said… Another ruby joined the first. She felt nothing.
Together, they whispered “I’m sorry.” Together, they embraced their new lover. Death accepted them both with open arms.
The air rushed past his face, but he felt nothing. 30
PLEASE WAIT‌_____ _____...LIFE LOADING By Moshe Bressler
I feel as if my life is just loading second by boring second day by crawling day waiting for a better anything. Something dangerous or interesting. Just different. And irregular like a cardiac arrest’s heart beat -an insane drummer on LSD banging his heart out on the skins that reach your ears and jolt your soul forcing a connection even the slightest groan of overwhelming satisfaction exploding everywhere like lemondrops in the rain. With my mouth open wide Ah Ah Ah Ah if only life would just take a turn for the worst and just get it all over with already.
31
FINAL MOMENTS He turned and left, tears welling in his eyes, as his thoughts turned to how his Grandma had always fought through illness and poor health. She’d suffered numerous seizures due to epilepsy, broke her vertebrate when she fell in her bathroom losing most of her ability to walk but kept going. Nothing could stop her from double hip replacements, a burned-out liver or losing her father when she had just left high school. A fighter no matter what, but now that fighting spirit was slowly dying as the large tumor in her pancreas robbed her of her appetite, health, ability to sing and most importantly the will to live.
By Gabriel Pariente She laid flat on the hospital bed sitting up solely to retch, her stomach unable to keep down the meager amounts of soup and bread her family begged her to eat. Her sounds of nausea and complaints about the pain in her stomach echoed across the room, as the pink basin held up by her loved ones filled with the yellow bile leaving her mouth. It was not the same person the young man in the doorway had known, the one who encouraged him to be outside more and stop watching TV, the one who used to tell stories about Coney Island in the 1920’s, or the woman who used to love song and music and often sang “Edelweiss,” her favorite song from the Sound of Music.
He knew he had to go back; she was his Grandma and she had to know he wanted her to feel better. She didn’t have much time left, and had to know he loved her and didn’t want her to suffer anymore than she had to. She was not the same person he had known, but regardless she was family and families stick together no matter what ups and downs life brings. Less than half a year, she was no longer in pain and I’ll never forget the expression she had the last time we all saw her. Her smile showed she was still fighting the pain, but was happy to see us and make the most of our final moments.
She had been there for every birthday and moment in his life while pushing him to succeed at every turn. She was the one who loved his writing, watched over him when he was a child, and protected him from injustices. She let him know if she thought he could dress better, as she noticed every wrinkle or stain in what he wore. But as she saw him standing in the doorway, she asked him to leave so he wouldn’t see how she was deteriorating. 32
WHEN MY HAND IS IN YOURS stoop of a store and when the temperature dropped at night, I was left shivering without even a blanket to cover me. I am so grateful to that man who gave me this job. I couldn’t wait to head over to the post office to mail the money I made to my mother. I usually keep a few dollars to cover the cost of food for me--there is only enough for me to buy a watery coffee and one pancake for the day, but my situation had gotten so much better that I want theirs to improve also.
By: Jensine Sajan Through the train’s window, I look wistfully at my mother and all I can see is how small and frail she seems. I can tell that she is struggling to hold herself upright in the sweltering heat and I want to jump out of this train and hold her tightly in my arms. I look away, trying to blink away the tears that are blurring my vision. The train starts with a jerk. I glance back at my mother one last time, only to see that her usually composed face is now scrunched up and bright red. There are hot tears streaming down her cheeks and onto her shawl. The train continues to move forward, but all I can do is look backwards. I keep waving until my wrist hurts at that tiny dot in the distance that has become my mother.
As I am working, I remember all those pleasant times from before my father died, when we weren’t plagued with starvation. I loved those days when I would return from school and curl up into my mother’s lap and have her stroke my hair as I told her about my day. For each of my birthdays, she would wake up early in the morning to make me my favorite desserts. Every time I got sick, she would spend the entire day by my side, slowly nursing me back to health. Whenever I was sad, she would hug me as tightly as she could and offer me solace. I always felt so special when I was around her, and I tear up thinking about how much I was truly missing that here.
Six months ago, my father passed away. Ever since then, my family’s lives have been struck with bad luck. My four siblings, my mother, and I were forced out of our home, since my father was the only one who earned money. Without any money, we had a hut to call our home. My mother’s efforts to support us were not enough even with all those hours she spent laboring. We often slept huddled together for warmth due to the cold, harsh winds that would blow through the roof, threatening to rip it apart. Every day as I distributed that day’s rice to my younger siblings, I would take whatever meager amount was meant for me and give it to them without them knowing. All of our bones were protruding and the intense panging of hunger was visible in our eyes at all hours. One night after none of us had anything to eat for two days, I heard loud grumbles from my younger sister’s stomach and low whimpers. At that moment, I decided that I would not be able to take this anymore and that I had to rescue my family from this dilapidation. That is how I ended up on this train headed to New Delhi, a city 2,700 kilometers away from my home and loved ones.
Fully immersed in my wonderful memories, I start quickening my pace while working the printing press. In my rush, I slam the printing press onto the blocks. I immediately feel a sharp pain running through my lower arm and as I look towards it, I see a whole mess of blood. I gasp, slowly realizing that I had accidentally slammed the frame onto my fingers. The owner comes rushing over to me and pulls the frame up, only to reveal that all five fingers of my right hand had been smashed to smithereens. The owner and many of the other workers gather around me, yelling random things, but I all I can do is stand there with my mouth agape, staring at my now useless hand. They rush me to the hospital, where not even the best physician is able to regain the functionality of my hand. Since all of the bones of my fingers were smashed, the doctors were not able to stitch anything back together.
Once I am in this New Delhi, I find a job at a printing press company. As I am placing blocks of letters onto the press, patting ink onto each block and bringing down the printing press that applies pressure onto the paper so that the ink will be transferred to it, I think about how lucky I am now. Not even two days ago, I was sleeping on the
A lump forms in the back of my throat and I shudder at the reality of what happened. I can never get another job again. I don’t have an education and my only hope for a job was the one at the printing press, and now I am useless there. 33
age of my small and frail mother. Beads of sweat line her forehead, and my eyes are starting to burn and swell with tears at the sight of my sickly mother. I slowly approach her and hold her hand. As she looks at me, I can see the sparkle in her eyes at the sight of me. But as soon as she looks down to see my smashed hand, the light in her eyes go dim and tears well up in her eyes. As I felt her soft, withering hand next to my mangled hand, all of paradise became mine, and I realized that a mother’s love can heal all wounds.
How will I support my younger siblings and mother? My younger siblings’ chances for an education have now vanished. Not knowing what else to do and desperately longing for the comfort of my mother in this difficult time, I leave for my hometown. I finally reach my home and I am dreading the look of despair that I am sure will appear on my family’s faces as soon as I tell them that our one source of money and hope is now gone. I enter my home and I am met with the im-
SMILES By: Bernard Akshay Gomes basking in the sun. He greets an elderly lady on his way and smiles at her. The lady is on her usual morning walk. He prances around her while she laughs. The grass is looking greener than any other day. Next, he halts in front of the homeless man. He takes out a granola bar from his sling bag and hands it over to him. The man smiles at Jim. He waves the man goodbye as he leaves.
While Jim combs his hair in front of his mirror, he realizes that he is all grown up now. He finds a tie from his closet and wears it. He looks at himself and smiles as he anticipates to be happy today. Jim is almost eighteen now. He strolls his way through the park where some people are jogging while some are 34
being reflected by the blue waters. There is a calmness in the painting and it brings Jim as ease. Hannah's penmanship at the right corner of the painting reinforces the fact that she's the creator.
A little girl runs towards him and hugs him. She is so happy to see him. He takes out a chocolate bar; he gives it to her. The smile on her face reflects all kinds of happiness. The little girl's mother watches from a distance and smiles at Jim. He waves at her and continues walking after making sure that the girl reached her mother safely.
Jim confronts sick Hannah lying on the bed and looking outside her casement. Hannah's caretaker is reading a novel by Neil Gaiman. The caretaker doesn't take notice of Jim. As Jim advances, Hannah turns her head. Hannah's eyes glitter with joy as she smiles through the pain.
Jim is galloping now. People are watching him and laughing. He doesn't care. He is happy. He goes to the flower shop and buys a pair of red roses. After the purchase, he prunes the thorns off the roses with his bare hands. He leaves the store with a hopeful smile. Jim continues to walk until he stops in front of a house. He is about to enter one of his students’ house.
Jim hands her the two roses that he got for her. Hannah smells the roses and then places them carefully on her glass of drinking water by her bedside. The caretaker suddenly observes Hannah dirtying the drinking water. She gets up and scolds Hannah for her impious act. She takes the glass and storms out of the room. Hannah and Jim laugh and smirk together at the caretaker. They feel like they are accomplices. Jim cannot help but see Hannah in pain. Her distress is reflected even in her laugh.
Jim volunteers at a school for children in homeless shelters. Jim loves teaching. He is almost a teacher now. Yesterday, he received news that one of his students will not be able to make it to school again. The children love Jim. He visits the school every Friday. All the children wait for this day. The children would sincerely and patiently wait for Jim. No sooner does he enter the classroom at exactly ten in the morning than the children would be overjoyed. The children would smile and run towards him. Some would even hug him. Jim would level with them and hand out candies to them.
Jim comforts Hannah by just being there right next to her. Hannah never looked calmer. Just after some time, a doctor comes in and says, "It's time to go, Hannah!" "Argh! Why do I have to go now?!" She turns to Jim and continues, "We're gonna miss each other!"
Last Friday was the extempore day. The children had to pick out a small notecard from a bowl of notes and speak on the topic written on it. During Hannah's turn, she carefully selected a notecard. She read out that her topic was "Inspiration."
Jim is not able to respond to her. Hannah looks at him and then at the roses. She picks up one of them and hands it to him. "There you go! This one's for you," and she smiles. The doctor looks at Hannah confused but remains quiet. Jim hugs her and soon she is taken away to the place where she belongs.
"Someone once told me that inspiration comes from everywhere. However, my inspiration is my favorite teacher. He is amazing. When I grow up, I think, I want to be like him. He is strong and ever-smiling. I want to make people happy just like he does," she said in front of the entire class. She looked up at Jim who could not be prouder. Nevertheless, he felt a pinch of pain in his heart.
Jim leaves the home. He goes and sits on the park bench. No one notices him in the park this time. He sees the mother scolding the little girl. The little girl is crying. He sees the homeless man trying to scare the elderly woman as she passes him. He sees her getting scared. As he waits, Hannah comes running to him brightly dressed. She is happy and healthy. He places the rose on the bench. Jim holds Hannah's hands and takes her to the place where she belongs.
Today is not a Friday. Jim enters the house and goes up to Room 177. Jim observes a beautiful painting hanging on the door, as he opens the door. The sun seems to be setting behind a range of mountains. The sun's light is 35
TAKE ME HOME By: E.P.S. You started as my friend, But we went our separate ways, I missed you every second, For years, for months, for days. When my world was crashing down, You saved me and I knew, That it would not be long before I fell in love with you. For months we were so happy, The ideal honeymoon stage, But I don't know what's happened, We seemed to have turned the page. It feels like part of me is missing, Because you've become my life, But it appears that we are ending, This pain cuts like a knife. I hope you don't forget me, And all the times we shared,
I would've stayed forever, I have always cared. I know I'm hard to deal with, I know I'm not always right, But now I don't know what I'll do, When I'm alone at night. I'll miss the way you kissed me, I'll miss your scent and touch. If there's one thing that's for certain, I love you so, so much. If somehow we can fix this, I'd give everything I own, I just want my baby back, Whose heart I've called my home. 36
Look in the Mirror By: Lauren Cohen
36 37
Artwork by: Merav Kraitenberger
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