UDZU REVIEW THE
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Trigger Warnings:
- Depictions of gore and cannibalism
EDITOR’S NOTE
Dear Reader,
Thank you for choosing to read this issue. I hope that through the pages of this issue, you will delight and awe in this collection of art and writing, a testament to the literary and artistic talent of undergraduate students from Florida State University and beyond. Our entire staff have dedicated themselves this semester into curating this issue, one that we hope satiates your curiosity and imagination.
I would like to extend a special thanks to my masthead, without whom, any of this would not have been possible. To my faculty advisor and managing editor, Olivia Sokolowski and Rhubi Henderson, you have kept my head above water. I am indebted forever to you for your continued support. To my editors, Sarah Lerner, Cherith King, Dana Liberto, Marlee Gaitanis, Isa Hoofnagle, Luciana Callegari, Tessa Mahurin, and Miyah Lebofsky, thank you for your commitment to this magazine. Thank you for your dedication to your craft and the care you have put into these pages. To my layout editor, Ana Guardado, for crafting a beautiful spread for this issue, your creative ability inspires me. To my Public Relations & Marketing Directors, McKenna Oakley and Megan Bishop, for extending Kudzu’s reach beyond what I thought possible. To my treasurer, Annabelle Argeles, for taking up arms with me and diving headfirst into hell for a literature student: finances and bureaucracy. To my event coordinators, Gabriella Mola and Madeline McCabe, you have brought my visions to life. Our fall fundraiser was a hit! And lastly, to my editorial assistants, for giving yourselves to this magazine, and for supporting Kudzu beyond the walls of the Williams Building, I am forever grateful. A special thank you to my donors, for extending their generosity to passionate undergraduates.
Beginning with the cover, “Head in the Clouds” by Anna Cheng, you’ll find in this issue the works of creative undergraduates from around the world. It is extremely gratifying to work with my peers and contribute to one’s experience as an emerging artist. It is not an easy feat to find the time as an undergraduate student to produce work of this caliber. To those who have entrusted their art in contribution to this magazine, we hope this issue does them justice.
Enjoy Issue 73.
Michelle Chadwell Editor-in-Chief
FICTION
THROUGH THE DOORWAY
By Isa Hoofnagle
here is a boy standing on Maria’s front porch. She watches him through a crack in her blinds as he rocks on the balls of his feet. It’s early enough to still be half-dark, the sun lulling its way up and over the horizon line. The kid’s clearly from a pasture nearby, because the boots he’s wearing are work boots, caked with mud, not like the hard leather ones she’s seen on some of the young folks around here. He’s also clearly stupid, because he’s wearing shorts, and it’s freezing.
He’s a scrawny thing with hay-blonde hair and big blue eyes. He looks like a cherub hick, fidgeting and leaning towards the door like it’ll open if he wills it to.
As Maria squints, she recognizes him vaguely. Jake Something-Or-Other. His father owns a few fields on her street, strawberries and cows. If she tries, she can remember Jake from the old community barbeques and block parties she used to attend. She pictures Jake real tiny, pudgy and babbling, eyes just as big and just as blue. He’s a few years younger than Julia, enough that they probably never knew each other. Jake straightens his shoulders, seeming to steel himself, and knocks on the door, skinny-armed and stiff. At the sight of it there’s a twinging in her chest.
Sometimes,sheimaginesJuliainadormroomwitha notebookfullofpoetryandafancywindow.Sometimes,she imaginesJuliaatfourfeettall,begginghertopinherspellingtests uponthefridge,tweetinglikeababybird“Mama,Mama!”Her bonessettle.Sometimes,shefeelssoold .
Maria opens the door and shakes off the ache. Jake jumps. “My dad says you have a pickup truck.”
It’s not what she thought he was going to say. He frowns a bit like it’s not what he thought he was going to say either. She wants to drag him inside and make him put real pants on, some mother-hen instinct trying to claw its way out of her throat at the sight of his breath fogging in the air. But the kid is jumpy enough
without her prodding, digging his nails into his palms, still rocking. So, she settles for a hands-off approach.
Sometimes,shepicturesJulia’seyes,brownandsharp, eyelasheslikefeathers.Sometimes,sheseestheminthemirrorand flincheslikeshe’sbeenbit.
ShewaseightpoundsandsixounceswhenMariabrought herhome.ThelasttimeMariasawher,shewasnineteen .
“Excuse me?”
Jake meets her eyes for a half-second, then they’re fixed over her shoulder, then on the floor, then back to her eyes. “One of our cows wandered out last night,” he says. “Cops said she’s in a ditch way up the interstate.”
It’s a funny picture, a cow marching from streetlamp to streetlamp. She raises an eyebrow. “And what does that have to do with me?”
“Can’t move a stock trailer without a pickup,” he shrugs. “Ours has a busted wheel. My dad ran over my baby sister’s bike last week, popped the shit out of the tire. We haven’t gotten it fixed up yet. He said you’d let me take yours because you’re nice like that.”
Jake’s voice is full of air, wobbly at the corners. Sentences shoot out from him like they taste so bad he wants them out of his mouth as fast as possible. And it isn’t just the cold that’s making him shake. His fingers have moved on from making indents on his palms, now they’re wearing down a frayed bit at the bottom of his T-shirt, and his chest rises and falls unevenly, like he’s choking on air. She worries, and then tries not to worry, because she has no right, or because she’s out of practice, or something . If she squints, it’s Julia with her shoulders tensed and high, standing where Jake is, like an echo. Or a ghost. She huffs. ‘Nice.’ That’s funny.
“You’resomean.”That’swhatJuliahadsaid,seething inthedoorway(Atacertainpoint,alltheimagining andtherememberingandthepicturingleadbackto thatdamndoorway).
Oldshoesagainstthewoodenfloors,rain againstthewindow.Julia’sarmswrapped aroundherself,herfacetwistedup,half-
cryingandhalf-furious.
“You’re so mean,” she said, and the words wereanopenwoundagainstbitterair.“Can’tyou justpretendtobelieveinme?”
“Ofcourse,Ibelieveinyou.Jesus,Julia,you’reso smart.Youcouldbeadoctor,oralawyer,oranengineer.”
“HowmanytimesdoIhaveto—Idon’twanttobe afuckingdoctor,Mom!Iwanttoseetheworld,Iwanttobe an artist.”
Mariacutoffthespiel.They’djustbeenthroughitten times,hoarsevoices,rattlingwalls.Theaggravatingthingabout Juliawasherrelentlessinsistenceonbeinganidealist.Maybe that’sjustwhatbeingnineteendoestoagirl.ButJuliaalways wanted.Wantedthingstoobigfortheirtowntohold,wanted thingssobadly,thingsthatwouldswallowherwhole,swallowboth ofthem.Sheneversawthatpart.Shejustsawafuturethatwas shinyandgoldenandaninchawayfromthetipsofherfingers. Andit’samother’sjobtoletherbabydowneasy,tocrushher beforethewantingdoesitfirst .
“Getagrip,Julia,”shesaid.AndJuliasaid“Fine.”AndJulia left .
“Like hell I’m nice,” she says to Jake, stripping off her scarf and chucking it at him. “Like hell I’m letting a twelve-year-old behind the wheel of my truck.”
He catches the scarf but doesn’t put it on. He throws his hands up in surrender. The light catches a bruise on his wrist, another above his elbow.
“Hey, don’t shoot the messenger. I just follow orders,” he says. “And I’m sixteen, Maria.”
“Maria?” She says without thinking. She doesn’t manage to keep the scolding out of her tone.
Jake’s eyes are off all over the place again. He stands up straighter and shuffles his feet.
“Ma’am.” He says, tightly. She pictures Julia stiff and anxious. It bothers her.
Whensherecallsthewholethingit’saboutthreequarters sensory.Theguyatthehospitaltoldherthatwasnormal,asshesat
inachairinthehallwayandweptherlungssore.
Sherememberstheweightofherhandonthebridgeof hernoseafterJuliastormedoff.Thequietafterthedoorslam,like smokeintheair.Elevenminutesofstandingstillandwaiting,and thentuggingonacoatandheadingout.Shebroughtaflashlight andanumbrella,andheldbothwithwaveringhandsandagutfull ofqueasyguilt.
Shetrudgeddowntheroad,calledout.Thewindtriedto knocktheumbrellafromherhand.Therainmadethebeamoflight fromherflashlightlookwigglyandcold.
Therewereabouttwentyminutesoutintherain.Wet jacket,mouthfulofwater.Andthenavoice,distortedbynoise.Her flashlightcaughtonawoman,crouchedintheroad,nexttohercar. Mariaran.
She shakes her head, distracted. “Put the scarf on, Jacob,” she says. “And where’s your daddy? Shouldn’t he be the one here begging for my help?”
Jake sighs. He wraps the scarf around his shoulders like one of those trauma blankets they give you in the back of an ambulance. “He thinks I left the latch open to let her out. On purpose. Thinks it’s a rebellious streak or something, even though I don’t know what I’ve got to be rebelling against. I like Princess Leia!”
“From Star Wars?” She says, which is another funny picture, a cow with two big space buns.
He nods like a bobblehead, giving a meek flash of teeth.
“She’s my favorite. The character, not the cow,” he says. “Well, the cow too.” He laughs a little at himself. And he looks so young, Maria thinks. He moves his arms like a teenager does, which is the sort of thing you only notice after you’ve raised one. His eyes are starry, even through his nerves. It’s honestly a miracle he can do any sort of pasture work with an attitude like that. God knows Julia couldn’t manage to keep her eyes off the sky long enough to pour some damn feed in a damn trough, addled by daydreams and longings.
Juliahadn’tbeenlooking—that’stheconclusionthepolice cameto,afterafewweeksofstretchingthewholethingout.Itwas pouringrain,andshewasupset.Thewomaninthecarhadbeen
drivingwithoutheadlights—they’dbothsputteredouttenminutes fromherhouse.Itwouldn’tbearisk,notonmostnights.Small townslikethisdon’tseemuchactionontheroadpastsunset.But shewasunlucky,andJuliawasunlucky .
“Okay, kid. I’m sure you’re very fond of this cow, but fondness doesn’t explain why you’re so damn jittery.”
“I am not.” He says, and she recalls all at once how sixteenyear-olds are, remembers her daughter’s flushed face when Maria cheered too loud at her band concerts.
“It’s just—” he stops, jerks his head like he’s physically knocking his thoughts away, and starts again. “I’ve never driven on the interstate before,” he says, so quick it all almost sounds like one big, long word. “I just got my license, like, a month ago, and I don’t think it’s technically legal for me to drive a truck with farm tags until I’m at least twenty-one. And I definitely don’t look twentyone, and the cops are the ones who told us in the first place. I don’t want to get in trouble, ma’am. Dad says I won’t, but I think he might just be trying to teach me—”
Maria drops a hand on Jake’s shoulder, and he shuts his mouth.
“I’ll drive you,” she says. “Tell your father you’re not taking my truck.”
He shakes his head so fast his face is a blur. “He’ll killme.”
“He won’t,” she says. “Get inside and warm up a minute. I’ll go fetch my keys.” She snatches up the ends of her scarf and yanks Jake towards her open door. He stumbles along. “I’d make breakfast, but you seem like a nice kid, and I don’t want to put you through my cooking. There’s cereal on the top shelf. Help yourself.”
Jake puffs out a breath, hands scrubbing all over his face. “Thank you,” he says, and his voice is tiny and relieved. He beelines for the table, collapses into a chair like his limbs are lead heavy.
She stands in the hall, watching him. “Don’t you have school today?”
“Dad said he’d call in.”
“Right,” she says, digging around miscellaneous desk junk for her keys. She also looks to see if she has his dad’s number scrawled on a sticky note somewhere, just for future reference.
Jake doesn’t move towards the food. He pulls a notepad out of his pocket, a pencil from behind his ear, and starts sketching out lines.
“Thank you,” he says again, gaze locked on his paper. His cheeks are red, and his mouth is in a hard, sorry line.
“Don’t worry about it,” she says. She glances at an old drawing stuck on the fridge with a magnet. It’s a mother, a daughter, and a tree. There’s a rainbow behind them with the colors all out of order.
Sometimes,always,Mariaremembersbeingonherkneesin therain.Thewomanbesideherbabbledapologies,weepingforan oldcar’sbrokenheadlights,andforayounggirl’sbrokenbody.
Sheremembersthephoneagainsthercheek.
“911,what’syouremergency?”
“Mydaughter,”sherememberssaying.
“911,what’syouremergency?”
“Shewon’twakeup,there’sblood,she’snotbreathing.”
“911,what’syouremergency?”
“Howdoyoubringadaughterbacktolife?”
Maria tears her eyes off the drawing, and watches Jake with his head down and his arms shaking and his wrist bruised.
“What are you drawing?” She asks, and her words are soft in her mouth.
Jake blinks up at her, and then chews his lip nervously.
“Leia,” he says. He flips the notebook, and there’s a sketch of a cow with space buns, eating pencil streaks of grass.
“You’re pretty good at that, kid. You should think about art school, make a name for yourself. It’d liven up the town, if nothing else.”
“You think so?” Jake smiles, small and blushing. Maria imagines Julia like that. Shy. Happy. Maybe there’s an idealist in her yet.
“Yeah,” Maria says. “I do.”
GUTTED
By Tumilara Bakare
other is a human and Father is a pig. Like most families, we spend summer afternoons lazing in the park, Mother reading to me as she strokes Father’s pink skin while he snores on the grass, until he wakes up and digs his nose into Mother's thigh. He turns his efforts onto the warm green, and then Mother is packing up our things, holding her head high as we rush down the park's slope to judging eyes. Whereas other humans had chosen the strongest and most esteemed animals as spouses—Mrs. Cardipole's husband pulled wagons at the community farm and Mr. Peabody’s wife came first in all the races—my mother had married a pig.
In the back of our cottage, there is a small garden where Mother and I grow corn, mainly for Father's feed. Father helps when he can, but much of his time in the garden is spent in the corner, digging holes to play. I join him sometimes, especially after the rains fall and the soil is heavy with water and sticks to our skin. We stare at the sky, our skin cool from the mud, and make out shapes in the clouds.
“Gorilla!” he would say.
“That is not a gorilla, Father, but a man with a sack,” I would respond, laughing.
Mother plays with us, too. Splayed out on mud, she would tell me not to worry about what the other families said about us, that Mrs. Cardipole had likely spent the entire day dressing her husband’s mane so it would stay luscious, and that Mr. Peabody was worried sick because his wife’s black streaks attracted all the bachelors in town. Our life was simple, she would say, and pleasant. Then, she and Father would begin their usual game of chase, laughing, her dirtied gown flying about her.
There has been no mud, however, in the past months. There has been no rain.
I remember the first week of the drought, though with great difficulty, for my head now spins constantly. It may not have been the drought's genesis, but it was the first the village felt of its presence. The air turned dry on my cheeks and cracked open my skin, first in red slashes on my lips, then in white lines of aridity down my body. It was uncomfortable. The absence of the rain coupled with the summer heat had made us parched and permanently hot, forcing us to spend our days at home in order to conserve our strength. In the
nights, Mother read us storybooks, caressing my hair after she flipped each page. When we encountered words Father didn’t know, he would interrupt her narration, and patiently, she would explain them to him.
Mother went to the market that week. The community farm was offering eight pounds of rice for a copper piece only, as well as six pounds of meat, but Mother couldn't get them to give us more grain in place of the latter. We harvested what ripe corn we could in our garden, and stored it in our makeshift crib. We tried to make the best of it, then. We truly did.
Now, I am so very hungry. I thought I knew what hunger was, all those times when I'd refuse to eat dinner and would wake up weaker in the morning. How foolish I was. In those days, I was as filled as all the oceans in the world. This hunger, real hunger, is a disease that has spread from my belly to my bones, into my veins. This disease takes the likeness of a beast, big and black with spikes on its back, a beast that is never satisfied. It began as an emptiness; it was as if there were organs missing from my belly. The emptiness rose and fell in aching waves, and with each undulation, I shrunk into a lesser version of myself. When it realized it would not be sated, the emptiness grew teeth. It fed on my insides, and as if that wasn't enough, it used those poisonous spikes on its back to strike my belly walls. All I felt everyday was pain. Emptiness and pain. Soon, there was pain in my head, and my already thin body became thinner. Now, my cheeks are hollowed, my ribs and elbows protrude from my skin, my knees want to follow, and I have hidden the mirror in my room under my bed. I am weak all the time, and through that weakness, the hunger attacks me still, and I can do nothing but lie in stasis for hours and feel it.
~
Last time Mother went to the market, Father and I were in the garden, which had grown dry and difficult. Father called to me from where he lay in the pit he had dug in the ground. He pointed to the skies and said, “What you see?”
I was hesitant to play. “There is nothing to see, Father.”
“Annis,” he said.
“It is hot, and I am hungry. My head spins and I cannot make shapes.”
He hummed for a while. “Heaven jealous with water. But sky still blue and clouds show face. You hungry now. If you not hungry, you sad, angry, cry. Pain always be in sky. We make shapes from it. Must.” He paused, then, “I see woman face. Long hair. She smile.”
My other option was to stare and sweat from the porch, so I studied the thin clouds.
“You always get these wrong Father,” I said. “That’s a horse.”
“No again! Hair falls down, look.”
“Nothing falls down but for the horse’s back.”
“She no legs!” Father turned his head. “Oh, my daughter with bad eyes,” he said, sending us into a fit of laughter.
Suddenly, I heard the door creak, and a figure was on the porch. Its face was hidden in the shadows, it stood unmoving, and in the blinding sun, I had thought the grim reaper had come to take us both.
“Would you leave there at once?” Mother hissed.
Later, as Father and I scrubbed ourselves with a bowl of water, she said to us, “We are in the middle of a drought, and you are busy getting dirty, wasting our water. Meanwhile, I am in the market haggling for food like a beggar! Do you know half a bag of grain is now a gold bar? We have no money left and you are staring at the sky!” At her look, I felt a burst of hot shame.
“We just play,” Father said.
“It is no surprise you would say that,” she said.
That grain worth a gold bar is now finished, the corn in the crib is less than 4 ears. We have left it for Father, and at this very moment, I must be dying. This morning, or yesterday, a wave of extreme fatigue overpowered me, and I have been tied to my bed since. I do not know when day ends and night begins. I fall in and out of sleep, a darkness calls to me, and it is by a slim thread that I have not answered.
One afternoon, when my weakness momentarily releases its hold on me, I wake to a sweet, smoky smell that fills my senses. It is so sweet I can taste it. My breath comes out faster, and that emptiness in my stomach seems to grow and shrink at once.
Mother is sitting on the bed, holding a plate. Later, I learned that when she had visited the market to aid me, the granaries had been plundered, and the little she could grasp into her bag was beaten out of her.
Holding the plate in one hand, she helps me sit up and says, “Here. Have some of this.” On the plate are white fleshy cubes with a deep brown exterior. Mother holds up a cube and I get a closer look at it, seeing faint bristles extending from the brown. When she feeds it to me, that sweetness which I smelled before explodes on my tongue. My belly seems to taste it as well, for it sinks so far back that I can't breathe. Life, like a flickering candle, returns to my body. I eat the cube quickly and salivate for more.
“Take it slow. We don't want you getting sick,” Mother says. Sleep seizes me after it’s over.
When I wake, it is to a pungent, metallic smell that turns my blood. The food I ate lurches into my throat, but I force it back down. No one is in the living room or the wash. But outside, on the porch, is a sight that will be burned into my mind forever.
Blood, red and drying, is everywhere, in messy, uneven splashes, on the walls, on the wooden floor, on a chopping block.
“Annis!” my father calls from behind.
There is something off about the way he stands, lopsided, like he is taking the weight off his back leg. He steps into the light of the doorway, and I see that there is no leg at all, only a gash at his hip, fresh, open, and very red, and I think of the cubes, how fleshy they were, and the hairs. God, the hairs. So this time, when the food forces its way up my throat, I let it.
~
I cannot bear to think that I ate, that I continued to eat. When I remember the hairs, the emptiness in my stomach too wants to be expelled and I get so nauseous. I cannot look at Father, especially when he walks, hobbling from left to right like a broken doll. Yet, the hunger rears back with all its might, the emptiness caves my stomach in. Its teeth are becoming sharper, biting on my insides, and all I want is the sweet flesh on that plate. All I want is for the hunger to go away, if only for a moment. And then there's the matter of my mother, who I know feels the hunger as I do, and who, when I came with my guilt, showed none whatsoever. Oh Heavens, won’t you rain? Just a little drop, I beg of you, if only to wet the earth for a minute, or to wipe Father’s blood that still haunts me from the porch.
The Heavens do not listen. We have now exhausted our corn. In the mornings, Father digs the soil for worms and roots. I do not join him. I fear what my body might do if I am too close.
The fatigue that almost destroyed me comes again, slowly, and we all feel its effect. One evening, while I lie on Mother's legs, Father says, “Drought no stop soon, you take more leg?” Though it kills me, I do not oppose. I can't.
Mother rises, carrying me in her arms, and says, “We'll do the deed tomorrow.”
I am there when Mother performs the act. It is a cold evening; the winter air bites through my clothes like ice and chills my bones. Mother lies Father against the chopping block, his left foreleg resting on the top. As she sharpens the butcher knife on a whetstone, I hold Father’s hand and give him my best assuring smile which he returns. Then I think that he is wicked for not offering himself sooner, for letting me almost starve to death, and I am immediately mortified by this thought, so I turn my eyes from his.
Mother clamps down Father's foreleg with her left hand, and holding the butcher knife in her right, brings it down. Father squeals. The knife lodges in his bone and grates as Mother pulls it out. Blood gushes everywhere, on her face, on my dress, and joins its predecessor on the floor. Mother is steady. She saws through Father's skin, the knife making an endless scraping sound. When she is done, she throws his foreleg to the side, so carelessly, like it didn't belong to Father. He is moaning so loudly, and I want him to stop.
Mother says, “Here, Annis, help me turn him over.”
“What?”
“Hold him here,” she says, her voice firm. I hold Father at his shoulders and squirm at his bloody flesh, still hot and raw and spurting blood. Mother flips him over onto his back then she reaches for the knife.
“What are you doing?” I say. Father still moans in anguish. Mother holds Father down, and in a straight line, splits his belly. Father screams, his belly open, guts spilling out.
“No!”
“Think, Annis. The corn is finished. Sooner or later, he will be dead.” His insides drop to the floor, heavy and wet. “Who knows when the drought will end? It is better we do this now than when he is skinny and sick and is poisonous to both himself and us.”
I start to cry. “He would have held out a little longer, he's out all day—”
She looks at me with disgust. “You think I am like you, wishing at the sky. What living thing would be found in such thirsty soil? This is what we must do. Now, get a basin to carry these inside.”
The light has gone out of Father's eyes. There is so much blood. I never knew Father held so much blood. She picks up a hand saw and sets it at Father's neck.
“Stop!” I scream, and with all my might, I push her away from Father.
“You stupid brat!” she says as she struggles to get me off her. Then, she flips the saw and uses its butt to strike my temple. I fall and hit the steps.
The thing that looks back at me cannot be my mother. Its eyes are wild, it is panting, veins bulging from its forehead, spittle drooling from its lips. “I’m doing this for us!” It shrieks. “You should be grateful!”
It turns back to the chopping block, and hacks at what was once Father, his head coming off first. Then, it saws Father into two, then into smaller pieces, all the while throwing these pieces to the side, joining his foreleg on the bloody floor. When it is done, only Father’s head remains on the block. His eyes, dead, stare back at mine. The animal then throws his head to the floor as well, and looks at me as if I am next.
FIRST LOVE
By Marlee Gaitanis
September 9, 1838
Dearest John,
arrived in Paris last night. The air was refreshingly cool and clear, and one must hope the state of the weather is an indication of the coming joy of my new life in this fair city. A coach awaited my arrival at the pier, and the coachman and I exchanged pleasant conversation for the duration of the trip to École des Beaux-Arts. He spoke of the other young men he had taken to the school for this coming semester. A large German with barrel-like arms who claimed to study architecture, and an Englishman with sharp features that declared an interest in portraiture. Because we have chosen such differing artistic endeavors, I doubt that I will see either of these men for some time, but the prospect of new acquaintances sparks an unspeakable joy within me. Even so, you will always be my first and oldest friend, I could never forget that.
Tell me, how go your studies in mathematics? I cannot pretend to understand the intricacies of your work, but I promise to listen wholeheartedly as you have to my own ramblings.
Yours, Liam P. Burke ~
October 29, 1838
Dearest John,
I must apologize for the delay in my response. I am afraid that the start of the semester has burdened me with much strenuous work and my arms have felt too leaden to even fathom
picking up a pen as of late. The professor, M. Tusseau, puts us to work early each morning with slabs of marble, and does not dismiss us until he is satisfied with the figures we have carved. He has such a peculiar way of speaking. “The stallion is already in the marble, monsieur, you are merely tasked with setting it free,” he will say, and while I understand the sentiment, I cannot agree with it. I am bringing the stallion to life; before my hands touch it, the marble is simply a slab of stone. It is not until I carve life into it that it becomes something more.
But, I digress, aside from my aching muscles, my time here has been naught but pleasant and cheerful. I have met and talked with the sharp-faced Englishman the coachman had mentioned, as we cross paths each morning on the ways to our separate studies. His name is Arthur Reed and his voice is quite soft, starkly different than I had expected from a man of such stern visage. He hopes to become employed across the globe, traveling from country to country to paint portraits for wealthy patrons and gain a knowledge of the world. I must admire his ambition, but I cannot imagine that such a mobile lifestyle could be sustainable over time. Though, that might simply be my own inclination to hermitage.
I’m afraid I must cut this correspondence short, as Arthur and I have lunch plans that I am looking to be terribly late for should I continue detailing the last month of my life to you.
Please, I am interested in this Gauss fellow, tell me more about his theories that have seized you so.
Yours, Liam
P. Burke
November 10, 1838
Dearest John,
~
As always, your knowledge of axioms and formulas astounds my own poetic mind, though there is something to be said about this idea of an infinite sum becoming one finite number…
But before that I must avail you of the most wondrous of dreams I have been having. As you know, Arthur and I have become good friends in the last month. We have lunch quite often, when our studies do not demand the whole of our attention, of course. During one of these excursions, he gave me a gift! Through several underhanded machinations, he had figured that my birthday was coming up and acquired a fine gold pendant, with a precious sapphire embedded in the middle. It is beautiful, truly. If I had any talent in drawing, I would have rendered it for you here. Alas, I am no painter. Not only is the pendant beautiful, but Arthur said that he bought it from a wealthy Persian merchant who told him it would bring sweetened dreams to the wearer.
And John, dearest John, oh how it has! Each night I fall into oblivion rapt with anticipation for what awaits me in my dreams. There is a woman, fair skinned with black sheets of hair that fall like bubbling cascades down her shoulders. We have been studying the human form in my classes and perhaps that is why she has been naked, but please do not think me lecherous, or improper, as I dare not look away from her face. She has a smile like the kiss of warmth from a spot of sunlight in the winter; her eyes are a deep almond that close into little moons when she laughs. Oh, John, I think I love her! Truly, I do. She laughs at my every word and leans warmly into my side when we speak. She is always overjoyed to see me, her sweet and gentle countenance brightening at my appearance each night. I believe she awaits me, and I have since ceased staying awake through the night so as not to disappoint her.
I have spoken with Arthur about the merchant, hoping to find him and ask about this woman, if she is real or simply a product of my lonely mind, but he has sailed back to his country, and it is impossible to know if or when he will return. Still, I can content myself with these lovely dreams. I did not know a person was capable of feelings as strong as these.
Yours,
Liam P. Burke
November 21, 1838
Dearest John,
I realize now that I never offered you my thoughts on those paradoxical and infinite sums, and with the further explanation of the theory of them you have so graciously provided to me, I find myself glad of that fact. It seems I initially misunderstood them, and with a newfound clarity, I shall record my thoughts here:
It reminded me a bit of my own studies in sculpting; carving a whole into an infinity of endlessly thin slivers to create an entirely new perspective is a remarkably artistic thing. What gorgeous poetry for a discipline so often associated as its opposite. I did not expect mathematics to be able to rend my heart in the way of the greatest novelists, but, my dearest John, with your passionate definitions you have made it so!
I know I have said this before but truly, you should consider taking up the art of writing. Your descriptions have never failed to grasp onto and hold my attention, no matter how dull I may find the subject matter. You would make an utterly evocative poet.
In other news, M. Tusseau has assigned us a term project, a large undertaking in which each of us will attempt to render the human form as accurately as possible in stone. This must be a sign; it is my chance to bring my dream woman to life! In the absence of the knowledge of the merchant, I can bring her to me through my art! John, I am afraid I may not be able to return your correspondences with as much punctuality as I have been with the uptake of this project. She already consumes my every waking thought; I wander through each day anticipating the short few hours I will spend with her each night. Now, I am sure I will be similarly consumed with creating her so that we may be together in waking hours as well.
I find myself unable to curb the enthusiasm that this project has sparked and must away to begin striving towards its successful completion. It seems likely that the school’s workshop will become my new home for the foreseeable future.
Until I am able to tear myself away from my love.
Yours, Liam P. Burke
January 4, 1839
She haunts me, John. I have tried, I have tried to capture her essence, her beauty, and every time I have come up short. I have abandoned all reason, I have placed my heart and soul soundly into her small, cupped palms and still, I find no reprieve. There is to be no rest until I may gaze upon her in daylight. There is to be no happiness until her smile, carved indelibly in stone, may grace my toiling, unworthy eyes. There is to be nothing, until there is her.
Oh, John, I fear that my skills may not be up to the task of rendering her with justice. Each day of failure is another blow to my spirits, and I am afraid they have been brought frighteningly low.
She comforts me each night, with soothing touches and bright, open eyes as I apprise her of my afflictions, but it is a bitter comfort. She remains an idea, and I remain a failure. I hope to bear happier news in my next letter.
Yours, Liam P. Burke
January 17, 1839
John,
This is utter madness. Never before have I felt so helpless in my own life. I barely eat, I sleep only in hopes of better mapping my dream woman’s face and body to render in stone. Arthur is worried, I think. He visits me between his own commitments, bearing food and wine. At first, he seemed to understand,
laughed, even, at the dishevelment my artistic thrall had wrought, but as the weeks pass, he becomes more concerned, and more unbearable.
Just a few days ago he came as I woke from one of my dreams, itching to put my hands to stone. Instead, I was forced to entertain him, to eat the array of dried meats he brought as my love’s face slowly faded from vividness in my memory. He asked about the pendant, eyes locked onto the thing as it swung at my breast. All at once I felt an incessant need to cover it, to tuck it away from his prying, jealous eyes.
I do not trust him. I will move my materials to my apartment and finish carving her there, where he cannot interrupt us. Part of me believes that these visits are just a way to try to retrieve the pendant, to take the dreams for himself.
I hate him, sometimes, John. Is that so wretched of me?
Liam P. Burke
~
February 25, 1839
John,
I have done it! John, I have done it! I believe I have finally captured her in stone. Oh, if only you could see her. If ever the occasion arises for you to visit Paris, please, leave some time to visit, I would be so proud to show her to you. You will find her just as fair as I do, I believe.
I am a little ashamed to admit that I engaged in some rather unseemly behavior in the throes of my joy after finishing her. It was just that her face was astonishingly life-like, she seemed so entirely real. Her smile was genuine, as if thanking me for granting her life anew outside of the constraints of my feeble mind… I was compelled, John, her gentle countenance was imploring me to kiss her. How sweetly her expression entreated me. I simply obliged. Her lips were cold and hard, as stone is wont to be, but I could swear to you that I felt a warmth previously unknown to
me after the deed.
I was struck with a bubbling joy that my body could not contain, and in the throes of it, I struck out to touch her cheek, forgetting the chisel still clutched in my hand. It is a small chip, hardly noticeable at the edge of her brow and easy to ignore in the face of her magnificence.
How unnatural that I should hunger for lips so obviously inhuman, but John, I cannot help myself. She is like the sweetest sip of wine, like the smell of rain before an icy storm. I cannot describe the depth of feeling that I hold for her, only that it is there, like a stone fixed directly in the middle of my chest. Ever present, ever sinking.
Were she capable of speech, I would be beholden to her every whim. My dear John, is this what love is meant to feel like? It consumes every part of me, thoughts that do not pertain to her are swallowed by the gaping abyss that her absence creates when I am away. I have not left my apartment for some weeks now, and I cannot say that the fancy to do so has since stricken me. Even as I pen this letter, I cannot help but glance at her perfect, towering form every few lines. She is always looking back.
Oh, John, if you could only see her.
Liam P. Burke
~
March 15, 1839
John,
The more I gaze upon my beautiful creation, the less perfect she becomes. The chip in the marble near the edge of her eyebrow, despite excessive sanding, will not submit to erasure, and I can hardly see anything else when I look at her. Her breasts are not symmetrical, and no amount of careful carving will remedy this fact. No longer do her eyes shine, bright with life. They are dull, darkened stone. Is this punishment for my hubris?
I attempted to become God, to create woman, perhaps this
is simply how the story must go. Perhaps she is my Eve, destined to betray me. It would explain why she now spurns me so. No longer will she submit to kissing me; her lips remain cold and unmoving and the feeling that I described in my last letter has long evacuated my body, perhaps never to return. She becomes more and more deformed as I attempt to fix her imperfections. I become more disgusted with her visage by the day. What an ungrateful, wretched creature, to deny her creator even the comfort of beauty.
She stands, forever in nakedness, but it is not pleasing. It is simply vile, and whorish, I find myself wishing that I had carved clothing for her so that she would not debase herself so. I have taken to draping a bed sheet over her when I am not trying to make her beautiful again as I cannot stand to look at her otherwise. I struggle to understand what I found so pleasing about her a month ago. She is not beautiful, and she cannot speak to supplant her looks with wit. How contemptible it is to be both repugnant and dim.
I will continue my attempts to put her to rights, John, but I am quickly losing hope.
Liam P. Burke
March 28, 1839
I have done a contemptible thing, John. I have killed my once loved creation. The crime occurred in the time between late night and early morning two days ago. As you well know, I have been dedicated to the cause of restoring her to her former beauty, however, nothing I have tried has worked. In my fervor to rid my apartment of her repulsory countenance, the strokes of my chisel had been sharp and sloppy. Her face had whittled down to a size quite unfitting the rest of her body—sharp edged and blocky, as opposed to her former smooth beauty—and her torso had become covered in deep, jagged scores. I could no longer bear to see her in such a state, pitiful and unpleasant as she had become. My dreams
of her had not stopped, but the woman in them seemed to change in parallel with the statue I had carved. I had no reprieve from her ugliness. Still, she tried to caress my hands, but the jagged edges of her fingers cut into my skin; she tried to lean into my side, but I could not reconcile the comforting weight of her with her deformity.
It was agony, like watching a lame dog attempt to crawl its way from the sewer, tragic and beyond my power to repair. In a fit of distressed rage, I resolved to put an end to both of our misery. She still could not speak, but she must have felt the torment of her physiognomy. It needed to be done, and while I do not regret taking a sledgehammer to her misshapen body, I regret that I had to do it. She broke easily to the brutal steel and littered my apartment floor with shards of herself as I set myself to the task. I can only hope that she has found peace, and that I will be forgiven at the end of all things for this act of violent mercy.
Liam P. Burke
~
April 27, 1839
Dearest John,
Good tidings at last! For a fair few nights after the murder of my beloved creation my dreams had been chillingly empty; gaping abysses that froze with her absence. I was afraid that I had rid Arthur’s pendant of any and all power it might have once had with one, horrible act. Rejoice! It is not so! Just last night I dreamt again and the woman that accompanied me was entirely separate from my first love. She is infinitely fairer, and infinitely sweeter. The new woman is very lovely, with tawny hair that curls at the ends and slender arms that hold me firm through the night. I cannot love her yet, not with the still aching wound of my first love, but somehow, I can feel the emotion welling beneath the surface of my skin, blistering and overwhelming as it always is.
I will render her perfect, this time, and she will show her love to me by remaining that way. The relief I feel at this second chance is incalculable, even to you, my dear friend. It is as if I have been unhitched from a heavy yoke, free again to run hot-blooded through my youth. Please do visit soon, perhaps, by then, I will have created something worth gazing upon.
Yours,
Liam P. Burke
POETRY
I WASN’T MYSELF UNTIL LAST FALL
By Alejandro Luna
when living within the corset mold made by those who claimed to love me most doing what they thought best to protect me from the world or the other way around it was hard to be my own person so i was “her”
in a forest of orange leaves and decay i buried her in an unmarked grave and i still wear her tooth-gap smile with the squinty eye and single dimple and maybe kept her big heart
i apologize for lying to you for i didn’t know there was a truth to be found
if you still want to know me i’m at the top of the brown hill look for the boy holding the daffodils i love you.
MY BROTHER WAKES ME UP, SAYS THE MOON’S RED
By Alexandria Fuertes
Clay Boy’s born with a cocksure tenor and a jar of copper wishes in the bank of his throat.
Tonight, my thoughts cost a penny a piece. Clay Boy’ll pay up. Rusty preacher that he is, he promises.
We were chili-peppered kids, sucking candied cherries when an iron hour turned their stems sanguine.
Nighttime’s pouring old wine now, staining my teeth all bronze, dousing Clay Boy in hot sauce and rich spice.
Makes me wish he’d be Pepper Boy and I’d be Cherry. Maybe then, we’d go miles from the tree.
A LITTLE FOR MY LOVER— ALONG U.S. ROUTE 50
By Edlyn Wernicoff
I want to find bright crimson columbines
And warm air filled with high sound country blues. We’ll go out looking along those white lines, And with our arms linked up as one in twos We’ll travel the world’s most lonely highway. Beneath the tender auburn late night sky, Troubles left with the barkeep Reno Mae, Forgotten with the dim lights of Ely. This lonely road will lead us to pleasure, Just with the smell of old town honky bars. Lover, we’ll outrun all forms of measure And make soft love under the country stars. If life on this route were free of sorrow I would not fear another tomorrow.
MOTHS WITH NO LIGHT
By Dulce Ordonez
There is a gravestone in San Buenaventura with my father’s name. In the quiet of the city, I can only hope the sunlight does not turn the earth in which he rests into a grotesque bed.
I remember the last summer I saw him, how he took to showering in the backyard in the middle of the night without a light on. Claimed that the bathroom had gotten too small. I didn’t understand it until it caught up to me too, a claustrophobia only he and I could understand.
When I woke to the news I decided to run barefooted down Tennessee, I couldn’t escape the sound of water slapping the concrete when he showered.
I thought then of the night the power went out, how he lit up our house with a car battery. I still don’t know quite how he did it, but I do know the shape of his nose, broken in ‘03 and forever crooked to the right, the way he picked his nose without me looking, fiddled with his hands, put a ball in my palm and told me not to open it. “What did you give me” I asked. “A ball of boogers” before turning off the light.
When morning rose, with his voice in my ear, I sat up in a bed that kept spinning. In a blue townhouse that kept living. A moth trapped in the corner of the windowsill took me back to the night under a moth-covered fluorescent light, the way my dad taught me to feed beetles to the croaking frogs outside our back door.
And when the beetles ran low, he taught me how to pick fried moths off the bulb, white wing powder on our fingers until every last frog left.
I think now about the end of time, about the end of my world. I imagine our deck light burnt out, the empty-bellied frogs leaping to my neighbor’s yard. Through scattered breath, I hear the sound of water stopping and the moths multiplying with no light on which to die. I picture myself in 60 years also lying somewhere in the dark, in a similar white satin box. Same purple-blue on my face.
I hope there is no light when I awake. I hope that the moths, having no artificial light toward which to fly will turn back toward the moon.
SONGS ABOUT WILD ANIMALS
By Eli Towry
The strings of my heart are wound in nickel. My throat is copper-plated. Durable to a point. I think I’m finding it – the point. Took me long enough to get there. I digress. The puddles sucking at my shoes reflect the neon lights of early morning. The flashbulbs in my skull. A comfortable headache. Marquees behind my eyelids when they close at last. Blood and metal. Skin and bone.
God lives in the CD slot of my old car. I saw him there. I saw him in the oil spill in the twenty-four hour parking garage. He told me I am someone else’s sweat and ringing ears. Four faced angels in the FM frequencies. Holy holy hosts singing in the key of hardwood and ivory, silver and steel. He said be gentle. I am shattered knuckles and crooked nose.
Pull me taut and thin to breaking, then wind some more. Tape unspooled, vinyl warped. High and tinny and out of tune. Your favorite song, skipping. Scratch and static. The smell of stars, or petrichor. Gasoline. A cigarette smoldering in dry grass.
Wade into the river that wants your body back. Stand before the altar and know that you are unclean. From sludge you came. Waist deep in the rich soil in the woods, marrow decomposing. To sludge you will return.
Put your hand in my mouth to see if I will bite. There is a bad dog caged inside my body, muscle and reflex and sinew. I am always tensed for a fight. Skittish, startled, spit and snarl. The whalish whites of my
eyes. Your fingers through the fence.
I am the rearview mirror and the figure inside it, vanishing. The driver and the deer. Wide-eyed perpetuity. Blood and guts on the side of the road.
I haunt myself. Another hazy figure in the bathroom mirror. See who blinks first. I am the pipes of the organ and the reel of the player piano. Mechanism and mechanic. I am the mask and the person wearing it.
I expect myself at the door, at the window, breathing down the line. Dead air, dial tone. Ask all the wrong questions. Know; who else could it be at this hour?
DATA, CURATED
By Kirsten Bedford
public
class DataLifeCycle{
public static void main(String [] args) { the problem with being born digital is that there is nothing to life but numbers.
everything has a place, a purpose, and an answer:
/*
01000100 I entered the world 01000100
with blue-green-gray-brown eyes and focused my lens on something beautiful. it’s ashame you can’t see it clearly, but 01000001 I cried 01000001 with those eyes. I let my tears fall and flow around my center; an endless river. I can be an animal too, if I want to. I can let out shrieks and howls and drink from my river of sadness, if I want to. yet, even so, there were times when 01010100 I laughed 01010100
big-belly laughs, seated across from you and your jokes. you didn’t even poke fun at the time I short-circuited when you held my cold, wiry hand. you said, so empathetically, so tenderly, that even computers must feel lost sometimes. I confess that 01000001 I fell in love 01000001 with you for that. you confessed that it was nice to fall for someone real, someone tangible. at last. someone to have and to hold, i mean, to truly hold in the palm of your hand. i said, oh, you darling human you, I know just what you mean.
*/
everything has a place, a purpose, and an answer: with you, I’m lost. I’ll resign. I’m tired of a life in numbers. can’t I just be the little fairy that sleeps in the palm of your hand forever? } }
ASTROLOGY ASKS ME A QUESTION
By Alexandria Fuertes
it pings off of alkaline satellite wings, whisks passed a gasping moon’s sterilized lips, dances, unswerving, through aerospace gales, and–snatches the tail of a comet called Blithe, riding her sunbashing, roseblasting wake to the ripe, scrumptious melon of Zealous Existence’s lemon-red genesis, supernovaic, a nuclear fission of fate strings, cooked fortunes, and all other strains of unnaturally selected loves dubbed dwarf planets, embraced by starmappers as Schrödinger’s Love, blissfully giftwrapping me, and then myself, and yes, even i, inside one box together, alone.
NONFICTION
THE HAPPIER FAMILY
By Elena Schamper
itting on my fireplace, the ragged cameraman played Mario Kart on his Nintendo 3DS. His dark beard tickled the teal console. I squished against his right shoulder, his black zip-up hoodie clawing at my arm, while Levi stood on the stoop, looking over his left shoulder. Vaughn sat in my lap, too small to see the screen.
The cameraman crushed the race. Swerving between cars and throwing obstacles, he reached first place. He passed Luigi on the track, hitting him with a banana peel. Luigi let me down. How could he let this camera-holding hobo beat him? The interviewer and his assistant sat on the couch with my parents, talking about the film plan. Last time, the photographers made us wear nice clothes, this time we could wear jeans and flip-flops.
The head interviewer looked like a Q-tip with glasses. His skeletal body sat compact on the couch next to his platinum blonde assistant who hid behind her blunt bangs. Her coarse hair mimicked the pea gravel road that lined our front lawn. I cut my hair the same length as Mom a few weeks before, but I still tugged at the ends of my hair, praying that they would extend to my lower back.
They sat with my parents and discussed what would be spoken in my mom’s segment. She would begin with her diagnosis, then her treatment, and finish with her remission. The interviewers never interrogated us. They didn’t know about the creepy golf ball webcam or our Caretaker Calendars. Our first Christmas with Mom home, when Santa brought me my light blue DSi would stay between us.
The head interrogator called over the homeless man with the 3DS. He slipped it into his pocket and followed the Q-tip with legs to our kitchen table. The game music played from his jacket, but it cut as he sat down. Mom sat in Dad’s spot at the table as she repeated the line she had recited to reporters for years. The walls shuttered when “-seven weeks pregnant with my third child when
I was diagnosed with Leukemia,” left her lips. The floorboards creaked and whined from the memory. My dad tried to keep us quiet while they filmed. Whispers were shushed and requests for toys were denied. The interviewer did not let us sit on the floor.
I picked away at the brick, rubbing each pebble between my fingertips until they were raw before tossing them into the polyester carpet. Sully began scratching the basement door that confined him while the film crew was there. Dad sat Vaughn in my lap while he calmed the dog. Levi balled up Vaughn’s baby blanket and shoved it into his chest. His little hands crept into the knit holes and pulled the garment to his face. I squeezed him tight, comforting him from memories he couldn’t remember as Mom’s voice echoed through the house.
After Mom’s clip, the interviewer told us it was playtime. He slid open the back door and said he would meet us at the bottom. We raced down to the play set at the bottom of our backyard and sat on the swings while the film crew trotted to the bottom of our backyard, our parents not far behind. We waited for the Q-tip man to play with us.
The assistant picked dirt and dog hair off of our clothes. The cotton swab told us how to play. He wanted us to swing while making sure to smile at the camera.
“No talking, and no squealing. Remember to smile!”
The camera eyed us moving back and forth. I hung upside down from the moving bar, thrashing my head back and forth. The sun caressed my face as the blood rushed to my head. I tightened my grip on the plastic and entangled my legs on the chain above. The cold metal coated by warm rubber grabbed my calves, making sure I didn’t slip.
They didn’t like how we played.
I dismounted from the bar and approached the assistant. She peered through her bangs to the top of my head and raked her fingers through my scalp.
“Again!”
I rushed back to the play set, ripping the warm grass with each stride. I picked up Vaughn and put him on a swing. After his hands were secure on the rubber chain, I pushed him back and
forth while Levi was on the other. Their toing and froing opposite each other entranced me like a hypnotist’s watch. We flew back and forth, back and forth. He stopped us and told us to swing some more. I climbed the bar once more and hung how he wanted, the smile never leaving my face.
“Cut.”
I hopped off the bar into the soft grass. My palms coated in blisters from the school monkey bars reopened from the plastic swing set. I walked over to Vaughn and grabbed his little hand and the three of us walked to our parents. The interviewer grabbed two sticks and dropped one next to the makeshift merry-go-round. He walked towards our neighbor’s trees and tossed the stick to his black tennis shoes. He slunk back to us and told us to run as fast as we could to reach the stick. Levi and I grabbed little Vaughn’s hands, and we ran with him.
They didn’t like that.
We walked back to the stick and tried again. No holding hands this time. Levi and I ran, leaving Vaughn behind. He was three. He couldn’t keep up.
Not good enough.
Again.
The denim caged my thighs, preventing me from reaching top speeds.
The warm illuminated grass turned into pale paths with each footprint. The oval tracks imitated the hospital floors that the Q-tip man wanted us so desperately to remember. The five of them stood in a row and watched us run back and forth. The sun on the Q-tip man’s glasses hid his eyes “Cut!”
The film crew dragged us to a nearby prairie for the finishing touches. “Smile!” they would say. My face hurt from all the smiling and playing.
After the final, “Cut!” they left. They zoomed away in their pearly white van. My brothers and I raced into our Suburban begging Mom and Dad to get us ice cream before we went home. The chocolate vanilla twist cones were devoured before we pulled into the driveway.
When Dad opened the garage door, Sully greeted us with his pink and blue tongue waging from his mouth. The house still reeked of the film crew. Sweat and setting spray filled the kitchen burning my nostrils. We went inside and shed our characters for the day. We all ripped our clothes off and threw them immediately into the washing machine. Mom was in her reindeer pajama pants, Dad in his green striped ones. Levi and I wore ours, and Vaughn was in his Monster Jam pajamas, with chocolate ice cream still in the corners of his mouth.
My mom curled up on her corner of the couch, while my dad lounged on the loveseat. The three of us curled up on the floor next to our dog, our legs still aching from playing. Dad turned on the TV while he and Mom laughed at the show. I snatched my DSi from the coffee table and began racing. I tucked my hair behind my ear and pulled the console close to my face. Luigi needed to get to first place
I DIDN’T THINK
By Lorelei Brigitte
hen your cousins come to live with you for the foreseeable future, all you think about is the never-ending sleepover you always dreamed of. You think of playing house, kicking the soccer ball,climbing the avocado tree in the back, and splashing in the bathtub with your two favorite people in the world. You think about having dinner with them and watching Tom and Jerry on Saturday morning while eating French Toast and strawberries. You think about how much you always wished they were your sisters, that you all lived together all the time, and that the fun would never end.
What you don’t think about is where you’re going to sleep. You don’t think about how crowded your Grandmother’s bed is with four people sleeping on it. You don’t think about your single mother providing food for three kids, working long hours to come home to a busy house. You don’t think about how little sleep she gets with one kid between her legs, one wrapped around her side, and the smallest sitting on her chest. You don’t think about the stress of bills going up or if there will be enough food for dinner. You don’t think about her small Ford Focus that could only fit four people. You don’t think about how worried she is for her sister, the mother of your two cousins, who is sleeping in a hospital bed instead of her own. That she had a brain tumor that burst during surgery, almost killing her while her two daughters were watching cartoons on beige tile floors. That after they brought her back and into recovery, she had an aneurysm and flat-lined again, for five minutes. Five minutes she was dead. That she left the world with her two children in it. With her mother and husband in it. With her siblings waiting for her.
And when your cousins have to leave 6 months later, you just feel sad because you don’t think about the miracle of their mother still being alive. All you can think about is how much you miss them,not how much their parents miss them. You think about all the good times with them being over, and now it’s back to playdates after school and Sunday breakfast at Abuela’s house next door. You don’t think about how good it must have felt for their mom to hold her year-old baby in her arms again, or to see her kids smiling at her. You just don’t think about that stuff.
TO MY DEDUSHKA
By Isabella Albaig
don’t know if walking in through the garage door and turning the corner to see the left side of the couch empty will ever feel normal. It’s been years at this point, yet still, I look for your indent there and know the spot is reserved for you. One of the recurring constants of my childhood was seeing you sitting on the far edge of the couch with a pillow behind your back, an unnecessary cushioned pad under your butt, and a Russian mystery novel in your hand. I’d enter your house and run to sit on your lap and engulf you in a hug, which always gave rise to the same sigh that I knew signified both your adoration for me and that you felt a pain somewhere in your body.
~
With parents who chronically worked the night shifts, my little sister Gabriella and I spent most of our weekends at our grandparents’ house. In the afternoons, after finally peeling myself out of bed around 11 a.m., I would make my way down the stairs, making sure to stay on the right side of the staircase to avoid touching the stairlift on the left-hand side that would BEEP at the slightest touch. In the kitchen, I’d find Baba, my grandmother, refilling the cats’ food and water bowls. The smell of slightly, almost burnt bacon emitting from the stove. I’d make my way to the living room, where I ate my breakfast and drank my tea, and there you would be, on the couch taking your 10 daily morning pills under the giant painting of Dalmatians.
Days always felt long at your house. We’d eat food, watch TV, change the program, eat food again, get up only to go to the bathroom, put on a movie, eat food again, and then go to sleep. But it really didn’t matter what we were doing or how repetitive it felt, because we were together. Time together is something that I knew to value.
My recurring nightmares and daymares for most of my life all involved receiving bad news about your state and health.
I am in class leaning my elbows on my desk, propping my chin up in my hands. I don’t know what the teacher is talking about, maybe long division, maybe a new reading skill. I am not really there. I am on a different timeline and I am being called to the principal’s office. I push my chair back to leave my classroom and enter the long hallway of my elementary school. In front of me, Gabriella has also been summoned to the principal’s office and we are walking steadily down the hallway toward the office, 10 paces apart. We are told upon our arrival that our parents called—they are picking us up immediately because something has happened to our Deda.
My teacher puts her hand on my shoulder, jolting me out of my dream state. She has noticed that I am not paying attention, she has seen that I am elsewhere and that my eyes are welling. She asks if I’m okay…I say yes, I’m fine, and she sends me to the nurse.
~
When we were little girls, you would pick us up from school at the end of the day in your silver Toyota Highlander to bring us back to your house, always playing the same CD mix that you made consisting of Russian pop music from the 90s to the early 2000s. I knew those songs forward and backward. I even knew the order that they would play in. Most of them I could not understand, but I would sing them loud and proud to ensure that you could hear me singing along from the back seat. Speaking your language, embracing your culture, and sharing in some of your favorite songs, I thought, would bring us even closer.
~
You didn’t speak much. You were always the quietest person at the dinner table, only spoke when spoken to, and were never one to share your opinion about a movie we had just watched.
“What did you think of the movie?” We’d ask.
“Eh”, was always your response delivered with a shrug. While some may have read this typical reaction as disinterest or rudeness, I knew this not to be true. While you may have had trouble verbalizing your emotions and thoughts to
others, through your touch and slight movements I could always get a sense of what you were feeling. The smallest pause at the top of your breath, which I could see clearly through the dramatic rise and fall of your belly, or a tight squeeze of your hand suggested that you were present and attentive.
I sometimes think about meeting you now as a younger man. Becoming your friend and peeling back your layers to understand the inner workings of your mind. Did you have walls up? Were you hiding something? Or was this just the way you were? A silent observer.
One of my burning unanswered questions to this day is why you never cut your left-hand pinky fingernail. To keep up a bad boy image? For good luck? Coke addiction? I may never know.
As I sit on your couch waiting for the Rabbi to arrive and meet with all of us to learn more about you for your eulogy, I look around the living room. Baba is staring out the window breathing heavily; Mama is scrolling on her phone, knee bouncing, and Daddy is looking at her with his hand rested on her thigh; Gabriella is petting Masha, as if the cat requires more comfort than any of us. My mind raced with thoughts as I observed my family members: HowcanItelltheRabbiaboutyou?HowmuchdoIevenknow? HowcanIputourbondintowords?
The Rabbi finally walks up to the front door after what feels like an eternity of waiting, kissing the Mezuzah on his way into the house, and offers his condolences. He feeds us the standard script and religious mumbo-jumbo that we knew to expect before asking us about you. You were never a particularly religious man, so bringing in this Rabbi who never knew you makes me feel a bit uneasy, but I tell myself that you and your dedication to tradition would have wanted it.
I learned more about your life that day than I had while you were alive. The details about how you, as a baby, escaped the Nazis with your family, nearly starving to death in the process. The story of how you and Baba met at a mutual friend’s wedding, and then got married to each other months later. How you managed to move your family from the Soviet Union to the U.S. with no plan and
barely any money to give them a better home. How you saved lives as a doctor yet endured 19 surgeries of your own throughout your life. The Rabbi called you a “Tzadik”, a righteous Jewish man. I scanned my brain for moments to share. Glimpses of memories projected across my mind like a motion picture captured on film stock. I became overwhelmed by the fact that no one moment could possibly capture you and the love you gave.
Just then, memories of our last few months together stirred. An overwhelming feeling of guilt flushed over me.
~
On an average, nothing-special day in mid-June, I am resting on the couch next to you as usual. I feel you struggling to get up, using the armrest to propel you to a standing position. This is not out of the normal — for as long as I can remember, you have carried a cane, and it takes you at least three seconds to take one singular step. Once you turn the corner, out of my line of sight, I hear your slow steady walk receding toward the bathroom. I continue mindlessly scrolling on social media. After a few minutes I can hear your steps advancing back toward the living room, until, in a moment’s instant, I detect a misstep before witnessing you flying across the room. Time begins to feel like it is moving in slow motion. Youarefalling.Youareplummetingtowardthefloor, withoutthestrengthormobilitytocatchyourself.Youhitthefloor hard . Before I can even process any of these thoughts, I am lunging out of my seat. There you are, lying on the ground, powerless to pick yourself back up. You begin to tear up and lay on your side. You won’t let me move you. I can do nothing.
Before my mind has even caught up to my body, I have already hung up on the phone with the police and called Daddy. He gets there first, like a superhero swooping in to save the day — only for once, he cannot. You won’t let him lift you to a seated position, so I know something must be seriously wrong. You groan and point to your right hip.
When the paramedics finally come bursting through the door, they ask you how bad the pain hurts on a scale from 1-10. “8,” you respond, a high number for a man who doesn’t say much and never complains. They take you away on a stretcher.
The car ride to the hospital is tense. No words are exchanged and I am sitting in the back seat, looking out the window and choking on my emotions. Ismynightmare,atthis moment,comingtofruition?I cannot break down in this car ride, not in front of Baba and Daddy.
I glance down at my phone to check the time: 4:44 pm. Isn’t thatconsideredanangelnumber?I open my phone to search “444 meaning” on Google, hoping that the universe is somehow offering me guidance through these numbers.
“444comestoyouasasignthatyourangelsarewithyou, guidingyoustepbystep.”Itsappearanceshouldactasreassurance thatyou’renotaloneandpositiveenergysurroundsyoueverystep oftheway.” I begin to silently weep.
At the hospital, the diagnosis was a broken hip. You spent a couple of weeks in the hospital after your surgery before moving to a rehabilitation center. I had to leave to start my summer job working at a sleepaway camp in the mountains. While I was away, 444 began appearing everywhere I turned, and I began to take it as a sign of you being with me. I visited you on one of my days off from work.
You didn’t look or act like yourself. You were skinny, and somehow even quieter than usual. You wouldn’t eat and could barely stay awake. When I looked into your eyes, I couldn’t tell if you were processing and understanding anything around you. When you would talk, it would only be in Russian. Had I been gone so long that you had forgotten all that you know?
Before leaving you that day, I sat on the side of your hospital bed and reclined back to lay next to you. My mom told me to get off in fear that I may hurt you, but when I tilted forward to get up, you stopped me and signaled me to lie back down. I rested next to you, head on your shoulder, hand in hand, for the next 30 minutes. It was one of my last memories with you. I had to go back to work after that visit, distract myself, and pretend like nothing was wrong while taking care of the kids. Your state worsened over the next couple of months. You moved back home, and my bedroom was converted to become your
hospital room. I came back to Tallahassee, 922 miles away from you. Baba hired a young lady to be your home care nurse. She had curly hair just like me, Mama, and Gabriella. I like to think that that was part of the reason why you loved her; Why she could get through to you.
On October 3, 2022, the long-anticipated call came. Daddy warned me that you were probably not going to live past the day and that he’d keep me updated. The call came from my old bedroom in your house, where you lay awaiting your fate. I hung up the phone and let out a wail from the depths of my stomach. It was not fair, could not be real. I couldn’t even say goodbye.
I bought my ticket back to Maryland that night for your funeral the next day. Baba and my parents asked me if I wanted to prepare anything for the ceremony…Instead, we had the Rabbi.
I could have delivered a eulogy at your funeral myself. I could have spoken about how you taught me to play pool in the basement. I could have spoken about how, despite your constant physical pain, you never failed to lift weights at least once a day while sitting in your spot on the couch. How you were a Slavic that ironically preferred Tequila to Vodka, and how your face would become bright red and your demeanor would become so much more relaxed and cheerful after just a few sips. How you burned at least 40 family-friendly movies onto CDs one by one so that Gabriella and I had multiple options for when we stayed over. How, even now, I could identify the exact sound of your footsteps coming towards me with my eyes closed. How much I adore you. How you were and still are my favorite person, my amazing grandfather. But I did not. I could not. So now I write this.
IS GOD REAL? A STORY OF GOATS, FARMS, AND FAITH
By Isabella Jade
few weeks ago, while watching A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving with my two older brothers, I had a subtle realization. As I watched the Peanuts Gallery riding off to Thanksgiving dinner in the way back of their gray station wagon, harmonizing the lyrics of “over the river and through the woods to Grandmother’s house we go,” I turned to my two siblings as the notion dawned on me.
“We’ve never gone to our Grandma’s house.” I stared at them, slightly stunned.
“What are you talking about?” my oldest brother responded, noticeably unbothered.
“I dunno, I feel like that’s a big part of the American experience, y’know? ‘Going to Grandma’s house,’ we’ve never really gotten to do that.” I shrugged, pondering over anecdotes of the houses of American grandmothers I had heard growing up, wondering what potential memories we had lost.
“Does Abuelita even have a house?” my other brother asked, pointing out the obvious. I thought about it, noticing he was right. When we were little, our grandparents were missionaries who traveled across Latin America, sharing their strong Christian faith. As we got older, they spent a few years in Nicaragua taking care of our Abuelita’s parents. Eventually, once they had made it back to the U.S., they delegated their days between the houses of my Tios, enjoying time spent with each of their grandchildren.
“Honestly,” our oldest brother chimed in, “I think any house with Abuelita in it is Abuelita’s house.” I laughed in response, reminiscing on her commanding presence and persuasive demeanor, how, even with broken English, she could win any argument.
The three of us began sharing stories of all of her visits growing up, often lasting weeks or months at a time, sometimes
without our parents there to act as a buffer. One particular memory stayed at the forefront of my mind, as it often did creep back into my head time and time again; however, this time, I realized I had never shared it with the rest of my family.
~
As a young elementary-aged girl, my highlight in life was the farm camp I would go to for one week each summer. While my family never had any pets (my Mother was afraid of dogs, and my Father hated cats), at farm camp, I had many animals - goats, horses, chickens, and more to nurture as my own. Each day, I would arrive at the farm on a rickety old school bus with peeling yellow paint, and windows sheathed with bullet holes from years of boys practicing on it at the shooting range. I, alongside twenty other kids, would tumble off of the bus with brown-sacked lunches and acres of land at our disposal. Farm camp was fairly unstructured, and we had full autonomy to spend our time however we wanted; the only event ingrained in our heads was popsicles every day at 3:00 pm by the lake. With this freedom, I aptly developed my own routine and had three activities to which I would devote most of my hours: feeding my favorite baby goats, shooting bow and arrow at the archery range, and asking “older kids” to push me on the giant rope swing hanging from the camp’s oldest oak tree.
One summer, when I was eight years old, my parents relayed the unfortunate news that they would be going on vacation the week I had farm camp and that my Abuelita would be coming to watch my older brothers and myself. While I loved my Abuelita and always looked forward to her visits, nothing demanded my punctuality like the yellow school bus that escorted me to my rural paradise, and I feared that an amateur would not be able to get me to it each morning. Unlike the true school bus that picked me up each day for 2nd grade, this one did not attend to my neighborhood specifically, and it certainly didn’t drive to my house each day. Instead, every day, I would wake up at 6:00 am, strap into my sneakers (they were velcro), and drive to the Kangaroo gas station with my parents, the halfway point between us and the farm, where the bus would promptly pick me up at 7 o’clock.
Upon my Abuelita’s arrival, I did not even let her unpack before rushing her with a handwritten schedule, an entire page torn out of my pink Barbie notebook, breaking down each minute we would be spending together. While she may have been there to look after me, at eight years old, I felt responsible for both of us, and surely I was not going to drop the ball on my obligations. All weekend, I filled her in on the demands of farm life: sunscreen, green grapes in my lunch instead of purple, extra ponytail holders, and, of course, two water bottles so I wouldn’t have to refill mine with the nasty lake-flavored well. Constantly, my Abuelita reassured me that everything would go according to plan; after all, she had raised four children before me, navigating the cross-cultural dilemmas afforded by immigrating between countries.
The Sunday night before my first day of farm camp, I brought her upstairs to my bedroom to tuck me in; while I may have been responsible, I knew better than to try and go to sleep without a proper goodnight hug from my grownup. Sitting on the edge of my bed, staring at me, snuggled up under all three of my blankets, she asked me,
“What time do we need to be up in the morning?”
“6:00 am,” I answered swiftly. “I already set my alarm,” I gestured with my shoulder toward the alarm clock sitting on my nightstand, for my arms were locked stiff below my comforter.
My Abuelita shook her head with disappointment, “No, no, no,” she said. “You do not need to wake up to an alarm clock; it is not good for your morning.” She reached over and turned my clock off. “We will simply pray, and God will wake us up when we need him.” She spoke without a hint of doubt behind her expression. At that moment, all my careful preparation went out the window, and my panic rapidly set in. While I loved reading my Bible and praying to the Lord for things like dinner, my faith was tested in this bleak moment of utmost adherence; it was life or death. Nonetheless, I folded my palms together as my Abuelita stared down at me confidently. Together, we prayed that God would wake us both up at 6:00 am, me silently struggling to push away every dubious thought that crept into my mind. Unlike my
Abuelita, I did not have 60 years’ worth of blessings to serve as evidence of the Lord’s miracles; my farm camp experience was doomed.
Hours later, my eyes shot open with ease as I heard the voice of my Abuelita looming over me, telling me to wake up. Looking around my room, I noticed not only her and her endearing smile but also the clock on my nightstand, which read 6:00 am. I was stunned. Never in my wildest dreams had I imagined that we would be up on time. I got out of bed with a grin on my face, preparing for farm camp like any other summer day, yet in the back of my mind, I couldn’t help but wonder what exactly had happened that morning.
This year, on the farm, Ms.Molly (the old woman who owned the camp) informed us that there would be four new baby goats, two of whom were humorously named Taco and Bell. All four of the baby goats, but especially Taco and Bell, had instantly captivated my affections. That week, I spent every available second in the goat pen, petting the new kids, grooming their bristled fur, and feeding them a sticky mixture of grass and beans that left an unwelcome residue on my palm. When I wasn’t playing with the goats, I usually ate my lunch on the very top of the camp’s monkey bars. Most kids avoided them because of the rust, but I didn’t mind; sitting up there, I always felt like I was on top of the world, somewhere high enough to enjoy my food in solidarity and collect my thoughts. Looking down at all of the other children, running around, playing tag, and picking fights over their different snacks, I wondered if this is how God feels up in heaven, watching over the chaos of the world in peace. As I ate, my mind wandered to earlier that morning, still ruminating with awe over the miracle that the Lord performed through my Abuelita. While I wanted it to be real, a more cynical part of me hoped this morning was a fluke, and again, I waited fearfully for the next morning to come and my questions to be answered.
Evidently, my Abuelita’s faith proved strong, and each day that week, she appeared at my bedside at exactly 6:00 am. To say my belief in God grew from those mornings would be an understatement. I felt reborn, walking around farm camp like I possessed all of the world’s wisdom, feeding each of the animals
as though food from my hands would grant them insurmountable health. That Thursday, however, this notion appeared false as Ms.Molly gathered the entire camp to inform us that Taco, at only eight months old, had a horrible infection and wasn’t expected to make it through the week. I was devastated with sadness; mostly, I felt bad for Bell and the fact that she was losing her brother. Compared to my eight years, eight months hardly seemed like a life, and I was pained to know Taco would never grow up and get his horns.
That night, just like the four nights prior, I sat in bed with my Abuelita, folding my hands and bowing my head. Together, we thanked God for an incredible week and asked him to wake us bright and early the next morning so we could enjoy another beautiful day. That night, however, after my Abuelita left the room and went to check on my brothers, I folded my hands even tighter and sent another prayer up to God. The longest prayer I had ever uttered at my young age, I begged the Lord to save the baby goat. I reminded him that I had discovered a newfound stage in my faith and told him I needed my own private miracle to know he was watching over me.
The next morning, my eyes flew open, propelled by the speed of my own racing thoughts. Immediately, I noticed that my Abuelita wasn’t there to wake me, and I feared we had overslept. Throwing back my covers and preparing to jump out of bed, I suddenly caught a glimpse of the alarm clock on my nightstand; I let out a sigh of relief as I noticed it said 6:00 am, and surely enough, my Abuelita then came strolling into my room, smiling at me proudly.
“Ah! You’re up,” she exclaimed before turning around and walking right back out.
I stared at my clock once more, almost wishing it would stay 6:00 am forever, a permanent piece of evidence of God’s love for me. Hours later, as the yellow school bus pulled onto the rocky dirt road that signified our arrival, I ran to the front of the bus, impatiently waiting for the double doors to squeak open. Once off, I sprinted to the goat pen, not even bothering to drop my lunch or bookbag off in our clubhouse. As I approached the frail wire fence
surrounding the pen, I squeaked to a halt, the sound of my sneakers in the mud attracting multiple stares from all of the adults circling the enclosure. Why were there adults circling the enclosure? I panicked.
Willing my eyes to focus, I gradually discerned Ms.Mollie sitting on her knees in the center of the pen, a dark object lying across her lap. The camp staff had covered Taco with a black blanket, probably to shield the horrors of his open wound from the young campers; I, however, viewed it as a way for them to pay their respects. Staring at the baby goat, no longer a living member of this world, I, too, fell to my knees, overtaken with silent sobs, for my tears were too confused to fall. My pain was difficult to comprehend and challenging to place, but no matter where it was coming from, I despised the way it caused my head to ache.
For what seemed like hours, I sat solemnly on the ground, the mud forming a layer of crusted dirt on my tattered jeans. Grieving the loss of my beloved animal friend and unsure of what I was feeling, I folded my hands and bowed my head, preparing once again to speak to God. As I went to speak my first few words, a wave of anger washed over me; laying in the dirt on a random Friday in July, I uncovered a new emotion, a deep sense of betrayal I had never felt before.
Was I mad at God? The question pierced my heart, adding a layer of guilt to my uncomfortable mixture of sensations. Well, I decided, he had neglected my prayer and manipulated my emotions after days of showing he was there for me. I thought back to every morning that week, waking up to my Abuelita’s smiling face and a warmth of protection filling my heart. No, I thought, those emotions were real. If my God was up there looking down on me, and I wholeheartedly believed he was, he would not deliberately harm me or punish me when my faith was strongest.
I sifted my fingers through the moistened ground, staring at the spot of earth where Taco had previously laid, his hooves dragging through the mud as they picked him up, probably soon to be buried in another heaping pile of dirt.
Ashestoashesanddusttodust.
I remembered the prayer verse I had heard before, often under similar circumstances, reminding us that we all shared an inevitable fate. Death, I realized, was a natural consequence afforded by a life. It was inescapable and involuntary. It was the facet of life most opposite to betrayal.
Therefore, the betrayal I was experiencing, the aching sensation plaguing my heart, must have stemmed from somewhere else. Another less high yet still superior being, one whose duty was also to love and protect me.
Each morning that week, my Abuelita had woken me up under an oath from God, turning prayer into a plaything. Despite being an act of kindness, she had disrupted my peace and instilled the terror of doubt in my mind.
Had she been setting an alarm each day? I gasped, my voice and tears finally coming back to me. No, I rationalized; she would never do that to me.
But why? I questioned. Why did she take it upon herself that week to test me?
For the first time in my life, I had my loyalty weaponized and used against me. In a household of sincere faith, I had never realized my beliefs were something to be manufactured. Where I could have forged my own path, my Abuelita decided it would be better to interfere, leaving me surrounded by doubts and too afraid to ask any of my role models for clarity. I wanted to believe that God had failed me by not saving Taco, but rather, I was beginning to think that perhaps my Abuelita had failed me by instilling into my head that I could pray miracles into existence. I wasn’t sure if she lied to me. If she was setting an alarm clock every morning before appearing at my bedside. I had awoken on my own that morning, after all. Maybe, I thought, faith had to be practiced, and at first, even if she was faking it, it was only because she was planting a seed that would eventually become true inside of me. Too young to have grasped the concept of manipulation, I could still feel a hand heavy on my heart, trying to contour my emotions, and with the dirt stiff on my jeans, I stood up and shook off my uncertainty.
When I finally made it to lunch that afternoon, unpacking my food at the top of the monkey bars, I decided to take a stride of bravery. Using my hands, I pushed myself up onto two straight legs, and with each of my feet resting on a metal bar, I stood tall and defiantly, looking around at the world from the highest point I could reach. Peering all around me, I hoped to see a burial procession, or at the very least, a gathering of people far off in a field sending a baby goat away into its next life. Unfortunately, even at my highest point, I could not see everything, and some things, terrifying as they may be, would forever remain a mystery
VISUAL ART
GATEWAY TO MUGHAL INDIA
By Sraddha Karthik
GARDEN MARSH
By David Levinson
EGOCENTAUR
By David Levinson
THE ALCHEMIST’S CHAMBERS
By Emily Tunde Pilipczak
SUMATRAN OF THE RED SUN
By Emily Tunde Pilipczak
SINNER
By Amanda Monteiro
KINGMAKER
By Sraddha Karthik
HEADED TO BOURBON?
By Anna Cheng
NEW WORLD
By Anna Parsons
HEAD IN THE CLOUDS
By Anna Cheng
FIN.
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