Temper Literary Review 2013 by Temper Literary Review

T emper Literary Review University of Massachusetts Dartmouth | 2013

The Temper Literary Review has been published anually by the University of Massachusetts Dartmouth English department since 1971. Contact us at temper@umassd.edu.

T emper Literary Review Since 1971

2013 Issue 41

Managing Editor Cassandra Quillen

Editorial Board Mark-Anthony Lewis Joseph MacKenzie Nancy E. Oliveira

Faculty Advisors Dr. Jerry Blitefield

Dr. James Bobrick

Review Panel Rachel Freitas

Mikala Kesselman

Temper History In

1971, under new direction by English professor Alan Rosen, the annual Southeastern Massachusetts Technical Institute Literary Review was re-envisioned, rejuvenated, and renamed — Temper was born.

would have about a piece,” said Professor James Bobrick. “It generated a good feeling among everyone involved.” Through food, informal conversations, and good vibes the Temper staff developed skills editing and reviewing manuscripts.

Building Temper

Our Temper

Temper (as in “temper of the times,” or zeitgeist), was always meant to be a record of the early works of the university’s literary community. As Professor Alan Rosen said, “A college literary journal is always regarded as the place where student writers’ juvenilia would be found,” therefore since the earliest issues of Temper, the literary works of the university’s students were recorded, bound and forever archived on campus. Early editions were hubs of creative experimentation sometimes sporting textured covers, and featuring photographs, illustrations, graphic elements, and oversized printing, but as budget constraints and opposing visions threatened to pull Temper under, the literary review gained focus. As Professor Rosen said, the desire was for “the complete emphasis to be on the printed word,” and so Temper’s objectives were streamlined. In 1989, Professor Rosen asked James Bobrick, professor of poetry, to serve along with him as an advisor. Since Temper never had an office of any kind, editorial meetings were traditionally held at the dining table of Professor Rosen. Between 1989 and 2004, Professor Rosen organized the prose selections and Professor Bobrick, the poetry. Several students, comprised of undergrads and graduates, would split up into those who would read poetry or prose or sometimes even scripts. Professor Rosen would cook, wine would be served (for those over 21, of course), and a literary discussion would commence. Even Temper’s construction reflected the social experience and discourse that the literary review encourages. “I liked the informal conversations we

Over the years, professional and distinguished writers visiting the campus have donated original literature to Temper, allowing students the prestige of appearing alongside working authors such as John Weiners (2002 edition) and Robert Creeley (2004 and 2005 editions). “It showed a certain respect to the publication itself that they were willing to be included,” said Professor Rosen. The original writings also helped Temper find its way into national consciousness through major bibliographies. When these writers would list their published works, Temper was included. UMass Dartmouth graduates often proudly displayed Temper on their bookshelves even if they had no personal involvement with it. The latest editions of Temper were often distributed to incoming freshmen as a form of recruitment, and to show what earlier students had accomplished in their time at the university. Temper presented a continuity amongst the students, allowing new writers to be a part of something that has existed for decades and hopefully will exist for decades into the future.

A Digital Temper

As of Professor Rosen’s retirement in 2004, Professor Jerry Blitefield joined Professor Bobrick as a faculty advisor. As Temper continues to be student driven, there has been an attempt to allow Temper to evolve with its students and bridge the gap to the digital world. Temper was published digitally for the first time in 2012, with the possibility of reaching new audiences. Over the coming years, a Temper website will be developed to house over 40 years of back issues, and to allow all who have been involved with Temper, a permanent home available across the world.

Contents Poetry

2. Which one would you choose

Josette Cormier

4. The Worldless Kyle Covino 6. Mom, Over Time Ricardo Guillaume 10. “Man kills 26 in Conn. school...”

Georgia Hegner

14. Golden Spider Emma Matthews 16. Lost Love Marissa Matton 18. Home Baddha Padma 22. How Dare You Not Know!

Robert Ruth

24. Alien Sarah Sams

Prose

28. Worksleepwork

Brian Klotz

32. Fountains

Mike McCarthy

36. Attitude

Cathy Sullivan

38. The Greeting from Heaven

Yihan Wang

“Temper’s endurance is a testament to its importance to the UMass Dartmouth community. It is an invaluable outlet for student writers, and the professional opportunities it creates for graduate and undergraduate students alike are unique to the campus.” – Eric Marshall | Past Temper Managing Co-Editor

Poetry

WHICH ONE WOULD YOU CHOOSE BY JOSETTE CORMIER Which one would you choose as the first moment of your life? Would it be the moment you faced the harsh, bright light of the world, Naked, screaming, with unfamiliar blobs of color staring intently at you and poking and prodding until you cried out in defiance? Or would it be the first moment you woke up and realized that what once was working no longer did, and that it was time to close the door on one idea and open a new one onto another? Was it when you peered into the looking glass of your history and realized that certain parts needed to be re-written? Or was it when you stopped to catch a breath and knew that you only had one breath left? Would that be the moment you choose? Are there others or none at all? Can you pinpoint the moment when you said, “I am all that I will ever be” And feel that the answer was the right one? Do you cast worried glances over your shoulder, Afraid that you have missed some vital clue, Some tell-tale sign that all is not as it should be? Do you see in hindsight, or straight ahead, Unafraid of what the future holds, Or does it hold nothing else for you? Can you remember the last time you felt joy? A time when all seemed balanced and calm and aligned with your purpose? Or is it chaos you remember best, with its inky, dark hold on your memories, With troubling thoughts and unfortunate circumstances, A time when nothing could stand firm upon the ground but would loll and roll along, Moved by the elements and totally without your control. When the errands and the planning and the schedules all took away a little piece of your happiness Each day until there was nothing left but dust motes blowing in the dry air, reminders of what you can no longer hold onto. Do you recall any one moment in time When you could feel again and know that the wind on your cheeks and the rain in your hair were real and cool and wet and restoring. Do you see in your mind’s eye the last second of the last hour of the last day you will call this place home? Does it leave you with peace and understanding and a sense of completion, Or is there still too much left to do? Does your suffering ever truly end? Do you close your eyes and smile and say, “It is all right. I have done enough here.” Do you dust off your cape and lift up your bag and start the long walk away from your burdens, Confident that they no longer have need of you. Do you return to that harsh, bright light, now welcoming and warm, and say, “It is finished.” And on that day, do you finally smile the first genuine smile to cross your lips in all your time upon the earth? When your heart finally sings its delight and your eyes are at long last open, I believe you will.

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HOMETOWN | NEW BEDFORD, MA DEGREE | MA IN PROFESSIONAL WRITING

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THE WORLDLESS BY KYLE COVINO lead an inquisition upon the forest’s edge, the color green has become organic elevator music. and the voices behind the tones want to reassure our safety; extra measures, being extra careful to scrutinize every element (to keep you interested, convince you) and swear that the sky is pink. to fail, to be absent, to migrate toward industry, city to city; a trail of pipelined carcinogens. to debunk you as a fraud if you watch the clouds instead of television; “it’s naturally occurring.” this radio nuclei? this matter destroyed and made whole again? this benzene? this is he said, she said journalism, and so the sky is pink over Harrisburg. call into doubt misinformation, the ads everywhere, these doubt-and-drought merchants. they regulate the debate and filter out only Knowledge, but not our water. we let statistics do the thinking— these experts have been around forever. thus shadowcast is an inside word for insiders, but our every cell will know the meaning, feel the affect. we are becoming a nation of orphaned sink-hole gas wells, and all who could adopt—and repair—are paying off their cancers. no permit, no permission. no remorse for the people made of clay: so what are they? humans; monsters. an old path with the same old gravity upon fleshy shoulders, lined with straw men so we might flex our public muscles— while the planet wreckers vote on dollar ballots, promising to make big “change” in the dinosaur economy; tell me, is it really better to smile with the public than with an old scarecrow?

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HOMETOWN | HOPEDALE, MA DEGREE | BA IN ENGLISH, LITERATURE CONCENTRATION

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MOM, OVER TIME BY RICARDO GUILLAUME It’s Saturday afternoon I’ve shaken my dad’s hand And given my mom a kiss But before I leave for the road I wait for her calling card Drive safe Call me when you get there And NO SPEEDING! She knows me well Tonight’s last night and I’m home They’re watching some prison “LOCKUP” special She calls me to get her water because she’s hot He tells me to shut the window because he’s cold They’re aging before my eyes We’re back in 03 and I’ve convinced her to let me go To the school dance, but I’m not granted bail Without her signature investigation Where are you going? Who are you going to be with? What time are you coming back? …And pull your pants up! She needs to know, and I can’t stand it My mom, sister and I are in Beth Israel It’s 2009 and dad’s finally awake after his prostatectomy She’s holding herself together, while at the same time Telling the nurses how to do their jobs They don’t argue with her because they know better He never works again, she takes extra shifts I’m a modern day DaVinci With a sharpie on the white living room wall When a tornado with hoop earrings and purple highlights Storms in and yells at me to sponge away my masterpiece It’s the 90s and I’m convinced all she does is yell On June 6th I stand head and shoulders above her As we pose with my diploma, and a tears trickle down her cheek In three days time it will be her birthday, mine in sixteen And in five months we’ll be celebrating again On a historic Tuesday night A month before that I’m volunteering after school When the founder of the Peace Institute tells us how her son Louis was shot, walking to a party five days before Christmas It’s early 2008 and I understand why she needs to know

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HOMETOWN | HYDE PARK, BOSTON, MA DEGREE | BA IN ENGLISH, WRITING CONCENTRATION

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Next year I’m nervous Three weeks ago I plant seeds About getting a tattoo… Shock ignites her disorganized cynicism Please. What are you a thug? It’s a waste of money. How do you know if it’s sanitary? You’ll never get a job… I don’t bring it up again It’s three weeks later and sweat slithers down my arm As I reveal the itchy white bandage over my chest She’s not pleased, to say the least A year from now I’ll get my second one And that summer I can buy my first beer Dad drinks with me, but of course she doesn’t What are you an alcoholic now? I work with them, they start young, you know… Just because you can drink doesn’t mean you have to You’ll ruin your liver! She’s unbelievable My friends always want to come over lately Because she always brings us all a plate of burgers and fries Mouths full, they tell me I’m lucky It’s 2011 and their moms stopped cooking a long time ago Five minutes ago today We were going through our usual dance So I’m pulling out of the driveway With a convenience store for a passenger Do you have water? Yes, mom. (I have one bottle) Do you need juice? I have iced tea in the freezer. Ma… I just cooked! I’ll give you some take back. I tell her I’m fine But resistance is futile Because when I get to the car, everything I said I didn’t need Is waiting for me buckled up in the back seat I’m back on campus now Hungry, but every place is closed So I rummage through my mini fridge to find The tupperware pot of gold I told her not to pack It’s late Sunday night, and I’m glad she doesn’t listen.

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“MAN KILLS 26 AT CONN. SCHOOL, INCLUDING 20 KIDS” BY GEORGIA HEGNER The gunman drove to the school, This morning, when parents kissed their kids goodbye knowing that they are going to be home to celebrate the holiday season. The gunman opened fire inside the Connecticut elementary school as youngsters cowered in their classrooms and trembled helplessly to the sound of gunfire reverberating . Youngsters at the kindergarten-through-fourth-grade school were told to close their eyes. Schoolchildren, some crying, others looking frightened. Teachers locking doors and ordering the children to huddle in the corner or hide in closets when shots echoed through the building. Mergim Bajraliu heard the gunshots echo from his home and ran to check on his 9-year-old sister at the school. his sister heard a scream come over the intercom . Robert Licata’s 6-year-old son was in class when the gunman burst in the shooter didn’t utter a word and shot the teacher. ‘‘That’s when my son grabbed a bunch of his friends and ran out the door, He was very brave. He waited for his friends.’’ ‘‘Among the fallen were also teachers, men and women who devoted their lives to helping our children.’’ Teachers were shaking and crying as they came out of the building Panicked parents looking for their children, it’s sheer terror, a sense of imminent danger, to get to your child and be there to protect him. A woman waits to hear about her sister, a teacher. Family members were led away from a firehouse that was being used as a staging area, some of them weeping. One man, wearing only a T-shirt without a jacket, put his arms around a woman as they walked down the middle of the street, oblivious to everything around them. Another woman with tears rolling down her face walked by carrying a car seat with a young infant

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HOMETOWN | NORWELL, MA DEGREE | BA IN ENGLISH, WRITING CONCENTRATION

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‘‘Our hearts are broken today,’’ a tearful President Barack Obama, struggling to maintain composure, one of the most outwardly emotional moments of his presidency. ‘‘The majority of those who died were children beautiful, little kids between the ages of 5 and 10 years old,’’ Obama said. as he teared up and wiped an eye. Nearby, two aides cried and held hands as they listened. ‘‘They had their entire lives ahead of them birthdays, graduations, weddings, kids of their own,’’ The gunman drove to the school, This morning, when parents kissed their kids goodbye knowing that they were going to be home.

This poem is made up solely of quotes taken out of context from the article of the same name written by John Christoffersen. http://news.yahoo.com/man-kills-26-conn-school-including-20-kids-212835177.html.

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GOLDEN SPIDER BY EMMA MATTHEWS Shining like an Adonis, Blinding your corneas, He saunters through the room. Gilt and fire and sparkle, He spins his golden web. A fickle spider, he feeds, Consuming all your needs. Insidious in his feast, He hides his true identity, A beast. Intelligence and false confidence, Are his lures. A pretty picture he presents, Only to be consumed in necrosis, Your every approval feeding his neurosis. His feeding done, he drops his prey, Never content to kill, but maim, He glories as his victims struggle in vain. Mercy will not come for here comes the next, A willing sacrifice to his lustful need. A need to feed.

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HOMETOWN | WALTHAM, MA DEGREE | BA IN SCIENCE, MEDICAL LABORATORY SCIENCE

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LOST LOVE BY MARISSA MATTON The moon and the stars shine brightly above, long after darkness engulfed the bright sun, as she awaits patiently for her love. His leaving her gave her pained heart a shove but her great love for him is never done. The moon and the stars shine brightly above. Sadness wraps around her like an old glove but never does she think that she should run as she waits patiently for her love. Memories let her soar like a morning dove but reality leaves her with a stun. The moon and the stars shine brightly above. Hours have passed beside this gravestone of which she sits, her mind becoming unspun as she awaits patiently for her love. While never does he come back for his love, still she waits even though his life is done. The moon and the stars shine brightly above as she awaits patiently for her love.

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HOMETOWN | FALL RIVER, MA DEGREE | BA IN ENGLISH, WRITING CONCENTRATION

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HOME BY BADDHA PADMA It’s getting late and I need to go home I should go home But I’m laying on your couch And you’re asleep on the floor next to me And we’re holding hands So I try to gently wake you I stroke your hand with my thumb I squeeze a few times But your fingers stay curled, you still asleep And when I rub my finger along yours You just hold a little tighter Eventually I decide I’ll need to let go I do, but your hand remains raised and stationary So I push your fist down towards you And you finally wake a bit, but not fully “I think it’s time for me to go” You acknowledge me, But our hands are touching again Doing that exploring thing we do And you intertwine your fingers with mine In my most favorite way So I no longer am ready to leave I tell you you’re making it more difficult You apologize, but still have your eyes closed, sleepy And neither of us lets go even a little We hold even harder maybe You’re holding my hand tightly Stroking my thumb with yours I’m getting lost in my favorite feeling And then your other hand is there And you’ve enclosed my hand between them both “Dammit.” And I’m complete, full of warmth Eventually your other hand is gone You change positions, on your side now After a little while, I offer my second hand, too Tracing lines and circles around the back of yours Finding the curves of your fingers and wrist Then holding your hand between both of mine If we were an us, I might’ve said “I think I’ll keep you.” I will anyway We’re back to only two hands now We remain, fingers woven together, a while longer You mumbling “up up up” And then you do rise And we separate so I can put on shoes You mock me asking for a hug, But then we’re hugging, tight My face buried into your shoulder

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HOMETOWN | WINCHESTER, MA DEGREE | BA IN PSYCHOLOGY

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We head downstairs â&#x20AC;&#x153;One more for the road?â&#x20AC;? And finally, I walk home in the light rain, Feeling.

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HOW DARE YOU NOT KNOW! BY ROBERT RUTH How dare you not know! I’ve lived in a house for five with ten, Wondering if normal would rise up again. The brothers and sisters are all that remain Of a lineage longer than Alaskan coast. My mother, so kind, never could hold her own While father, so famous, was cast from his throne. Their guards took over, but efforts skinned to bone Time caught up, now we’re left burnt as toast. Alone, out here, is what I’m left to face This constructed cement which holds me in place And with nine away, I’m left here to raise Without any help from my family birth. So you shouldn’t be surprised when I turned the wrong road No matter the times the mentors have told, This might be the time to surrender and fold Since I seem to lack any outward true worth. To claim that I’m remnants of infidelity Frustrates every hair and every entity because those rambunctious lack the clarity Of friendships, hopes, and most important, the truth. And to claim that my swing is skewed off awry... Oh forget it, you’ll probably just tell me to die and for insanity’s sake, you’ll expect me to comply and kill your problem while you can at the root. How dare you not know my family’s past Or lack thereof, if you’ll listen to fact because they’ve gone first, you’re expecting that track To follow through with the heavenly deed. Perhaps I should listen to these overwhelming cries To overshadow the shame, challenges, and lies I might take advice, and say my goodbyes, At least by now, I can succeed.

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HOMETOWN | FORESTDALE, MA DEGREE | BUSINESS, UNDECLARED

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ALIEN BY SARAH SAMS First he was Katherine, then Jake, until the nurse uttered “Jakey.” Finally, Adam. Adam got me a doll, before he even knew me. How did he know which doll I wanted? Mom was pale, pasty and sweaty. Daddy held up something yellow. Something with a purple shriveled grape for a bellybutton. I threw a tantrum, mouth wide open— a loud Cheerio. Jaundice, they kept repeating. John-diss? Mom let him lie in the sun, on his back, his grape exposed, in the family room. I scrunched my nose. Life was messy. Life is.

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HOMETOWN | HOLLISTON, MA DEGREE | BA IN ENGLISH, DUAL MAJOR LITERATURE & WRITING

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Over the past two years, I have had the pleasure of working with my fellow peers to publish the first two digital editions of Temper. It is very rewarding to be able to share the work of UMass Dartmouth students with readers everywhere, and I am happy to have been a part of it. â&#x20AC;&#x201C; Cassandra Quillen | Temper Managing Editor, 2012 & 2013 Editions

Prose

WORKSLEEPWORK BY BRIAN KLOTZ Wednesday, February 3 They took away the copier today. Just like that. Yesterday it was here, and now it’s gone. All those years of dedicated service—roughly a decade; it showed up not long after I did—and now they thoughtlessly replace it with something newer and faster and better. People actually cheered when they carted it off. They all despised that thing. They made fun of it. They said it didn’t work like it should. Idiots. You just had to have patience with it. I did, and it always worked for me. Ten years of service, and nothing to show for it. It created nothing. It had a singular purpose, a nonunique function, and it did it for ten years and now it’s gone and nobody cares. Then again, it’s just a fucking copier. I don’t know why I relate to appliances and not people. There’s a lot I don’t understand about myself, but as I creep up on middle age, I need to accept that I never will. It’s late. I should get to sleep.

Thursday, February 4 I turn numbers into other numbers. That’s what I do. I think someone else changes them back, but I can’t be sure. I remember how superior I felt, getting a job right out of college. If I had known I’d end up stuck here, I would’ve dedicated myself to getting drunk and high and laid like everyone else. Instead, I’m here, at this desk, in this office, all day, every day, forever. I have this theory. I may have read it somewhere, or maybe I thought of it on my own. I don’t know. I don’t remember. Anyways, here it is: I don’t think I move. Ever. I think it’s the world that moves around me, shifting and molding itself to create the illusion of changing environments. Reality is something like water but thicker and heavier and easier to drown in. My desk chair is the subway seat is my bed is the desk chair. My co-workers are my wife is the homeless vagrant are my co-workers. They sent me to the company shrink after I turned in a report that was, quote, “gibberish.” I don’t even remember doing it, but they showed it to me, so I believe them, I guess. They said it was “a bunch of random numbers,” which is a stupid thing to say. All numbers are random. Why does this particular group of lines and curves mean less than six and more than four? Why not a smiley face, or a pentagram? Nothing has meaning until we give it meaning. The shrink suggested that I keep a journal, and it’s not a bad idea, so I decided to do it. She also suggested that I continue seeing her, but that was a bad idea, so I’m not doing that. It will be good to record my thoughts, because sometimes I feel like my mind today isn’t the same as it was yesterday, and certainly not what it was last month or even last week. I don’t know if I’m deteriorating or if I’m evolving. Or even if I’m ultimately changing at all. Maybe it’s just a see-saw, a zero-sum game that has me unsure of who the hell I am at any given time, keeping me off-balance, like a snake that blinds its prey with venom before devouring it. That’s it: I’m being slowly devoured, day by day, year by year, by some predator that I can’t see but I know is there. That’s it.

Friday, February 5 We had a meeting today, reminding us of the impending merger. We were acquired by another company, one that’s bigger and stronger and more adept at surviving in the wilderness, I would assume. The merger goes into effect Monday. I can’t wait. It will be change. Beautiful change. I want it to envelope me. I want to curl up inside it and drift off to sleep. There’s a new guy. They introduced us, I guess because he’s got the same job as me. I was momentarily

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HOMETOWN | WESTPORT POINT, MA DEGREE | MA IN PROFESSIONAL WRITING

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hopeful, but they told me I wasn’t being replaced. They told me New Guy’s name and he shook my hand. He was just a kid: a skinny, gangly thing clearly nervous about making a good first impression at his new job, his hair neatly parted and his tie perfectly straight. I felt like I should have warned him. Hopefully he’ll quit after a couple days, have the courage I didn’t. It’s too late for me. I can’t do anything else and Beth says we can’t move. New Guy still has a chance.

Saturday, February 6 On the weekends, I sleep. It’s the only escape I get. Beth wants to do stuff, go out, but I’m too tired. I’m always tired. I never wake up rested. I feel like I could sleep forever, and it still wouldn’t be enough. Someday I think I’ll try it, though.

Sunday, February 7 One more day! I wonder what the changes of the merger will be. A new paint job, maybe? Is one weekend enough time for that? Sure it is; this is a big company, they do things fast. Time is money, etc. Will they move my cubicle? Maybe they’ll even take away my cubicle. I hope not. I don’t like having people in my line of sight all day. It’s such an effort to avoid eye contact. No, they’ll probably keep the cubicles, just shift people around. I’m excited. It’s hard to sleep.

Monday, February 8 Fuck! It’s the same. It’s all the same. Not one goddamn change. The headers on our stationary swapped some letters for other letters and I guess my boss now reports to someone different than before, but there’s no change. I’m still at the same desk, in the same cubicle, looking at the same numbers, avoiding conversation with the same people. My cubicle walls are still gray. The office walls are still white. At one point, I thought they might be a slightly different shade, but I looked closer and they’re the same as they’ve always been. Everything’s the same.

Tuesday, February 9 I woke up today. You won’t believe me, but I did. Really woke up, not the kind where you regain consciousness and Beth is still asleep and you realize you’re late for work and you don’t care. No, I woke up today for the first time. I was taking the elevator up to my office (or maybe the elevator was taking me?) but when the doors opened I saw something ungodly and real. The floor was a metal grating, a scaffold hanging above an enormous pit filled with what looked like molten lava and smelled like death. A putrid heat assaulted me as I stood there, transfixed and dumb. Before me were dozens of workers, frail and naked, their pale yellow skin vacuum sealed around their bones. They had no faces; no eyes, ears, mouths. They were featureless and interchangeable. Tirelessly, they operated giant, infernal machinery, rotating cranks and pulling levers that appeared to resist with the weight of the world. Strained muscles and tendons threatened to burst, but the workers carried on. Rusted gears screeched as they pushed against each other, an inescapable cacophony that felt like it crawled up inside my flesh, like it was a part of me, or I a part of it. The enormous gears, the god-sized machinery, had no purpose that I could discern, no endpoint where all the effort made sense. I watched in silent horror as one of the workers lost its footing, falling headlong off the metallic structure and into the crushing union of gears. A nauseating series of crunches emerged from the uncaring machine as the gears turned bone to powder.

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One of the other workers turned to look at me, as if it had eyes, and told me without speaking that this was just the way of things, that the gears needed the blood and liquefied organs for lubrication. I understood. The elevator doors closed, and I was back in a box. I was back in my box, my cubicle. I was there again and I would never be the same. I was awake.

Wednesday, February 10 I sabotaged that fancy new copier. Pretended it was an accident. I hope it suffered. Asshole.

Thursday, February 11 I listen to static on the radio now. I like it; it’s got rhythm. I would dance to it if I could dance. Most people dismiss it as the sound of nothing. I was like them once. It feels like a million years ago.

Friday, February 12 I don’t sleep anymore. I’m afraid if I do then I’ll go back to being what I was—unconscious. Closing my eyes is a risky proposition. I have energy now, and I’m keeping it. At night, I stand outside in the snow and watch the stars move until they disappear. I wonder where they go. No, that’s not true; I wonder why they keep coming back.

Saturday, February 13 “The woods are lovely, dark and deep. But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep, And miles to go before I sleep.” —Robert Frost

Sunday, February 14 Beth is being more annoying than usual today. I don’t know why. Women!

Monday, February 15 People are staring at me. I think they know that I can see the truth now, and they’re jealous. They want to drag me back down to their level. I’d kill them first.

Forever Minus One I tried to save New Guy the other day. You can’t say I didn’t try, because I did. He’s too far gone already, though. In the commotion, I was able to escape before the police arrived. I’ve been living outside ever since. Better than dying inside, I say. I use newspapers to try to keep warm. I notice that the Comics page is reprinting stuff from sixty years ago. I think the Op-Ed page is too. The blizzard’s getting worse. The people on TV said it would, but the people on TV talk about a lot of things that never happen, like nuclear war and love. My fingers are getting numb. It’s hard to hold the pen. If you’re reading this, know that mine is not a tale of failure but of success. I can feel sleep washing over me– a new kind of sleep. It’s still cold, but I feel warm. This is it. I’m finally going to get the rest I deserve after all those years grinding the gears of eternity. Maybe this time I’ll dream.

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FOUNTAINS BY MIKE MCCARTHY I told Mattie I loved her when we were twirling trying to coax snowflakes onto our tongues one night on her stoop. We never defined what we were then. We wandered through it as if it were a maze of sidewalk corridors carved out of the grey-brown snowplow piles. She said she didn’t love me, but I knew she cared for me. She never pestered me, never tried to make me conform to the ideal of what a man or a partner should be. With expectations low, I would follow her home, eager to get laid. So, I kept trudging, socks soaked with slush, to her hot apartment, with its thermostat locked in a plastic box by the Russian landlord. I got nosebleeds there. She worried about me bleeding to death, the same way she worried about my retinas detaching when I scanned graffiti as it flew by our subway window. Her uncle had his retinas detach. I imagined his eyeballs slipping from theirs sockets, dangling by the nerve like lonely light bulbs. One blood stained mattress later, Mattie bought a humidifier. Her bedroom was tropical, the air sultry and thick. I still can render the contours of her body in the blue glow of the machine’s indicator light the night she told me we had to stop, that she was going away to school, and it was going to be summer soon and we should just cut our losses and be friends. I still see Mattie. We both work at the Hotel Del Mar. I spend my time making omelets. No matter how long you’ve cooked, they always start you with the brunch shift. Some totem pole shit. Mattie’s a cocktail waitress at night and on the weekends. Since my position leaves me with nothing to do all evening, I mostly just hang around the bar. It is the last Thursday in July. On the last Thursday of every month, a jazz combo plays in the hotel lounge. I’m sitting at the bar polishing off a bottle so I can fall asleep and stay asleep until my next shift starts. I’m in the middle of telling Mattie a joke the drummer told me when I held the door for him to bring his kit in. “So a bear walks into a bar, looks at the bartender and says, ‘I’d like...a vodka, neat.’ Bartender says, “Why the big pause?” Bear says –” “Oh, be right back, k?” She walks off with a tray of drinks. When she returns with the empty tray cradled under her arm, the band is playing and I pull Mattie close to deliver the punch line. Her face mashes into my chef’s coat. Mattie recoils from the sulfur egg smell of the fabric. I sway to the music and try to entice her to dance for a minute by lowering my hand to the small of her back. She pulls away. “Oh, now you want to dance,” she says in a voice that suggests she’s downgrading our relationship from just being friends to just being friendly. I never took her dancing. I hate the idea of “going dancing.” Why can’t people just dance spontaneously and leave it at that? Why make a fucking event of it? Everything is always such a big deal. A lot of these thoughts are spoken aloud because I’ve had more than one double whisky, and even though there’s music, I’m raising my voice a little too much. Mattie takes my tumbler, half-full of diluted liquor and waning ice cubes. She tosses the drink into the sink, the ice rattles in the drain. A large group takes the table near the bandstand. Mattie goes to get their drink orders. I watch her walk. She makes fists and hangs her arms as if she’s carrying anvils. Her frustration echoes in me and I feel a need for malice. I will not be here for her to make exasperated faces at when a notoriously bad tipper comes in. I will not wait as she counts the till out afterhours. I will not accompany Mattie to her door and stay out front unbeknown until she turns on the lights in her apartment. My need to always be there for her sucks out like a receding tide, leaving a flat, barren vacancy.

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I leave through the kitchen door. I have to occupy myself tonight, so I stop to buy a bag of weed off the dishwasher. His name is Stefan and he has tattoos on his face. He usually gives me his car keys and I grab a bag from his glove box and leave my money there. When you have face tattoos, you can sell pot to skinny

HOMETOWN | NEW BEDFORD, MA DEGREE | BA IN ENGLISH, WRITING CONCENTRATION

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white boys on the honor system and not have to worry about it. But it’s early. The dinner rush hasn’t started and Stefan wants to have a smoke before it does. He pulls off his aquamarine dish gloves, revealing the tattoos that scrawl from his wrists to elbows. The ink is intricate, not like the faded spider webs and teardrops that mark his cheeks and neck. On his right arm is a black and white portrait of a woman who I’ve decided is his mother. Underneath is a banner with two dates on it. On his left is a large blue and white depiction of the Virgin Mary, like the kind you’d see in a bathtub shrine in someone’s grandmother’s backyard. We sit in Stefan’s car and I don’t talk about his tattoos. I would tell him the woman on his arm looks good, even though she doesn’t. She looks like she had a stroke. One side of her face is drooping. I know this means Stefan has gained weight and I decide that that is a sensitive subject so I will not broach it. I don’t say a word. He rolls a cigarette, crumbling pot in with the tobacco. He lights the spliff, takes a drag, and passes it to me. I cough sharply from that middle section of the torso where you hiccup. Stefan giggles. “First time, Tony?” I ask Stefan if he knows any restaurants that are hiring. The dishwashers in this city all drink together at the same bar in Chinatown. Most of them live together too. I live alone, a studio not far from the hotel, but still in an area that most consider dicey. Fred, an art student, lives across the hall. He calls our building “the shore of civilization” and I’m in inclined to agree. “You could try Francine’s, on Broadway,” he says, “but they’re kind of...you know, la-dee-dah.” “Well. I’ve got a suit. If that’s what you’re getting at.” “Actually man, I was thinking you probably can’t sit at the bar all afternoon getting drunk and yelling at the waitresses,” he says. He uses the voice of a police officer telling you you’re getting a warning for running that stop light and he’s not going to make you take a Breathalyzer but he’s going to follow you home. He passes me the spliff. I hold the smoke and exhale easily. “You saw that, huh?” “Hell yeah dude, whole kitchen saw it, heard it anyway; heard you anyway. Go to Francine’s tomorrow. I’ll call my boy there and have him put in a good word before the bad ones make their way over,” Stefan snickers at this and slaps my knee. I thank him. He points at the remainder of the joint between my fingers and tells me to enjoy myself tonight. I retreat to my apartment to finish Stefan’s gift. I lay back on the couch. Through the open transoms, a shard of evening sky is visible between the brick walls of my building and the decommissioned mill across the alley—my scenic urban canyon. Once the joint is finished, I climb into the shower. Hot water rarely runs out here and I take full advantage of it. I fill the bathroom with steam beforehand and bask in the warm moisture. This is my little womb. On the turntable, a record caught in the central groove clicks like passing boxcars. I keep replaying the embarrassment of my drunken hand wandering down the knit braille of Mattie’s polo shirt when I tempted her to dance. How she had squirmed, brought her shoulders to her ears, raised a limp hand. How wounded I had felt and how stupid I am being for depriving her of myself. I cannot shake the thought of a gang of drunks accosting her on her walk home without me there. Reaching down to amplify the heat, I coax myself to do better and blast a pure cold water rinse. I dance like a savage under the deluge. My middle school gym teacher called it “the invigoration” and he would control the flow of water from outside the shower, deciding when it was time for the boys to emerge. The accordion door of my closet is always folded open, revealing two tumorous lumps of fabric, one soiled and one not-so-soiled. On a hanger is a cellophane wrapped suit, I had it tailored when Mattie’s father was getting remarried on the assumption that she’d bring me. She went alone and I wasted a paycheck and an afternoon having an Italian grandfather caress my inner thigh with a nub of chalk. He was the last person to feel me up and he’d been paid to do it.

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Also in the closet is a canvas tote bag, the kind you get for free when you buy enough books or donate to public radio. There’s a print of a kitten laying on its back batting a dandelion. “You’re harshing my mellow” in funky bubble letters below. It’s Mattie’s, filled with things she left behind on her rare treks to my side of town. Things I keep forgetting to return. In the bag, I see atonement: mostly books, one sock, a travel-sized contact lens cleaning kit, half a box of tampons, but a reason to go back to the bar, to apologize, to show I’m a better man. Breaking the plastic sheath around the suit, I unleash the smell of new fabric, of dry cleaning chemical and industry. I slip it on. It is snug, but I reason that it is fashionable to button only two of the three buttons on the jacket. If I stand up straight, I tell myself, I will be fine. I can hear the jazz band from the stairs of the subway terminal. Silhouettes crowd the windows of the lounge. I slink in, walking briskly past the hostess to an open seat at the end of the bar. Sitting with my back straight, I still feel the suit constricting me like a python on a possum. As I’m adjusting the waistband, to keep the button from digging into my gut, Mattie looks up from the sink where she’s sanitizing some glasses to frown at me and puff out a breath, sending her bangs fluttering like a line of can-can dancers. I plop the tote bag on to the bar, hoping that everything that I don’t want to say can be expressed with its appearance. Victory cascades over me like a hot summer rain as I see her reach for the bottle of whisky I’d started this afternoon and fill a tumbler with ice. She swaps the tote out for the booze and, looking me the eyes, says, “I’ll be right back, k?” She walks toward the crowd around the stage to gather some empty glasses. Stopping next to a tall dude with a ponytail and a green and grey poncho that looks like it came with a copy of The Teachings of Don Juan. She sets the glasses down. They begin talking and I’m sucking down the cold whisky as I watch him put his arm around her waist. They sway with the music together for a moment before she takes his hand, leading him away from the bandstand like puppy from a hydrant. They stop at my stool and Mattie taps my shoulder. “Hey Tony, I want you to meet someone,” she says. I don’t hear his name, I just sit tightening a fist, hunching forward over the bar. I can feel the fibers in the back of the suit jacket beginning to give under the pressure of my returning slouch. “Nice suit, man,” says Mr. Poncho. He slaps a hand on my shoulder, as if he is in on an elaborate joke in which my pinstriped attire plays a crucial role. I move my arm from the bar with the intention of brushing his hand off my shoulder, coolly. The taut fibers of the suit jacket give way at the armpit seam, sending my arm reeling forward unrestrained into his bony, goateed jaw. Quickly we are on the floor. Our sneakers squeak against the tile and things begin to tumble over around us as we try to find footing. I find myself on my side curling up as my opponent palms my face to the floor, wet and frothy with salvia and slipped beer. The scratch of wool from his poncho infuriates me as it tickles my face. A swirl in the faux marble tile tics closer to me like a hurricane on radar. I swing my arm up with the flaccid force of someone who, long ago, lost, more to signal my surrender than to knock him off. My tattered sleeve flutters every time I raise my arm. The music stops. There is a wide circle around us and Mattie is crying. A toppled stool lies nearby. My nose is bleeding. I can feel the warmth of the blood as it drips onto my swollen lower lip. I’m pulled backward, as if something is sucking me out of the universe, away from Mattie’s dude who is sitting Indian-style and clutching his jaw. Not until I notice the Virgin Mary wrapped around my neck, do I realize that Stefan is hauling me into the kitchen like a tray of filthy plates and cutlery. My head is under the faucet. The water at the dish sink is scorching. Steam rises around me and I smell the stainless steel of the basin as it heats. Blood, thick in the water swirling around the drain, intensifies the metallic tang. I cough and sputter, asking, “Please, turn the cold water on.”

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ATTITUDE BY CATHY SULLIVAN You can teach me a thing or two about praying. Your attitude, for one thing: head reverently and modestly lowered, minding your beeswax. No bad-girl acting-out here. Your perfect posture, for another—the nuns would never catch you in a three-point landing. And your slender back, perfectly straight, as straight as the bishop’s staff. Even the way you are dressed—so a part of your surroundings you almost disappear from sight. The wind sways your green pew—even that doesn’t ruffle your stillness and serenity. You make it look easy, easier than I could imagine in my long-ago praying-days. Do you question anything, ever? I did, once. Does anyone answer your prayers, even with all your practice? Or with all your devotion? Your head swivels towards the sound of my voice, those cavernous eyes meet mine—and I know.

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HOMETOWN | TIVERTON, RI DEGREE | MA IN PROFESSIONAL WRITING

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THE GREETING FROM HEAVEN BY YIHAN WANG Actually, I wrote down this letter by myself. But I’m more than willing to believe the person who wrote this letter is him. - Yihan Hello, I believe you should wake up after a lengthy afternoon to experience this letter. Outside the window, the snow is melting a little bit. Some random people with a dignified excitement occasionally pass by the windowsill. Is that small flower you planted starting to bloom? There is a slight sweet taste diffusing in the air. People all say spring is coming. You may feel confused why I say these things; unfortunately, you may not remember me. I know during the separation of these years, there would be many good things filling your memory. But, in your dearest memories, do you remember the folding colorful candy wrappers, do you remember the beautiful children’s songs, do you still remember me—your brother of an early death? Don’t remember how the gentle small flow is slowly rolled down the ankle. Don’t remember flying in the old swing with laughter. Don’t remember your bright face showing up around the flowers Don’t remember everything we experienced together. Yeah, don’t remember, don’t remember things that time ruthlessly erased; the things that aren’t remembered won’t be diluted broadly by tears. Do you still remember when you were young, your favorite thing to do was to collect candy wrappers, but you were too unique to enjoy candy like other kids. So you always quickly peeled the wrappers off, handed it to me and hid the beloved candy wrappers secretly. Mom always said that my teeth were all ruined because of you. But I was silly enough to think you were the silly one, who always gave me candy. Do you still remember when we children, we were both sensitive to music. Every time when we heard a moving melody, I would dance and you would also be excited like an angel. Our laughter let sunshine shine on everything in the house with a layer of golden rim. The sunlight spreads on your face with lingering. Now that I think about it, I remember your smiling face so profoundly. Maybe because I had no chance to see it again. Time flew. Before I recognized the whole world, the ruthless disease took away my life, took away my right to love. With Mom and Dad’s crying, I went to heaven. The last picture in memory was their shedding tears and the sentimental attachment. But you, my younger sis, you were too little to realize I was leaving. Well, it’s better to be like this; at least you wouldn’t feel the pain that Mom and Dad had. Slowly, calmness restored within the home, you are growing up with much more love and care. Nobody ever mentioned me again, but I know, with some segment in your memory, every now and then, you would recall the playmate in childhood. Yes, I existed. You had a brother. You were my younger sis. I wanted to make a good son, be a good brother, with us all happily living every single day. And when our parents grow old, I would be the pillar of the family, holding up a piece of the blue sky for our parents, and for you. We wouldn’t fear any wind or rain. But all of these things, I could never achieve. Though I’m still grateful, at least I had come to this world and felt the best of love. How should I express myself? I didn’t even have time to be thankful. Maybe all I can do is to give you most sincere wishes, wish for you to be happy forever! People all say a blessing lies in a brilliant but temporary moment. Like the snowflake in winter, it quickly disappears. But I believe they are just hidden temporarily; they will surely blossom into a beautiful flower in the splendid spring.

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HOMETOWN | HARBIN, CHINA DEGREE | MA IN BUSINESS ADMINISTRATION

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Promise me, you will take up the responsibility to take care of Mom and Dad. Take care of yourself. As for me, you may recall, but please donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t always miss me, because I have become the past. But life is still continuing, in fact, nothing is really changed, you see, the sun is still bright and beautiful. Hope Mom and Dad will always be healthy. Hope my younger sister always cute, simply happy, simply trying, and simply smiling. Spring is coming, isnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t it? - Your older bro

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Issue 41