The Lit Spring 2017

The Lit

Spring 2017 The LaGuardia Community College Art and Literary Journal Volume 2 31-10 Thomson Avenue Long Island City, NY 11101 submissions.thelit@gmail.com

The Lit is produced by the editorial interns enrolled in English 288, a Writing and Literature course at LaGuardia Community College, The City University of New York.

This volume was generously funded by an Academic Affairs grant.

Welcome to the Spring 2017 edition of The Lit - LaGuardia Community College’s literary and arts journal.

Our team of interns strived to maintain the quality of the previous year’s edition, while exploring new avenues to broaden The Lit’s editorial impact. This year’s edition contains a wide range of poetry, fiction, creative non-fiction, essays, drama, and visual works in an attempt to encapsulate LaGuardia’s creative community.

Within these pages you will find what makes LaGuardia’s campus both diverse and unique: the hands that have touched the softest and roughest parts of life and the feet that have grown sore from stomping the grounds of New York City.

Each of these pieces contain words we’ve always wanted to say, colors that depict our emotions, and scenes that clear a path, admit a weakness, or reveal a truth. It is an honor that the writers and artists in this issue have exposed their personal worlds to us.

Our mission has been to harvest their creative efforts, allowing them to blossom. And we’ve learned that each experience has a story and each story has a purpose. We’ve learned that literary and artistic expressions are more than just a display of emotions. They are the form and matter in which life is communicated. We are excited to present the life of LaGuardia students through their written and visual artistry, and thankful to all those who contributed their work for consideration. Enjoy.

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Acknowledgements

Custom Illustration by Diana Sadova

Editor: Elizabeth Hubbard Managing Editor: Kenneth Sousie Layout and Design: Kezia Velista Layout and Art Editor: Luis Apolo Copy Editor: Ronald Peralta Genre Editors: Faiza Hussain and Jamel Stallings Communications Manager: Jasmine Peralta Cover and Dividers: Kezia Velista Title Page Photographers: Elizabeth Hubbard, Faiza Hussain, Jasmine Peralta and Kezia Velista College Coordinator: Professor Lucy McNair On behalf of the editorial staff, we extend our special appreciation to: Provost Paul Arcario for believing in the importance of a literary publication as a creative outlet for students on campus.

Professor Gordon Tapper and the English Department for their support of our writers.

Karen Gisonny, Catherine Blauvelt and Miriam Gianni at the New York Public Library Periodicals Room for showing us a gorgeous collection of literary journals and magazines from different eras around the world.

Megan DiBello and The Queens Literary Festival for hosting us and having our works displayed.

Senior graphic designer Cindy Busch for providing us with design insight and tips.

Professor Carrie Conners for highlighting us at the Read-A-Thon and aiding us during the Creative Writing Contest.

Fine Arts Major Diana Sadova for collaborating with us by providing thematic illustrations special to this issue.

LaGuardia student and designer of The Lit 2016 Max Marcellus for technical support on Adobe InDesign.

Professor Scott Sternbach and the Art and Photography Departments for their support of our visual artists.

Professor Lucy McNair for her limitless guidance and support for “The Lit� literary and arts journal.

And to all the students who submitted their work - your courage is celebrated.

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Foreword 5 Acknowledgements

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Essays

The Church of Tartuffe

by Kenneth Sousie 12 Patterns and Forms of Language

by Nikolaos Panaousis 14 Creative Nonfiction Krishna Blues

by Ambar Castillo 20 Camraderie

by Anthony Ruiz 28 A Panic for the Needle at Rego Park by Jasmine Peralta 32 Jealous

by Claudia Natasha 34 Bustin’ Chops

by Serafin Santiago Jr. 36

Down South

by Ambar Castillo I.E.D.

by Owen R. Powell

41 42

Drama

Walking Around

by Ambar Castillo

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Fiction

The Mollusk

by Kenneth Sousie Chewin’ Gum

by Shannon Williams Eight

by Will Rodriguez The Isolated Rose God

by Faiza Hussain Happiest Day of My Life

by Jamel Stallings

56 59 66 74 77

Inescapable We

by Carolina Vera Liberty

by Owen R. Powell

Poetry

84 86

Before and After

by Licenia Pantaleon 90 But Stephen King Does It

by Crystal Kisson 92 Mark and Lisa

by Will Arland 93 Mexicana de Corazon

by Michelle Garcia 94 Poem For a Boy Afar

by Braxton Willoughby 96 You

by Arben Alovic 97 Revenge

by Nasheema Dixon 98

B, Pt. 2

by Amanda Meyers Sestina #1

by Amanda Meyers A Modern Haiku

by Kezia Velista Barbra

by Kenneth Sousie Risen

by Leila Rosner Correlation

by Leila Rosner Literary Contributor Bios Submission Guidelines

99 100 102 103 104 105 108 111

The Church of Tartuffe

by Kenneth Sousie

The definition of the phenomenon “kalopsia” is when things appear to be more beautiful than they are. A combination of the Greek roots “kallos”, meaning beauty, and “opsis” meaning sight, kalopsia ironically and fundamentally ignores both beauty and sight and allows us to fall prey to our own delusions. I imagine that this is the phenomenon that Orgon falls victim to when he first sets his affections towards Tartuffe. People like Tartuffe are career illusionists.

Experienced swindlers. It was not uncommon in history, as well as in modern times for a single person to use religion as a weapon against the gullible. Pope Leo X himself had a method of “forgiving” sins that involved literal monetary payment for them. Even murder was sometimes forgivable if you were willing to “repent” enough. I’d like to explore how Tartuffe is able to slither into the home of Orgon, and show how his practices are deliberate and well planned.

Tartuffe makes me think of the anti-Jimmy Valentine. Both career criminals going from town to town, mark to mark in order to steal that which is not theirs. However, whereas Jimmy Valentine has a code only to attack safes of banks, Tartuffe has no code of honor. Tartuffe the imposter. Tartuffe the hypocrite! Stalking his prey in church in plain sight, posing as a holy man with his head bowed before god for all to see. Out of the many reasons I deleted my social media (Facebook), one of the top reasons was seeing people engage in what people today refer to as “humble bragging”, which is when a person does a good deed and immediately feels the need to gracefully boast about it for everyone to read. Perhaps they want to paint a picture of sainthood.

Perhaps they just want to create a pat on the back. It is in my humble opinion that if one stands up and gives up one’s seat on a train car for an elderly person, and then one goes to the top of the mountain to shout it for all to see and hear, then one is, for a lack of a better term, an ass. However not all people feel this way. On my time on Facebook, I would see people give in to this kind of behavior regularly. They would sing the praises of the person posting their deed, almost as if by associating themselves with a do-gooder, they themselves become of a higher stature. This is what happens to Orgon. Orgon wanted to feel that sense of self-righteousness through Tartuffe, so much that he more or less hires Tartuffe to be his moral representative.

What does a man like Orgon, who has everything do when he has no need to worry for life’s bare necessities? In fact, when he has excess? It’s not uncommon for the wealthy to pay for their salvation.

Pyramid schemes posing as religious organizations (I’m looking at you, Church of Scientology), pride themselves by convincing their victims/ members that in order to gain access to the next level of salvation, that a fee or tribute is needed before doing so. This is what Tartuffe does to Orgon. First, like the professional he is, Tartuffe boasts his feathers in church in order to seduce his victim. Orgon takes notice of the feathers and becomes so enamored of them, that he fails to see the hypocrisy in Tartuffe’s actions and only concentrates on the beauty he thinks he sees.

Kalopsia sets in. When Orgon offers to help Tartuffe, Tartuffe declines in a damsel in distress manner that only causes Orgon to want to help him more. This is the first payment that Orgon makes to the church of Tartuffe; not of money, but of single serving self-gratification which can be more costly. Orgon then brings Tartuffe into his home, a way of showing his god his graces and generosity. Orgon’s payments grow higher. After Tartuffe uses divide and conquer methods to cause disrupt in the family, he starts to go from humble beggar to divine holy man in Orgon’s eyes. I say that his method to stir animosity in the family is deliberate because, as the story reveals in its final climax, Tartuffe is a serial con artist. This evolution causes Orgon to believe that this man who once just needed a bed and food, is now worthy of the hand of his daughter in marriage, causing him to sign his property over to Tartuffe thus completing his payments to the Church of Tartuffe.

Tartuffe was no fool in terms of his planning and execution. His Achilles heel was his unchecked lust for women. In the end, just like with Jimmy Valentine, the law came a-knockin. When the law found Jimmy, his good deed got him a second chance, but with Tartuffe, his way of life got him imprisoned by the King. “A Reformed Reformation” showed us that every dog indeed can have his day, and “Tartuffe” showed us that when a dog becomes rabid, it falls subject to being put down. After all, that is why the Jim Bakker’s of the world never get away with it.

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Patterns and Language is a function that has been used by living beings, and more precisely “socialForms of animals,” for thousands of years. All social communicate with each other, from Language animals birds and insects to dolphins and apes, but only

by Nikolaos humans have managed to create a language that involves more than just essential signals.

Panaousis Throughout the years, humans have contributed

to the development of thousands of languages. Today, there are more than one thousand languages that are being spoken all over the world, and most languages are often broken down to sub-categories ranging from dialects to creoles, and other modifications.

English, for example, is a world-wide language that doesn’t have one fundamental form. Instead, there are numerous forms of English that people adapt and regulate according to their needs. People constantly manipulate words to make them sound more “natural” in certain situations and in front of particular people. One might use different patterns of speech when talking to his professor than when talking to his friends or parents. English is very complex, yet fascinating because it can be stretched, manipulated, and infused to other languages, and still make sense. Often, as I have personally noticed during my daily social interactions, language is not used with respect to grammatical accuracy, but with an emphasis on clarity. For that reason, one might say that there is not a “standard form of English.” There are many different Englishes, and most people are exposed to them without even noticing the differences. In my essay, I analyze my language practices and talk about the different types of languages that I use during my daily encounters. I also make mention of the patterns that I use when I speak, and provide explanations of why I choose these particular patterns in certain situations.

One Friday afternoon, I received a text from my friend saying, “Niko, what’s up wanna go hit the gym?” Later I replied, “Yea bro word.”

As one might notice, the written conversation that my friend and I had is not properly formatted. The grammar is wrong, and I use words that don’t even exist in the dictionary. To the common reader, these texts have absolutely no meaning. They just seem like a pile of words thrown together hoping it makes sense. To me, however, it makes absolute sense, and it is the only form of English that I use to communicate with my friends. There are times when people criticize me, saying that I disrespect the English language and I should not be using “slang.”

My response to that is always the same. I tell them I do not disrespectEnglish. Instead, I celebrate this wonderful language. Through its incredible flexibility, one like me can rearrange, change, and make up new words that bring new meaning to an informal conversation. It gives a color to the conversation. A color that is not defined by the complexity of the words, but from the clarity that they convey. The words that I exchange with my friends through texts have a voice in them. For instance, when my friend texted me, “wanna go hit the gym?” I could hear his voice through the words that he used because these are the words that we use when we talk to each other face to face. If my friends and I were about to switch to a formal exchange of texts, everything would sound unnatural and strange. However, there is no need to because we perfectly understand each other the way we talk and write.

There are also instances in my daily life where I use a more formal form of English to communicate and write, and it mostly occurs when I’m at school. Because school is a place devoted to learning, an appropriate form of language should be used. When I ask questions, write essays, and communicate with my professors, I always try to use vocabulary which best articulates my academic aspirations. But having all these different forms of English, leads me to question, which form is the true one? Which form of English best reflects my personality and my actual thoughts? After some considerate amount of thinking, I concluded that all of these forms are my true ones, and all of these Englishes equally reflect my thoughts and my true self. I would not prioritize one form of English over another because they are not used interchangeably. Each one has its own specific usage in certain situations. And as I said before, the adaptation of these forms of English allows me to better connect with, and understand certain individuals by merely switching to their way of speaking and writing. It is one of the many benefits that any language, and English in particular, has to offer.

I have only been in the United States for three years, but during these three long years I have undergone some major transformations, mainly in the ways I communicate and express myself. When I first stepped foot in this country I could only speak Greek. My English vocabulary was limited to words like, “hi, good, and thank you.” I could not even form a sentence correctly. My fluency in the English language was far from reality. It was a distant dream not worth fulfilling. At least, that’s what I believed. When I entered high school, I realized that English is the only way to move forward. It was then when I started pressuring myself to learn the language and catch up with the rest of the students, or “The Americans,” as I often called them. During these years, I went

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through a tremendous amount of pressure to learn English and assimilate into the American culture.

As the years passed I neglected Greek, and I successfully achieved a certain degree of fluency in English. I was extremely proud, but I did not know what the damage of this transformation was until one day my mother asked for help. It was a Sunday evening, when my mother came home from work holding two half opened envelopes. In “broken English” she said, “Niko, please you tell me what envelop says.

I no understand.” I said, “sure, let me take a look.” It was a formal letter from her employer addressing some changes that will take place next month. The letter was written in what seemed to be formal English. I perfectly understood all of the content, but I quickly realized that I was unable to translate certain words in Greek, leaving my mom’s question partially unanswered. I could see the disappointment in her face. Her son, a Greek raised boy, was not able to translate English words to his native language.

There were multiple instances like this, and it was becoming increasingly difficult for me to convey my ideas into Greek. During conversations with my family, I would start speaking in Greek and when I encountered a word which I did not know the meaning of, I would switch to English. I applied the same thinking when writing Greek. Most of the time I used, and still use, Latin characters to write in Greek; my mother calls it “Greeklish.” In an attempt to correct this problem and start from where I had previously left, I decided to take some courses in Greek. It turns out it was the right decision. My fluency increased to a normal level, and I am now able to communicate effectively with my parents without having to switch to English.

One thing I have noticed is the fact that I use different patterns of speech when speaking English or Greek. My Aunt, who is a linguist back in Greece, told me that these are signs of bilingualism. I believe it’s true because at any given moment, I am able to switch to English without thinking in Greek. Every process happens entirely in English. The same works vice versa. She explained to me that everything I had learned in Greek so far, was conceived differently by my brain in relation to information in English. And because I left Greece while I was still in Middle School, all the new information that I learn in school is conceived in English and I apply different thinking when extracting this information from my mind. To demonstrate this point, I will use an instance of when my family and I attended a Greek-American dinner. While at the dinner, where everyone was speaking Greek, one man came to me asking for

directions to the restroom.

Instinctively, I answered him in Greek using the most appropriate vocabulary I could think of.

Later, another man asked me for directions while speaking in English. After answering him, I realized the way I addressed the person, and my choice of words, were different from the ones I used in Greek. It was then when I realized that I switch to different patterns of language according to the situation. This is the beauty of language. Having the choice to switch between patterns, forms, and languages, without missing the point of the conversation.

The way words are expressed might be different, but the overall idea remains the same.

Like any other two languages, English and Greek can be used to complement, substitute, and combine each other without losing the essence of a conversation. In the first part of my essay, I talked about how the English language can be manipulated to become more situation friendly. I referred to so called “slang,” which I do not like to call it because I treat it as another form of English that I use to communicate with my friends. I prefer this form when talking with my friends because it allows us to better convey our thoughts in very simple sentences that only we understand. Moreover, I switch to other forms of English, like standard formal English, when the situation requires it. On the other hand, I also spoke about how English enabled me to use it as a complement to Greek when gaps seemed to appear in the way I structured my thoughts. The different patterns of speech used in both languages were also mentioned, as was their usefulness in certain situations. Language flexibility can be extremely helpful when used in the right context, and allows people to empower their own form of communication and writing, promoting it to a broader and more diverse audience.

Still Life in My Grandmother’s Kitchen by Diana Sadova

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Krishna Blues

by Ambar Castillo

“Here every dragonfly is blue, Krishna-blue” -Ardi

The woman’s head has rested on the small park table, tilted to the right over an open Village Voice article, for the past half hour. It’s a head covered with long black hair pulled back loosely in a bun that is evolving into a ponytail.

She stirs twice in the next 17 minutes: once when an army of seeker pigeons make swishing sounds as it forages for scraps of something grainy in the fake garden grass; once when the wind pulls up to her corner of the library grounds, and she shivers.

When she stirs, hardly anything moves, just her right foot in a two-tap sequence. The woman’s arms, hugging each other in a tight fold, meet her knees in a static hold under the table. Her head is obscured, at its 12 o’clock, by the smiling, closed-eye face of Tao. A bag with MOMA printed in miniscule red letters wears this face, if only by sculpture portrait. On her right side, the woman is flanked by an aqua Burton traveler backpack packed to its brim and a bulging black bag with silver clips. On the woman’s left side, there are no bags, no chair, no neighboring table; the woman is not flanked, but wide open.

Also open is her mouth. The air hisses out it in heavy bursts and, in one heaving instant, the woman wakes to a wave of sweat and, subsequently, of curse words. She scarcely knows the speaker, the one swearer, is herself. When the wave subsides, she indulges in her recollected aloneness. The Krishna blues play in her head as she recalls the bad and the beautiful about those 22 days in India. She can’t make up her mind, so she settles on the one that almost killed her. * * *

On Ardi’s first night in India, two things happened that, as Jules liked to say, “popped her cherry”: 1) her decade-long dreams of stepping into the land of Bollywood came true, and 2) she had a seizure (in that order).

Photograph by Alan Li

She and Jules had hobbled out of the humid room at their homestay after 36 hours of battling the Air China cold, stumbling down the streets of Cochin with backpacks that weighed more than a forced arranged marriage, and showering in the same room where they’d later sleep. Sometime between hazy thoughts, Ardi remembered she was in the India of her dreams (mosquito-massacred legs and all), and scratched herself on the left leg to be sure it—India, not the massacre— was real.

200 rupees each bought them (gold-pierced) nose-bleed seats above the stage of Kathakali dancers. The girls sat in still-form, nearly skidding off their seats in exhaustion. Every few minutes came the inevitable swish of a skirt and its wearer scrambling back into the center of their chair. Sleep deprivation did not lessen the enchantment, thick and inexplicable like that of a snake charmer, of the yellow-faced man’s micro-expressions made to the rhythms of drums and harmonium. His nose and chin and cheeks trembled. His eyes tantalized and tantrumed and told seven stories in each squint. His isolations of the most minuscule muscles melted the otherwise stoic faces off his adoring tourist audience.

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The red-faced Ravana and green hero Rama followed with a shock of shouts in every movement. From their first dance sequence to the moment Ravana revealed himself to be the demon king, the drums beat Ardi, clubbed her on all sides until her ears squeaked and pleaded a bittersweet surrender. But she stayed on (ears covered and uncovered on and off), fearing a more painful future regret. She thought, between beats, she should thank the jolts of pain that joined her now: the electric jolts to her fingers, toes, thighs and calves kept her awake when even the instruments failed. Before she slid off, ear-first, in a final thud towards the floor, she imagined she understood the Sanskrit sliding off Rama’s lips. * * *

Before the seizure and everything that would come after, words steeped in another language, this time one she understood: “Make sure you girls don’t fight, mi amor,” her mother had admonished before dropping her off at the curve of the airport. Ardi had raised one recently threaded eyebrow, and was still shaking her head as she shut the passenger door to the 2012 Honda Civic. Days later, the warning words washed over her and Jules as the threat of a (albeit temporary) war between the two broke through the Desi bliss.

Ardi had been trying all day to tell Jules about her 5:20 AM epiphany sparked by the Kathakali singer-storyteller’s statement: “For me, every day of work is a vacation.” What would it be like for Ardi’s own workdays, every day, to be a forever fiesta? For her job to work like a self-applied aphrodisiac, like the Indian-derived cinnamon in the harems of ancient Arabia? She decided to make a mini-passion project out of this trip. She’d seek out stories from friends and strangers, sift out what it was that made their work like an everyday vacation. She chose to start right there in Cochin, right then across the overpriced table where Jules downed her fish dish and Ardi half-mastered the spice in her mushroom masala: “Jules, how’d you know you want to be a nurse?

Why a nurse, not some other helping career?”

Her questions fell flat on their plates. With each “why” she posed, Jules fired an Inquisition-style 5Ws back at her. Ardi looked over at her friend and saw an ashen Jules in the crux of debate. She wanted to touch her and possibly knock some sense in her, but she did neither.

They were sudden strangers, modeling Western-style inquiry the way Ardi loathed: reason presiding over passion, knowledge not a thing to share like food among friends but rather a thing to prove and disprove. When it was done, they were done.

As they walked to their date with the Ayurvedic girls they’d promised to visit, the cold hit Ardi with a New York winter’s force. The tears trickled down later, as they sat taking tariffs from the Ayurvedic Heritage reps. When it became a blurry world to Ardi, she stepped directly before the confounded girls’ questions about the health of her eyes (“Nope, I’m just crying”), and out of the Heritage center, out into the chase of Cochin tuk-tuks and a Jewtown jammed with Muslims.

It would be the night she’d cake with filth—and finish off—her pink-and-rainbow Peruvian sandals that zipped in the back. She’d zip her feelings up and down until the zipper dismounted its metal trail to leave an opening for her raw skin. She couldn’t get rid of that metallic taste that clung to her mouth as if it, not her sandal-strapped ankle, were bleeding.

Ardi walked a straight path as long as possible before turning into the dirt roads that seemed to wait for someone to trip down them. She traipsed down the streets, onto one that claimed fame through the Jewish Synagogue and another through Mattancherry Palace, avoiding male glances, ignoring the young boys playing street badminton who mocked her with a multitude of hello’s, laughing like hell. She considered walking all night with numb legs and heart, hate-pretending and heaving, but happened to remember this was no longer New York; the streets would soon be empty, house lights switched off faster than they’d been turned on.

Just before heading back from her walk to nowhere, past an alley, under a moonlight that also mocked her, she found a sign that read: “Tourist Boat Deck.” Ardi inched closer and closer towards the dock. She could barely see past her dust-smeared feet with the one light source hanging off a decrepit hook. When she got close enough, she shared with that body of water a two-minute version of the wishes she’d been clenching between her jaws. The water’s response was stillness, a silence she took as a blessing.

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Photograph by Saori Ichikawa

A shadow crossed into Ardi’s communion with the water; it was a man, white-bearded and jerky in his movements. Something about him told her two things: 1) he was not a menace; 2) he was Muslim. He directed her to the first right turn she’d have to make to reach home; there would be many more right and lefts and diagonals that night.

They spoke not six words in each other’s language, but the communication came nonetheless. The fluid speech that often faltered in Ardi during pressure-cooked social situations flowed when she faced him:

“Shukriyah. Mera naam Ardi hai. Tumhare naam kya hai?

(Learned from her Bollywood flicks: a greeting and a name, then a request for his name.)

“Salaam alaikum.” (Ha, she’d just known he was Muslim!)

“Wa-Alaikum salaam.” (Cool! Those convos with her old

Muslim friends must have trained her language muscle memory!)

His eyes winked and twinkled a grandfather’s blessing, and Ardi felt doubly protected by the old man and the moon. Later, when dusting off her sandals and any potential sleep-deprived delusions, Ardi would remind herself that she couldn’t understand any more Hindi, or utter Urdu or the melodic Malayalam sounds spoken in the Kalpatta region; or he, apparently, any English. She’d finger and flip over these truths, but it wouldn’t change what she knew. She’d forget how she knew it, but she was certain the Muslim man who spoke no further English had called her a good person and friend, and had grinned at her attempts at language and her eyes’ attempts to capture the light.

That night and into the yawn of the roused next day, she’d try to recapture the moment for Jules, and Jules (being her best friend) would try to understand, but every time Ardi would reach into the crevices and corners of the dock to retake it, her fingers would come out wet, the moment slipping over the dock. And Jules could see that something had happened (physical exhaustion?) to transform the tentacles of hurt in her friend, but she didn’t wonder about it long. * * *

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The woman picks up her head from where it was lying lifeless on the park table. She blinks once, twice, maybe a third time, scrunching up her eyes so they feel the fluid build-up of a past pressure. She’d remember that night, not the first one (when her brain had been broken into by neurological computer-hackers—those cold, grandpa-truckin’ convulsions!), as the one that almost killed her. It nearly killed her and Jules’s 15-year friendship in one fell swoop, nearly tore the time from under their traveling sandals. Time from back when Sabrina had died and they’d filled her void with their voices, voices of ever-increasing volume, whatever it took to engulf the guilt. Back when they’d braced themselves with each other’s back.

Ardi extends her toes one by one, picturing the way they might have developed some slight changes, a droop there or a bump here, after that walk through Cochin. She finds neither. It’s unconceivable that they could have taken her where they took her and remained the same.

She doesn’t feel the same. Her fingers fight the stretch she forces, but really she is testing them to find the answers her toes could not tell.

When she is finished and unsatisfied, she stands and begins to pick up the backpack and parcels that surround her. Once she is done, they are stacked neatly on her back or over her shoulders. She is the one flanking them.

Photograph by Doris Sayos

Forbidden New York City by Doris Sayos

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Camraderie “I have HIV,” he said, inaudible over the blaring noise of cars zooming home to make it for supper.

by Anthony “Are you serious?” I replied through cottonmouth.

My first instinct, naturally, was to reach over the Ruiz clutch of his 2002 Honda Accord and hug him. I could have held him for hours. Melancholia filled the four-door sedan.

The sounds of rush hour seemed to disappear into the cold, winters eve. He was the strongest person I knew yet, he was staring straight ahead at the road in front him, unbelievably fragile. The party was over and driving along route 231, we knew that.

It was 2006 when I first met Eddie and in addition to trying to adjust to the six-foot tall drag queen voguing two feet away from me, I was adjusting to being openly gay. There he was, seated in the middle of a clamor of people hanging on his every word. “Who are you?” he blurted out at me over the laughter of his eccentric followers. “I’m Angel,” I replied, all blood flow now in the higher most part of my cheeks. “Where do you live, Angel?” he asked, examining all five foot eight of me. The knots in my stomach causing my voice to sound two octaves higher, “Richmond Hill,” I said. “Me too,” he replied. He walked over to me. “We’re taking the train together.” So began the purest friendship I ever knew.

We were inseparable. If Eddie was there, so was I. He invited me into the world of parties and drugs and being only sixteen at the time, I basked in it. He was a socialite in the west village and had chosen me to be his wing-boy. My popularity skyrocketed because I knew him. As well known as Eddie was, we could not walk down Christopher Street without being stopped and chatted up by people we had no clue even existed. Only behind closed doors was when I got to know the real Eddie. One day while in my kitchen, over a couple of glasses of second-rate supermarket wine, he opened up to me. “My brother used to molest me,” he said, eyes aiming at the window behind me. I could tell he was fighting back the tears ready to flow out of his light brown eyes.

I walked to the other side of the table and embraced him. Not knowing what to say, I began to cry and in turn, so did he. That would be the first and last time I would ever see Eddie cry.

Over the years, our secrets began to bind us. I shared with him how my mother was an abusive alcoholic who could not cope with the fact that I was attracted to men. He shared with me how he was dabbling in prostitution, and I went numb. As badly as I wanted to smack the poor judgment out of him, I just said, “be careful.”

I was his voice of reason and he, my voice of irrationality. He possessed the gift of being able to justify any wrongdoing and in fact, make it seem right. While he was teaching me to live a little bit more, I was teaching him to slow it down. We found pieces of ourselves in one another through things we could never share with outsiders.

We became soul mates.

Six years, many secrets, and one moment that felt like an eternity later, here we were. He pulled over in front of his house and we sat there in silence. Once out of the car, I hugged him. I hugged him for every time I wanted to but was afraid. I hugged him for every bit of innocence his brother robbed him of. I hugged him for every dollar he earned degrading himself.

I hugged him for his positive HIV test. But most of all, I hugged him for allowing me into his life. Eddie’s arms stayed glued to his side. My best friend was defeated, and that was ok. The cold Long Island air lightly brushed the top of our heads as if to remind us that if we stay this close forever, we will always find warmth. With what could have been a tear from emotion or just the freezing weather, he looked at me and said, “let’s go inside.”

Custom Illustration by Diana Sadova

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My Father

by June Shun Hing Chan

Hong Kong, 1970’s My father passed away about forty years ago.

When he died, I was studying Japanese at a college in Tokyo.

I always knew my father hated Japan, because during World War Ⅱ, the Japanese army occupied Hong Kong, our home, for three years and eight months. They did a lot of harm to the people in our city. I wasn’t born yet, but my two older brothers, who were boys then, both died during the invasion so I never got to know them. My parents told me about them, that they didn’t have enough food and medical care during the war, and when the bombs fell on our city every day and night with terrible deafening noises and fire, my two little older brothers didn’t survive.

When I told my father I wanted to go to Japan to study, I expected him to object, but I never saw him so angry, like he was mad enough to kill me, although he didn’t lay a hand on me. My father was a traditional Chinese man; he said that going to college is not a daughter’s right.

The right belongs to sons. He was afraid that I just wanted to get away from home and waste time and money for playing.

I was horribly upset over my father’s anger. But I was still determined to go to study the language at a Japanese college. My reasons were very practical, because I only had a high school diploma, and I was not an outstanding student. I didn’t have any special skill to help me find a good job. I had to study something out of the ordinary to be competitive in our Hong Kong society. I knew War World II was very terrible. But I felt it was the Japanese government’s fault, not the people’s fault, especially those who had been born after the war ended.

I had analyzed the economic trends in Asia at that time, and Japan’s economy was ahead of the other Asian countries. Not many Hong Kong people could speak Japanese, and as I learned the language I found it easier than English. So I kept silent and continued to prepare to go to Japan. From then on, I never talked about going there to study with my father or any other family member. Father also kept silent, not sure how to deal with such a stubborn daughter.

For three years, during the day I worked in a publishing house as a typesetter. For another two years, I did different kinds of jobs. But I always went to school to study Japanese and English at night.

When I was finally ready to go to Japan, I had to tell my father and ask him for financial help.

Although I had saved money for many years, it was still not enough. I expected my father to be angry at me again. I was extremely nervous and fearful, but this time he was very calm.

He said, “I have watched you for a long time; I believe in you. You are really passionate to learn Japanese. Follow your passion, go and don’t worry about the money, but when you have something that makes you happy or unhappy, write a letter home to share your feelings.”

I couldn’t speak a word. Tears sprang to my eyes. Soon after I brought a cup of tea in - the ultimate sign of respect in our Chinese culture - I knelt before my father, held up the cup and kowtowed to him to say, “Thank you, Father!”

A View of You by Audrey Rodriguez

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A Panic for the Needle in Rego Park

by Jasmine Peralta

It is 6:48 PM and she is getting out of her boyfriend’s house. Walking down the street, she comes across an elderly man staring at her. He is probably asking himself, “What is she doing here?” She thinks to herself, “Of course.” She speeds up and continues her stroll. On the block she walks past the “discrete” happy endings spot. When walking through this predominately white neighborhood you wouldn’t think you’d find that, right? As she approaches the end of the block, she is waiting for the light to change to cross the sketchy underpass. The cabs racing down the boulevard, the non-stop cursing and honking ring louder and louder in her head. The cars finally come to a stop, and the crosswalk sign signals for the pedestrians to cross. She sees the rats zooming by as she’s crossing the underpass and she runs to the other side. As she is getting to the train station, she walks past the homeless man who has been there everyday since she met her boyfriend. He is wearing the usual; a blanket and a hoodie. Aside from the fact that it’s 80-degrees outside, he seemed to never get hot.

She walks down the stairs into the Woodhaven Boulevard train station, swipes her Metrocard and proceeds to the Jamaica, Queens bound side of the train station. As she is standing on the platform, she notices a crowd of about five men that creep up behind her and she begins to get shaky. Retaining her composure, she tells herself, “Don’t worry the train should be coming soon,” but what happened next wasn’t expected.

From the corner of her right eye, she sees a white male, wearing a hoodie, with a syringe. He is pacing back and forth on the platform. She finally looks towards him and he notices. They both lock eyes and in the back of her head she thinks, “Oh shit, what now?” Wishing to disappear, she is reminded of the other group of guys that were on her left. Trapped, the guy comes towards her. As he creeps up next to her, he continues to look at her, but she stares down at the rats in the train tracks. Trying to

just not make eye contact, she is questioning as to what he is going to do with this needle, why would he have it?

He walks in front of her and proceeds towards her left.

She glances at him again very intrigued, and sees him rolling up the sleeve of his hoodie, and injecting himself with the syringe.

She looks away in disbelief and horror.

Exposed, on the train platform, there he was. Seeing his face as he was shooting up, you can tell the drugs had hit his veins.

His eyes rolled back and he was now shifting side to side as if the wind was hitting him. His face turned pale and his veins popped out of his face. He looked at her once again and this time it wasn’t a threatening look but instead it was the look a child gives you when they know they’ve done something wrong. He looked calm and in complete bliss.

The train is finally here, and the doors open. The people run out and almost run her over. All she hears is “excuse me, excuse me, EXCUSE ME!” But she can’t move, she is trapped in time. Managing to quickly get in before the door closes, she is snapped back into life, leaving the man, high on the platform.

Left: Tyger Lady by Christian Francis Right: Untitled by Diana Sadova

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Jealous

by Claudia Natasha

Every car that passed by could clearly hear “Jealous” by Labrinth, the only song the girl behind the steering wheel wanted to listen to in the last two hours. The entire carload had been infected by it, singing it passionately a thousand times, like it was our national anthem. The only time the chant paused was when we devoured what were inside our Golden Arches bags. The trees outside the left window were running swiftly by like a traditional animation. These five kids were making their escape.

Despite its rank as the third most polluted city on Earth, Jakarta was still the dream of those who wanted to try out their luck for a better life. Our school break was supposed to be days spent in an embroidery yarn store located in one of its largest trading centers, except for the next two days. The office tasted like dust. Watching couriers come and go day and night, the only amusement I found was the gradation of colors of spooled yarns adorning numerous ceiling-high wooden racks.

It was my parents’ duty to pass on this family business to us, the third generation. Apparently, school break was always the perfect time to teach us how to run the business.

The smell of river greeted us as we got out of the car. The three-hour drive had brought us into the wilderness inside Taman Safari, Indonesia, the most prominent safari park in the country, located in Bogor, West Java. My sister’s white car stood out against the dark-green vegetation. “Yay, freedom!” screamed Also and Aldi, my younger twin brothers, as they ran to the bunk bed inside our caravan hotel and threw their bodies on it like a trampoline. Gaby, my younger sister could not resist sharing this astounding scenery with the world via her cellphone. I grabbed the TV remote and pressed the power button carefully as if it were a sacred instrument. The fact that we left home in the morning and came back each night made the idea of staring at a big flat screen bizarre. “Mom, we’re here. The traffic was pretty bad, plus we were stuck in the one-way traffic,” reported Brigitta, my older sister on the phone.

Bogor’s nickname is “Rain City.” The light but steady rain that did not stop even until we finished our Safari Night tour explained why.

Hundreds of people were still up for the midnight animal show, yet the night felt almost peaceful without honks and the sound of engines, just cricket chirps in the distance. We entered the amusement park that night like robbers breaking into a house. The tranquility made me feel like members of a silent rock band.

The lights of the Ferris Wheel embellished the already starry sky. The trees were dancing, the reason why the cold was aggravating. Suddenly, samba music was heard, the animal show was about to start. As our rewards for running as fast as cheetahs toward the park center, we got the best spots for the show.

Afterwards, we inhaled the smell of money and traffic on our way home. I was sitting in the back of the car, when in the middle of snores, our anthem song started to lull, “I’m jealous of the wind that ripples through your clothes / It’s closer than your shadow / oh I’m jealous of the wind.” I recalled the moment when I saw Gaby’s face curling under the show lights. I could tell how she wished we could ride the roller coaster and pierce the night’s silence with our screams instead of saving the best seats for the show. Now I knew a lot more about animals, such as the fact that baby kangaroos need 30 days to climb up to their mothers’ pouches and that tigons do exist. But I missed the only chance I had to make memories. I might not be able to make any in the next 5 years. Who knows? The wind had done better. I wished I were the wind.

Daily Sketch by Shani Tsfoni

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Bustin’ “Dude, you keep punching me. Keep your hand open and reach around my head.” The auditorium Chops inside the old church echoes with every shuffle our feet. The canvas draped over the plywood

by Serafin of boards isn’t pulled taut. The show isn’t until Santiago Jr. Saturday night, so the promoter just put every-

thing together today and will finish up just hours before bell time. It keeps bunching up with every footstep, making every move cumbersome. It almost has that plush, walking-on-air feeling except our sneakers keep sinking into the mat.

We lock up again, this time without the connection of my left fist to his face. Miguel was already visibly annoyed, but what could he expect. This was day one for me, and the prospect of training to be a Professional Wrestler was daunting at best. We often mimicked, as many kids have, our favorite pros in the schoolyard. We’d get back home with bruises after taking bumps on asphalt surfaces and concrete. It was no biggie to us then. Now, the deal was different, we were doing this for real.

Miguel and I have known each other for years. Since we were 5 years old to be exact. He was much more centered and focused than I was, but our love for wrestling was our bond. I visited his house more times than I can count, just to see matches that he’d get a chance to see from other territories. Ric Flair, Ricky Steamboat, Abdullah the Butcher, Bruiser Brody, Randy Savage…these were names that we grew up hearing and went broke at times trying to watch. He started trading videotapes with people from other countries, Japan mainly, to see performers that were just as legendary as the aforementioned superstars.

How he dragged me into this deal was simple. Miguel talked me into taking an impromptu training session when we were just 16 years old. He met a local wrestler and his promoter in our neighborhood, which prompted him to start asking about the business of pro wrestling.

A few lessons, lots of conversations, and many questions later led him to establishing his first pro wrestling group, made up of close friends and fellow fans.

I was young and full of…ideas. A training day was established and I went to it without a second thought. So on an early Friday afternoon, I walked the two and a half miles to the run down church near the corner of Kent and Park Aves. I was somewhat excited,

and instantly started dreaming of the matches I could be in: Singles matches, Tag Team, Three-Way Dance, Loser Leaves Town, and the daddy of them all, Ironman. They call it “going Broadway” in the business, but I could barely make it to 5th Ave without getting blown up. Sure, I was ahead of myself. But the moment basics were being taught, my body called out for lunch and reality was very much like a parent spanking their child for doing something they were told not to.

Benji, a 6’2, 325lb wall of flesh, walked out from the shadow cast towards the small stage. His gaze trained on us as we wrestle for control, “Alright, now round robin into a headlock, but do it going toward the left.” I was lost, not knowing a damn thing about the carney talk, or kayfabe, that was spoken to us. Sweat was drenching the thick winter clothes that we wore, which made our movements clumsy and was, in hindsight, the worst possible material to wear when learning how to wrestle. As fast as he could, Miguel pulled me into a headlock.

Instinctively, I walked backwards towards the limp ring ropes, hoping to use them as leverage to whip him to the opposite end of the squared circle. Benji laughed hard, running towards the ropes where I was heading, in an effort to stop us from tumbling through them and getting hurt on the hardwood floor. Recognizing that I was green he began giving me a touch of the business.

He stepped into the ring and grabbed me in a headlock that was significantly tighter than what Miguel had me in. Grabbing my hand, he begins guiding me through the motions, “Now grab my left wrist, sidestep, tuck back and put me in a hammerlock.” I followed through, only to have him reverse the maneuver and put me in a hammerlock that almost felt as if my shoulder was being ripped out of place. It wasn’t the first time I felt that, but the intensity that it was done with really put me on edge. And the sharp pain that shot straight up my arm into my neck had me asking myself, “I did this because…?”

We spent hours throwing each other around. The color and elbow tie ups that had me popping Miguel in the face, were somewhat mastered. That’s when Benji pushed us to limits I had no idea existed.

“For every time you mess up, I’m gonna put you in the corner and chop you.” Benji was trained hardcore and implemented the same type of regimen he went through. Punishments for fuck ups were crucial. See, when you’re in the ring, you are responsible for every single person in there with you: your opponent, the Referee, and whomever else is involved, as they are you. Messing up a “spot” means a botched job

39

and possible injuries. And when I made my first mistake, Benji grabbed me like a newborn puppy and launched me into the turnbuckle. He lifted my sweater over my head, kinda like the way hockey players do during a row. My undershirt was soaked with perspiration, which made the open hand palm strike he hit me with at full force, aka “chop”, sting with an intensity that can only be understood by those who’ve had a bad sunburn and accidently rubbed past a tree branch. It wasn’t my last chop either.

With three solid hours under our belt, we had made it passed what we thought was the rough part. The hard part was coming. Benji stepped up and paused in front of Miguel. It was strange to see the two of them square off, being highlighted by the single concentrated light above the ring. Suddenly, Benji grabs Miguel violently, grabbing with one hand over Miguel’s left shoulder and his other going in between his legs. He lifts him high up and slams him down on the canvas with considerable force. At this point, I can’t tell whether the look on Miguel’s face is one of actual pain, or if he’s “selling” the move. Benji turns to me with a menacing look and says, “Your turn, jabroni.” He did the same to me, with my question of Miguel’s look answered with a healthy yelp.

“You both have to learn how to bump, cause if not, you won’t last”, Benji decreed. I shook my head, but it was more to clear the cobwebs shook loose by the slam than that of agreeance. After learning how to do simple bumps, Benji called it a day.

The sun was already low behind the factory and warehouse buildings in the area when we walk out of the church several hours later.

The cold air worked its way past my coat, and made the sweat drenched and over stretched t-shirt seemingly freeze over. Our already red faces had begun taking on a new kind of discomfort. The February air made the raw rubbed skin tighten almost painfully. To me, it felt like a rite of passage. I felt like I was experiencing what all of those guys we looked up to must’ve felt. It was a mixture of accomplishment, fear, pride, and an awkward sense of manliness that you get after doing something… well, manly. Day one was over and as I took the trek back home, I could only think about how sweet it’d be to get in front of a crowd and work an angle. Thousands of screams and chants filled my thoughts. Lights hanging from high up in the imaginary arena rafters shine down on to the 20’ x 20’ work surface I am swaggering down towards. My entrance music blaring…turns out to be a J train passing by on the elevated tracks at Myrtle Ave. And as I cross the street on to Broadway, reality once again smacks me back into the life I’m in.

Vaqueros by Rodolfo Caballero

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Photograph by Stanley Olivera

Goodnight by Arben Alovic

Down South

by Ambar Castillo

When he walks Gameboy at 10 or 10:05—never a minute later—he makes a machete-sharp right turn from the house, and down the length of 106th Street, from 86th Ave to the next, until they reach Park Lane South (which he pronounces Par-Lay-Sow”).

He sometimes checks only one way—I’ve seen him, and scolded— before crossing the street to the grassier, greener side of weed invasion.

He thinks the green will goad Gameboy into doing his business both ways.

When I invite myself to these business meetings, I notice their path isn’t straight the way it should be down Park Lane. You can see their zigzag progression if you wait for them at the corner of 105th— stroll and sniff, leash-snap and sniff, possibly pee and hobble over asymmetrically diagonal to the previous direction.

They’ll avoid the 40 degree S-shaped slope that snakes around to Forest Park, before that, Victory Field. There’s no victory in being another victim of that peril-path—infamous for its sexy teenage midnight times, for its rapings and stabbings, and for hangings back in the day.

But sometimes when I join them, we’ll walk it in broad daylight, leading Gameboy’s gentle leader up it so he’s the head of the group (Cesar Milan would kill us), as if we were traipsing around in the dark and Gameboy were our flashlight, guiding us past the family picnic tables (with their scraps of leftovers and the look of being left behind) and past the ghosts of hung women and men, towards steps leading further from home.

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I.E.D. by Owen R. Powell

I don’t remember much, but I remember the lights. We were on night patrol running our usual pattern, same shit as every night for the previous couple of months and had just turned on to MSR Pluto from some side street. Came across the bridge, turned left and started to descend down to the Old Canal Highway to head north a short distance to FOB Loyalty.

This is Baghdad of course, 2006, and we’d been in-country for a while working with the Iraqi National Police and their checkpoints on this highway, which cuts East Baghdad in half like a main circuit line.

Sunni on one side, Shia on the other. You can see it on the satellite maps, clear as day. We’d heard plenty of IEDS before, of course, along with the daily car bombs and mortar/rocket fire, but this one was our first, up close and personal, like getting your cherry popped.

So we’d just turned onto the on-ramp, it’s like two o’clock in the morning and BOOOOOOOOOOOM this pillar of sand erupts out of the ground, flecked with the most brilliant little strobe light flecks—like fireworks—that you’ve ever seen. The truck buckles in that groundswell double BA-BOOM, as something like a metal sandstorm skitters across the armored hull. Here’s the thing about unexpected high explosives going off close to you in the middle of the night: it instantly makes everyone in the HMMWV—gunner, driver and team leader alike—all yell “FUCK’” real loud and strangely reverentially in this automatic knee-jerk reaction, like something kicked out of your gut by the pressure wave.

The next thing I yelled was “STOPSTOPSTOPSTOP!” and Nix locked up the brakes as seven tons of steel slid to a halt. The trucks ahead disappeared in the sand strewn night. Oh shit, secondary IEDs! “GOGOGOGOGOGO” I yelled, and we lurched forward, all of us bent down, teeth clenched and shoulders hunched up, leaning away from the doors. It would be tactically perfect if the insurgents had a secondary waiting for us to take out the last truck in the convoy, and that unspoken awareness, that vulnerability, was a palpable mass bearing down on us, that horrible feeling of the mouse caught beneath the shadow of the hawk, pressed down on our body armor for the infinite moment it took for us to move out of the kill zone.

Five minutes later and we are in the relative safety of the tiny FOB just down the road. We clear the access point and exit at the clearing barrels. A constellation of cigarettes lights up in the darkness, and then the excited babble of everyone telling each other their version of what just happened to us all.

Everyone is unscathed, even the gunners, who are exposed in their turrets. There is a scurry of picture taking of the shrapnel marks on the truck. “A small one,” the vets of previous deployments tell us sagely, “probably 82mm mortar round. Wait till you see a big one.

Bears thinking about.”

Later, waiting to go back out, I sit on the hood of my truck, sucking on a Camel Lite, looking at the ground remembering this humid night in Babylon and the dazzle of those lethal little lights.

Painting by Jennifer Cabal

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Walking Around by Ambar Castillo NARRATOR “Walking Around”--it just so happens this isn’t a Neruda poem. It’s the story of what it means to be a Dominican-American girl they call a gringa who spends the summer shooting a doc in DR. The subject? Marianismo and the woman’s role at home and society.

Marianismo’s this Latin American movement of venerating the ideal woman who’s like the Virgin Mary, who’s strong yet humble and sacrifices herself for her son. Unlike machismo, it offers a potential empowerment for women--or so our protagonist thinks. Did I mention the play is autobiographical?

So let’s meet the cast...

We’ve got the NARRATOR...That’s me, of course-Andrea Contreras.

ARDI, the US-born daughter of two Dominicans, played by Ambar Castillo ANGELITA, Ardi’s Dominican cousin, played by Mariah Sanchez.

Angelita’s boyfriend, ISMAEL, played by Ricky Hernandez, who also plays el CAPITAN. TUVI-WOMAN is played by Doreen M. Nemorin ...and BODEGA MAN and PRIVATE are both played by Camilo Ramirez Time and Scene: Our story starts in Abuela’s one-story apartment house in Ensanchez Espaillat, a poor neighborhood in Santo Domingo, Dominican Republic. The apartment is sandwiched between a used-clothing store on the street corner and a TV cable store next door.

Act One: Lights come up on dining table with adjoining living room.

Angelita, dressed in a sleeveless nightdress, her hair in a bun, is mopping the floor. Ardi has her knees propped up against her chest while she sits at the dining table, a bowl of half-eaten oatmeal with spoon carelessly resting on the side of the bowl on her left, a beaten-up old leather-wrapped Paper Blanks journal on her right. She is scribbling furiously.

ANGELITA Hey, you’ve been really into your little novel there.

NARRATOR Ardi’s eyes continue to fixate on her journal.

ARDI Hmmm?

ANGELITA Oh, aren’t you going to interview Jimena for your project thingy? Cuz she’s gotta know early, you know, so she can get her hair all did.

ARDI Nope. But even if I was, I wouldn’t tell her so she can get her hair all done! This “project thingy” is all about women facing double standards, double work, in a freakin machista Catholic society. It’s not about making them look pretty.

ANGELITA Damn, girl, chill. Aren’t you supposed to be on break?

ARDI What makes you think I’m not? I’m not the one who wakes up at the crack of dawn to wash the whole house.

NARRATOR Ardi glances at Angelita, who’s given her a pointed look.

ARDI Hey, I offered to help that time! And you were like, ‘no, it’ll go faster if I do it.’

ANGELITA Yeah, ‘cause you don’t know how to properly clean like a dominicana.

And you cut yourself every time you try to peel a platano--it ends up looking like a two-inch penis. My cousin the gringa.

ARDI My cousin, la santa Maria. Except saints don’t really talk about penises before noon, right? Or maybe someone’s on your mind this morning?

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ANGELITA Ay, callate! Hey primis, what’s your project on again anyway?

ARDI Marianismo--you know, like the sister of machismo. And Ang’lita, you won’t believe the story I got from Doña Beba down the block!

ANGELITA Let me guess...The reason her grandson’s still alive after the Splish Splash incident is that she prayed. Hard. The santos she summoned saved Argenis from drowning, body and spirit.

ARDI Yeah, but it wasn’t just her praying, cuz! She led these women in all these prayer circles with Virgen de Guadalupe rosary beads— ANGELITA You mean Virgen de la Altagracia. We’re not Mexico.

ARDI Well, yeah—you know what I mean. Anyway, they prayed all together for, like, days and days— while Argenis just lay there in a coma.

ANGELITA Oh, yeah--Tia Carmen was there for one of those prayer sessions at the hospital. She told me that new doctor was like, ‘Everything’s going to be OK.’ And she was like, ‘How can it NOT go well, with a FINE doctor like you?’

ARDI (Shakes her head) Shameless. But anyway, on the fourth day, like a freakin’ miracle, Argenis starts to move and open his eyes. And she’s like, “Ay, Virgen Maria, madre de Dios, the power of prayer’s saved my son.” THAT’S marianismo right there. Freakin’ virtuous women, using their paciencia and fe to raise people up from near death. Lights, action, and call my project DONE. ANGELITA Done.

ARDI (Sucks teeth) All right, I get it. But I wish you would pick up a book sometime, Ang’lita, or freakin’ look around you. Why are all the women we know always working in, and out, of the house?

ANGELITA Maybe cuz we wanted women’s lib? The right to work. And cuz we know how to manage things better than the men of the house.

ARDI But that’s the fallacy they feed us, right? How’s it liberation if we’re doubling our workload, taking care of their stomachs, their dicks, and also busy being career girls? We don’t have time to do anything anymore. Just look at Madrina Maribel--doctor and wife, no life.

ANGELITA Yeah, but lots of women want that kind of life--they like being a mom, wife, and holding down a job at the same time. If that’s the grudge you’ve got on marianismo--that they’re respected for being nurturers--you know, like Virgin Mary?--then I just don’t know about you.

ARDI Ay, whatever. What are you and Isma making for lunch, anyway? It smells like fried cheese.

ANGELITA A pizza. I was just going to make some salami with yucca, but he was like, ‘Oh, let’s give the gringa some of that American pizza she keeps talking about.’ We even tried to get some green pepper and pineapple to make it like the type you say tastes good, but Isma’s dad didn’t have any.

ARDI Damn, you had me salivating.

NARRATOR Ismael steps out from the kitchen with a circular silver steaming pan in his hand.

ISMAEL Nah, Ardi, taste this stuff. It’s AH-MAZING. I mean, it must’ve been a genius who cooked this up, right?

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NARRATOR Angelita back-slaps ISMAEL on the shoulder.

ANGELITA Um, you mean geniuses.

ISMAEL Mi negra, I’m the younger one here, so that makes me the genius.

ANGELITA Shut up! You’re only two years younger.

ARDI Guys, you start eating without me. If I’m going to eat fake Papa John’s Dominican pizza for the first time, I want my pizza done right.

ANGELITA What do you mean?

ARDI (Matter-of-fact) I’m gonna go get my green pepper and my pineapple.

ANGELITA Right now? Well, just check the colmado down the block then, or Carlito’s on that side. But they might not have it—it’s too late.

ARDI Nah, Imma get it somehow. Be right back, cuz.

ANGELITA You’d better. It’s getting dark soon, and you know how Abuela gets-she’s going to lock the whole place down, you in here or not. But I guess we’ll save you a couple slices.

ARDI Ok, lemme just grab some coins—how much do you think green pepper costs?

ANGELITA Mmm, maybe like cinco or siete pesos.

ARDI What about a pineapple?

ANGELITA Like viente y cinco pesos ISMAEL 25? That’s nuts--my Pops gets it for 15 from the other guy just two blocks.

ANGELITA Ugh, ok! Just take cuarenta pesos-NARRATOR That’s 40 pesos, for you non-Spanish speakers out there-ANGELITA ...in case. But don’t let them charge you more than that, just cuz they want to get one over on the gringa. Just go down the block and back, ok?

ARDI Got it, got it.

ANGELITA And you remember our address, right? 177 Ensanchez. You won’t get lost this time?

ARDI I said I got it. Peace.

NARRATOR Ardi yells towards the back of the house, from where we see cigar smoke streaming out from a wall window.

ARDI ‘Cion Abuela!

NARRATOR Lights fade out.

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To read the rest of this piece by Ambar Castillo, please visit: www.laguardia.edu/English/The-Lit/ and click on the ePortfolio website located on the bottom of the page.

Photograph by Allison Minto

“This series is called TENEBRAE which means darkness, obscurity and gloom in Latin. Masks have been around for centuries and they all have different meanings for different cultures. It holds a sense of identity of not knowing who is behind the mask; its quite chilling and it leads to feeling uncomfortable or a bit frightened.

Besides the fact that they are creepy, they also hold a beautiful aspect to them. The more you look at them the more intrigued you become as to what you are looking at. They have a Victorian feel to them, because of the way they are presented, as old and fading, like images from the 1800’s.”

-Maria Hernandez

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The Mollusk I remember being a young man, alive and rambunctious, thriving off the summer heat and

by Kenneth life that brought me to that park in the middle of York City. I remember dusk approaching.

Sousie New I remember the sweat clinging from my back onto

my T-shirt as I walked hand in hand with Lydia, my sweetheart, who was equally young and alive. I remember us soothing the minutes of the moments to make the sunset last as we danced next to middle-aged Puerto Rican men, who while playing the bongos along with the music that crackled out of the AA battery radio, would return the endearing gesture of the moment to us, as if rooting us on and helping us savor and memorialize it. Picture cigarette butts next to liquor bottles in brown paper bags. Picture children chasing soccer balls and people holding melting ice cream cones, people walking their panting dogs, the grinding chain squeaks that come from swings occupied by laughing children being pushed by laughing parents, and people getting up from the grass next to the concrete, getting ready to call it an evening. Imagine the very constructs of heaven existing here on earth, and not only is it here on earth, but it’s in this 10.5 acre park in the corner of Manhattan. Imagine Lydia and I, young and in love, sharing our first blissful kiss in that heaven. Imagine how invincible it made me feel.

I remember this as I take off my wedding ring and hold it in my coat pocket.

Tompkins Square Park in the fall brings a charm that I once lived for. When I was young and alive I found a radiating lifeblood in the cobblestone courtyard that aided my feet, empowering my strides. Today, on this grey October afternoon, with nothing surrounding me but the bristling of dead leaves, undignified wind, and the ambient wall of far off sirens and horns, I sit on the same bench as the Puerto Rican men, now equal in age, in a catatonic state fueled by shame and paranoia.

The wind breezes over where my hair used to be, and I tighten my dark grey wool scarf that rests upon my custom black suit that matches my oxfords. My overcoat does not protect me from thechill of the wind.

I check my gold wrist watch as I hold my ring in my fist. It feels like an anchor. Though I am garmented in clothes that I worked years to achieve, I am nothing but a mollusk: spineless and surviving in a shell.

I hear the scraping of uneven and possibly chipped high heels, louder as they approach me and I know that it’s time for my appointment. She has rough hands that crack and web, holding a cigarette

between her right index and middle fingers. Her perfume is pungent and is more stench than scent. She speaks and her voice is as cracked as her skin. Her blonde hair, bristled from cheap hair dye strings over her heavily covered face. Her thick makeup unevenly tarps over scarred and spotted skin that sinks in and down from her cheekbones, like quickly spread icing over a stale cake. Her rough skin droops down her chest that is covered by a silk nighty that looks like it was just picked up from being crumpled on the floor and put on. This drapes over blue jeans that wrap around her tooth pick legs. She is carrying a small black leather purse. I clench my fist harder around my ring and I greet her.

We walk next to each other through the park over the cobblestone, check for police and enter the public men’s room. The muddy and damp tiles reek of piss, and the unclean stalls and sinks are illuminated by dim fluorescent lighting that brings attention to the scratched graffiti in the mirrors. I hand her three twenty dollar bills, all folded in half, and as she puts the money in her purse, her hand comes out with a pipe and a bag with a crystal substance inside of it. As she goes into one of the bathroom stalls, I go to a mirror and look myself in the eyes. I look at the empty shell that stands in front of me and wonder how he came to be this way. My heart pumps with anticipation as I hear the flicker of a lighter followed by a chemical smell. Self violation, self mutilation, self depreciation - all of these are personality defects, defects that an otherwise smart person would fight against, yet here I am. The well suited man. The facade. The Mollusk. She calls for me and I enter the stall.

As I am penetrating my appointment, I think of Lydia and how much I miss being young and in love. The feeling of being infinite, and the feeling of an endless tomorrow. I should have been careful of what I wished for. I think of Lydia’s youth. Her lips, her laughter, her touch, how I swore that I would be true to her and never leave her side. I think about the Puerto Rican men, the children playing soccer, the people holding ice cream cones, the people and the dogs, the children and parents on the swing sets, the figures of everlasting light and wonder, in Photograph by Kezia Velista

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this moment, bring me nothing but desolation. As I commit the unspeakable in this filth, I begin to weep. Two empty vessels made hollow by time and circumstance, finishing the undignifying act, surrounded still by the stench of piss and buzzing of fluorescent lighting, we fix our clothes, and Lydia and I exit the stall.

As we part ways for the last time, I hold my ring in my fist in my pocket and an overwhelming sense of failure seeps over me. There is nothing more violating than desecrating the grounds that nurtured you when you were once young and good. There is nothing more revolting than turning away from a promise. As the wind hits me and dishevels my clothing I imagine a wildfire brushing against my body and face, whisking away my skin, searing my flesh to my charred skull purging the very essence of my wrong being. I feel the cobblestone beneath my feet for the last time. As I exit the park, I look back and see everyone standing in silence looking at me with soulless blank expressions. I have failed them. I have turned my memories into ghosts. Goodbye Lydia.

I’m so sorry.

Forbidden New York City by Doris Sayos

Chewin’ Gum by Shannon Williams

“What you in for, kid?” A girl in an orange jumpsuit, matching mine asks me from the top of the bed bunk. Her hair is long, blonde and spills over the edge of the bed like orange juice. She’s looking down at me, waiting for her answer, and her green eyes are searching mine. She reminds me of Rapunzel. I put down my pillow and my clean sheet on the empty bottom bunk.

“Well, kid?”

I look up and she’s now chewing bubblegum. The blue balloon expands then pops before shrinking back into her mouth. I didn’t know juvie could allow gum.

“Quit calling me kid, I’m 11.” I finish spreading the sheets over my bunk of the bed. “Plus, you’re a kid yourself.” I look down from her eyes. I can only hear the smacking and popping of her blue bubblegum.

“Well. If you wanted me to call you by your name, all you had to do was say it. Sheesh…”

Great, now I kind of feel bad. “Um,” I say as I take my fat braid in my hand and twist the curls tied in bobbles at the end. “My name’s Makena. What’s yours?” I wait for her to answer. I see the blur of yellow and orange before I even hear feet hit the ground..

The blonde girl’s standing in front of me and her arms are crossed. I look to my left. The small ladders at the end of the bed bunk and she jumped. “I’m Skyler.” She extends her hand. I take it and we shake. “It’s nice to meet you, Makena.”

I see her face also has freckles. I’m sure she didn’t mean it, but she has a mean glare to her look. I better be nice if I’m going to be stuck with her for a roommate.

“You too..?” Skyler looks me up and down. “11, huh? I’m 14.

You’re pretty tall for your age, aren’t ya?”

Three years older then me and I tower over her, but that doesn’t seem to bother her. She doesn’t look surprised like girls do or annoyed like most boys do when they realize that I’m taller than them at such a young age. Skyler seems bored- very, very bored. And because I have

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nothing better to do, I ease out the creases on the cover of my pillowcase. “What are you in for?” I ask Skyler.

She just eyes me smacking and popping. “I don’t think I’ll tell until you tell me yours,” she says to me.

“Oh you.”

“Newbies first.”

I raise an eyebrow at that comment and Skyler puts up her hands defensively. “When you’ve got 7 years to life…” she drops them and shrugs, “things do get boring around here. Plus, you’re my roommatewhich means you’ve became my friend by default.” She plops next to me on my bunk. “Now, spill.”

I sigh heavily. “Skyler, you might not like me after this,” I warn her.

“You don’t know that.” She’s now half lying, half sitting on my bed, making herself comfortable. I see this isn’t going to go anywhere.

“In the beginning, it was just me and my mother. I went to school, Mummy went to work and she’d be there an hour later after I came from school. Then we’d make dinner, Mummy would help me with my homework and after we’d play chess-”

“Wait, wait!” Skyler sits up, and cuts me off from my story. “You play chess?” she asks.

“Um… yes, is that bad?”

“Oh, no, not bad. It’s just such a geek thing!”

I chuckle at that comment, glad that she changed the subject.

Until she stares at me blankly. “What is it?” I ask.

“Oh, nothing,” Skyler says. “Just wanted to go back to your story.”

Drats…

“Like I said, we played chess after dinner. At first I hated chess, but Mummy said chess is good for the mind, that it would make me smarter. She said that I’d come to like it. I don’t know about the smarter part, but she was right about the other thing- I did come to like chess so much that I carried my own set with me. Anyway, it was just me and Mummy, the two of us in our small apartment. It wasn’t much but I liked it, I liked the way we used to be. Until one day, Mummy brought home Pete a tall man with a sense of humor. Which was good because I’m not very good at jokes. Pete always made Mummy laugh and I’ve never heard Mummy laugh so much until I realized she loved to laugh. Oh, and Pete-”

“Get this,” I say to Skyler, cutting off my own story, “Pete was white.”

Skyler looks up at me from my bed, still half lying/sitting. “So?” Another pop and smack. “You’re black like dark chocolate, I’m white like vanilla cake, this is an orange jumpsuit I’m wearing, the sky is blue. What else?”

I laugh, it was small and felt strange to me, maybe because I haven’t laughed in so long. I stop as quickly as I started and clear my throat. “What I meant was… since we lived in a good neighbourhood and Mummy and I were the only…” I trail off when I catch Skyler’s eye, realizing she might not care about any of those things. “Nevermind,” I tell her and continue on.

“This man, Pete, started to come home more often and before I knew it- Mummy and I went from just being me and Mummy to me, Mummy and Pete. As the first few months went by, I noticed that Mummy looked sad. Not a sad kind of sad, but more of a tired kind of sad. She kept rubbing her tummy. My Mummy was very tall and skinny, like me.

“You look like a copy of your mother,” people would tell me whenever we went out together. Teachers said the same at PTA meetings. So, four or three weeks later, my Mummy was real sick - she couldn’t eat and kept rushing to the bathroom. We couldn’t make dinner together after school during that time because she was real sick and told me the smell made her nauseous. At that time I didn’t know the word. “It means it makes me want to vomit, Makena. That’s what nauseous means.” That’s how I learned the word.

“I was maybe nine when Mummy’s belly got a little swollen. At the time I thought she was really sick. I didn’t see Pete around so much.

“He’s working Makena,” Mummy would tell me with a pat on my head. I didn’t care much for Pete, he barely paid attention to me and I only liked it when he was there because he made Mummy laugh. One night, I was sleeping and got thirsty. So of course, I went for a glass of water and heard shouts from the end of the hall. Mummy’s room was there and I thought something was wrong, so I went. I peeked through the crack of Mummy’s open door and saw Pete. You have to understand this, I was sleepy and I still hadn’t gotten my water. I get so cranky when I’m tired, it’s bad because I become groggy and I don’t remember stuff.

But this I remember because it was loud and there were words that Mummy told me not to repeat or I might not have a good chance getting into heaven. The funny thing was, I’m pretty sure I heard Mummy use those words too. Hands were moving all over the place. The rest was

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a blur, but I remember Mummy grabbed Pete or Pete grabbed Mummy.

Either way, Mummy fell and Pete headed towards the door. He caught sight of me before I had any chance to hide. I heard Mummy cry, I know Pete heard her too, but if he pretended not to, he was good at it. He dug his hands into his pockets and took out some junk: crumpled dollars, a small square plastic with a circular shape on top, keys and ginger candy.”

“Wait, wait,” Skyler interrupts, sitting up. “What square plastic thingy?” she asks and I take the time to explain the thing to her. “Oooh,” Skyler says quietly, “I’m sure that’s a condom.”

“What’s a condom?” I ask.

Skyler pauses. “Nevermind,” she tells me, “I’ll explain to you later about the birds and the bees after your story.”

I tell her okay.

“Pete took the candy and handed it to me. I threw the candy at him and it hit his forehead- I felt good about it because one, I hate ginger and two, he made Mummy cry. He left and I went inside, and Mummy was bleeding. Blood trailed down her knees and dripped onto the carpet where she kneeled. I remember that I saw a situation like this once on telly. I picked up Mummy’s phone by the nightstand and dialed 911. A couple of months later, I became 10. Mummy’s all better and her belly isn’t so swollen anymore. Pete’s back and Mummy’s laughing again.

The weird thing was that Pete paid more attention to me than he usually did. I didn’t know how to feel about that so I went on as usual. Three more months and Pete started staying overnight more and more. We were back to being me, Mummy and Pete, the only thing new about this were the purple spots on Mummy’s arms. They were the size of my open hand and whenever I asked, Mummy would just tell me not to worry about it.

“Spring went by and it was summer then. Mummy and Pete kept shouting at one another. I was hot and deaf to their shouts, and just wanted Mummy to take me to the park so we could maybe play with the sprinklers like we used to. A door slammed and Pete walked to the couch where I sat watching cartoons with the fan blowing in my face. “You want to go somewhere, kid?” Pete asked me. At that time I thought he was talking about the park because it was so hot. I was sweaty in my loose T-shirt and shorts so I said okay and went along with him. Pete had a blue car- I like blue and he let me sit in the passenger seat up front with him.

During the drive, Pete put his arm on my thigh and asked, “How old are you, kid?” I told him I’m almost 11 and his hand slid off my thigh. “11, huh?”

he said, almost a question but I wasn’t sure if he asked me because it looked as if he spoke to himself.

But I said yes anyway and he drove in silence up till we reached a red light and his hand went up my thigh, almost touching my shorts.

Even with the AC in the car I wasn’t so hot anymore, but Pete’s hand was hot and sweaty on my thigh. I brushed it off, feeling icky.

After a couple of minutes, Pete parked in front of a tree with shade and unbuckled his seatbelt. He took my hand and put it on the upper part of his thigh. I felt something through his pants, it was bulky and hot and it felt alive. I swore it even moved.”

I pause and glance sideways at Skyler. I swore she would cut in the middle of my story and ask me or say something, but she stayed quiet. She didn’t seem bored anymore, but she didn’t look so happy either.

“I jerked my hand away, but Pete grabbed my arm before I had the chance to do anything. Pete then unbuckled my seatbelt and pulled me with him into the back seat. There, he laid himself on top of me and he tore my T-shirt. It was my favourite T-Shirt, my Mummy took the time from work to take me on a two-day trip to Disneyland and bought it there. She bought it in medium, and even though it barely went over my navel since I grew at 9 and continued growing into 10, I still wore it. And he tore it, Pete tore my favourite shirt, he tore the shirt that my Mummy Custom Illustration by Diana Sadova

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had used the time she didn’t usually have to buy it for me in Disneyland during those two days. His hand was over my breast and he squeezed it.

It hurt, but no matter how hard I pushed, he wouldn’t get off me. It was like Pete suddenly became a Pete-sized sack of potatoes. I could feel him pull off my shorts and my panties. He pulled down his own pants and laid on me. I tried opening the car door, but it was locked. Then something wet and hot was suddenly between my legs. I kicked, I screamed and I even bit him. Pete, he pushed, he pushed so hard inside me and it hurt. I cried - I don’t normally cry. Mummy liked that about me because I wasn’t the type of daughter who cried over silly things, she told me. But that time I cried, because it hurt so bad. He pushed and pushed inside me until he made a strange noise and I felt his body relax. Then he finally got off me. “Stay here kid,” Pete told me and I watched him step out of the car though the driver’s side door. He walked to the tree to pee. I was still crying but then I thought, is this what he does to Mummy? Is this why Mummy always cries every time they argue? I stopped crying and got angry. I got so angry I didn’t know what I was doing, but I… I went in the driver’s seat, closed the door quietly and I saw the keys Pete left in so I turned the car on and I hit one of the pedals.”

I stay quiet for a while, without realizing that Skylar is rubbing my back.

“It’s okay if you don’t want to finish it,” she says and opens a new pack of gum.

I thought she was going to start on a new piece, but she hands it to me instead and I take it. I chew the gum, giving myself a couple of minutes before blowing a bubble.

“I hit the pedal and the car, it went. It zoomed towards the tree where Pete was and he…” I clear my throat, “H-he… He…”

“You really don’t have to finish it, you know,” Skyler tells me, still rubbing my back.

After giving me time to get myself together, I face Skyler and ask her, “What are you in for?”

“Oh, you know- the usual.”

Photograph by David Herrera

John Doe by Diana Sadova

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Eight

by Will Rodriguez

In this desert town, trouble had affected its inhabitants. They tended to be quiet about the affairs that hit their town. Yet, one of them let her voice be heard. She was an older woman who ran a tiny food shop. She had slight wrinkles on her youthful looking face and placed her neatly braided hair over her right shoulder.

She started her day at the first ray of light. Age never affected her body.

Her routine was a simple one. The usual get up from bed, wash up, get dressed, eat something, and begin her day. She only interrupted it to stare off past the town into the distance of golden sand. She waited for a presence, a princess eager for a prince to come. Not seeing anything off in that distance, she clutched her chest. She soldiered through the days, marching hour by hour in the grueling heat. Even when no one had come to her shop, she still had the doors open to welcome any lost soul.

One day, on a brand new day, she saw a sight she thought she would never see. Into her shop came a man with long brown hair tied back in a ponytail. His uneven bangs stopped at his eyebrows. They did not hide his sharp green eyes, his fair skin unchanged by the sun as if he hid underground and only came up for air. Next to him was a small figure. Nothing but a nose and a mouth showed as the figure was cloaked from head to toe. She thought about how she was going to speak with the man as she only knew Arabic. Nonetheless, she initiated the conversation.

“Hello, is there anything you would like?” she asked. She felt that she should have waited for him to speak first.

The man looked at her and spoke in Arabic, “Anything you would like to serve, ma’am.”

To her surprise, it felt as if she was talking to a long lost relative with how he spoke in Arabic. “Okay, I’ll have a meal ready quickly. Anything for your companion?” She eyeballed the small figure.

The man turned to ask the small figure, “Are you hungry?” He spoke in English without a hint of an accent. The small figure wiggled in the chair and began biting its lower lip. The man turned to the woman.

“Just make a smaller plate of what you’ll make for me,” he told the woman.

“You speak Arabic very well. Especially for a man with your looks,” she mentioned as she cooked.

“Ah, well, my parents come from these lands. My mother was born in the holy city of Saramecadia. My father was born in a town like this. After meeting and cementing their love, they left this country. My name is Jarick, by the way,” he replied.

“Jarick? Interesting name. Mine is Nuha,” the older woman said.

“Nice to meet you, wise one,” Jarick said.

“Heh, I’m no wise one,” Nuha replied.

After a few minutes, they were given their plates. The small figure took cautious bites from the plate. Jarick silently ate but spotted a picture of two people- a boy and a girl. “Your children?” Jarick said, pointing at the photo.

“They were my children,” Nuha answered with agitation.

“Something happened?” he asked.

“They were taken from me,” she said, “by a group that promises false peace. My daughter, Nazli, was forcefully taken from here.

As were many other children from this town. My son, Haidar, became brainwashed by that terrible group and joined it. I used to pray for their return back to me but I feel it is too late. They’re never coming back.”

“Hmm, and with the latest attack in the holy city of Urusalima, the terror cell known as Bright Freedom, took responsibility for the attack. Is this the same group that came here?” Jarick curiously asked.

“Yes, that group has my children. I want them back so bad!”

Nuha said.

“I don’t see anything wrong with praying for their return,” he encouraged.

“Do prayers really bring people back?” she asked.

“Don’t know. Guess it depends on who or what you are praying to,” Jarick responded as he took a sip from the drink Nuha poured for him. “But say you get them back. Would they be the people from when they were taken from you?” Nuha looked at him then to the photo. “I can only hope,” she paused and breathed in, “that they come back the same.”

“I see. Thank you for the food.” Jarick stood up and placed a big pile of riyals on the counter. “This is for your troubles.”

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“Oh, thank you!” Nuha sluggishly said as the act surprised her.

Then she remembered something. “Wait!” she called out.

Jarick stopped at the threshold of the door and turn to her.

“Yes?” he said.

“What is an honorable act to you?” she questioned him.

“When something doesn’t go against my belief,” he answered quickly.

“So tell me, how is the act of sitting in an ivory tower while you watch your men blow themselves up deemed honorable?” Nuha asked.

“Hmm, good point,” Jarick said as he tilted his head, “but there is no right answer to a person’s opinions. As with the rest of the world, what one person may perceive honorable, another would see a dishonorable act.”

Nuha took in his words and said nothing in return. She just watched as Jarick and the small figure left her shop. She absorbed all that was said in the shop today. “So what am I to believe then?” she asked herself. Nuha started to close up her shop for the day. She paused think about the conversation. Upon going home, Nuha was approached by a fellow townsperson.

“So speaking to an outsider about what’s going on around here, huh?” they muttered.

“What does it matter to you?” Nuha questioned.

“It matters cause it’s our problem, not an outsider’s. So why did you speak to him?” they interrogated.

“Because at least he listened!” she said walking past the townsperson to get to the door of her home.

“Because he listened?! But-”

Nuha shut the door to her home, cutting the townsperson off.

She looked around the lifeless abode. She quietly walked to her room to prepare for the next day, as she would be heading to the holy city of Saramecadia.

The holy city of Saramecadia was such a lovely site. It looked pristine as there was no dust or grime to be seen. On the outside that is.

The inside was much different as it was run by those that do not give a damn about why the city was built. Its purpose was to preserve and provide sanctuary to the religion its founder had started. But to those who now run the city, it was merely a tool for them to destroy parts of the city along with sacred artifacts without a care in the world.

Nuha had to go to the hospital in the holy city as it was the closest medical center to her town. She waited in the lobby which was quite enormous with a glass ceiling at the top. You could see the elevators go up and down all ten floors as the glass was wrapped around them. As Nuha marveled at the sheer sight of this building, she heard a crash followed by screams. She looked towards the direction from where the screams were coming from only to see a group of men armed with guns and explosives pouring into the building. The men rounded everyone into the lobby quickly and forced them to sit or kneel on their knees. Then one of the armed men lifted his hand. He started to say a prayer that Nuha knew all too well. It was the prayer of the terrorist group, Bright Freedom.

“I call up to the skies, to the only one I will obey, My god…” the man was saying.

Nuha could not believe it. She could not believe that she too would be taken by the group that ruined her family. She dropped to her knees in shock. She held her breath as she watched the man speak the words that death would follow dutifully.

Suddenly, there was another crashing sound. This time it came from the breaking glass above them. Before Nuha or the men could look up, something dropped on the man speaking with a loud thud.

That something was a someone. The person that dropped was no bigger than a child with the hair color of blue cotton candy and a black dress with frills that looked similar to a maid’s uniform. Time stood still in Nuha’s eyes as the young girl looked up with irises the color of rubies.

The girl pulled out the kukris that were embedded in the man she landed on. She quickly cut down another man that was nearby her landing. She sliced him limb from limb with the speed and precision that would make butchers jealous. The man could not scream by the time he realized what happened as his head hit the floor faster than his body. The other men finally started to shoot at the young girl. She twirled from man to man in a dance of blood and sparks. She had so much command of her blades that it seemed that they were meant to protect from bullets. As she cut down the last man in her sight, another one started to flee from the bloody scene. Spotting him, the girl threw her kukri with such power and accuracy that the blade almost went through his body.

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Nuha noticed another man starting to get up. Though his body was cut up and bleeding, he took out his knife. Instead of going for the young girl, he started to charge towards Nuha and those around her.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

With a bullet to the back of his head and two in his back, the man went down. After ducking to protect from the bullets, Nuha looked up and saw Jarick walking towards her while putting away the gun he just used. He then kneeled beside her as he pulled out a necklace.

“That necklace!” Nuha gasped with her eyes widening.

“Belonged to your son,” Jarick said. “The truth about the attack in Urusalima is that he didn’t do it. He couldn’t go through with blowing himself up. The group knew of this. So he was shot in the back by one of the other members. When I got to him, he was barely alive. He told me to give this to you, where to find you, and to give you his final message.”

Jarick then handed the necklace over.

Nearby, the young girl was cutting open the bodies of the dead men when she glanced over to Jarick. He nodded to her and she started walking towards them. She twirled one of her kukris to chop off a hand from one dead man. Folding his fingers and using his index finger, she wrote the message using the blood of her victim. When Nuha saw the poorly written Arabic message, she started to weep.

“Who are you two?” Nuha asked.

“Dwellers of darkness,” Jarick answered. “I’m not as special as her though. But in our world, there are no gods or god. There are no religions. There are no philosophies. There are no ideologies. There are no nations. There are no states. There are no cities. There are no governments, laws, or police. There are no rich or poor. There is nothing to hide behind. In this world, there is only blade and blood. All are guilty, none are innocent in this world. For this, our world is shrouded in darkness. If an inhabitant of this dark world tries to hide in the light, they will be hunted to be returned to the world they belong to. Once born into this world, forever bound to it. It will never hide from you till your blood is fully returned to it. This is the ultimate agreement that is made to this world of darkness.”

Nuha saw the sadness in his green eyes as he looked over to the young girl who was looking out into the city. “You were hunting for someone?” Nuha spoke softly.

“That’s correct. Someone in the terror group. But your son wasn’t the target that we were looking for.”

The girl turned toward Jarick and tugged at his shirt. She pointed to the flashing lights outside.

“Hmm, looks like we got to go. See you around and take care, Nuha.” Jarick bid his goodbye as he left with the girl.

The police came in, closed off the area, and questioned those that were not being treated by doctors. Nuha answered the questions as best she could and then went home. She could not believe what had just happened. From what Nuha overheard from the police, no one else would have believed what had happened either. A girl with a look of a doll jumped from the fifth floor of a building and killed grown men with relative ease but had an elegance in how she moved around them without a spot of blood on her. A desert rose whose stem is black with blue petals. A rare sight to behold.

As she got closer to town, Nuha noticed that a large crowd was in the center of town. From the cheers, it sounded as if a celebration had commenced. Nuha walked through the crowd and saw an elegant coffin with beautiful etchings in gold. But before she knew it, a wonderful change happened.

“MOM!” a voice called out.

Nuha’s ears caught the word so clearly that it was the only yell she could hear above all the noise. A voice she knew so well. A voice that had bought in new light to her life. “NAZLI?!” Nuha yelled back toward the direction of the voice.

Soon a young girl was running toward Nuha and embraced her tenderly.

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Painting by Jennifer Cabal

“Nazli! Nazli!” Nuha shouted as she held her daughter. “I never thought I’d ever get to see you again. If you’re back, then that means everyone else is too, but what’s with the coffin?” Nazli looked at Nuha then slowly to the coffin. She then put her hand on an engraving that had a phrase on it. Nuha looked at the phrase. It read: “Within here, rests a noble lion”

“Haidar,” Nazli paused for a brief moment, “he was smuggling those that were forcefully taken from our homes. He joined to save me but ended up saving a lot more lives. He ran into trouble one time but we ran into the drifter and his desert rose.”

Nuha smiled and said, “I see. I’m sure they know I owe them my thanks but I think they would want me to celebrate what my son, Haidar, has done for us.” She hugged Nazli as she placed her hand on Haidar’s coffin.

Watching from afar, Jarick was pleased with the results. The young girl was drawing in the sand. Then his cell phone rang. “Jarick speaking,” he answered.

“Heh, no need to be formal. Enjoying your stay though? Sorry to bust your bubble but I’ll be needing you back here. Oh, did you get me a nice souvenir? A nice silk dress?” the voice said.

“Yes, I did, Kleio. I couldn’t leave out my boss. We’ll be back home soon.”

“Don’t keep me waiting. I expect to see you and that killing machine within two days.” There was a beep as she hung up.

“She’s stupid! And she stinks!” the young girl yelled.

Jarick looked at her as she drew. The pictures were of stick figures as using one of her kukris was making her do awkward hand movements.

“She’s our boss. We can’t go against her orders or else we can’t go anywhere but where she wants us. The others are coming too. Let’s go beat them there first to get on Kleio’s good side. I’ll buy you an ice cream.”

“Really?!” The girl jumped up and put away her kukri. She turned to look at Jarick. “Jarry?”

“Hm? What is the matter?” he replied looking back at her.

“Was Eight a very good girl?” She smiled with glee.

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The Isolated Rose God by Faiza Hussain

Most of my life has revolved around war.

Though when I was young, I was too naïve to notice. When I was scared and fearing for my life, longing for that time I would repeat in my head, “I am Arya… Arya is who I am now.”

I can barely remember the name I was born with. I would laugh thinking about how sad it was that I almost forgot my name from lack of use. But please remember it well for me as I am unsure if I will remember it later. The name Young-Soo.

For me everything changed in my own home. Back then I was the proud eldest child to the lords of the Flame and Aero Harminis. The elder sister to my three younger siblings. It was me and my two younger brothers and my youngest sister. Our home was large with many people living and serving our family. Our caretakers were often too busy trying to deal with us to worry about what was going on. Maybe it would have been better if our home wasn’t on the ground, but mother loved being close to the volcanos. It was good for her skin she claimed. “It would be a crime to take a Flame Harmini from a volcano,” she proudly shouted often. My father didn’t mind much as long as he had open space to float about.

My siblings and I often followed my mother in her journeys. She taught us about the mineral and how to pick them near the volcano and how to handle the heat. Soon it became second nature to play in the lava and be near the warm heat. My father, on the other hand, taught us to use the air to float and purify the air around us. He was always so relaxed around the air, never grounded. It took a while, but that too became second nature. Sadly, all those fond memories became overshadowed by one memory.

I remember playing with my siblings when my mother rushed into our room. It was the first time I saw my mother in such a fashion.

Her clothing was a mess. Her hair wasn’t in her usual tied up manner; it was all over the place. She quickly told our caretakers to pick my baby sister up without waking her and grab my youngest brother. He was only six at the time, so he couldn’t understand completely what was happening. He just grabbed my hand. My mother grabbed mine and my other brother’s hand. She rushed us towards one of the rooms located in the back of the house. She shoved us into this small hidden vent.

“Mom, why are we are here?” I asked her as she attempted to leave.

“…Honey, I want you to understand this, something happened and we need you to stay here and hide like the games you like to play, but this time no matter what happens, if it’s not mommy or daddy, you are not to get out from here. If we don’t come, I want you to take your siblings and run. Run as far away as possible. I am counting on you as the eldest. I love you.” She told me all this before moving the furniture in front of the vent.

Time passed, I covered my ears as the noises began. I could hear the terrifying screams of the people outside of the vent. An unpleasant smell entered my nose. I whispered over and over, “Make it stop.”

I knew when the noise started that this wasn’t a game. The game was to make sure that my two youngest siblings would be quiet. I held my breath when I heard a stomp. I was thankful that we weren’t noticed. The sounds of long banging continued, the screams kept going on and on. I tried to make sure that my siblings were still here. I was too afraid to get out and check. It was then that my younger brother had gotten angry. I should have stopped him before he rushed out of the vent and left.

Eventually I forced my body to move. I was shaking as I placed my sister next to my youngest brother. I gave him some of the candy I had stuffed in my pocket. I managed to convince them to stay in the

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vent with promises of more treats. I felt like vomiting the moment I got out of the room. Corpses of the people who live in my home were lying on the ground. I walked carefully. I felt like screaming when I stepped in a puddle of blood. I put my hand over my mouth to make sure I wasn’t heard. Finally I heard my little brother’s voice. I saw him crouched next to two bodies. I let out a cry, the bodies of our parents were still and unmoving. Their eyes and mouths were both wide open.

Our cries alerted the intruders of our presence. I whispered for my brother to come. When I heard the footsteps I did the only thing I could think of. I hid. I kept my hand over my mouth to prevent any noise. The smell was burned into my nose as I hid under the pile. The blood pooled and dropped onto my head. The bodies were crushing me, but in my attempt to be safe I stayed under the corpses. I peeked under the body. My little brother looked scared. He was shaking and before he even got a single word out, a large bang happened. My ears stung so badly from the sound. The sound happened several times. I saw him fall to the ground and all I could hear was their laughter at the gruesome scene. I got out from my hiding spot and shook his body. I remember shouting for him to wake up, until my caretaker stopped me, even though I knew that it was pointless. I remembered my mother’s final words: “to take care of my remaining family. To run and to never look back.” And so I did just that. Only when I was outside did I take one last look at home. My little brother’s screams for our family were the final thing I heard.

Global Warming by Cindy Sanchez

Happiest Day of My Life

by Jamel Stallings

The morning of April 1st was clear and sunny, with the fresh cool breeze of a full spring day. The flowers were blooming profusely and the grass was healthy green. Large towering trees that were tall enough to block out the sun surrounded the small man-made cabin. Perched atop the cabin was a young 25 year old named Jack. In one hand was a half chewed bagel and a cup of coffee in the other. The calm weather was a fresh change after months of ridiculous blizzards and rain that made it difficult to hunt for food. Jack took this opportunity to soak it all in. He hopped off the roof, cautious enough that not a single chunk of his bagel fell and not a drop of his coffee spilled as he walked inside his cabin.

Though the cabin resembled every other cabin, this one was special. Jack built this one cabin all by himself; it took him almost three years to do so. Every time he entered it, a great feeling of accomplishment greeted him. Inside was a bedroom and a kitchen all in one, with a medium size bed sitting near the only window of the cabin. There was a dresser with a small squared TV sitting on top and the kitchen counter several inches away with shelves full of cereals, a small fridge and a bunch of kitchen utensils.

“Home sweet home!” Jack yelled out loud as he slumped onto his bed and continued his meal. Everything was quiet; a soothing peace that gave Jack the opportunity to soak in the happiness in his life. That peace came to an abrupt end when moans and groans emerged from under the bed, reminding Jack that his lunch and dinner was down in the pit.

“He’s up early.” Jack grumbled, “I should introduce myself.”

Jack kipped up from his bed and dragged it across the floor, revealing a metal hatch. With ease he pulled the hatch open and stepped into the dark pit.

5 minutes earlier

It was pitch dark and frigid. Bob awoke to find himself cold, quivering and restrained to a chair. Bob grunted, struggling to break free but there was this sharp pain in his gut that immobilized him. Of course, questions ran amok in Bob’s mind. “Where was I? How did I get here? What’s happening to me?!” Bob was panicking so frantically to

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the point where it wasn’t the cold that was making him shake so violently, it was fear.

“Help-” Bob quickly cut himself off, realizing the possibility that no one but the abductor who brought him here would hear him.

There was a loud squeak and soft shades of light beamed into the room, lighting up most of the dark place but not enough to see the entire surrounding.

“You’re up early,” said a voice. Jack casually walked down the steps and revealed himself to Bob with a wide unsettling grin that stretched to the corners of his lips and bared his teeth.

“Hello, I’m Jack,” he said.

Bob’s face was nearly frosted, his lips blistered and his skin pale.

He kept his mouth shut, trying to disguise fear with intimidation but Jack wasn’t affected.

“Alright, forget manners,” Jack huffed. He closed the hatch, the room returning to darkness for a brief moment before Jack clicked on the lights and revealed the dwelling horrors of the pit. A collection of jars filled with water containing human limbs and eyes were lined up on shelves around the room like trophies. Intestines, fingers, livers, hearts, and chunks of flesh were floating in the water but the nightmare didn’t end there!

The horror continued to spread in the form of lined desks that stood on one side of the pit with a dozen of decaying, withering heads of past victims. Their skins were nearly peeled off their cheeks and all of them wore horrors on their faces; wide eyes and wide jaws. Some had black holes in their orbits as if their eyes were gouged out. Jack grinned from ear to ear, praising two years of his own work.

“Like what you see?”

Bob lost it. No longer masking his fears he screamed for help, rattled and thrashed around but his little strength could not break him out of the tight restraints and the sharp cold kept him trapped.

“L-l-let me go!” he wailed. His lips shuddered. “Please!”

Jack shook his head and reached into Bob’s pockets for his wallet.

“I can’t. You’re my lunch and dinner.”

Bob gulped. “W-what?”

Jack looked into the wallet and pulled out Bob’s ID. “Bob Duke?”

Jack scoffed. “Weird name, but simple.”

“W-what do you want from me?!” Bob asked with fear.

Jack ignored him and stuffed the wallet into his pockets. He walked to one of the desks whistling a soft tune. He pulled a drawer and began digging around for something and immediately Bob was struck by this ominous sensation.

Sure enough, Jack dragged out a large butcher knife, hammer and a bunch of smaller tools each with their own function. Jack went to the back with the butcher knife in his hand, switched off the air conditioner and turned on the heater. As he would come back, the sound of the butcher knife scraping across the desks.

Photograph by Lauren Auerbach

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“I apologize for freezing you like that,” Jack said. “I was hoping you’d be sedated enough to wake up in a warmer setting like the oven, or sedated long enough to spare you the long excruciating pain that’s about to begin in a few moments.”

Bob’s heart was pounding against his chest, his face warming up from the heat and he mustered the courage to try another attempt at breaking out but Jack tightened the restraints immediately.

“You ain’t goin nowhere, boy!” Jack cackled. “Like I said before, you’re my meal for the day.”

He stroked his fingers across the tools he laid out earlier, dancing his fingers around them while mumbling phrases.

“Meenie.” He slid his finger across the wooden shaft of the hammer and teased to use it, much to Bob’s horror but Jack turned his attention to the butcher knife.

“Miny.” He began to pick up the large bloodstained knife but frowned, remembering how many times he had used it on the others and decided other tools needed his affection more.

Making a decision he slammed his hand on the pliers and with a smile, he confirmed his decision with one more word. “Moe.”

Bob tried to speak but Jack, like the predator he is, struck his prey by jamming the pliers into Bob’s mouth. He clutched the front tooth and with a vicious pull, Jack yanked the tooth. Blood exploded out of Bob’s toothless gum and splattered across Jack’s grinning face.

Bob howled in agony, thrashing once more and his shrills sent chills down Jack’s spine.

“OH YES! Scream some more!”

With excitement and pleasure rushing through him, Jack went for another tooth, this time at the bottom. Bob couldn’t speak but his eyes screamed “NO! PLEASE!”, but this thrilled Jack. He jerked another tooth from Bob’s jaw, a violent stream of blood erupting from his gums.

Jack paused his torture and gazed into Bob’s terrified eyes, with a grin stretched from ear to ear, clearly enjoying every moment of this.

“I have a question,” Jack said. “When you pull a fish out of water,

what do you think it’s more worried about, breathing or dying?”

Whimpering like a frightened pup, Bob said nothing.

“I don’t know the answer to that,” Jack quipped, “but what are you worried about, dying or the fact that your close friends and family will never know what happened to you?”

Craving the need to see more blood, Jack latched the plier back up on another one of Bob’s front teeth but Bob quickly acted on instinct and rammed his head against Jack’s face, forcing him back. Bob attempted to maneuver out of the chair again, this time he hopped and forced his weight on the legs of the chair, smashing it into splinters.

“Son of a bitch!” Jack roared, streaks of blood trickling across his face. “I’m going to eat you alive!”

Bob shook the restraints off his wrists but Jack quickly pounced on him, snapping at his face while Bob struggled to keep him away.

“Instead of a barbeque,” Jack huffed, “it’ll be a BOB-BQ!” A burst of laughter emerged soon after, snickering at his own sick joke.

Bob reached for the sharp broken wood of the chair and rammed it against Jack’s skull! It would have nearly impaled Jack, had Bob had the guts to kill but it was enough to get him off. Bob reached the stairs and quickly crawled up into the light but Jack’s hand emerged from the darkness and grabbed Bob’s feet.

“I ain’t letting you go that easy!” Jack howled, wearing a crimson mask that dripped from his chin while pieces of wood stuck out of his head.

Bob kicked at his bloody face but Jack’s incredible strength dragged him back down into the pit. Bob hollered, kicking and swinging his fist against Jack as he pulled him closer to the pit.

“NO! NOOO!”

Bob’s screams and bloodcurdling wails reached animals nearby, scaring them away.

“Forget a BobBQ, I’ll just eat you raw!”

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Jack snapped at Bob’s ear and tore it off from the flesh before digging back into the wound, gnawing and chewing what was left of him.

Bob cried in agony. His high pitched shrills echoed across the pit and blood splattered everywhere. Bob could feel the pain getting more intense, his eyes began to film over, his heart pounded wildly against his chest, the strength and will to fight back faded away but the sudden adrenaline kicked in and Bob decided that he wouldn’t go down without a fight.

“NO!”

Bob squeezed his thumbs into Jack’s eyes, his nails piercing through the pupils but digging deeper. Jack jerked his head back, roaring and squirming with a chewed up ear jumping out of his mouth and Bob kicked him off before running back out of the pit. Bob charged through the front door and scurried into the woods but from the cabin Jack vowed to get his hands on him.

“NO ONE ESCAPES FROM ME! NO ONE! I WILL FIND YOU!”

After hours trekking through the woods, leaving a trail of blood in his path and growing weaker, Bob finally arrived at the highway, and collapsed.

Eventually someone discovered Bob’s lifeless body across the pavement and drove him to the ambulance. Bob awoke in the hospital, greeted by officers who he told about Jack and his collection of limbs, the pit and the traumatic torture he put him through. The officers searched for Jack through the woods but all they found was the cabin doused in flames.

Two months had passed since the horrifying incident. Bob was resting in his small house in New Jersey. He felt safe and secured as he had just finished weeks of counseling, his ear still bandaged up was healing well and he was greeted warmly by his friends and family.

Though the incident haunted him, the feeling of safety and hope assured Bob that everything would be fully back to normal.

Ding

Bob jumped, startled by the bell but calmed down quickly.

“Stop being a little bitch,” he said to himself, “it’s just the bell.”

He went downstairs to the door and opened it, but no one was there.

“Hello? Anybody there?”

No answer.

Bob’s eye caught something bright white. He looked down and saw an envelope on his rug. He picked it up and opened it. There was a black Hallmark card with large bold letters across the front.

I FOUND YOU, OLD FRIEND!

The warm summer breeze stopped and Bob paused for a moment, a strong dark feeling tugged at his guts. Bob’s hands shook as he opened the card and a blink later he froze; his heart dropped and the uncontrollable fear he felt before returned to him. Inside the card was a chewed ear and several teeth in a small bag. Next to them were large red letters that read, YOU’VE BEEN INVITED TO JACK’S BOB-BQ!

Just before Bob could run, a hand grabbed his mouth and yanked him back into the house.

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Inescapable The day we broke into those jagged edges of anger and doubt, we stared at each other with We by quick darted eyes, summing up each other’s parts, two cowboys ready to pull a gun. I had felt a Carolina like fear rise up deep inside me because I knew that the next words would change everything. Yet, Varela

my eyes still looked at him with trepidation as he said, “We need space.” Really though, space had become a euphemism for, “I can no longer can stand to be near you.” Oh, but I know what he truly wanted to say, he was just scared is all. He meant to say, “I’m afraid, I’ve never loved anyone the way I loved you.” That’s what he meant. I swear by it. And well, I was just trying to help him say it. I thought maybe his mouth needed to be a bit wider, and when that didn’t work, well I thought his brain must be keeping all of those secrets from me. See, we always played this little game of guess who. How was I supposed to know?

How could he not have loved me? I was just a little bit more person than he could handle. I was a loud screaming, dancing, kicking crowd of people bottled up into one whole. I was a person with several voices dictating my who, and whats, and whens. But isn’t that fun? Before it was me and him, it was we the many - the lovely, erratic, violent forms of Carrie. We the many was all I had...all still I have. But oh, you could’ve had them too. Trust me they wanted all of you. Until you came along, I tried to be just one piece, but my pieces were an exposed microscopic slime. Everything that made me whole was on the exterior for everyone to see and scrutinize. I was a casualty waiting to happen, and when my causality landed me in the hospital bed, my dear said, “Take those yellow #5 and white pills”, the ones that slowly blurred the lines of the many in my head. But wasn’t it you that swept in, all arms and warmth, telling me that good days were ahead. Liar! Such a liar. It’s no wonder your mouth was shut tight, no wonder your brain needed to be cracked whole.

I hadn’t realized that “good days” was a contract signed with clauses. That if I ever went back to my “old Carrie” as you’d call her, you’d leave me in the street wildly crying unaware of where I was going, or who I even was. So many layers overlapping me that day, when you decided it best to leave me in a parking lot. “Stop,” you said, with that daring tone. “I’m done,” you screamed. But you didn’t mean to leave me, right? You were just hoping I’d get better. It was all part of the game we made. And I guess I broke the rules.

I stopped taking the yellow #5 and that white pill of mine. But you were so good at that game; it wasn’t fair. Then you’d yell, “How can I help you when you don’t want to be helped!”

See, he was really just saying he loved me so... he did. He did, oh god how he kept saying it. It was me who didn’t comply with some please and thank yous. Apparently my doc says I’m feeding into my delusions - a type of plastic love. But god I loved this game. And you know what I think? This is your fault. I felt this fear running down my body, knowing it would take some time for me to be ok again. And in my mind, I’m just thinking, “Feel better, fucking feel better. Stop holding onto them. They aren’t real. We can’t be.”

Why did I let myself get fooled. Breathe, just breathe. Why can’t I be light? Light, light like water. But it didn’t work. So I hit him. And I hit him again; we didn’t mean too. But when he gave me that brown eyed teared up shocked look. We wanted him to go away so badly. I wanted him to hate me. We wanted him to get angry and...he did. And in that instance I lost him in blood and screams. His face now with a sliced mouth hissing at me, and that head of his, open and bearing gunk and lies.

I couldn’t feel my hand anymore, and with a hand trembling in front me, I was feeling out the space around, and I fell asleep. It was a deep groggy tired sleep. When I woke up I was aware that he was gone, the forever never wake up type of gone. All that was left was me and my loud, disturbing, violent crowded mind. We the many, and all I wanted at that moment was silence. But it doesn’t go away you stupid, stupid girl, with those simple tears of yours. All that crying does nothing. Just go on, do it! You know you want to be gone too. We aren’t real you fool.

Games, just games.

87

Liberty by Owen R. Powell

I don’t remember much, but I remember the...light, I guess you’d call it.

The seeker and I went scavenging out on the salt rock desert again, out beyond the Wall and deep into the distort-lands, out where the skyfire’s reach down from the starwreathed night to wrestle with the earth fires, twisting rainbows writhing against each other in the gossamer play of radiation. Old Tech is always in demand, and the few creds for the odd curios that I hawked in the marketplaces of the Collective kept Abuela and I alive, relatively speaking. One big score, though, and we’d be set for a good while. Maybe even open our own kiosk, with holo banners and everything. That’s my dream, paltry as it is; that golden thought of that One Big Score, just waiting to be picked up in one of the Ancient tombs. To find it though, meant that we would have to go deep into the City.

Keeping that hope alive was worth the risk, or at least that’s what I told myself when we slipped over the Wall, and glided like shadows into the night-clad desert. The seeker knew the way, and it clicked to itself introspectively, in that insect way that they have, as it floated ahead of me, rotating the flickering crystal maps around its angular brow.

Cruel stars glinted from the desert night, a necklace of cold starlight spun across the coal dust heavens, and I trudged behind its cloaked metallic form for an eternity, shifting sand and sudden rock beneath my stumbling feet, glancing at the silent skyfire’s above, marveling, even as my compass began to spin uselessly in my hands, dreaming in time with the sky.

The seeker sought true, though, as it always does. We found the cave opening, just a slit in the living rock, carved with the cut of the wind. It was marked with a single phosphorescent rune, a sigil of the Scavenger guild, carved beneath the stone lip, a silent affirmation. We ducked into the narrow space, out of the cold cut of the wind, and knelt within the curved channel of the rock to make ready. I felt within a vest pocket for a lintathete crystal, held it to my lips, blew on it softly, and I felt it warm within my hand, glowing to life. Held it to my brow, and clicked it into place on the curved torc. The seeker clicked twice in approval and moved forward, the faint red glitter of its traversing scanline tracing the cleft of the passageway.

The first cavern is always my favorite, and for me, worth the trek regardless of what treasures we find in the City below. The passageway

ends abruptly, emerging from around a flake of calcified rock, and the space widens suddenly. Within it, lit by the flickering aura of my crystal and the red beams of the seeker, a relic of a bygone age looms and blossoms, a curved latticework of metal-wrought flame, held, improbably, by a single massive green hand, jutting with graceful purpose from the stratified rock in which it is encased. The torch, for that is what it clearly is, shines dully with the muted golden glow of Scavenger crystals; fading slowly as their isotopes decay across the half-lives. Tradition has it that this is where fallen Scavengers are remembered, their guidelights hanging forever in silent memorial.

The seeker clicked twice, and then intoned a ritual prayer mechanically, it’s strange flat voice dry and stilted, as if the sand on the carved floor soaked up its words even as it uttered them.

“Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name Mother of Exiles.

From her beacon-hand Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.

“Keep ancient lands, your storied pomp!” cries she With silent lips.”

The seeker clicked, and went darkly quiet. “What does it mean?”

I asked, looking up at its liquid obsidian eyes, but it would seem to speak no more.

It turned suddenly, floating off into the narrowing ravine ahead, red scanlines winking back on, tracing the rainbow’s rock around us.

A single alien statement hung in the air as it maneuvered into the next tunnel, echoing back to me, thick with dust.

“Remember what you were.”

Cited text: Emma Lazarus, ‘The New Colossus,’ New York, 1883.

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Before and After

(After Kenneth Koch)

by Licenia Pantaleon

I was born and raised Inside of you, Williamsburg Brooklyn. Or how us Natives still call you, “The Southside”.

From what I’ve heard You weren’t always the nicest.

I’ve heard the stories, About how the streets near The pier had piles of trash, The trees that run along Roebling Street weren’t there Before.

Crime rate was through The roof, gang rivalries Between the 3ni’s and Latin Kings caused fights every week.

Not that I didn’t witness it Myself, but it was worse Before me.

The family unity was Everything, neighborhood Boys playing baseball in the Empty parking lot, middle aged Men and their dominoes table.

Click, clack, click, clack, I could Hear them playing all the way From my house. Everyone Knew each other and those Were the best years. Since We lived in the same hood, we Went to the same schools. The streets fairs outside El Puente On South 4th brought us closer.

Then something happened, You changed.

Around 2007, A “Do Not Enter” sign was put On both sides of the lot, forcing The boys to play on the narrow Street instead.

That parking lot was turned into An apartment building that houses Hipsters who think they are natives after living here for over a year.

Hipsters who tell us “don’t walk That way, a shooting just happened!”

As if we’d be afraid or have never dealt With such a situation before.

The Northside became the New SoHo with stores like Levi’s, Whole Foods and American Apparel opening their doors.

Rent was beginning To increase, our neighbors Began to move away but we Got new ones.

None of them really ever lasted Though because they moved Away within months.

I wanted to create a betting Pool each time I saw someone Coming out of their cars with Their luggage and into our Building but no one ever Wanted to join.

Many businesses On Broadway were shut down.

Now it’s a giant gym and behind It is a giant condominium.

Old school and new school Are blended in and it’s not Pretty. These outsiders have Made you into something you’re not But we can only move forward Never backward.

After twenty four years of Living on your streets I can Say that I’m happy that this Is still my home, proud of My father for telling the new Owners to fuck off after multiple Money offers, and hopeful of living Here in some kind of peace.

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But Stephen King Does It

by Crystal Kissoon All those teachers and agents of literature, they say: “Never use a cliché; a dark and stormy night can be a pleasant, sunny day.”

“But Stephen King does it,” I mutter, more than a little dismayed.

They say, “Don’t use dreams; they’re lame and overused.

Try to be original, try to be creative, and never leave a reader confused.”

“But Stephen King does it,” I mumble, louder now and more infused.

They say, “Don’t put a writer in a story; it’s unoriginal and lazy.

Try different people, like a mailman, a landlord, or someone crazy.”

“But Stephen King does it!” I say, not exactly like a lady.

They say, “Yes, he does, and does it well. But let me ask you one thing: Are you, by any chance, Stephen King?”

So remember boys and girls, when writing a story, No clichés, no dreams, and no authors a glory.

Because you are not the King, not now and nevermore!

Lamb Over Rice by Christian Francis

Mark and Lisa

by Will Arland “You don’t need friends, you have family.”

My mother’s nonna would like to say If they were asking her permission For the boys to stay late Sicilian and Ancient, one hundred and three years old Low to the ground With white hair She’d snap Japanese beetles off the fruit trees between her fingers My mother was the youngest My mother could have been a poet Romantic Warm Endlessly empathetic Turned on by Tolstoy And dreaming of Bob Dylan Everyone was welcome, but I think we burnt her out She wanted us to be home and I don’t know how she did it When I say passion, I think I might mean suffering Especially when it is self-imposed She still welcomes rescue dogs That arrive sick and broken

Caretaking is addictive I know because I do the same Putting others before yourself To erase away complacence To ease a cosmic pain So beautiful to feel understood But too much too young and you can grow up naïve It’s tough to get close to friends when you care like this Big family dinners We can talk about anything now My father didn’t have that Irish in Indiana, with a rigid chair on every back He’s on the east coast with my mother now His old friends visit and ask her about the Sopranos He started as a pool boy at a Hyatt in Atlanta, when he met my mother he was a GM I never see him watch football, never lying in bed He holds doors and gets up when my mother comes back to the table in a restaurant I do this and get giggled at on dates, I like it I like what I have learned But if I didn’t, could I change it?

I am Mark and Lisa Arland And I’m afraid I can’t take credit

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Mexicana de Corazon by Michelle Garcia I was raised in Flushing, Queens, New York, however, my roots are from Huaquechula, Puebla, Mexico.

I am from a Mexican culture displayed with orgullo in every corner of my barrio, from the local tiendita to the panaderias selling pan dulce that you can smell miles away.

I am from mi pueblito magico, Huaquechula, where tradiciones never die.

From honoring the dead on Dia de Muertos in November to honoring the holy cross in April.

I am from fields full with maiz and sorgo to El Mercado on Sundays.

I am from dancing my pueblos traditional musica de viento on 3 de Mayo to the block parties fiestas patrias on September 15 to the sombrero and botas on my way to the jaripeo. I am from blasting corridos and banda at top volume to enjoying a good tequila or a cold cerveza en el barrio.

Custom Illustration by Diana Sadova

I am from waking up to the fresh and clean air of mi pueblito, instead to waking up to the polluted air of the city to the clean water of the river that flows by mi abuelitos house.

I am from a pueblito that values familia and tradiciones.

I am Sanford Avenue located in Flushing, Queens, where I was raised to P.S 20 to JHS 189 to John Bowne High School.

I am from the crowded trains and buses to the crowded streets in Flushing to running all over the place because you know you are late.

I am from mi mama Bety Garcia to mi hermano Chucho to mi papa Miguel Garcia.

I am from waking up early on Sundays to go to misa with mama to making la comida in the afternoon to helping mama make tamales, pambazos, frijoles, pozole, champurado, y chocolate for the posadas.

I am a wife who is just getting use to the married life to adjusting to the new life as a college student at LaGuardia Community College.

I am a daughter, a sister, a wife, a cousin, An aunt, a student, and friend.

I am from mi mama y mi papa who have supported my decisions And taught me to never me ashamed of our roots.

I am Mi pueblito magico huauquecula Mi cultura y tradiciones Mexicana Hija de inmigrantes Mi familia Yo soy Mexicana de Corazon.

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Poem for a Boy Afar

by Braxton Willoughby I love this time of Year, when everything Crisp cools-down Before the scent of Autumn's falling'leaf - the Apple'clove candle Burning charcoal'd like juiced'up Fall feasts red, when you Lay in bed in fabrics Warmed boldly by brown Bellies roaming 'stead'of sheets, the skin Softer than the Memory could rub it's scents'of Cherry'wood butter Into you/me the picturesque Quiet camera'd picture: these words, here, To recollect how You utter nothing in The nutmeg and the amber And the bass lines and the brass rhymes and the sitar And utterly The cozy'd winter warmth of it all

Daily Sketch by Shani Tsfoni

You

by Arben Alovic Breath, I can’t, Move, I’m shaking, Talk, What should I say?

Think, My minds racing, Stop, I should just give in, Smile, Oh she makes me happy, Courage, It melted away when she smiled back, Walk, How close should I stay?

Hold, Her hands so warm in mine, Heart, Racing out of control, Moment, Once in a lifetime, Love, I have since your eyes met mine.

Après L’amour by Kezia Velista

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Revenge

by Nasheema Dixon Smoke So Much, I Party With The Angels.

Hotel, Pleasures, Might Regret it, In the morning.

Searching for Heaven, but My Skin is Burning.

Looking in the Mirror, glittering Orange.

Morals, Fallen into Oblivion Striping the Roses petal by Petal Breaking the Silence on a Moonless planet Smoldering.

I just Might be.

I vs. Me. I do Not care to think, Revenge I am not Sorry!

Siddhartha Lights by Carolina Varela

B, pt 2.

by Amanda Meyers

My skeleton will still show the healed fractures of your love, Long after the bruises left by your fingers.

Indentations of your prints, On my thighs have faded.

A test on my hair strand would still come up positive for the opioids of you, Long after the saliva trails left by your tongue, Pathways of your choosing, On my torso have dried.

My blood will still be your AB+ transfusion longing in place of my O-, Long after the pile of torn stockings from endless nights in bar bathrooms have found their way to the junkyard.

A residue examination of my hands will still show evidence of our bodies combustion Long after they have been washed, rinsed, sanitized and used to touch another, My glasses will still be your shade of rose when I glance through them out into the world, Long after your hue and lens shape is out of style and I should trade them in for bifocals or a new pair of ray bans.

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Sestina #1

by Amanda Meyers

When I was half this size I would dig holes Under my nails were muddy green She would ask how I got to be so rough Between Susquehanna and Queens, is there God? She’d say “no such thing” as we rode to the mall on the bus I’d just stare at the veins on the palms of my hands

Oil and dirt lived in the ridges of his hands He once used Budweiser to fill all his holes A man who could’ve been him slept near me in the rear of a bus My alcohol comes in bottles that are a deep crystal green He went to AA, I went to NA and I’m not sure either of us ever turned ourselves over to God They would ask how I got to be so rough I touch my lips in the mirror and they’re too rough The sweat gathers between my fingers and slicks my hands My friend won’t get high anymore because he said he saw God I once buried a dead kitten in too shallow of a hole Rolling in dirty meadows splotched with green Passing through the old neighborhood on a new bus There’s a swastika scratched into the back of that seat on the bus He asked me how I got to be so rough “I want the menthols, yeah- that one. The box with the pretty green” Why would you rather hold your phone than my hands?

I stuff newspapers into the wall with the fist sized holes It’s a Tuesday, the pews are empty and I’m waiting for the arrival of God The graffiti on the tracks says I am God Shoulder to shoulder, I can smell the mildew of wet clothes on this bus There’s change in her jacket - check in the pockets, the one with the holes Being born broke might be why I’m so rough Idle ways for a pair of idle hands The hills stretch forever in fuzzy waves of green

I dream of walls painted mint green Of ornaments on dressers dedicated to God Fingers spread wide with palms up, sets of willing hands How many times am I going to wait for the same fucking bus?

Seeing him for the first time in awhile he told me that I looked rough When I was half this size I would dig holes Holding the rails on a bus with both hands It dips into holes in the road and rolls over patches of green I’m going to find God in the elevations of Susquehanna, I followed His footsteps from the corners of Queens where I’ve never be anything but rough

Photograph by Machi Versano

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A Modern Haiku by Kezia Velista

Barbra

by Kenneth Sousie

I intimidated the banshee I shouted “Kingdom Come!�

I turned her howl into a whisper I righted all that was wrong I stood at the gates of hell I made Satan cower and wish me well When the young men argued if the glass was half empty or half full, I reminded them that I was the woman who made the glass.

Custom Illustration by Diana Sadova

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Risen by Leila Rosner

Perchance a moment dark and weary I lay upon his bed.

A scattered lei I grasp and weakly I scream a passion red.

Look wary ‘pon his cloak all dark It moves upon his back.

As lust will grow into a lather I grow and then I lack..

A risen dream into a clamor Lay naked to his chest.

A sun drenched dream here then it’s gone Alone but then I jest.

The air grows gray until I wake Alone but then I see.

I rile my senses up and down I love and then I be.

Photograph by Jasmine Peralta

Correlation

by Leila Rosner Freudian implications Of past loss and torture.

Hearing the cube hit the wall -Tears across her face.

Gone from my mind.

Cognitive energies.

Pacing my run.

Pacing my flight - Upward – One thing Into the other.

Into the othering -Into the eyes of a girl.

Lightning strikes into Pale and wind swept moonlight.

Why must I sit When I can rise from the ashes.

Daily Sketch by Shani Tsfoni

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Arben Alovic (Poetry) - has written poetry for over fifteen years. At nine years old he was placed in a foster home where he began to write poetry. When he was moved from home to home and from school to school, and had no one else he could turn to, he would turn to what he wrote.

Will Arland (Poetry) - is from Sunnyside, Queens. “Mark and Lisa” is a poem he wrote for his English 101 class to flesh out ideas to be used in an essay about his parents.

Ambar Castillo (Drama, Creative Nonfiction) - is an actor, writer, and playwright based out of Queens. Her current research and writing interests include: the intersection of social justice, theatre, public health, and the use of performance to promote Feminist Activism and intercultural understanding.

June Shun Hing Chan (Creative Nonfiction) - was born in Hong Kong and raised in Japan. Now, she is living in the Big Apple and is a current Japanese major at LaGuardia Community College.

Nasheema Dixon (Poetry) - is a single mother of one who comes with the spirit of magnanimity and ambition.

Michelle Garcia (Poetry) - is a Mexican native who is proud of her roots.

She was raised to be humble, know the importance of family, and to never forget where she came from.

Faiza Hussain (Fiction) - is a native New Yorker who has always loved to write. In her free time she enjoys drawing and playing video games.

She plans to turn her stories into books, webcomics, and video games.

Crystal Kissoon (Poetry) - is starting from scratch and is currently a creative writing major at LaGuardia Community College. Next fall, she plans to transfer to Columbia University to further her education.

Amanda Meyers (Poetry) - is a “poetess in her mid- twenties”. She was cultured the way all Queens kids were- with coffee, cigarettes, and a sense of abandonment.

Claudia Natasha (Creative Nonfiction) - is a fine arts major at LaGuardia Community College. She comes from Indonesia and currently resides in Long Island, New York.

Nikolaos Panaousis (Essay) - is currently enrolled in his first semester at LaGuardia Community College. As a newly arrived Greek immigrant he had trouble grasping the English language, but soon enough was able to catch up. He will be the first member of his family to graduate college.

Licenia Pantaleon (Poetry) - is a transfer student at LaGuardia Community College majoring in liberal arts, but plans on becoming a nursing major. She has a profound interest in writing about relatable topics she has personally experienced.

Jasmine Peralta (Creative Nonfiction) - was born and raised on the grimy streets of New York City. After she graduates LaGuardia Community College in June of 2017, she will continue pursuing her journalism degree at Brooklyn College.

Owen R. Powell (Creative Nonfiction) - is a retired U.S Army sergeant, former Marine, and combat veteran of Iraq. He is currently enrolled in his second year at LaGuardia Community College. His writing has been featured on multiple online sites, newspapers, and books. Owen is working on publishing his own book, “Objective Rally Point.�

William Rodriguez (Fiction) - is a man with simple tastes. Through his writing, he aims to create worlds for his readers to enjoy and make their own.

Leila Rosner (Poetry) - was born and raised in New York City. After working on Wall Street, she decided to go back to school to get a B.A. in English and become an English and sociology professor. Recently Leila came out as a transgender after years of struggling with her gender identity.

Anthony Ruiz (Creative Nonfiction) - is twenty-six years young and has been writing poetry since the age of six. He performs spoken word throughout the city. His ultimate goal is to create books of poetry and short stories.

Serafin Santiago Jr. (Creative Nonfiction) - is currently enrolled as a journalism student at LaGuardia Community College. Aside from his job as a Phlebotomist, he currently holds the position of Editor-in-Chief for The Bridge, LaGuardia`s student newspaper. He is scheduled to graduate in June of 2017.

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Jamel Stallings (Fiction) - is a Deaf writer living in Brooklyn, New York.

He has been writing since he was in middle school and aims to be one of the best writers of this century.

Kenneth Sousie (Poetry, Fiction, Essay) - is a New York native who is a creative writing major and musician who likes to write pretty much anything.

Kezia Velista (Poetry) - likes to make text and visuals intrude into one another in a blending of content, which is what she did with both her poetry piece and conceptual design of this issue. Born in Indonesia, she best described herself as one of those liberal leaning, tofu eating, concert going millennials living in the city.

Shannon Williams (Fiction) - is in her last semester at LaGuardia Community College. She is Deaf, and a former intern of The Lit. Braxton Willoughby (Poetry) - received his B.A. in psychology at St. John’s University. He is currently pursuing an M.S. in occupational therapy.

Forbidden New York City by Doris Sayos

Do you want to be part of The Lit 2018?

Follow These Steps: •Creative and critical writing: You may submit up to three poems, one short fiction or creative nonfiction, an essay, drama or screenplay. All texts should be in Word docs and eight pages maximum.

•Visual media: You may submit up to three artworks including photography, painting, drawing, sculpture or multimedia. All visual media must be submitted in Megabytes (MB) as jpegs.

•All submissions are “blind”: Do not put your name on the submitted work. In a separate Word doc, include a short bio-cover letter with your name, contact info, and a short bio or paragraph about who you are and what you want our readers to know about you.

•Deadline: Send all general submissions by December 15.

Submit these materials electronically to: submissions.thelit@gmail.com.

In the subject put: General Submission, The Lit. How to Enter the Creative Writing Contest?

•Each spring the Creative Writing Program of the English Department puts out a call in March and submissions are accepted March 1- April 7. Winners of the contest are invited to read their work at a spring event and their pieces are published in The Lit. •Look out for critical writing and visual media contests organized by other programs such as The Urban Studies Program and the Writing and Literature Program. The Lit may publish these winners too.

How to Join The Lit’s Editorial Team?

•Join The Creative Writing & The Lit Club in the Fall I to learn about the process and help with outreach.

•If you have already taken ENG 101 & ENG 102 and enjoy reading and writing creative and critical work, and/or if you have an interest and skill in layout and design, speak to your English professor or to Professor Lucy McNair about enrolling in English 288 in Spring I. This internship course is a hands-on, collaborative introduction to selection, editing, and publishing that produces The Lit. Note: Please be patient with us as we respond to your submissions!

For more questions, visit our website or email us: •https://www.laguardia.edu/English/The-Lit/ •submissions.thelit@gmail.com •lmcnair@lagcc.cuny.edu

Thank you!

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