Blacklist Volume IV by Blacklist

BLACKLIST Blacklist Journal | Volume IV

Blacklist Journal blacklistjournal.com | Brandeis University

VOLUME IV

BLACKLIST Masthead

Hannah Sussman

Managing Editor:

Victoria Xu

Visual Arts Editor:

Viv Santana-Perez

Deputy Visual Arts Editor: Poetry Editor:

Sarah Terrazano

Deputy Poetry Editor:

Cassie Schifman Ally Gelber

Prose Editor: Treasurer:

Nia Guzman

Secretary:

Chris Swartz Siena DeBenedittis Rachel Moore Emma Lichtenstein Angel Xu Nyomi White

Contributing Editors:

Blacklist Journal blacklistjournal.com | Brandeis University blacklistjournal.com | Brandeis University Ella Zhou Journal CoverBlacklist Art:

Table of Contents Poetry Romantic kissing and a beach day

Sisyphus & Eurydice on I-95

Boston Harbor on the Cusp of March

The Dollmaker

Momentum

Pentecost

Made in Chelmsford

A Twisted, Arrogant, and Untimely Apology

Rolling the Blunt

Alejandra Vansant Lauren Puglisi

Courtney Garvey James O’Leary

Daniella Cohen Margaret Mitchell Hannah Patient Emil Melia

Salena Deane

STEVIE NICKS SINGS BLACK MAGIC WOMAN AND SHE IS 45 K McClendon

Middle Distances

cycling

Martyr’s Death by Water

Our finite distances

Hello Wrlod!

Dead Name in Wonderland

Exile

Brian Kosewic

Tomoki Williams Klara Pokrzywa Katie Gu

Gretta Kissell Nico Léger

Kayla Gonzalez

Prose

Face Forward Michael Kay

An Exquisite Kind of Pain

Sweet

Catherine Carter Emma Cheung

Farmerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Market Oranges

Visual Art

Stina Arstorp

Untitled

A Big Delight in Every Bite

Man Downstairs

The Optimists

Summer in Boston

Disembodied Deadmap

Dramatic Cool

Amaro

Knackerrd Portrait I

Knackerrd Portrait II

Studio

Time and Space

Tule Fog

The Dual Inadequate

Fake City Real City

Study of my Dinner (Still Life)

Future Poster

Ryan Jae

Rachel Lee

Caroline Juul Ellervik Sam Drake Lili Byrne

Emil Melia

John Holland John Holland

Keegan Barone Keegan Barone Sam Drake Cairo Mo Ryan Jae

Emil Melia

Jackson Markovic

Blacklist Journal Blacklist Journal blacklistjournal.com | Brandeis University blacklistjournal.com | Brandeis University

Jackson Markovic Haeri Han

Electrifying

The Great British Punch UP

Blue Blizzard

One Day

Immersion

Hyper-real

CAFE

Cyril Ojilere Sam Drake

Caroline Juul Ellervik Isis Mayfield Jee Yeon Rim Ella Zhou

Jee Yeon Rim

Blacklist is an international, student-run journal based out of Brandeis University. blacklistjournal.com theblacklistjournal@gmail.com Journal 415 South St Blacklist | Waltham, MA 02453 Blacklist Journal

blacklistjournal.com | Brandeis University blacklistjournal.com | Brandeis University 5

Farmerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Market Oranges Stina Arstorp

Romantic kissing and a beach day Alejandra Vansant The planes fly by fine, and we live just like that. I read that the “romantic kiss” is not a universal practice—historically, intimacy can be exchanging the same air (like a window), face to face. Or sniffing of cheeks (stubborn) and necks (ticklish). Or looking very closely at one another, as if one is seeing the frosted replica of world through a sheet of vellum (good for nothing). I would like to be here for a very long time. I plant them like fresh freckles from lips to chin to ear and back. I like a body on me but I also despise the fullness (submergence, not burial, being more my speed). It is pleasant to think that time is not against me and maybe there is another thinking of me somewhere, only they don’t know my face or how much bread I eat. A lot slips away from me, but I’m awake like a gazing sweetheart, and I detect a scent that is like the breeze, so I think entirely of moving water smooching my toes at the shimmering hour. Oh to be barefoot on a beach, early morning, most-way in love. A brave head popping up every so often. You get there and it’s nearly empty, free for the seizing; you usually want everything but here you settle for the blank heat. You know you have enough water and a mango ripe with wet sugar to devour as animals devour. The juice will chap around your mouth in the bright light strains and you will dive under the tiny cascades like sheets of sureness. Surely, the water will pristinize you like a well hydrated body. When you emerge to dry under the jewel sun on your favorite pastel flower towel, evaporation will leave you a cloak of fine salt—a precious resource! You will lick humbly to remember the tang, plastering down a two inch patch of arm hair, tongue buzzing with the remnant of sea. You will forget that there is a life to forge this day. It will be so strange.

Blacklist Journal Blacklist Journal blacklistjournal.com | Brandeis University blacklistjournal.com | Brandeis University 7

Untitled Ryan Jae

Sisyphus & Eurydice on I-95 Lauren Puglisi After my fourth round of suitcase tetris this week, I am one light in the radiant darkness of red tail lights again. Somewhere on the stretch of highway between two New England anytowns. Somewhere between inhales and exhales and holding on to breath. Between pushing the boulder up the hill and letting it roll down and imagining myself happy. Einstein has proven that time moves differently in different places and that time moves slowest in traffic. Sometimes, in my waiting, I imagine Orpheus doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t look back and Eurydice makes it but mostly I cannot, and sometimes, I imagine all the tetrominoes fit together, but mostly I cannot, and sometimes, you can leave and leave nothing behind but mostly I cannot. I mean to say in Greek tragedies, everyone dies and disappears forever, I mean to say itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s mathematically proven I will always loose in tetris, but mostly, I mean to say, you will always leave something behind.

Blacklist Journal Blacklist Journal blacklistjournal.com | Brandeis University blacklistjournal.com | Brandeis University 9

A Big Delight in Every Bite Rachel Lee

Face Forward Michael Kay I’ve never been a very distracted person. Despite how much my Mother likes to tell me (during the few hours a week that she’s home) that I should also be taking something, I really don’t think that I need anything. I’m not that distracted, really, I just have a difficult time focusing on something for too long—say, one, maybe two hours? Which seems like a totally normal attention span, if you ask me. Maybe even a long one. Two hours is a long time. And when it comes to movies, I can do those no problem. I’m a horror movie type of person—I mean, really—I can sit there and watch those all day. One after another. Thirteen hours straight last weekend while my Mother was on vacation, somewhere, with someone. Thirteen hours though, new record. But nobody (especially my Mother) seems to notice that dedicated attention span. Not a single person. People just notice what they want to. It’s messed up. Like the other day in class, let me tell you, it was weird. I was in Algebra, sitting in the back (not my choice—they always put me back there) and taking notes and what not, and as I’m doing this I keep looking up to see the board and then looking down to write it down and whatever. Normal notes taking stuff, good student, et cetera. But then at some point I notice Brian turning around and staring at me. Like intensely staring at me. For a long time. Nobody else really seemed to notice him doing it. Which wouldn’t have been weird, or such a problem, if he hadn’t been doing this weird thing with his face. And I’m just trying to pay attention so I don’t get distracted or in trouble, which has been happening more frequently as of recent. But anyway: Brian. Like you know how when you’re sitting in class, maybe a little bit bored, and you rest your elbow on the desk, with your arm sticking up, and put your chin into the palm of your hand? And your fingers kind of cover one side of your face? Maybe your lips are a little pursed? Like that. So he’s doing that but a little bit turned around—his head was turned around to the left (or back-left), toward me, and his elbow was on the desk and his face was in his palm like how I just said, and he’s just sitting there, staring at me. All I was trying to do was take some notes and pass Algebra. And this guy is just staring at me, like I had done something, or something. I even looked right back at him a few times, even tried shrugging my shoulders like a WHAT DO YOU WANT kind of thing, but he was completely unfazed. Blacklist Journal But so he’s looking at me and I’m taking notes and minimally trying to Blacklist Journal blacklistjournal.com | Brandeis University get him to stop,blacklistjournal.com which wasn’t working, and then the really weird thing | Brandeis University

started to happen. So he’s holding his face like that, yeah? Remember? Face in his palm? So his fingers were on his cheek and I know this sounds crazy but all of a sudden his fingers just start peeling away his cheek skin. Like start mushing it down into his palm and the bottom of his jawline, making these drippy looking holes in the side of his face like after the scene in Batman: The Dark Knight where we see Two-Face (Harvey Dent post-immolation; saw it with one of my Mother’s boyfriends, forget his name) for the first time in the hospital, and the one side of his face is burned off but there are still a few muscle fibers connecting the top and bottom of his jaw. That’s kind of what Brian started to do to his face. It was super freaky. His lower eye lid kept resisting too, stretching to the point where I thought that it would go along with the rest of the torn skin down into his palm. It did that for a few tugs. Eventually it went. This whole thing was going on in freakin’ Algebra class, and I’m there trying to take notes, trying to pass the class and prove to my Mother that I don’t actually suffer from anything (else) and that I don’t need anymore medications and that I just happen not to care so much about some of my classes. You know? And like, what the shit am I supposed to do during that situation? Like not pay attention to the guy who is literally ripping his face off with his own hand? I could see his teeth through the skin that was being pulled off. And his gums—it looked like he was angry because of the menacing teeth, but he really had no facial expression (not a pun) that I could make out. I was just trying to take notes. But obviously this distracted me although literally nobody else quite seemed to notice, which made it all the more distracting because I kept looking around with what I assume to be my jaw on the freakin’ ground by that point and nobody else paid any mind. Not even the person sharing the desk with him, nor Penelope sitting right behind him. I had my own desk back there too, you know, given my susceptibility to distraction, and so I couldn’t budge anybody to say WHAT THE HELL DO YOU SEE THIS. Blame the seating chart for all of this, really. His eyes were locked with mine, too. The whole thing felt like a little show for me. His clawing fingers would occasionally slip into the holes of his tearing flesh and slide around on the surfaces of his teeth, which was pretty disgusting. Which is weird to say given that this kid was clawing his own face off, but it was. All that saliva glistening on his fingers and what not. And he wouldn’t hesitate a second to start the process over, basically just straightening his curled fingers and ripping down from just near his eyeball. There wasn’t any blood which I thought was weird too, but there was moisture from the saliva, which made it worse. Blood honestly would have just made sense, but I don’t know, the saliva just made it wet. Blood would have made it normal. And I was just

trying to take some notes but by the time the small strands of remaining muscle were coated with saliva Mr. Onstead was calling my name—calling me out in front of the whole class. And I guess I wasn’t hearing him at first so when I finally did, and I looked forward toward him instead of diagonally at Brian, there were many people turned around looking at me waiting for a response. And I ask him WHAT and he’s like CAN YOU PAY ATTENTION PLEASE and I just felt myself go flabbergasted (is that how the word is used) and looked at Brian again who still was receiving no attention despite half of his face being gone. And when I do that, look back to Brian, Mr. Onstead is all like KEVIN and all I could do was say SORRY and he said JUST PAY ATTENTION—LET’S KEEP MOVING and literally nobody did anything about Brian. He was still staring at me. I mean I thought that maybe people just weren’t looking at him because they were facing forward and taking notes but there was no way they could have all turned their heads toward me without at least glancing at him. The kid was having a serious problem but all anyone could do was play on the fact that I sometimes couldn’t pay attention or whatever. It was seriously messed up. And then this keeps going on. But then Brian starts putting his face back together. It was just as unsettling. Saliva sticking to his fingers and his hand when he took them off the side of his face. It made little strands. But so he takes his palm to where all the ripped skin had clumped together at his jawline, and he just starts shoving it back up onto his face without any pattern or plan for a reasonable facial reconstruction. It didn’t form itself or nothing. He just looked like he had all this skin pushed into what seemed like a brain design on his cheek. Still nothing from the class. So he has basically finished moving it off of his jawline and jumbling it all over his face when out of nowhere again I hear KEVIN and I’m like SHIT in my head but when I look over everyone is staring at me all frightened and in awe and some of the guys are laughing quietly. KEVIN COME HERE PLEASE I hear and Mr. Onstead looks really upset. Apparently I had actually yelled SHIT instead of just thinking it. And so I have to get up and Mr. Onstead walks over to his desk to write me a pink slip to go to the principal’s office for like the third time this week for being disrespectful and a distraction to others. But while I’m walking up I’m having a very difficult time not staring directly at Brian’s knotted up cheek skin more closely now and still nobody notices just like how I didn’t notice his backpack in the walkway and I went down pretty hard over top Blacklist Journal Blacklist of it and everyone thought that I wasJournal being funny but actually I was just

blacklistjournal.com | Brandeis University blacklistjournal.com | Brandeis University 13

distracted a little. But what’s weird is that at that point I was standing right next to Brian, being the center of attention, and still nobody noticed or said anything about the guy. Not one damn thing about poor Brian’s face that had been deconstructed and rebuilt in a matter of minutes in Algebra. But so I hear again KNOCK IT OFF and I go and get my pink slip at Mr. Onstead’s desk and while he’s writing it out, of course, I can’t help but look at Brian. Who was just plain disgusting at this point, but made the first sign of a facial expression that he had since I watched him rip his face off and push it all back up—he smiled at me, basically just with one side of his face, and gave me a little wave. And I’m there with Mr. Onstead by my side and I put my hand up just a little to wave back at Brian and Mr. Onstead is all like BRIAN DON’T MAKE ME WRITE YOU UP TOO and Brian doesn’t say a word but just goes back to taking notes (which I assume he had to catch up with, after taking time off while distracting me with the facial fiasco). That was the first time I saw someone look directly at Brian and still nothing changed. It was like Mr. Onstead, along with everyone else, didn’t notice his face at all somehow. Just noticed his little wave and distraction to me (the class distraction) and threatened him. He looked at him straight on, I swear, when he threatened him—still nothing. And I looked back at Mr. Onstead and he said HERE and gave me my pink slip and I left the classroom glancing at Brian who didn’t look up again, who was still doing his work. And so I went out the door to yet again go to the principal’s office to call my Mother (who didn’t answer) at work and leave her a message saying that I’m having a difficult time concentrating in class and that I’m also becoming a distraction for others and that something needs to be done about it once and for all, which I bet will be yet another prescription.

Man Downstairs Caroline Juul Ellervik

Blacklist Journal Blacklist Journal blacklistjournal.com | Brandeis University blacklistjournal.com | Brandeis University 15

The Optimists Sam Drake

Boston Harbor on the Cusp of March Courtney Garvey The ghost of a storm six days gone, and the sky tired. Clouds laying themselves to rest on cushions of a snowcapped harbor. The skin on my face bare, and the right temperature. This air is no longer cold enough to hurt me. There’s a dog lolling its tongue; he must feel it too, this stability. The other end of his leash yields a woman, a mother maybe, in the times that are not now (today, there are no dependents). When she smokes, she only takes small breaths. When she hangs her legs off the pier, my body doesn’t worry she’ll fall in. An open apartment window whispers jazz to which the ships rock along, their chains clinking like glasses of something that’ll go down smooth, and my mouth waters. This is a city awash in grays and blues and bricks and if I could hold on to it, it would be like a small bird cupped in my palm, one that doesn’t flit and fly away. The news tells us another storm is coming tonight, as though, while standing here at the edge, we care about tomorrows. It’s spring and I want to hold everything. Citrus rinds and roly polies, the limes from which you’ve sucked all the juice. Flowers my mother pressed in a book about the Kennedys, and my father’s favorite baseball cap. The sunrise from when I woke up again today. Spare buttons I can’t match to any of my shirts, a new toothbrush, and one of the letters I wrote myself in seventh grade, when I wanted to be a different person. Things I put away in November and am finding again as I dig through the holes in my dungaree pockets. Promises tangled in lint and loose threads, the crusts of bread that didn’t break easily. Splinters from the swing set we tore down, the kitchen tiles in my first apartment, cracked and caked with spaghetti sauce and spilt wine. Grass stains on yellow linen. My lover’s laugh as I pull a funny face. Spills of flour from birthday cakes, from burnt pancakes we still ate anyways, and tomatoes sliced just thin enough. The wind overhead, warm and expansive and as endless as my Journal sun-streaked Blacklist Blacklist Journal yearning.

blacklistjournal.com | Brandeis University blacklistjournal.com | Brandeis University 17

Summer in Boston Lili Byrne

The Dollmaker James O’Leary Won’t you craft me wings? Won’t you wood -carve me real boy? Won’t they love me when joint ache bends my dance--creak--creak me to your bastard son in lead pajamas, voice me a fairy knight’s tale for night’s hell. Tooth or truth, elm sends keys yanked out the mouth with a door. Control raddled sockets and love takes a softer touch; it’s just your paint spun my eyes red, not that I’m afraid. Creator take notes, rule what won’t break: ash, epoxy, two parts one too. Aren’t I what you make? Won’t a cloth curator clothe me new home? Won’t be much I need: nap -kin or Band-Aid, wood’s only blood is sap and I want safety: won’t you save me from the crowds? I trust you, shelter, when the bat boys make out of me a string toy: won’t it move, they say. Let’s make it sing.

Blacklist Journal Blacklist Journal blacklistjournal.com | Brandeis University blacklistjournal.com | Brandeis University 19

Disembodied Deadmap Emil Melia

Momentum Daniella Cohen My 10-year-old makes tiny noises at 3:43 a.m. as the fridge hums its one-note sonata, the tiles vibrating with that muted buzz of electricity. And I lie alone and awake, thinking of injera – forming teff-flour pillows on a hot griddle, bubbles of smoke fading to reveal a shapeless expanse, beige desert as still as the children asleep, for just a second longer. because if you were wondering bomb shelters work like time machines – jettison us into darkness we can prod with a thumb, quake madly as the minute destroys rearranges itself every minute happens right now, around us. and in these moments, stripped of sight but gripping shoulders, we hear the yelp of our neighbor’s Labrador and the siren’s lament for a home whose fate we cannot yet know

Blacklist Journal Blacklist Journal blacklistjournal.com | Brandeis University blacklistjournal.com | Brandeis University 21

Dramatic Cool John Holland

An Exquisite Kind of Pain Catherine Carter Right now I’m taking a class called Literature and Medicine and we’re discussing the nature of pain, particularly how it is discussed in literature. Virginia Woolf is often quoted on saying “The merest schoolgirl, when she falls in love, has Shakespeare, Donne, Keats to speak her mind for her; but let a sufferer try to describe a pain in his head to a doctor, and language at once runs dry.” The very nature of physical pain is to be incommunicable because we don’t have access to the sensory information of other people. We can only seek to imagine the feelings and emotions of others. So I do not seek to be Shakespeare or Donne or Keats. I am simply asking you to imagine. To imagine an exquisite kind of pain. There is an exquisite kind of pain in wearing rainbow socks. The socks themselves are incredibly comfortable. They are knee high, and you get lots of complements on them when you wear them with denim shorts. Pain comes in waves and whirlpools when She finds them in your suitcase during break. When She asks you if they are a ‘lesbian thing’ you are spluttering, writhing, dying. You remember the first time you failed the swim test because you inhaled water and you clung to the side of the pool like it was life itself as tears streamed down your face. You feel like Poseidon is ripping the air out of your lungs and replacing it with sea water and you have to keep the salt water in your lungs because you’re not allowed to cry because crying is akin to a confession and you’re not about to go to church and sit in box with a priest, so you keep your eyes dry and your chest tight. You say the socks are for a friend but your words leave the taste chlorine and regrets in your mouth. There is an exquisite kind of pain in words, and what they are used to inflict. You might think that the most heartbreaking words in the English language are “I hate you” but I’m here to tell you that there are seven most heartbreaking words and they are “Why are you doing this to me?” in a grey iMessage bubble followed by increasingly frantic double question marks. Every time your phone goes off it makes your stomach cave in a little more and you feel the salt water returning for you to choke on as you force yourself to turn off your phone and study some vocabulary:

Blacklist Journal Blacklist Journal blacklistjournal.com | Brandeis University blacklistjournal.com | Brandeis University 23

Le cœur Une douleur Avoir mal Déprimée Une blessure Never have the parts of the body seemed so hostile. So foreign and yet familiar. Can we really call a feeling pain if it is radiating out of every pore, every blood vessel, every muscle, and making your entire world tilt off its axis? The pain is so overwhelming and yet so intricate because you know you cannot force the parts of your body to change any more than you can continue to lie through your teeth about who you are dating. I used to think the easiest way to get rid of an exquisite kind of pain was to just not feel anything so I took my grubby hands with short nails and fashioned a steel casket around my heart. That didn’t last long however because the steel melted. Not because the steel was weak but because my anger was stronger, my veins bringing fire into my right atrium, the flames searing my raw heart. Perhaps anger isn’t sympathetic but if you think about it anger is more about a lack of control than anything. I can’t control the fact that my class starts at 9 am any more than I can control the fact that I have a test tomorrow any more than I can control the fact that She will never accept me any more than I can control the fact that I have no appetite. I cannot control an exquisite kind of pain but I can control destruction. I take a pencil in my hand and break it in two before crunching it down, swallowing because I know at least wood floats on water because my lungs are filling back up again and god when did breathing get so hard? When did existing get so hard? When did looking at the stars get so hard? When did lying get so hard? When did crying get so easy? When did socks become evidence to present to the jury when did pride become something to be hated? A cliché of allies is that “the worst thing to hate is love” but it is not love that She hates it is that I can’t give Her what She wants and in return she’s giving me an exquisite kind of pain. I may not be a bastion of self-esteem but I do not hate myself enough to marry an emotionally unavailable man named Clarke who cries after giving me unsatisfying missionary sex and then wakes up and goes to his job where he wears a suit. That is a different exquisite kind of pain that I can’t even begin to fathom. I laugh when I think about an alternate universe in which this union occurs mostly because I’m too afraid to actually face that idea head on. I said I can control destruction but that was another compulsive lie I’ve gotten used to telling myself because how can you destroy an idea how can you destroy a feeling how can you destroy pain? I can jaunt and jest about taekwondo sparring forms and round-house-kicking the world in the face when it knocks me down but, in the end, I can’t fight

everyone. I can’t fight blood. I can’t fight tears. I can’t fight a persistent cold ache in my heart that I’m afraid will never go away. I can’t fight breaking down in class and I can’t fight lying in bed wondering if I’m awake or having a nightmare. One thing I can destroy is culture and that is the thing that I fear the most, that I fear more than this exquisite kind of pain lasting forever. I’ve always been aware of standing on a precipice because Vertigo is an old friend who provides a strange comfort in her volatile nature. Vertigo comes to me when I am asked if I speak English, she’s holding my hand as I am asked if I am a US citizen, and she’s ever so lightly touching my shoulder as I am asked if I am from North Korea. Vertigo is twisting my wrist when I am asked if I can decipher symbols and sounds from a mother land I barely know. Her hands are clenched around my throat as I try to make certain shapes with my tongue which only produce a caricature of a language that claims to be in my blood. I can banish vertigo for a moment when I am dancing. When I am wearing a ceremonial hanbok I feel like as my skirt twirls it is a blooming parachute that will help me fall. When I throw punches in time to Hana Dul Set Vertigo is lying on the wooden floor because she refused to take her socks off and slipped. But I know those moments are fleeting. Because at the end of the day I am still tired. At the end of the day Vertigo is still tucking me into bed at night. And now that my link, my connection, my translator has deemed me guilty I know that those fleeting moments are close to fading into nothingness. I no longer have that constant destructive companion. I have become Vertigo. An exquisite kind of pain. Can you imagine yet? Or do we need some more imprecise metaphors? Or instead I could tell you about the time I shattered the bones in my right shin learning to ride my bike and had to go the hospital. My body didn’t accept the painkillers right away and I screamed the entire time they were setting my leg. Then the doctors pumped me full of morphine and soon I was trying to walk because I couldn’t feel anything. I couldn’t feel the ivory fragments inside me jostling against each other as I tried to drag my newly plaster wrapped leg around the hospital room. When the painkillers wore off the colors of the world were duller and it was hard to remember where time began and ended. It was like living in a slightly shittier parallel universe all the while bedridden, with daggers all up my tibia and fibia. I could tell you about the how hard I cried when they changed my cast to a shorter one and I bent my knee for the first time in months. I could tell you how hard it is to use crutches on icy sidewalks and I could tell you about how sometimes that part of my leg still aches for no reason. I could describe the physical to you for hours but it would still not even come close to Blacklist Journal Blacklist Journal this exquisite kind of pain. Because there is no healing, no prescription,

blacklistjournal.com | Brandeis University blacklistjournal.com | Brandeis University 25

no get-well cards. There is no hospital specialist for losing a person who is still alive, no special ward for those who have their hearts broken by a kind of ex that there is no getting over. An exquisite kind of pain. There is a paper assignment for my Literature and Medicine class and there is a creative option to interview someone who has been through extreme illness or pain to shed light on their experience. These words are mostly full of darkness, but maybe I should just submit this.

Amaro

John Holland

Blacklist Journal Blacklist Journal blacklistjournal.com | Brandeis University blacklistjournal.com | Brandeis University 27

Knackerrd Portrait I Keegan Barone

Knackerrd Portrait II Keegan Barone

Blacklist Journal Blacklist Journal blacklistjournal.com | Brandeis University blacklistjournal.com | Brandeis University 29

Pentecost Margaret Mitchell Your face illuminated by the flame whispering shy obscenities at the wind, body hungrily curved overâ&#x20AC;&#x201C; How humbly you receive the light, drawing your wayward fragments around an American-blend center of mass, setting aflame the taste in our mouths tomorrow morning. I think since youth I have been damned to love everybody, and to feel like a ghost for it. There are halogen white streets that we do not belong in, but stomp our ashes out in them anyways, a funeral procession in artificial daylight. I confess, I am tired tonight of upper rooms their solemn piety, pleading, go forthâ&#x20AC;&#x201C; away with sleep. Away from dreams unearthed, or memories, rather: the coming in from the snow, a child, stripped down to socks shivering on the edge of the bed with the low light of the fire on your forehead: you are so vulnerable, like that.

Or these: of you, small, still unknown to me, sheets pulled severely over your tangled head for warmth. I could curl up like that quite quietly on the bare mattress above the radiator not even touching you or letting you see me.

Studio Sam Drake

Blacklist Journal Blacklist Journal blacklistjournal.com | Brandeis University blacklistjournal.com | Brandeis University 31

Time and Space Cairo Mo

Blacklist Journal Blacklist Journal blacklistjournal.com | Brandeis University blacklistjournal.com | Brandeis University 33

Made in Chelmsford Hannah Patient I grew up in an unpoetic town where the high street is a dirty yellow brick road and the traffic at the Army and Navy roundabout elicits a collective groan. If you’re from Chelmsford, there are some truths you’ll know: Central Park is full of druggies; rail replacement busses suck. People make out in Rectory Road car park and the back of the BP. The man in the Beacon falls asleep behind the counter while you’re paying for your sweets. No one cares if it’s the birthplace of radio. Growing up was chips on a Friday from Mrs Cod; walking round and round Oaklands in the pouring rain with my old friend’s dog; waiting for the bus as the cars came speeding down Parkway. And I always yearned to follow them, to get away: wanted to save my first heartbreak for a less prosaic place, but too late: a local boy got hold of me and it happened anyway. The summer before I left, I took it for granted that things would always stay the same, dreamed of better things in a uni town with a more romantic name. We discovered the joys of clubbing, but were young and too afraid to get blackout drunk; spent half the night in Spoons instead, then walked home the back way, wobbling along the towpath in Essex heels, stinking of McDonald’s, heads resounding with I Got a Feeling. Somewhere on the internet, there’s a photo of me sitting outside Iceland in a shopping trolley. The night before I left, we watched Game of Thrones. My old friend cried when we dropped her home

and I thought it was dumb: I’d be back again soon and nothing would have changed. But I was wrong: Chelmsford is familiar, but also strange. I see my friends, but we’re different people now: the girl who wallowed in her Essex vowels feels far away and long ago. For here I had my coming of age, and I didn’t even know.

Tule Fog Ryan Jae

Blacklist Journal Blacklist Journal blacklistjournal.com | Brandeis University blacklistjournal.com | Brandeis University 35

The Dual Inadequate Emil Melia

A Twisted, Arrogant, and Untimely Apology Emil Melia I’m afraid of the carts at the grocery store I can bear to take a basket but my anemic arms bend under the weight A little bit sturdy and a little bit striped but barely noticeable now I’m sorry you had to weep when I told you I won’t disremember your drunken tears I got us to the party and got your glasses all wet feeling like I had killed you, almost cringing at the irony and crying at the heartbreak In my new lachrymose liberation of not lying I want to apologize because that was not appropriate, acceptable, or anticipated I’m partially hoping you will forget, like she does Although my self censorship has complicated the circumstances: On a weekly basis I whisper white lies to her and every other time we see each other and I’ll probably have to mumble misinformation forever because she forgets everything I tell her every time and I’m too tired to tell the truth Ever, Let alone over and over again So he and she live like this with little semblance of my truth when he and she go to his and her heaven I wonder how his and her god will explain it to him and her because I sure as hell can’t I still remember the email she sent Blacklist Journal Dear teacher, Blacklist Journal This reading you’veblacklistjournal.com assigned is inappropriate | Brandeis University

blacklistjournal.com | Brandeis University 37

I don’t want my child asking… asking me what ‘transvestite’ means I hope I’m remembering this wrong a hurtful hallucination hopefully, but regardless I hope you can forgive my illness, indignity and timing I love you very much and I hope you’ll come with me so maybe I could try taking a cart and being less terrified

Fake City Real City Jackson Markovic

Blacklist Journal Blacklist Journal blacklistjournal.com | Brandeis University blacklistjournal.com | Brandeis University 39

Study of my Dinner (Still Life) Jackson Markovic

Sweet Emma Cheung Theo emptied his stomach onto the pavement after a tube journey that was a few minutes too unpleasant. He wiped the residue off his chin but then wasn’t sure what to do with it now that it was on his fingers. Wipe it on the jacket. He stood bent looking at the pavement and nothing else, arm stretched out to lean on the wall of the station. The pavement looks quite clean at this time of night. Could lie down and have a nap on the ground. Kip on the clean ground. Clean apart from the fresh vomit. Perhaps move away from the entrance of Warren Street and more towards the 88 bus stop. Newsagent by there where you once bought salt and vinegar crisps. Vinegar stench behind the eyes. He moved away from the fluorescent lights and passers-by then spat on the clean pavement to purge the staleness from his tongue. Perhaps shouldn’t have drank that much at the corporate party. Don’t usually drink that much but it was all free. How much did Theo drink? 1xProsecco 1xGinLemonade 1xPinaColada 2xGinnTonic 4xPeroni 1xGinnTonic 1xPeroni Yes, perhaps he shouldn’t have drank that much. A small boy like him. Nothing plump about him. One of those silhouettes made out of negative space. Fingers shaped like bamboo. He spits again to rid the stale acid from his tongue but it does not go away. The pavement looks very clean in the light of this lamppost. Cross the road maybe. Home is across the road. He swills the puddle of bile from the back of his mouth: hint of carrot and coriander soup. Fragrance of ferment and beneath all of that a slight sweetness. Sweetness weaves through the filth, a single thread of delicious pink among browndirt cowboy. Sweet like pure. Sweet like her.

Blacklist Journal Blacklist Journal blacklistjournal.com | Brandeis University blacklistjournal.com | Brandeis University 41

Sweet like strawberry jam and peaches juices. Cheeks full of honey nectar sweet. First love first touch first daffodil in springtime. Sweet like “you are my lucky star” warm like “I was starstruck”. Lychee syrup lucky star seeping out of open skin. Can feel it on the tongue the thought of her. Almost as if the leftover vomit isn’t there. Remember that night I sat with her as she threw up after having too much to drink. Gagging hiccup, slight convulsion. Again and again until the real thing escaped her stretched parted lips. Epiphanic stream pouring itself into the sewer as I held her hair. Sick dripping, eyelids drooping. Licked it off her face, from her mouth into my mouth. Threads of salt-sargasso, estuary of marbled green. Honey sweet nectar dreams: the vomit of my love. Theo could only see the pavement as he stood bent by the 88 bus stop. To see just grey but to taste it all. He threw up once more and proceeded swiftly home.

Rolling the Blunt Salena Deane ready your serotonin stallion again saddle up this homegrown pack light for the journey ahead Tallyho! hybrid pony with crooked gait and blinkered eyes gallop the indicastone path set a course for must never rest

Future Poster Haeri Han

Blacklist Journal Blacklist Journal blacklistjournal.com | Brandeis University blacklistjournal.com | Brandeis University 43

Electrifying Cyril Ojilere

STEVIE NICKS SINGS BLACK MAGIC WOMAN AND SHE IS K McClendon Two out of three / ain’t bad / she is woman / and must be magic / the way her tassels dance / bend to the will of her fingers / how the tambourine floats between her wrists / her sleeve so long it stretches back to the 70’s / must be magic / dirt dug voice / the sound a violin makes during cord switch / electricity running low voltage through crushed velvet sneakers / i have seen a black magic woman / she did not look like stevie / i think stevie had us confused / because i am the only thing in this theater that has the capability to be both black and magic / but i am singing anyways / mouth wide open attempting to match pitch with the stadium / i look at the ground floor / there is a sea of white faces planted just under the stage lights / swaying / opening / blooming into flowers / like stevie herself planted their seeds / like she tilled the earth / and then some / like she could command them to grow / and know they would open for her / the white witch call it black magic / must think she dress in all black / so she be black too / must think she / santana / woodstock 1969 again / and sure she introduced this song by saying “this is the year of the woman” / but what does that mean really / what color woman is this year for / i stop singing / i listen to the white woman next to me cry / wonder who her tears are for / figure it ain’t me / she turns her back /

Blacklist Journal Blacklist Journal blacklistjournal.com | Brandeis University blacklistjournal.com | Brandeis University 45

The Great British Punch UP Sam Drake

Middle Distances Brian Kosewic Now that we met on legs older and softer And leaned into the old windy curves I found it striating your hips wrapped Over your belly looping back We leaned into the windy old curves Flayed elbows coughing cellulite from our backs Over your belly looping back Acid sinking a fourth peanut sandwich Flayed elbows coughing cellulite from our backs Wrists crossed above stalls and rust mottled the floor Acid sinking a fourth peanut sandwich Some jokes are deeper than the fear that caught Wrists crossed above stalls and rust mottled the floor And the flags oh the flags we wore Some jokes are deeper than the fear that caught Another triangle another standard another thigh And the flags! Oh the flags we wear That I often slipped through crowded halls of sweat and sun Another triangle another standard another thigh You can’t wrap your sickness away. That I often slipped through crowded halls of sweat and sun Gave an elbow to the gut that last turn because You can’t rap your sickness away It’s the bus ride home where you’re hooked by shame. He gave an elbow to the gut that last turn because I found it striating your hips wrapped Up in the bus ride home where, hooked by shame, We met on legs older and softer.

Blacklist Journal Blacklist Journal blacklistjournal.com | Brandeis University blacklistjournal.com | Brandeis University 47

cycling Tomoki Williams when I open my eyes the light drowns my sight blinding, binding my soul to ancestral roots through my spine, down to flesh [ed out] ground | groundbreaking revelation revelation â&#x20AC;&#x201C; revelation. revere insight tightly, the knuckles rap a tuneless melody, rhythmic inconsistency completing wholeness of unsung song

[tap, tap, tap,]

rain pitter patters as wind howls a requiem, missing rattling from shakiness of time a quality minute enough to our well-being, that echoing a ticking of ticking off could right a tilting sphere offset aches to bake a lake to serve a serpent of hissing fury; furiously scratching off sticky labels to conceal the price of merchandise

[breathe.]

a breath of fresh air clearing out of the billowing smoke to wail a wise day after dawn, tawdry commitments swallow a rustle of silencing woes catch this! catch up to curate typical joy to leave a death behind closed drawers of dusted tabletops an affirmative nod --- hold in lifetimes ago to live this one out.

Blacklist Journal Blacklist Journal blacklistjournal.com | Brandeis University blacklistjournal.com | Brandeis University 49

Martyr’s Death by Water Klara Pokrzywa And on the third day we decided to fill our stuffed minds further, to go by the rushing water and talk, the words coming to mind like moths— antelucan and communion— life is very long to have nothing to say. The fear is not of silence, but emptiness. And, ah, flesh!—how we long to tear it off. The temptation is the sea, that silk we might tear with our hands. Do you really think we could walk? Under the surface is only silence. We sink with our arms outspread, our head the handle God could fish us out by but we will wash up spreadeagled, a wound in our side. Perhaps our bones will spell the secret word when we, like starfish, are soft and smell of brine, sponges that have melted and been resolidified. Bubbles burst out of the glow. We float to the surface in the path the sun makes on the water for which there is no word we know; the ladder we climb to put wind in our sail—earth from air, high from low, true light from twilight; drowned and remade. Our bones will clatter to the brightening slope; we will be saints only when flowers begin to grow.

Blue Blizzard Caroline Juul Ellervik

Blacklist Journal Blacklist Journal blacklistjournal.com | Brandeis University blacklistjournal.com | Brandeis University 51

Our finite distances Katie Gu Retreating back to the redwoods, beneath an endless understory of lichen and moss, I watched a woman, scraped knees and floppy drawstring hat, press her ear up against the peeling redwood bark. She leaned, torso meeting trunk, cheek touching papery skinâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; a body yielding gently to another. In the valley of sweaty ferns insisting their ribbed bellies against the flat dirt, and the summer sun spitting some dizzying energy into the quiet of the air, Against blankets of cloud parting for the hills and their insisting peaks, I saw a transcendent unity. Looking at her, I felt a sudden urge for the shrinking of those distances of desire, a contraction, a snapping of their elastic rubber bands that stretch and wrap Around the endless continuum of space, choking air into swallowed silence over the mouthpiece, soaking those areas of white mattered cognition with anxious withholding, spreading the distances between us far and wide. I see nowâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; that thing you said about the spaces that belong to you and to me, about how small it all is, how contained, how wonderful, how desired.

One Day Isis Mayfield

Blacklist Journal Blacklist Journal blacklistjournal.com | Brandeis University blacklistjournal.com | Brandeis University 53

Hello Wrlod! Gretta Kissell when I ask for the doctor I get prescriptions to take to prescribe to the doctor when She asks for Her meds because I Am Ma Nic Am I It’s like that screen the Psych taecher shows you: “See how the letetrs chnage but You can still raed it and I riase my hnad and say “Ma’am (no msesing that one up tanhk you, smmyrety) Where Is My precsibtp Persicptio ” And before I can finish This (public class Main) public school system I am Given my daily pill (fnially) But before I can process (void: nothing returns) It comes Back up and (system.out.println(“there it goes and then I’m

”))

back in the office She scribbles (no colons anywhere it won’t work anyways) the pen mimicking my speech patterns (var: erratic) “and do you often feel this way?” she asks.

Immersion Jee Yeon Rim

Blacklist Journal Blacklist Journal blacklistjournal.com | Brandeis University blacklistjournal.com | Brandeis University 55

Dead Name in Wonderland Nico Léger Dead Name’s rabbit hole: a damp well for the bodies marked mistake, the same water that nurtures killing. Last month like today was Dead Name’s unbirthday and Dead Name drowned, choking on the smell of Dead Name’s perfumes, obligatory razor burn, hot iron left on too long. Dead Name ate “eat me” and drank “drink me” and dropped while staring at Dead Name’s reflection in the flood at the bottom, leaning forward, praying the curves of the uneven body of water weren’t a reflection of Dead Name’s own. Not a dream, but dying -- one in two do -- is just as safe, better than being pinched awake. The White Queen might beg to look away, but she can’t stand surgery scars and needle marks, anyway. Dead Name: not a shape-shifter, as mad as the hatter, the wrong Alice, but still branded by the Red Queen, a heart pressed to Dead Name’s white lips with the lash of an uttered, “Um.” Dead Name sees: the pit of a well, not a Wonderland, a burial site.

Hyper-real Ella Zhou

Blacklist Journal Blacklist Journal blacklistjournal.com | Brandeis University blacklistjournal.com | Brandeis University 57

Exile Kayla Gonzalez She said, There are going to be tough days where even your body especially your body doesn’t feel like your home. Where the one land you’re always promised is compromised. Today is one of those days. *** “What is exile? It is being in a house that is not a home. It is being with a group, but not in a group. It is watching but not participating. It is leaving home, only to find that they don’t want you here. It is being placed somewhere, anywhere, as long as it isn’t where you want to be.” -I.O. I used to think the sun was violent because it beat me into existence. It coated me in sweat. Wetback. That was my brother’s first name in America. He was born in the University Medical Center of El Paso. Citizen. But that didn’t stop the doctor from suggesting the name. The only wet on his back was just another part of herself that my mom gave to him - another part of herself she couldn’t protect him from. The doctor cut the umbilical cord

like a butcher and the Border was his knife. My brother and I were born in a carniceria. and told not to bite the hand that feeds us. *** “My mother was ripped from the womb of her mother who was torn from the breast of the woman who fed her. My mother is a stranger in her own home. She has watered the earth between my toes with her tears and blood. She planted me in land that is not her own so that my children may one day feast on the fruit that I will bear. And yet. This fruit—she will never taste. My mother has no home. The flesh that once bound my mother to hers became a wound that has long since closed. My mother will never return to her mother so instead she lays at my feet and lives in-between, ni de aquí, ni de allá.” -H.M. My mom is the wind. She hits me with the force of waves. And I drown in her consuming warmth. My mom is the sun. Her words bear the same heat. They bleed onto my skin dry crack If my mom were the snow the world would never know whiteness because her accent is not cold and rigid. The sound of it does not cut even though hearing it hurts.

and heal.

Blacklist Journal Blacklist Journal blacklistjournal.com | Brandeis MyUniversity mom is not the snow. blacklistjournal.com | Brandeis University 59

My mom is scared of nothing except me because she raised me to forget her. She tended to me like the garden that she could not grow in our apartment. She helped me pick up my roots and leave. I didn’t read a book by a latinx author until I got to college. I went 19 years thinking our words didn’t matter. Thinking they didn’t exist. Thinking my mom’s voice wasn’t worth remembering. Exile is having your history erased time and time again. Exile is voluntarily erasing your history so that your child can have a future. We’ve always been here. My ancestors live in my words. And I will write them free. And when I die, plant my body. It will grow beans that you can pour over rice. *** “When I think about exile, I cannot help but to think about my life as a black man. For knowing my ancestors were forced out of the lands that they once found comfort and stability in to now living in an unknown land that I have occupied for 33 years but still have not found comfort and stability. When I think about exile, I think about one of my favorite poems Let America Be America Again. For in this work,

it constantly reminds me that USA is not my home and never intended to be my home. My people’s displacement came from greed -nothing else. To be in exile is to understand my life as a black man in the US. I am tangled in endless chain of power gain profit while being a servant to all people despite the freedom to be me.” -C.H. The United States has exiled us to the apartments on Willis Avenue. Down the block is the Food for Less where Mama begs her boss for extra hours. Exile disproportionately affects women I learned this when my dad decided he wasn’t a family man. Exile labels Mama as lazy because she can’t afford rent And feed us And buy us new jackets And give us bus money And pay the power bill All on $10.50 an hour You see, you don’t have to be kicked out in order to be told you’re not wanted. This country wants nothing to do with you But it wants everything you have. How do I tell Mama that I don’t feel safe without blaming her? How do I forgive her for something she didn’t cause? How do I stop being angry at her? Now that I’ve put distance between me and home, I have the distance to truly know fear. Fear is not breaking Mama’s favorite plate The one she brought from Mexico The one her own mom stacked Blacklisttortillas Journalon

Blacklist Journal blacklistjournal.com | Brandeis University blacklistjournal.com | Brandeis University 61

The one she wrapped in cloth to protect against the unknown Fear is breaking Mama’s heart because I cannot handle the world the way she hoped I could because my skin speaks for me because her exile is passed down to me just like her brown eyes and infectious smile. I’m sorry I’m scared, Mama. You raised me better. *** “Exile: a form of solitude. whether it be an individual or entire communities, Exile can be seen in history, with Native Americans and the trail of tears; within literature, As Beli leaves Santo Domingo for New Jersey; to today, as my family lives in fear of men who will ask us, Can I see some ID?” -D.M. Twenty minutes before class. That was enough time to go pick up a package. I left my heavy backpack at a table because I had enough burden to carry around and walked away. I have seen people do that before. and I bet you have too. But maybe you haven’t seen a brown person do it before. And that’s why you called security. Bomb threat. And that’s why when I returned they searched me

they went through my belongings they asked me why I was here Can I see some ID? School broke me. But. Education gave me the language to be my own doctor but not the language to tell my mom that this place isn’t safe for me. If you freeze fear enough, it’ll turn into ICE. Immigration and Customs Enforcement And it’ll wait for you at the grocery store so you can’t feed your family. Mama, I’m hungry (for home). Education gave me the language to apologize for ever saying that to you, Mama. For black and brown bodies, to be in exile is to be in a body that others think is not a proper home. Eviction. *** She said, Even on those tough days especially on those tough days You have to remember why you’re here. You have to count the number of scars on your skin because those are the number of times they’ve tried to take your land. On those tough days, remember my voice. The sound of it will bring you back to your true home.

Blacklist Journal Blacklist Journal blacklistjournal.com | Brandeis University blacklistjournal.com | Brandeis University 63

CAFE Jee Yeon Rim

Contributor Notes Stina Arstorp, ’21- Santa Clara University Stina Arstorp, originally from a small town in Connecticut, now a Sophomore at Santa Clara University is a Environmental Studies & Studio Arts major. influenced by the vibrant colors of her Northern California surroundings, her work is primarily focused on color and light that she finds in moments of her daily life. Keegan Barone, ’20- Carnegie Mellon University As a third-year student athlete studying both Art and Business, Keegan creates work about American culture and social/political issues through the lens of sport. Lili Byrne, ’19- Northeastern University Lilirose Byrne sets out to blur the lines between design and engineering to envision what the world could look like, and to also change it. As a bioengineer, Lilirose is an innovator at the intersection of engineering and healthcare, and as an artist she communicates her vision of the world as a malleable and beautiful space. Catherine Carter, ’22- Cornell University Catherine Carter is currently a freshman at Cornell University with a passion for writing. She has previously self-published two novels: “Designer Babies” and “The Rise of the Fourteen.” Currently she is working on poetry collection on self-reflection and identity. In her spare time she likes to dance, play badminton, and drink tea with her good friends. Emma Cheung, ’20- University College London Emma Cheung is an English Literature undergraduate at University College London. She has two rabbits named Molly and Mouse. Daniella Cohen, ’20- Yale University Daniella is a junior English major concentrating in Creative Writing and originally hails from Boca Raton, Florida. Salena Deane, ’19- Brandeis University Salena Deane is a writer who lives in Massachusetts, working on her degree in Creative Writing. A loyal employee of Dunkin’ (formerly Dunkin’ Donuts), she spends most days making lattes and crafting poems. Sam Drake, ’19- Rhode Island School of Design In the two years since graduating from the Glasgow School of Art (BA Fine Art), Sam Drake has been granted many awards, including the the Royal Glasgow Institute of the Fine Arts Exhibition Award (2016). In 2017, he was the beneficiary of a grant from the Elizabeth Greenshields Foundation. His works evoke the waking hours of dusk- each piece, which range from the figurative to the wholly abstract, are bound together by a sense of disquieting. Drake is currently pursuing an MFA at the prestigious Rhode Island School of and Design. Caroline Juul Ellervik, ’22- Northeastern University Caroline Ellervik attends Northeastern University and studies Marine Biology. The pictures she submitted are all personally important to her in some way because of a trip, person or situation. Courtney Garvey, ’19- Brandeis University Courtney Garvey is a writer from Massachusetts, studying Creative Writing and History at Brandeis University. Her work has been featured in Blacklist, Laurel Moon, Peach Magazine, and The Emerson Review.

Blacklist Journal Blacklist Journal blacklistjournal.com | Brandeis University blacklistjournal.com | Brandeis University 65

Kayla Gonzalez, ’20- Vassar College Kayla Gonzalez currently studies English at Vassar. When she is at Vassar, she is freezing. When she’s home in Los Angeles, she is sunny and smiling. Katie Gu, ’19- Stanford University Katie received her undergraduate degrees in English Literature and Biology from Stanford, where she is currently pursuing graduate studies in Bioengineering. She enjoys cloud formations and collecting word-pairings from novels (top of the list: “milky palimpsest” and “stereoscopic panache”). Previously, she has served on the editorial boards of Topiary and The Stanford Arts Review. Haeri Han, ’14- Parsons School of Design Haeri Han is an illustrator/graphic designer and highly respects the beauty and rights of women. John Holland, ’20- Parsons School of Design John Holland is a Canadian artist currently based in New York City. His work explores abstract facades, interpreting digital image filters as portraits of fragmented identities. John is currently pursuing his MFA at Parsons School of Design. Ryan Jae, ’19- Stanford University Ryan Fong Jae is a Computer Science + Art Practice joint major at Stanford University interested in the intersection of fine art and tech, particularly in the context of photography. He has yet to find a camera or lens that he couldn’t spend all day playing with. You can keep up with his work on Instagram @ryanajae and at www.ryanajae.com. Michael Kay, ’19- University of California, Berkeley Michael Kay grew up in Temecula, California. He attended Drexel University and Santa Barbara City College before transferring to the University of California, Berkeley, where he is a senior English student. Currently, he works for Left Margin LIT, a creative writing organization in Berkeley. Gretta Kissell, ’22- Columbia University Originally from northwest Ohio, Gretta now uses her writing and excessive boba tea consumption to navigate the transition from cornfields to the concrete jungle after moving to NYC to study English at Columbia. When not studying or writing, you can find her exploring the city, searching for new inspiration and a quaint cafe to enjoy. Brian Kosewic, ’20- Loyola Marymount University Brian Kosewic was dropped on his head as an infant. This tragic event might explain his bizarre behavior later in life, including his predilections for comic books, bus rides, and very angry music. He is deathly afraid of human beings. Rachel Lee, ’21- Carnegie Mellon University Rachel Lee is a UX designer, animator, and printmaker currently pursuing a BFA at Carnegie Mellon University. Her personal works delve into the Asian-American experience and the complex relationship between everyday people and food. She earned the W. A. Readio Award from Carnegie Mellon University for her work on graphic design and videography. Lee can be found indulging in low-calorie ice cream or exploring her current city of Pittsburgh when she isn’t in her studio. Nico Léger, ’19- Brandeis University Nico Léger is a sophomore at Brandeis University studying East Asian Studies, English, and Creative Writing. Jackson Markovic, ’22- Georgia State University Jackson Markovic is an artist and educator based in Atlanta, Georgia. His primary mediums as an artist are textile based practices, primarily quilting and soft sculpture, as well as photography, collage, and performance. His goals as an artist are to use textiles as an active medium in exploring secret routines and relationships between humans and material. He is a teaching artist at the High Museum of Art, and plans to graduate from Georgia State University in 2023 with a Masters in Art Education.

Isis Mayfield, ’22- Georgia Southern University Isis is a 19-year-old photographer who has a major in Business at Georgia Southern University. K McClendon, ’21- Hamline University K McClendon (Miss.K) is a full time college student at Hamline University, where they study psychology and creative writing. They focus on writing works that protest oppression and encourage self adoration. In 2018, they represented the twin cities in San Diego at the Individual World Poetry Slam. Their poem “Protest” was published in the 2018 True Art Speaks anthology, and they have over 20,000 views on Button Poetry’s YouTube channel. Emil Melia, ’20- University of Maryland, College Park Emil is an artist who takes interest in their own ambiguity and confusion. In writing, they often consider the distorted and hallucinatory nature of memory, while their visual art is more focused on but not limited to their gender-related experiences. Most of their free time is taken up by their work and studies, but their long term goals include publishing a graphic novel, furthering their gender transition, and growing a mullet. Margaret Mitchell, ’22- College of William and Mary Margaret Mitchell is a freshman studying English in the Joint Degree Programme at the College of William & Mary in Virginia with the University of St Andrews in Scotland. As a member of the Features Team on ROCKET Magazine and a current Creative Writing student of Andrew Blossom, she aspires to become a writer and poet. Cairo Mo, ’21- Stanford University Cairo Mo is a junior at Stanford University studying Symbolic Systems and Art Practice. In their work, Cairo is interested in vehicles of emotion beyond the human face. Through dogs, forces of nature, hands, teeth, and places, Cairo explores the force of emotion and how seemingly emotionless things can contain and express a range of subtle yet intense feelings. Using a combination of oil painting, embroidery, and printmaking, Cairo makes images about the vectors of our emotion -- what force the emotion carries and what direction it is aimed towards, whether internal or external. Cairo is particularly interested in the notion of body horror and self horror, and through depictions of violence and care, Cairo expresses and discovers their own emotional relationship with their body. James O’Leary, ’19- Northern Arizona University James O’Leary (they/them) is a poet and writer from Scottsdale, Arizona. In the past, James has served as a Youth Ambassador from Phoenix to its sister city of Chengdu, China. Currently, James is finishing their undergraduate degree from Northern Arizona University, after which they will pursue an MFA. James’s work has been previously featured in The Tunnels and Curios. Cyril Ojilere, ’21- Brandeis University Cyril Ojilere is a Brandeis University sophomore, majoring in Biology and working towards becoming a pediatrician. He is a Nigerian 19-year-old born and raised in the Bronx, New York. One of his hobbies is being a photographer which came from his willingness to photograph his friends to capture their beauty. Cyril loves photography because he is able to learn about the different modes, such as light exposure, foreground, black and white filters, and play around with them. Hannah Patient, ’21- University of Oxford Hannah Patient is a second-year English student at Somerville College, Oxford, and the former Essex Young Poet of the Year. Her work has previously been published in ASH, 6’98, Pekes and Pollicles and The Oxford Review of Books. She is inspired by a number of things including nature, history, the places she has visited and her weird childhood. Klara Pokrzywa ’21- Columbia University Klara Pokrzywa is a student at Columbia University studying English and Creative Writing. Born and raised in Michigan, she now spends most of her time in New York. You can find her work published in the Canvas Literary Journal and the Pea River Journal.

Blacklist Journal Blacklist Journal blacklistjournal.com | Brandeis University blacklistjournal.com | Brandeis University 67

Lauren Puglisi, ’19- Brandeis University Lauren Puglisi is a New York City-based writer with a background in psychology. Her work has appeared in Laurel Moon, Hanging Loose, The Merrimack Review, and Jaded. Jee Yeon Rim, ’21- Carnegie Mellon University Jee is a sophomore and a Fine Arts major at Carnegie Mellon University. He is mostly interested in painting, sculpture and electronic media art, and is also passionate about various current issues which he tries to immerse within his artwork. Alejandra Vansant, ’19- University of Virginia Alejandra Vansant is an undergraduate student in the University of Virginia’s Area Program in Poetry Writing. She grew up on the Eastern Shore of Virginia and is interested in exploring distance, grief, and yearning from a gentle and attentive space. Tomoki Williams, ’19- Howard University Tomoki Williams is a bilingual poet from the suburbs of Seattle, WA. He is in his final year of studying Psychology and Swahili at Howard University. He views his poetry as syntheses of epiphanies which are otherwise difficult to verbalize. Ella Zhou, ’22- Rhode Island School of Design Ella Zhou is a freshman at RISD interested in digital media and photography.