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The Anthologist
the anthologist The Anthologist is a literary and arts magazine that has served in preserving and inspiring Rutgers’ creativity for nearly a century, publishing high-quality art and writing. For copyright terms and more information visit:
theantho.com
RUSA Allocations Board, paid for by student fees.
Send us your art or writing to:
antho.rutgers@gmail.com
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Index
Issue 83. Spring 2016. Editor-in-Chief
Tiffany X. Lu STAFF OFFICERS Associate Editor
Public Relations Director
Ana Valens
Matt Taylor
Managing Editor
Social Media Coordinator
Jasminy Martinez
Cristina Sanchez
Managing Editor
Social Media Coordinator
Jen Comerford
Rudolph Ogawa
Senior Editor
Art Director
Doron Darnov
PJ Rosa
COPY EDITORS Abigail Lyon
Sridhar Sriram
EDITORS Alex Arbeitel Meg Tsai Amy Ho Brian Lee
Austin Losada Daniel Levin Jennifer Gololobov Julia Hong Advisor
Belinda Mckeon 3
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13 Moving George Fakes
14 Civil Service Rob Colvil
15 Untitled Jen Comerford
16 sunned Alex Arbeitel
17 Marionette gHyp:See
18 Serenity PJ Rosa
19 Dead Skin Danica Sapit
24 Calypso,
Nausicaa, Penelope Doron Darnov
28 Headed Out Brandon Joseph Park
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29 In Finding Rudolph Ogawa
31 Untitled Safia Ansari
32 Annabelle Ana Valens
34 Three Generations Emily McMaster
35 Untitled Nick Perrone
36 For X, to Whom I
Never Got to Explain Myself Dayna Hagewood
39 Unravel Tiffany X. Lu
40 Famine Brian Lee
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LETTER FROM THE EDITOR-IN-CHIEF What’s surprised me the most about working on The Anthologist these past three years is how each finished issue can come out so different from the last in look, feel, and energy. While the steps of the editorial process have remained largely unchanged, as student artists and writers continue to weave new stories and take on ever-shifting issues, the act of curation feels like one of discovery each and every time. Of course, none of this would be possible without all of the contributors, editors, and staff officers whom I’ve had the honor to work alongside, from the late-night, last-minute scrambles to the highs of the launch parties. None of us are paid in cash or credits, and as students we live such hectic lives, but we always somehow make it through. This, I know, is what makes The Anthologist a labor of great love and good company. It’s been a wild ride starting out as a fresh-faced editor—too timid to speak without raising my hand—and reaching the point where I am now. Thank you all for this experience, esteemed readers included, from the bottom of my heart. That being said, I can’t wait to see in what directions future issues of The Anthologist head next as the times, forms of expression, and editorial staff change. For now, we hope you enjoy issue 83 as much as we enjoyed curating it and are similarly inspired by the many voices that come together within it. All the best,
Tiffany X. Lu Editor-in-Chief
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FAREWELL It’s hard to think about my time at Rutgers without The Anthologist. I began editing for Antho back in Fall 2012, when Erin Kelsey was Editorin-Chief and the entire executive board was graduating. The editorial team was so small back then, there were hardly any underclassmen attending. So much has changed since then. I’ve seen our little publication bloom in the past four years, as it has expanded on campus and increased in recognition. Every semester, we went above and beyond what we thought we were capable of doing before. And every launch party, our final product was really something to be proud of. I began working as Senior Editor in 2013, and bumped up to Associate Editor in 2015. In both positions, I worked closely with two Editorin-Chiefs: Jasmeet Bawa, and Tiffany Lu, respectively. They both brought their heart and soul to our publication. And you could feel it. Jasmeet connected The Anthologist with poets and artists who shared stories that our publication had never seen before. Tiffany increased membership to incredible levels, engaging with our university’s undergraduates in a way that brought brand new voices to our publication. Both EICs encouraged writers to raise their voices, and both EICs led our executive board through stormy waters. The Anthologist we know and love today wouldn’t exist without them, and I have so many fond memories of my time working together with them. They were not just my colleagues, they were also my friends. When I sat down to write this essay, I wanted to talk about being the first trans woman part of The Anthologist executive board. I wanted to talk about my experiences as a trans woman. But then I realized something. It would be wrong of me to suggest that I am some sort of outlier, as if my contributions to the publication are particularly unique. In truth, my ability to write, edit, and coordinate with The Anthologist has always been part of a group effort. If our Public Relations Director Matt Taylor wasn’t managing social media, our attendance would have slowed. If our Art Director PJ Rosa wasn’t designing such incredible flyers and layouts every semester, our publication wouldn’t have been so impressive. If it wasn’t for Managing
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Editors Jennifer Comerford and Jasminy Martinez, our budget would not have met our publication schedule. If our Senior Editor Doron Darnov wasn’t leading our editorial critiques, we never would have seen the engaging literary discussions that brought new editors into our flock. Without Rudy, Cristina, Abigail, and Sridhar, we never would have had the support necessary to carry out our executive board’s weekly functions. And if it wasn’t for the individual contributions brought in from our editors Brian, Daniel, Austin, Julia, Jennifer, Alex, Meg, and Amy, there would have been no one to critique submissions. Every single person who has worked on this publication is absolutely essential to the final copy you hold in your hands today. We would not exist without the group effort that went into our editorial work. Four years ago, I walked into this publication as one person. Four years later, I am leaving as another. But as I depart from my role as Associate Editor and move on to games criticism, I can’t help but say how proud I am to have been a part of The Anthologist. There is no other literary publication at this university with such a dedicated crew of writers, editors, critics, and readers, and the passion to match. There isn’t a single publication on campus that can compare to the sheer passion of our little magazine. It’s been a real honor working with every single one of you, past, present, and future. Time and time again, you have accepted me for who I am—both as a writer, and as a person. Today, there’s simply nothing more I could ask for. Yours, Anastasia Valens Associate Editor
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MOVING George Fakes
I moved into my new home Just a week ago. I can still smell the paint drying; White walls contrast my dark appearance. I locked the door as soon as I left the old place And threw away the key I had. If you have a spare, or can pick the lock, Feel free to go inside. But I’ll let you know that I’m trying not to visit. If you see me there, it’s because I miss the Color of the walls.
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CIVIL SERVICE Rob Colvil
Cameras rolling on the library fire As young men try to put it out by ejaculating over and over it The president is watching; airplanes drop horses onto the flaming wreck. Their bones crack and they cry as their meat smacks the hot ground. A crowd gathers, gasping mating calls to spawn more impotent outrage. The men are spent; they are doused in Gatorade. A line of withered veterans marches slowly into the fire but they still cannot cry. A drive-thru is set up so concerned citizens can take a piece of the flame home. The veterans each read a book while they wait. Their medals, hot as though just forged, serve well as bookmarks. Nobody’s phone cameras pick up the fire but luckily, a filter is released in time.
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UNTITLED UNTITLED Jen Comerford
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SUNNED Alex Arbeitel
coastal salt stains white teeth whiter; sweat-bred seaweed seeps through sheets, sleeps past seven a.m. alarms, stays still: the knowing known to you soaked through the tents on you, swelled into darted stars that made up cancer, pisces, pieces of stories old enough to feature fortunes in gold, but you were old enough to know there’s no gold gold enough to coat the in-you cold. through whitened windows you could see the lightning bugs back-blink the heightened nighter lights, the fire flights in-out until the inning-out out-ins the ending into first: you were early for batting practice, arm fatherpushed and slinged back like a broken swing, and now like grown-olds do you say you want to move to florida, let the sun sink past your sleeveless arms, let it spot into you, let it cover you darker and darker until you are golden and freckled and warm; you say that when you were a lifeguard the warnings did not apply to you, but now your arms need white over and re-over. what you want is not to move south point away or farther; sunlit stills too close to home.
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MARIONETTE gHyp:See
grey walls black ink chains rusting roulette breath deep and heavy wet the weight of the world lays on your chest Time refuses to tick regularly. The tick marks on the wall Misrepresent years spent in this prison. It looks awfully a lot like home here. cradle spinning ceiling bent to crash no bough will break last living remains: You. your breath heavy and wet reminds of the absence spaceless woman hangs from the ceiling intent on seducing with her remains the chains twist something ferocious veins split like splintered wood. I wouldn’t move if I were you.
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SERENITY PJ Rosa 18
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DEAD SKIN Danica Sapit
Zero. I read that it should only take two weeks—fourteen days— for old skin cells to die. One. “You’re pretty except when you smile.” It was the first time I made the mistake of listening to you. As I wiped my smiles into my sleeves, as I bought the book you said I wouldn’t understand, as I cut off the hair you said was getting too long, as I shed the body that was too big for you to hold, I somewhere along the way lost the word stop. Two. You used to be the only reason I could get up in the morning. You started off every one of our days running, and while we never had a destination, you were always the horizon line I followed. Running with you was the one time that I could see you light up in my presence. Three. I very nearly believed I could remember a time you said you loved me back. Four. You were a boy of carnality. You rarely wanted something, but when you did, you did so with religious fervor. And you made me part of the ceremony. My body was the host. The iron in our throats, the wine. I didn’t feel safe, no. But you made me wanted.
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Five. “That wasn’t so bad now, was it?” I shuffled my shirt back on, running my fingers over the reminders you pinned into my arms. A scream sounded more like silence than I remembered. Six. It took me eighteen years to come into my own person, and it only took you 8 minutes to take that away from me. Seven. The moment that you told me you thought it would be better if we cut clean, the hand that you used to hold turned to filth. Eight. It was hard to look at my smile in the mirror now. Nine. “I like how you make me feel. Like soul mates.” You strung these empty phrases and bulleted them into me, fresh ammo. The words fit the narrative like carbon monoxide fits well in our blood. Ten. I was having trouble forgetting the mnemonic for your phone number. Eleven. They started flooding in then, mercilessly pummeling cellophaned smiles and cuts to laughter, of late night walks and talks, and even though your hand never fit the space in mine, I was turning the pieces of you in my head, aching to find some coherent answer to this jigsaw. 20
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Gravity had broken down the past like waves, the crash so deafeningly loud, floundering, that I became worried that I would not see the shore. Twelve. Maybe it wasn’t so bad now, was it. Thirteen. I was beginning to lose count— count of the days, and count of the grime. Thirteen. When skin cells are replaced, the new ones form on the bottom layers while the old skin cells rise to the top, to flake off. But mine were lingering. Thirteen. I realized, like those early mornings, scuffing through my pair of sneakers and disarmed joints, you were still my only way forward. Fifty. The first person that I told was our mutual friend. “You weren’t strong enough. That’s why you let him do it.” I remember feeling my head nod, and I remember wanting to find a way out of this corporeal trial. I continued to scratch at my skin, unable to reach the bottom. One-Hundred. If you could have spared one more reconsideration, brought the case back to court, given me three more seconds at the stand, 21
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know that against all reason, it was tirelessly easier to strip away myself, down to my bones, than to strip myself off of the paralyzed reasons that I still had to believe in you. One-Hundred and Thirty. You got into a new relationship. Even though I had never heard of her, she looked familiar. She looked like everything you told me I should be. One-Hundred and Thirty One. Unlike the equations you clung to, you were not something that could be solved. You were an endless stream of points with no origin, no edges. A map all to be imagined. There were vacancies in the proofs I made for you. And you were an unsound practice. Two Hundred. I told another friend. She said the case would be hard to make with no proof. All I knew was that I was tired of your crimes and disruptions in my city of synapses and the long nights mistrialed as a stranger to my own home. Two-Hundred and Fifty. I felt a pang of nostalgia, as I caught the smatterings of smiles still staining my sleeves. Three-Hundred and Sixty. I met him then. A stranger with a gentle offer to study in his apartment. 22
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When I tried to speak, you came out, a flurry of nonsense and festering and fresh wounds— I littered his apartment, your dirt plastered all across his walls, spilling out, a disease— I apologized profusely, but he offered to help clean. Three-Hundred and Sixty Two. There were so many words that I hadn’t had the chance to have. Three-Hundred and Sixty Four. I smiled when I looked in the mirror. Three-Hundred and Sixty Five. I started to stop scratching at my skin.
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CALYPSO, NAUSICAA, PENELOPE Doron Darnov New Jersey, July 21, 2012. We sat on the steps that led into the pool behind her house. It was difficult for me to look into her eyes as she spoke. Instead, I watched the shimmering water reflect the midsummer moonlight. “I can’t just be friends anymore,” she told me, her downcast gaze diving beneath the calm, glinting surface of the pool. “You’re either willing to try or you aren’t, but one way or another you have to make a decision. I like you too much to be your friend and nothing else.” A firefly caught my attention and I watched it drift across the pool. The chirping crickets were not enough to stave off the growing silence that engulfed us both and punctuated my inability to say anything at all. New Jersey, November 16, 2015. “I think I need to explain something. Everything will make more sense.” She looked at me from behind crossed arms, her skepticism etched into the deep creases on her forehead. She watched my face but didn’t say anything. I tried to meet her gaze but all I could see was the memory of those same eyes vacantly staring back at me on a cold winter night when we both realized that we didn’t feel anything anymore. But when I took a deep breath, the air that filled my lungs belonged to a claustrophobic coffee shop instead of a snow-covered street, and I returned to the present. “This will probably sound like a strange way of explaining just about anything, but it’s the only way I know how…” Calypso’s Island, circa 1150 B.C.E. In the cave in which Odysseus had lived for seven years, there too dwelled the nymph Calypso, whose desire to keep Odysseus trapped on her island precluded his journey home. Illuminated by the dancing light of the fire set just outside the entrance to their cave, Calypso stood leaning against the bare grey rock within. With the detached, waxy look that accompanies all seduction once it becomes rote and stale—that is to say, all seduction
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that originates from the fear of loss rather than the desire to love—Calypso looked upon Odysseus and extended one of her ghostly-pale hands out into the cool evening air, inviting Odysseus to grasp it. But with the heavy countenance of a weary traveler, Odysseus looked within Calypso’s black-hole eyes and saw only the faint memory of a dead spring and the birth of a cold winter. When Odysseus first arrived on Calypso’s island, he wanted to return to his home and his wife, but it was Calypso’s enchanting beauty and the spellbinding pleasures of her flesh that resigned Odysseus to relinquishing his determination. Now, seven years later, Calypso no longer looked so beautiful—she was just a specter— and her touch no longer felt so hypnotic—her fingers had grown feeble and dull. Once seduced by her beauty and placated by her touch, Odysseus slowly came to learn that there was no room for growth within Calypso’s cave. Facing his former lover and his current jailer, Odysseus resolved that on the very next day, after seven long years, he would leave Calypso’s island and never return. As he took her hand in his own and stepped deeper into their cave—past a threshold of darkness beyond which not even the brightest flame could penetrate—Odysseus took one final look beyond the distant horizon and the bloody, creeping wisps of the fading sunset and thought once more of the home awaiting him there. New Jersey, November 16, 2015. I leaned back for a moment, gathering my thoughts before proceeding to the next part of the story. “I don’t understand,” she said, her features now warped into a scowl. “What are you trying to tell me?” Again, I waited before answering. “You don’t understand because I haven’t finished yet,” I finally said. She stared at me, waiting for me to continue. I stared back. Her deep blue eyes reminded me of days when the soft warmth of the summer grass beneath our feet felt like a promise for all time and she threw her head back to the sky and those same eyes glittered in the light of the burning sun while she laughed as if she believed me when I told her that I’d make sure she would never have anything to worry about. But she erased the memory in a single blink, and I was once more sitting in a coffee shop and telling a story. “The thing is, even after Odysseus builds a raft and sails away from Calypso’s island, he ends up getting shipwrecked a second time…” Phaeacia, circa 1150 B.C.E. The blinding white light of the noonday sun, the sound of waves 25
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crashing on the shore, and the briny smell of a vast sea—this was all that was known to Odysseus as he awoke to the new world that lay before him. Staring into an endless pearl blue sky while the foamy residue of a collapsing wave surged across his naked body, Odysseus realized that he was lying on his back upon a coarse, sandy beach. After a long voyage on just a small raft, it was only with all of the strength and effort befitting a conqueror of Troy that he finally rose to his feet and readied himself to face whatever challenge he would surely encounter next. But when Odysseus turned from the churning ocean there was no cyclops or sea monster barring his way, nor were there any gods or spirits of departed men; what Odysseus saw was something altogether much more difficult to overcome: a woman who made him fall in love. Calypso, of course, was beautiful; but more god than human, Odysseus’ love for her could never truly extend beyond her flesh. Nausicaa, however, was no god, and so when her beauty struck Odysseus and he looked into her eyes he saw within them visions of enduring happiness, of two lives lived together under the enchanting warmth of the Mediterranean sun, and of two bodies intertwined under the cooling glow of the Mediterranean moon. Unable to speak, Odysseus simply stared. But at the same time that these visions penetrated Odysseus they also left him lost and bewildered. It was because he did not love Calypso that Odysseus remained steadfast in his conviction that he would never lose sight of his desire to return home. But now, as Nausicaa stood before him and Odysseus could not wrest from his mind the desire to trace with the tips of his fingers the curves of her hips, her back, and her neck, he was taken by the fear that he would never want to leave this place. Odysseus tried to remember Penelope’s face, but it had been nearly twenty years since he had last seen her, and his vision was shrouded in fog. New Jersey, November 16, 2015. She was sitting back in her chair, now with her arms uncrossed while she searched me with a pensive gaze. “Okay,” she said, “but Odysseus does get home, so I guess the story isn’t over yet?” Again, I waited before answering. This time, when I looked into her eyes I saw their reflection in the murky glass of a school bus window. We sat next to each other every day for nearly four years. I remembered that she was once, above all else, my friend. “No, the story is not over yet,” I told her. “Nausicaa, as it turns out, is the daughter of the king, and it’s her father who supplies Odysseus with the ship that he sails back to Ithaca, where Odysseus finally reunites with Penelope and explains to her why it has taken him twenty years to come 26
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back to her…” Ithaca, circa 1150 B.C.E. It was not until late in the evening that Odysseus finished recounting his story. Now, just as he began to feel the gentle collapse of an irresistible sleep, Odysseus looked into Penelope’s eyes. It was just beneath the surface of those still, frozen lakes gleaming under the silver moonlight that Odysseus saw she was still, above all, his friend. He knew, too, that it was for this friendship that he had spent twenty years fighting Trojans, crossing seas, battling monsters, and even returning from the very depths of the underworld itself. In the darkness of that night, however, Odysseus did not tell Penelope everything. He told her of Calypso and his entrapment on her island, but he did not mention that they had lain together. And when he reached that part of the story in which he awoke on a Phaeacian beach, he paused before proceeding, as the image of Nausicaa in his mind left him suddenly unsure of what to say next. He decided to say nothing at all of Nausicaa and instead only mentioned her handmaidens, who he explained lived at the king’s court and thus were able to take him there. Odysseus did not fully understand why he had chosen to tell Penelope of the one who had loved him but not of the one whom he had loved. New Jersey, November 16, 2015. “Calypso, Nausicaa, Penelope…” she repeated to herself. When she suddenly looked up at me there was force and purpose behind her piercing gaze. “So, which one was I, then?” For the last time, I waited before answering, and then the walls and tables and mugs surrounding us dissolved into her blue eyes once more as they delivered me to the steps of a shimmering pool where I sat in silence and listened to the chirping crickets. New Jersey, July 21, 2012. I knew I couldn’t stay silent forever. “I’m willing to try,” I tell her, as I finally looked into her eyes and saw within them three shadowed figures reflecting back at me.
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HEADED OUT Brandon Joseph Park
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IN FINDING Rudolph Ogawa
I found myself, lost, in the absence of awards on the shelf, and diplomas on the wall. I found myself, trapped, measuring my life in translucent orange vials, and empty button bags and cigar wrappers. I found myself, unconscious, on the bathroom floor of a young man’s Brooklyn apartment, bathing in the viscous holy water of dollar slices and cheap whiskey. Blessed and baptized, I found myself, confined, within those heavenly white walls as you visited me, still dressed in my angelic paper robe. There, amongst the annals of overdose obituaries,
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I found myself for the first time, reflected, in your smoke stained teeth as we laughed at our dreams and aspirations, and how lost we really were.
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UNTITLED
Safia Ansari
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ANNABELLE Ana Valens
As a rule of thumb, Annabelle doesn’t fuck trans women who haven’t transitioned yet. But here I am, my naked body wrapped around hers as I wait for her to wake up. Her hair is so blonde and wavy, neatly combed as if she hadn’t slept at all. And my arms feel prickly against her smooth hips, my hairy chest pressed against her back. There’s simply nothing else to think about when I’m next to Annabelle. Except the fact that she’s 27, and I’m 17. The bed creaks next to me. A voice sleepy and sing-song whispers to me from the pillow. “Morning sunshine,” she says. “I see you couldn’t keep your hands off me overnight.” My face turns red, my hands shaking over her body. She just giggles and pulls my arms closer to her soft flesh. “Oh, I didn’t say I minded. Don’t get up sweetie, I’d hate to have you move a finger.” My hands stay put on Annabelle’s hips, and she gives a breathy moan as I caress her sides. We’re both naked, a fact that doesn’t bother either of us, but somehow leaves me feeling confused and self-conscious all the same. “Lisa,” she interrupts. “You wouldn’t happen to have school this morning, would you?” Annabelle’s alarm clock is flashing red. It’s 7:15. Shit, I was already 15 minutes late. “I do, actually,” I tell her. “I’m so sorry. I nearly forgot.” Annabelle turns over on her side, smiling at me. She puts a finger on my lips and grins. “Don’t worry about it hun. Go get your clothes on. I’ll drive you over.” I begin slipping my hands off Annabelle’s warm body, but she holds onto my wrist. “Oh, one more thing,” she says. “If anyone asks, the university tour guide took you to a campus rally last night. That’s why she’s driving you back to school. Right?” I nod my head. “That’s right.”
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“Good,” she whispers. “Now, you better go get dressed. I’ll be free after school too if you’d like to take another tour.” Annabelle kisses me on the cheek as she gets out of bed and stretches. And as I slip on my shirt and jeans, I try to figure out how many other young trans girls Annabelle has had sex with if she’s really 27.
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THREE GENERATIONS Emily McMaster Three generations of women Fiery as hair they dyed every six weeks Feel the world come to them in waves. Sometimes it hurts the salt gets in their eyes They hide between blankets and Jars of black olives. Where the stars can’t excite them convince them to stay up For three days to catch the sun rise. The sound of the ocean beckons Ice pops and playground battle scars and the intrusive voice always talking. You are not normal. You are made of meteorite Something alien and beautiful and cold With the entire silence of the universe Ready to go to war for you Three generations of stardust settling at the bottom of lungs Waiting for the well placed word, the perfect sunbeam, and the boom of laughter that fills the room Every time they are together.
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UNTITLED Nick Perrone
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FOR X, TO WHOM I NEVER GOT TO EXPLAIN MYSELF Dayna Hagewood “I never aimed to give you a talisman, an empty vessel to flood with whatever longing, dread, or sorrow happened to be the day’s mood. I wrote it because I had something to say to you.” – Maggie Nelson, Bluets This kind of ‘writing to say something’ does not make sense to me. I do not write to you only when I have something to say. In fact, I don’t think I have much to say anymore. I write to you as a tribute to the mountain of unopened letters under your bed. “I write to you,” then, is a loose way to put it. I write to them, the dust bunnies stuck to the aging stamps, the variety of envelopes and colored inks I used at a previous time. I make the words out to the hidden spot I am allotted in your life now; dark and alone aside from the company of my former selves. A memory of X In my most recent letter, I told the other letters about our last night together. I told them about how you were shaking (from the cold or sorrow, I still don’t know) in my arms on the rooftop of my childhood home. I told them about how my foot was wedged into the gutter as to support our collective weight at that angle facing the moon. I told them about how you cried and cried hot salted tears that sizzled on the shingles and tore holes in my tights. In honor of X I tell all of my friends that you were psychotic and that’s why you aren’t in my life anymore. I think you’d be happy with my dishonesty in this case. It diverts attention from what you really were to me. A bit of advice for X Try to be present. The past does nothing but strangle.
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While burying X I was three feet deep in dirt and earthworms when I tossed my shovel and climbed back to sea level. You don’t deserve to be down there. I put your photo back on the shelf when I got home. A question for X Did your freckles come back? I hope so. I can still hear the clear glass ring of your laugh from when I counted them in the park that summer. Seventeen big, golden spots glowing in the sun. I can still feel the tuft of grass you pressed into my palm when you spoke of fall as a special kind of hell reserved for the depressive. “Everyone is too obsessed with death,” you had said. I never told you that autumn had always been my favorite season. I tell the underside of your bed now. A confession to X For once I will tell you the truth. I do not think of you as often as all this suggests. In spite of X I have become quite a wonderful actress. I have perfected the craft of pretending to succeed and smile and be productive. You were the best coach. I dedicate my skill to you. Some borrowed words for X “We are like roses that have never bothered to bloom when we should have bloomed and it is as if the sun has become disgusted with waiting.” – Charles Bukowski Something stimulating for X The other day I was wondering what I would grow if I were an organic farmer. I was staring at the soggy tomatoes on display in the dining hall when I decided that I wouldn’t grow anything red. I think you would grow carrots. Sharp and underground. More than meets the eye. Hidden. Improving sight.
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An update for X I’m in university now. I know when we used to talk about it, I wasn’t sure. I don’t think I was sure of anything when we used to talk. Either way, I’m in a lot of writing classes these days. I’m sure you can tell by the letters. I quit smoking. I’m sorry. I told you I was going to try to tell you the truth. Today I was sitting in the library to kill some time, and there was an older professor of math sitting next to me. He made a phone call regarding setting up a stress test for early next week. He hung up and looked over at me to say “this is my stress test” while gesturing at his stack of half-marked exams. As things go, I should have nothing in common with that man. I looked at my journals filled with thought blunders and half-assembled pieces, and couldn’t help but be filled with an overwhelming and odd feeling of connection to him. As I opened my mouth to speak, he smiled with worn wrinkles and a trace of despair before he wheeled himself away and out of my life forever. A last ditch effort for X Before I deleted your number from my contacts, I called you one last time. I’m sure you remember. I listened to the successive rings and to your crackling voice recorded. I hung up. Hearing you speak dragged fresh slashes across my heart and gave me a migraine. I turned over and fell victim to sleep. I didn’t delete your number that night. Please read these letters. Well wishes for X It is my sincere hope that you have come to terms with who you are as a person. You had such potential for greatness. I hope you still do. I mean that. I’m not lying to you this time. A simple puzzle for X If you never read these letters, were they ever really written at all?
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UNRAVEL Tiffany X. Lu 39
The Anthologist
FAMINE Brian Lee
Having exhausted the university’s obligations to transform life into capital, I believed myself suddenly ejected from the pursuit of human knowledge and broken, like glass excised from a wound. And I found myself, though unaware of it at the time, entering a new phase of education: I was learning to suffer completely, wholly, in a way consistent with total deprivation. My fiancé had left me; my savings had left me; the rent was well past due; I was, as it were, addicted to League of Legends, barely subsisting on the stipend of a part-time physics instructor. At the time, I lived with a friend. We had taken in two kittens my once-fiancé had found, shortly after leaving, huddled in a trash bag behind the motel where she stayed with my replacement. They were malnourished, ravenous, left to brave the setting chill of summer into autumn. And this seemed cruelly symbolic of a new beginning, one which I both hoped and feared, in turn, might find me: was I not left to the autumn, too, ready to blossom into a memento of disgrace? I was a seedling thrust into the barren earth, deprived of light and buried like a dead thing, the release of the gardener’s hand promising you will change. Not: you will survive winter. Time passed like a guillotine. Winter fell. Each day rang with the brutality of death,
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which seemed both to inevitably approach and exist in suspension, as if cradled by the horizon. Days bled into one another, each a reminder that the last had passed unremarkably. Was this the survival for which I had hoped? Or was this the survival symptomatic of desolation, impervious to my wishes for relief from despair? I, too, seemed to exist in suspension, like a child drawing shapes on a dusty window. And yet my wishes for reprieve were answered, though incompletely: where the conditions of my suffering had only ever amplified—my landlord filed for eviction; my car broke down beyond repair; my laptop did the same; debt collectors called at least four times each day— I found my suffering gradually replaced, first by a protracted numbness, which turned, by degrees, into an inconsolable drive to see the smallest joys expressed fully. And this to me was evidence of the imperfect language of prayer: spoken through desperate gesture, heartfelt misunderstanding, and the occasional irony. The cats grew. To repay me for saving them, they became my teachers. Each day brought about the same lesson: that suffering is not the absence of joy. I taught myself how to bind books. I wrote poems again. Snow fell. The horizon faded and appeared in gales, leaving ripples and drifts of impossible geometries on the ground beneath. From above, it looked like another world was being simultaneously created and revealed, as if by epiphany. An airy whisper danced in the breeze: you will live, it said, and disappeared in a flurry of white.
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