Metrosphere Volume 34 Issue 2 by Met Media

Volume 34 | Issue 2 Literature Supplement

PERFORMATIVITY A term for the capacity of speech and communication not simply to communicate but rather to act or consummate an action, or to construct and perform an identity

Volume 34 Issue 2

Editor’s Note

here’s no way to get around it: We are living in the Digital Age. As the vast majority of individuals are walking around permanently attached to smart phones, tablets and/or laptops, we feel that it’s time to evolve. Our evolution involves the creation of an online issue, one that can effectively showcase the growing amount of digital-based and time-based art, as well as give the opportunity to feature spoken word poetry and music. Creative Director Kenzie Sitterud has spent countless hours coding the website from top to bottom and, with the help of the talented Edward Hill, created a beautiful publication that complements the incredible submissions we received. It also enhances the editorial content by including video footage of our subjects. There are no words for how impressed I am with Kenzie’s vision and Edward’s coding powers. So go visit our brand new website, exclusively created for Volume 34, Issue 2, mymetrosphere.com. Of course, being the old school soul that I am, I couldn’t bring myself to leave everything to the digital realm. I am a print junkie and will always prefer reading from a book or magazine; that is why we chose to print the literature we’re double publishing on the website.

- Carlos Escamilla

Screenshot from DAISY CORSO, Left Alone, Video Art

mymetrosphere.com

Editor-in-Chief Carlos Escamilla

Video Editor Pacific Obadiah

Associate Editor Sean Rhodes

Staff Writers Alysha Prieto Hayes Madsen Keenan McCall

Features Editor Heather Pastorius Creative Director Kenzie Sitterud Photography Director Michael Ortiz

Copy Editors Edwin Lobach Pacific Obadiah Sabrina Hallberg

Web Designer Edward Hill Met Media Steve Haigh, Director Ronan Oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;Shea, Assistant Director Kathleen Jewby, Production Manager Elizabeth Norberg, Office Manager Met Media P.O. Box 173362, CB57 Denver, CO 80217-3362 Printed by Colt Print Services, Inc.

The Student Voice of MSU Denver

No part of this book may be used or reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise without prior permission of Met Media, except in the context of reviews.

Natalie McAnulla

Kristin Macintyre

Jacob S. Garcia

8&9

Matt Passant

10 & 12

Alessandra Ragusin

Travis Arnold

Matt Passant

Emily Butler-Probst

Bobby Octaviano

Cover: KENZIE SITTERUD, The Funeral Back cover: JACK TOLMACHOFF, Scuba Jesus, digital illustration

POETRY

PROSE DRAMA

TABLE CONTENTS

POETRY REQUEST CREAMER

OPEN CREAMER

USE CREAMER

ON THE OCCASION OF A FORREST GROWING INSIDE ME BY NATALIE McANULLA

Your absence sowed these seeds; furry and full of possibility, they sprout. Swift and servile they sling their fresh jade hooks into bone and sinew. Wanting to redecorate and waste no time; ivy quickly climbs. Saplings spring, exploding out from crack and chasm. Juicy green bushes push up. Bits of mint and bergamot grow in between. Every structure and empty space now covered and teeming. Within forty-five days those saplings became trees and showed me the way. Their gnarled northern bark is now mostly moss. Softened enough, so now I can feel soft. Thanks to these seeds and their inherent possibilities my broken parts grow lush and lazy. Inside this space I will expand. Stay green and damp. Until I forget the origins of this my new home.

PIGEONHOLED BY KRISTIN MACINTYRE

This is the Omega, kid. This is the day that will be your Zero, your void, the gaping hole that will suck the tenderness from your pink petals. Daddies are weak, even though they have two sturdy legs to support their well-mannered sins. Daddies need to chase their sore ambitions around barrels of whiskey and hold their grey heads in their knotty hands and cry. Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m leaving, but I will never look at a row of tidy candy bars in a dusty dime store without thinking of you. You are the only flower in this town, kid. My Daddy gave me a half-smile, a loose pat on the back, and left me standing in the teeming city rain. He walked off holding his inky newspaper over his head, blurred by a flock of black umbrellas and cooing pigeons.

Mร BIUS SOUL BY JACOB S. GARCIA

Verbs cut like razor sharp Toledo steel swords, adjectives numerous as a plethora of stars guide the eye, while I wonder if the soul is a Mรถbius strip enveloped in flesh storing memories as films about specters without beginnings or endings. I wonder if this Mรถbius soul flies in a dream across the relativity of time and space towards an ancient star, with a primordial planet that is covered in primeval mountains that rise near abiding beaches where each feeling is as a kiss that begins like foam on the surface and then sinks to the depths of the sea.

NIGHTS OF OBLIVION BY MATT PASSANT

On this cool, cool night, Drunk on rainwater, smokin’ & singin’ the blues, & the buzz, buzz of blue neon light. Smoke swirls & deep amber whiskey – what a sight! Sweat slick & lips licked, sax reed ready; let’s blow a fuse On this cool, cool night. A bop apocalypse; notes fall down like rain & dance, dance with all of their might Blown down crazy breath – in here no one cares what you choose, & the buzz, buzz of blue neon light. On stage rollin’ notes into notes – improvised perfection, a shadow in backlight Sway at the knees & swing keeping time, what else can he use On this cool, cool night? At Birdland, Parker coming down off great height Slip needle in vein, constrict, dilate, the dragon muse & the buzz, buzz of blue neon light. Dizzy-gone - let’s go - we gotta get right! Forever we’re changed & come back tomorrow, just what can we lose In the cool, cool night? & the buzz, buzz of blue neon light.

FOR YOU BY MATT PASSANT

Sitting, naked in the moonlight for you. Sour cream & onion chips, a water cup full & Anton Chekhov for you; I want to take the red-eye night train from Denver to Chicago & onwards, I know that I can’t, so I just sit for you. Peeling dead skin off my finger and feeling the heat Present and closing in; it’s closing in fast for you. Thoughts upon thoughts jumbled in my head: Eating frozen cookie dough as a symbol of modern America and capitalism for you. On the road always, always moving on; Offering no real reason to stay for you. Writing a rambling poem about angels, poets, and lost causes: A wasteland with no meaning; the heat’s gone for you Getting out of the car and falling in Greasy dust bowl: gas station slash bar for you. Blueberry Hill and Ain’t Misbehavin’ echoing over and over; Beaten and lying on the ashy floor immobile for you. Dead because there’s no new way to live Don’t you know? Everything’s beautiful in the Afterlife for you. And I’m saving all my love For you.

BURN

BY ALESSANDRA RAGUSIN

Curtis Mayfield said, “If there’s a hell below we’re all gonna go” And the whiskey burn slides down my throat, -upper body muscles too weak-not enough traction for feetunable to scramble up the walls of this glass and out of this hole Gin-saturated red-eyed dreams, too similar to pure kerosene are so ripe to ignite with the slightest heat -intellect vanishing fast-soul enflamed with oozing rashstriking matches and roman candles, yet expecting to get and stay clean Downing pills like Tic Tacs, an intentional mental lapse; fighting for basic coping skills that I lack. -stunted emotional growth-searching in substance for hopeI, like an infant entertained by shiny things; a mind with one track

Self-image and reality clash in the mirror, forced into the clear, substance enters to soothe the fear. -all systems on high alert-efficiently rendered inertClawing my way out of this fleshy shell, mindlessness becomes dear Slink back in and shut the closet door. What am I good for? hatred at the sight of my own shadow, the sound of my own roar. -acceptance, a plea from within-who I am is a sin?because what the hell will they say when I walk out the closet door?

ONTOLOGY A Sestina

BY ALESSANDRA RAGUSIN

Strange, how we struggle to be happy, how we internalize ages of consciousness; thinking that we are each our own island that only I struggle for dominion over my own life that you, of course, must have all your shit figured out. Funny, how we grasp at anything that claims it will set us free. With rapid action we chain ourselves to being free: regurgitating media ideas of what it means to be happy, believing that dropping paychecks on cell phone upgrades is a way out, that spewing half-assed thoughts somehow is equal to consciousness; led to believe that incessant Internet binging is an acceptable way of life, that we don’t need real people; it’s okay to be an island. But something is rotten in the state of these islands. The stench of mental atrophy can’t be perfumed by any definition of free. I can’t imagine apathy could ever birth life. Yet, this mindless rat labyrinth is supposed to make us happy; the robotic need to constantly compete is counterfeited consciousness. They don’t mean for us to ever find our way out. Then we’re sat in front of screens said to be windows to see out; so that even if I feel like I’m in a cage, it looks like a tropical island. Ignorance makes it easier for the worms to burrow into our subconsciousness, eating holes in brains till we believe we are free, till we repeat to ourselves that, “things will make me happy”; proving our full submission by spitting on life.

We consume “food” made in labs, not in life, and get the shakes when we run out. Getting us addicted makes them happy. We float down lazy rivers between junk food islands; Death supersizes your fries for free. Tell me you’re in charge of your consciousness. Forces abound that bind and Stockholm our consciousness so we believe that virtual reality is real life; that enslavement will set us free; that comfort is more important than stepping out; that we need newer and newer shit to decorate our islands; that contentment doesn’t exist, just shut up and be happy. But I want the enlightenment of true consciousness that calls us out, that says, “Fuck that life! Swim out from your island!” Because not one of us can be free until we define for ourselves what it means to be happy.

DRAMA TO BE..

OR NOT TO BE...

ABSTRACTS AND POKER A ONE-ACT PLAY BY TRAVIS ARNOLD

Dimly lit conference room. Small conference table, with six chairs surrounding it. Stacks of poker chips in front of each chair. Bay windows upstage, through which we can see that it’s nighttime and snowing heavily. Four players at the table, one sitting on each of the four sides of the table IN THE FOLLOWING CLOCKWISE ORDER: DOCKER, then CJ, then TEX, then MISSY. This orientation around the table is important, as the dialogue often follows and reflects what is happening in the poker game. DOCKER………Sternly moderates the game and tries to keep it moving, suavely dressed, wearing a fedora. TEX……………Thick Texan accent, wearing a cowboy hat, and chewing/spitting tobacco throughout. CJ………………Condescending, wearing horn-rimmed glasses. MISSY………….Coy, wearing a bow in her hair. (Lights up on four poker players) DOCKER: Alright, team; let’s see those buy-ins. Fifty dollars this week. MISSY: Fifty? I thought we were playing for ten this week. TEX: You guys are babies. Let’s play fer two hundred. DOCKER (sternly): The buy-in is fifty dollars. TEX: Fine. Here y’are, sir. (takes out wallet, throws in fifty dollars) So where’s Matt tonight? CJ (throwing in fifty dollars): He’s on a date with that waitress from Hooters. TEX: Clutch! ’Atta boy! DOCKER (deals out cards): We’ll be playing Limit Hold ‘Em, all night. Small blind starts at five chips, big blind starts at ten. CJ (checks cards, bets chips): I bet twenty chips. So, are any of you guys familiar with Chekhov’s Gun? TEX (checks cards): Like Chekov from Star Trek? The one that drives The Compromise? I call. (bets chips) MISSY: The ship from Star Trek is called The Enterprise, Tex. Fold. (throws in cards) DOCKER: I’ll fold too. (folds his cards, deals next card) …And we have an ace on the board! MISSY: Yeah, I vaguely remember that term from high school drama class. So what is Chekhov’s Gun, CJ? CJ: It’s a dramatic principle that comes up sometimes in playwriting. (checks his

cards again) I’ll check it to you, Tex. It states that, as a playwright, you shouldn’t add any unnecessary details to a play. Every detail in your narrative should be irreplaceable and crucial to the plot. TEX: I don’t get it. (spits tobacco) I’ll bet forty more. (throws in chips) CJ: I’ll call your forty. (throws in chips) Like, for example, don’t hang a gun on the wall in the first scene of a play if it’s not going to be used to shoot someone in the fourth scene. MISSY: Oh yeah, Chekhov’s Gun. I remember that now. DOCKER (deals a card): Six of Hearts. Your bet, CJ. CJ: I bet another forty. (throws in chips) TEX: I’ll call ya, with a pair of Ladies. (flips over cards) So what’s yer point, CJ? Are you saying that one of us is gonna get shot at some point? CJ: Of course not, Tex! Do you see a gun on the wall? Also, I got you beat, ten-high straight. (flips over cards, and collects pile of chips from middle of table) TEX: Dammit! Nice hand. MISSY: So why did you bring up Chekhov’s Gun, CJ? DOCKER (deals out a new set of cards to everyone): C’mon guys. Let’s get some chips out. CJ: Well, Tex asked about Matt earlier and you answered that he was on a date. MISSY: OK… And? CJ: There are six chairs at this table. That implies Matt and his date could be joining us at some point. TEX: Right, that makes sense. DOCKER (getting annoyed): Guys, chips. CJ: But Matt and his date WON’T be joining us at any point. He’s totally irrelevant to both the game and the plot of the story, so there was no need to mention him in the first place.

TEX: Well I didn’t know that when I asked about ’im! (hopefully) So what about Matt’s date? The Hooters girl? CJ: Also totally irrelevant. TEX: (disappointed) Bummer. (Docker clears throat loudly, and Tex hurries to look at his cards) Sorry, Dock, I’ll check. MISSY (looks at cards): I’ll bet ten. (throws in chips) So why is it so terrible if there are a few irrelevant details? DOCKER: C’mon guys, rate of play. I will call your ten, Missy, and raise twenty more. (throws in chips) CJ: I’m in for thirty. (throws in chips) Like I was saying, aside from Chekhov’s Gun, there’s also these things called red herrings. See, when something misleads or distracts the audience from a relevant or important plot point, then that’s what is known as a red herring. TEX: Wait, how did we get onto fish? I am so lost. Also, what’s the bet? DOCKER: Pay attention, Tex. The bet is thirty. TEX: Fold, fold, fold. (throws in cards) MISSY: I’ll call you, gentlemen. (throws in chips) Let’s see some more cards, dealer. DOCKER (deals a card): Four of diamonds, not much help there. The bet is to you, Missy. MISSY: I’ll bet another thirty. (throws in chips) So if there were a gun on the wall, but nobody uses it, is that a red herring…or Chekhov’s Gun? DOCKER (loudly): I’ll fold. (throws in his cards) CJ: There is no gun on the wall. MISSY: I know that. CJ: So it’s neither. A moot point. MISSY: But I’m just asking, what if there were a gun on the wall? CJ: Well, now you’re getting into hypotheticals…

TEX: Seriously guys, I am SO lost right now. CJ: …and hypotheticals are a whole other animal. DOCKER (annoyed): Guys! Rate. Of. Play. CJ: I’ll call your bet, Missy. (throws in chips) DOCKER: And the last card is… (flips a card) …the Jack of Spades! MISSY: I’ll check. CJ: I’ll go all-in. (Pushes all his chips forward) Think you’ve got me beat, Missy? MISSY: You’ll have to ask Schrödinger’s cat. I fold. (folds her cards without showing them) TEX (getting frustrated): OK, who the heck is Schrödinger? Why does he have a damn cat, and what does that have to do with poker? MISSY: (does quote signs in the air with her fingers) “Schrödinger’s Cat” is a famous thought experiment where — CJ (interrupting): To paraphrase what Missy was going to say, I can’t possibly know whether or not I had a better hand than Missy, since she refused to show me her cards. W ithout knowledge of what her cards were, I simultaneously do and do not have the better hand. MISSY: A paradox! TEX (animatedly): Guys, STOP! I don’t do paradoxes, or red herrings, or Chekhov’s Gun, or breaking the fourth wall! CJ: You want to bring the fourth wall into this? TEX: NO, I DO NOT! (gets up and addresses the audience directly) DO Y’ALL KNOW WHAT THE HELL THEY’RE ON ABOUT? (Right as MATT walks in with a beautiful girl on his arm; she’s wearing a “HOOTERS” shirt) MATT: ’Sup guys! Did you start without me? TEX and DOCKER together: Oh, goddammit! (Fade to black) 1

PROSE ADD A DASH OF SALT.

FRESH PEPPER FOR TASTE.

KEEPING IT CLASSIC.

FLIGHT RISK BY MATT PASSANT

ou are standing at the front desk of the hospital; a sign above you reads “Information.” The two women sitting behind the desk are very kind when you ask to use the phone; it’s a direct line to Yellow Cab for situations just like this. You’ve been discharged from a 72-hour psych hold, held there for your own safety. Safety’s a funny word. Picking up the receiver, you feel its weight; it’s heavy with the weight of all the other patients discharged before you. You are on hold. There is no hold music, just silence on the other end and an occasional voice recording thanking you for calling and informing you that your call will be answered in the order it was received. It’s going to be a long wait and you settle in, leaning against the counter, cradling the phone receiver to your ear with your shoulder. When you include suicide on a list of possible solutions to life’s problems, people get concerned. When you focus in on it and consider all of its consequences and implications on a running, constant loop through your mind, and when you admit to developing a plan of action with a sense of accomplishment, people worry about your safety. That word again. Your hand begins to sweat from holding on so tightly to the bright magenta plastic bag that reads “Patient Belongings” in huge black letters. Every person who walks by looks first at the bag and then back up at you. It feels judgmental, but who’s to say; everything is still so indecipherable for you. Your ear is sweaty from the heat of the receiver and your neck is sore. The voice recording comes on again. You are still on hold. “The physiological error called migraine is, in brief, central to the given of my life.” —Joan Didion Having just read Joan Didion’s essay “In Bed,” about her struggles with migraine disease, I am struck by the unseen quality of her suffering. I think of the “given of my life” and what is “central” to it. Depression. Anxiety. A conviction that everything is fine when, in my head, I know that it only lies dormant, never seen until it is too late. If I vomit all over the place, if my eyes are dull and red while my nose is running, and if I change color from a healthy hue to something vaguely gray and white-pale, then people want to help. They wish you a “get well soon” and send you home to rest with empathy and concern. If I have that quality of suffering that is tangible, relatable, if it can be seen, people are so caring, so understanding. However, if my suffering is introverted, if it affects the way I think and translate the world around me, if it plays detrimentally with the emotional center of my brain,

then people are decidedly unsympathetic, a current of blame in their sideways looks, stifled whisperings and general attitude. I did not choose to be sick. I do not want this pain. I am doing the best that I can. I am not asking for a solution, only recognition that my suffering is legitimate, that I am just as sick as a person with the flu. It’s hard not to take things personally; it’s hard not to get frustrated from all of the advice that will surely cure me if only I tried harder. “That in fact I spent one or two days a week almost unconscious with pain seemed a shameful secret, evidence not merely of some chemical inferiority but of all my bad attitudes, unpleasant tempers, wrongthink.” —Joan Didion You walk outside and the harsh sunlight makes you squint. The cab is not a car but a van: one of those family transport vehicles you’re sure most of your friends have now. The driver asks your name. You tell her. “That’s all you had to say, honey. Get in.” The van smells of families, stinks of the pungent, sickly odor of kids before puberty. You get in and realize that you never want kids; the odds are they would also be sick with this thing. You tell the driver your address and the family taxi van pulls away from the curb. It is still way too bright, and now there are too many cars, too many people on the sidewalks, too much air to choke on, too much… too many… too much… “It was a long time before I began thinking mechanistically enough to accept migraine for what it was: something with which I’d be living, the way some people live with diabetes.” —Joan Didion The good days are good days because I can live with it (whatever form “it” takes). I can sit with it, have whole conversations with it. I can live with the looping, repetitive dark thoughts that creep in and even joke about them, about the depression, strange and funny. As a cynic, I have a dark sense of humor: It’s how I cope on the good days, the days when the illusion of well-being and being in control is most prominent. People sometimes ask me about it; I am happy to tell them. I can see, not long into the conversation that they’re getting uncomfortable, their faces showing a mixture of pity and fear for me. I may be too comfortable with it. But it’s still a good day.

The bad days leave me in tears. I can’t move without pain; I don’t want to anyway. I can’t enjoy myself. The things that brought me joy and the people I loved yesterday are now gray imitations of a former life and everyone thinks I’m full of shit. They probably don’t, but that’s how I’m translating the world right now. I am angry and I isolate myself. Alone, I can finally see how sick I am. I don’t want to need help. I don’t want to burden the people whom I have alienated; what would they care, anyway? Everything is different now. I don’t even know how things were. I cultivate a familiarity with the unrecognizable, the unknowable, barely existing in an indescribable terror. “All of us who have migraine suffer not only from the attacks themselves but from this common conviction that we are perversely refusing to cure ourselves by taking a couple of aspirin, that we are making ourselves sick, that we ‘bring it on ourselves.’” —Joan Didion Walking up the steps to the house that your apartment is in is difficult. Your feet are heavy, too heavy to lift. Feeling for the edges of everything you make it through, somehow. Opening the door, you walk into your apartment for the first time in three days. Breathing in, you feel your heart pumping at a pace that seems way too fast. The air holds in it the foreign essence of a strange place. Everything is where you left it: bed (unmade), dusty desk and nightstand, the computer, silent and eager for you to start it up again. This is where you live; this is not where you live; this is where you will live. Everything should have melted; it’s easier to start new that way. What not long ago was your refuge is now cold, unmoved by your return and quiet. It’s the quiet that always gets you; it’s the quiet that taunts you the most. There is no new; you have to pick up where the former person who lived here left off. You must assume a life in progress with all of its expectations, all of its pressures and all of its faces convinced that they know you and what you need. If you’d only get out more, eat better, power through, exercise more, do something you enjoy, something that makes you happy, meditate, be mindful. If only you’d try to try harder. “It comes instead when I am f ighting not an open but a guerilla war with my own life…” —Joan Didion

I don’t start pacing until the second day in. The common area to the discussion room for group therapy to the hallway with our rooms to the discussion room for group therapy to the common area. And back again, and back again. It’s not so much that we’re bored (though we are) but that we’re fighting from within ourselves. For some it’s a lost cause and some have already lost their hope, not realizing it, but we can no longer stay still. Full of potential energy with no outlet, we are caged animals at the zoo confined to too small a space. And back again, and back again. On occasion one of us stops and cries: the realization that, for some, this is just a storehouse where we are kept until they can figure out what to do with us. I walk right up to the door at the end of my pacing route. There is a sign on it that reads in big, bold letters: “SECURE DOOR. FLIGHT RISK.” It’s at the halfway point; I turn around and go back. I think every time I pass the sign: Am I a “flight risk”? Do I pose a danger to the world outside? Should I remain locked away for the safety and security of others… and myself ? I resent being put on a shelf away from the rest of the world. I don’t think I’m a threat. I would, however, run the first chance I got. I would run; I would run so far away and as fast as I could. I want to outrun that door, the one that closes so quickly, and so finally. Locked and secured, I now know that I am definitely a “flight risk,” and will always be. 1

THE COMPLETELY UNABRIDGED FAIRYTALE ADVENTURES OF OLLIE BY EMILY BUTLER-PROBST

nce upon a time, there was a young couple who desperately wanted a child of their own. They tried everything. They sought various strange remedies, including eating random plants from the garden of an Evil Witch next door, and yet still nothing worked. One day, miraculously, the woman gave birth to a beautiful baby girl and she was named “Ollie.” When Ollie was only a few days old, her parents took her to the home of the Wise Wizard of the Forest so that she could receive her blessing. The Wise Wizard of the Forest saw every young child and he anointed each of them with various potions designed to help them achieve their destiny in life. If that child was supposed to grow up to be a Prince Charming, he gave the baby a fair dose of courage and strength. If the child was to become an Evil Witch, the Wizard gave her servings of cleverness, vileness and other useful witch traits. When Ollie’s parents came to the Wizard’s house, they set Ollie down gently on the Wizard’s operating table and the Wizard set to creating the perfect combination of potions to aid Ollie in achieving her life goals. As Ollie lay there smiling on the operating table, a most tragic event happened. The shelf that was directly above Ollie snapped in half and dozens of potions fell on the young child. Ollie was saturated in bravery, cleverness, goodness, and a host of other traits that the wizard had forgotten to label. Some of these traits even conflicted with one another to a certain extent. Because of this unfortunate accident, the Wizard had no idea which talents Ollie had been given or which role she would be suited for. When it came to determining Ollie’s fate, two directions stretched out toward her: she could be a Princess who charms the world with her virtue and beauty or she could be an ugly Evil Witch who uses her cleverness to achieve vengeance on the world. The Wizard told Ollie’s parents to wait, telling them that Ollie’s true identity would present itself in time. As Ollie grew, there were times when it seemed to her parents she would be the perfect princess. She was virtuous and kind to the people around her. She would dress in beautiful dresses and dance softly under the moonlight. But, there were other times when her parents were less sure about where Ollie should go because she would do things that were very unprincess-like and almost “witchey.” Ollie loved to stay up into the darkest and most ominous hours of the night. She never brushed her jetblack hair, so it quickly became gnarled and ratty, and she would often forget to bathe because she was fonder of sleep than cleanliness. Ollie was also extremely clever; she loved to read and analyze the world around her. These traits worried Ollie’s parents because they seemed to place Ollie strongly in the “Evil Witch” category.

On Ollie’s eighth birthday, the time came for her parents to choose which school she should attend: Evil Witch School or Princess School. This may seem like a new concept to have in a fairytale, but the truth is it takes a considerable amount of training before a character becomes fairytale material. Little Red Riding Hood had to learn to be more careless before she was ready for her own story. Rapunzel needed weightlifting classes to help her with pulling people into her tower, and Goldilocks honestly preferred her porridge in the pot nine days old and needed to learn to employ a more discriminating taste to her assessment of porridge. Ollie’s parents thought that their daughter was more suited for Princess School, but when they looked at Ollie’s oily hair and bent nose, they realized that their daughter was in no condition to go to Princess School. They took Ollie to Alondra, her fairy godmother, who was able to straighten Ollie’s nose, fix her hair and put her in one of the most beautiful dresses imaginable. Ollie was finally ready for school. Ollie was dropped off at Princess School where she was introduced to the Principal Rella. After Ollie shared her name, she noticed a slight twinge of sadness cross over the principal’s face. “I’m sorry, sweetheart, but the name ‘Ollie’ simply won’t work for a Princess at this school. You will need to change it to something else that is fancier and gentler. From now on, we’ll call you ‘Olivia Persephone IX’ and you should fit in perfectly!” Principal Rella finished this statement with a warm smile and Ollie was dismissed to begin her education. Ollie didn’t like her new name at all. It felt floofy and fancy and extravagant to her, and she wanted people to call her “Ollie” as a nickname. But the other students at the school didn’t seem to believe in nicknames because

she was called “Olivia Persephone IX” by pretty much everyone, except for the narrator of this story, who faithfully continued to call her “Ollie.” Ollie started taking her classes almost immediately. She was amazing at her “Sleeping Enchantment” class, in which she slept peacefully through the entire class no matter who was watching her. She was also very good at her “Ethical Behaviors” class, in which she recognized good and evil and helped out people who were hurt or lonely with their difficulties. There were other classes that Ollie took in which she did terribly. She took the “Dressing to Win His Heart” class and found that she had no sense of style and didn’t know how to do her hair nicely, usually shoving her hair into a ponytail so that it would stay as far out of her way as possible. She also failed the “Watching Your Prince Defeat Evil” class because she couldn’t just sit around without trying to assist her Prince in some way. She had to get involved in fighting, which not only ruined her grade for that course, but also made her appearance even worse for other classes. Ollie’s worst failure came in history class. The teacher presented the story of “Puss in Boots” and explained how the courageous Puss was able to defeat the vile, horrible ogre through trickery, and gain vast land holdings for his human companion. Ollie thought about this history for a while and eventually reached the conclusion that it was not a complete account of what had taken place, and it was also somewhat biased. Ollie cleared her throat, raised her hand, and spoke in the most adult voice that she could come up with: “Excuse me, but I don’t think what you are saying is the whole story here. The Grimm history book mentions that the ogre was ugly and he owned a lot of land, but it never says

he is evil. Are we supposed to assume he is evil just because he is hideous? We can’t know that for sure. Maybe the ogre was a nice guy and Puss in Boots came in, killed him, and took his stuff. How can we praise this story when we don’t know for sure if the ogre was good or evil?” Ollie did not get a very warm reception from the rest of the class when it came to her skeptical view of established history, and she was sent to Principal Rella’s office. When Ollie entered, Principal Rella tried to present a kind but disciplined exterior. “I have been looking at your grades over the semester and it seems like you have been having a difficult time in some of these classes. I would like to say you could restore your average with a little more practice and work, but the fact is that most of these abilities are ascribed by potions at a very young age. I don’t think you will ever have the proficiency needed to graduate. So, I’m afraid I will have to dismiss you immediately. You might have a better time at the Evil Witch School.” Ollie didn’t want to fail, but she was tired of having to pretend to be someone other than herself in order to achieve the limited success she had found. Some of the classes were quite easy and fun, but the others seemed completely pointless to her, and this assessment probably wouldn’t change. Ollie nodded her head grimly and left the Princess School behind forever. Ollie knew she only had one more school she could attend: the Evil Witch School. In order to properly prepare herself for attending this school Ollie returned to Alondra, who helped Ollie regain her crooked nose and gnarled hair so that she would look more like a witch. Alondra even gave Ollie some additional witchey traits, including a full set of rotten teeth and a cackling sound in her currently soft voice.

Ollie also put on a tattered gray gown so that she looked as much like a witch as she possibly could. When she arrived at the school, she was taken to see Headmaster Hulga the Ornery, who welcomed her to Evil Witch School. Ollie again shared her name and Headmaster Hulga shook her head. “‘Ollie’ simply will not work here; it isn’t evil enough. From now on, we’ll call you ‘Olglia the Despicable.’” Ollie accepted her new name in silence. Ollie did quite well in some of the classes that she took at this school as well. She did a wonderful job in her “Unmasking the Secrets of Existence” class because she was allowed to explore mysteries of the past, no matter where they took her. She also did splendidly in her “Masquerade” class because she was really good at pretending to be a sweet old lady, almost as if it came naturally to her. Ollie decided not to tell them she wasn’t really pretending and she was simply being her own sweet self. Ollie had a lot of trouble with the food that they served at this school. She picked at the greenish, gooey blob that sat in the middle of her plate. It tasted salty and runny and gross. As Ollie mulled over her plate, Headmaster Hulga came up to her and asked why she wasn’t eating her delicious “eye of newt.” Ollie was pretty disgusted with her food before and now that she knew she was eating newt eyeballs, she couldn’t stand to have that food anywhere near her. Ollie pushed her plate away and the eyeball fell to the ground with a sickening slurping sound. After this, it became more and more difficult to eat any of the food. The hardest part of the Evil Witch School for Ollie was the actual “evil” part. She was good at looking evil, but she wasn’t really evil inside. As a result, she completely failed her “Being Evil” class.

She was given different scenarios to which she had to respond in an evil way and she simply could not respond in the way that was expected of her. Some of the example scenarios included: “You discover two small children nibbling on your candy house. What do you do?” The correct answer involved imprisoning the children or maybe turning them into mantelpiece ornaments. Headmaster Hulga had heard some pretty wickedly creative ideas today from other students and she was expecting something equally vile when she spoke to Ollie. Instead, Ollie responded to Hulga by saying she would tell the kids that it is rude to eat other people’s houses, and then she would bring them home to their mother so that she could deal with them. Headmaster Hulga was shocked. She had never seen anyone fail this test so badly. So, she decided to try asking one more question: “You discover the secret to eternal youth and beauty, but you cannot unlock this secret unless you take the life of another, what would you do?” She expected Ollie to say she would sacrifice a rival or, even more wickedly, some young child, to achieve immortality. But Ollie’s response disappointed in every possible way: “I’m sorry, but immortality isn’t worth it. I can’t take someone else’s life just because I want to live longer.” Headmaster Hulga tried to reason with Ollie by reminding her that this was the key to eternal life and beauty, but any attempt to change Ollie’s mind proved useless. Ollie was resolute in her integrity. Headmaster Hulga groaned and then took a moment to collect herself before she spoke: “I think it should be clear to both of us that you don’t belong here. You don’t adhere to our most basic philosophical values and you never will. To be honest, I’m not entirely sure why you decided to come to

Evil Witch School when you clearly are not evil. You are expelled from this school.” As Ollie left the Evil Witch School behind her, she froze. She now had nowhere to go. Both schools had rejected her, and they were the only places that gave her a future and a fate. With nowhere else to go, Ollie marched into a deep, dark forest that loomed directly in front of her, hoping that there she might find purpose. One of the primary reasons why deep, dark forests are advertised as ominous, dangerous, and evil is because cosmic forces don’t want individuals wandering around in these forests and discovering hidden secrets that are supposed to stay hidden. In this case, there actually was something hidden in the forest, something that Ollie was about to discover. Wandering deeper and deeper into the forest, Ollie began to have the distinct feeling that someone was watching her. She turned around quickly and her face met the face of a boy who was roughly her age. Ollie wasn’t entirely sure what the appropriate action should be when encountering a stranger in the forest, but she decided that the best thing to do would be to introduce herself. Because she had been expelled from the Princess School and the Evil Witch School, she didn’t feel comfortable introducing herself as “Olivia Persephone IX” or “Olglia the Despicable” and so she decided to use her normal, everyday name. “Hello, my name is Ollie.” “Hi,” the boy responded. “My name is Percival. At least I’d prefer to be Percival. The school I was expelled from wanted me to be Percy.” Ollie was surprised to discover someone who was in a similar situation to hers and so she investigated this matter further. “Why were you kicked out of school?” she asked. “I was attending Trickster School and I couldn’t

lie. I’m a pathological truth-teller, actually. I couldn’t lie or even bend the truth if I wanted to, so it was difficult to trick people. That, plus I really enjoy knitting things and this skill is not entirely useful at Trickster School.” Ollie nodded and continued talking to the strange boy she had met in the forest. As Ollie asked Percival about his current lifestyle, she learned that Percival and others like him couldn’t graduate from their trade school and were all living in the forest. Whenever a fairytale needed to have a minor, forgettable character to fill a void in the story, one of these characters was summoned and exploited. Percival listed a number of roles including a two-second job as a villager standing next to Little Red Riding Hood’s house as she set out to visit her grandmother. He had also played the role of the nondescript person who sold straw, sticks, and bricks to the Three Little Pigs. These individuals filled the interchangeable roles that the reader never knew or cared about, and Ollie was informed that this would be her fate as well. Ollie hated the thought of being ignored; she liked it when people appreciated her, as they most likely would have if she had been a princess. She also didn’t mind being hated, a fate she would have embraced by being an Evil Witch. But the idea of being ignored entirely by the reader, without significance, until her life faded into the nothingness faced by fictional characters filled Ollie with deep sorrow. Ollie said farewell to Percival and then marched into an isolated part of the forest to collect her thoughts. Ollie couldn’t live in a world where she was ignored and invisible, but she knew she couldn’t return to those schools either. She wanted to be some place where she could be “Ollie,” unaltered and original without feeling like she needed to apologize or alter herself. Sitting there in the forest alone, Ollie had a brilliant idea. She found an old piece of paper and a pen and began to write. She wrote the story that I just told to you, of her birth, her challenges in school – everything. But when she reached this part of the story, Ollie kept writing. Ollie wrote about how she eventually started her own school, where all the misfits could come to write their own stories without needing to turn themselves into something they weren’t. The amazing and magical part of this story is the fact that Ollie’s story came true. Ollie’s school in the forest became a successful destination for anyone who couldn’t fit into the limited roles that the fairytale universe made for them. And they all lived happily ever after (for the most part). 1

CLOSET BY BOBBY OCTAVIANO

ach open and close of the closet echoed its squeaky cry of deep sadness. The doe-eyed toddler was locked inside whenever his mother pleased with only biscuits to tide his hunger. All the other rooms in the house were grand and enormous. They held such beautiful and important things. The dining room boasted of fine meals and wonderful conversations. The kitchen bragged that it kept the manor nourished and strong. The library held countless editions of fine literature and scientific essays. The lowly closet was a fraction of the size of the other rooms in the house. It held only surplus coats and clothes along with the poorest and saddest member of the household. On this day, the mistress of the manor locked in the boy. The closet could remain silent no longer. The closet asked of her, “My Lady, I know that I am the smallest of the rooms here. I don’t wish to feign more importance than I’m due. Have you a better use for me than to sadden this young boy?” Surprised and delighted, the mistress replied, “Keep close watch upon him within your walls, and listen close to what happens throughout. I pray you see more than had you before.” Following her request, the closet listened and heard all manner of yelling and arguing. Doors slammed and cursing filled the manor. A short time passed and calm returned to the air. The mistress returned and spoke again to the closet. “You offer the only refuge my dearest little one has. His father hates his unordinary manner. Within your walls he is free to play and dress however he pleases. You hold a great many costumes, and within your embrace he feels safe. However small and insignificant you think you are, you are an oasis to my Colin.” 1

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03-20-16

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