Thoroughfare Spring 2010 by Thoroughfare Magazine

thoroughfare spring 2010

thoroughfare was the combined efforts of / leah liberman / ann wang / gabrielle barr / jerusha barton / melanie love / alexis von kunes newton / alexa kwiatkoski / kathryn alsman / kristen calogero / laurin wolf / emily cortright / kelsey miller / sharon sun / hannah diamond / diem vu / alp yurter / daniela kusuke / shelby stewart / ramon lee / brianna pomeroy / jonathan ho / veronica jordan-davis / rachel ayers / barbara lam / sheerin habibullah / jasmine torres / brittany leung / cinthya garcia / sebastian salas-vega / roberto tron / yelena tsilker / sevdalina sabeva / nadia shobnam / kiersten dockeney / shayna abramson / ann wang / katherine visconti / zoe rammelkamp / diem vu / michael tucci / hannah moulden / austin tally / curry chern / jean fan / ann wang / gabrielle barr / leah liberman / jerusha barton / melanie love / alexis von kunes newton / alexa kwiatkoski / kathryn alsman / kristen calogero / laurin wolf / emily cortright / kelsey miller / sharon sun / hannah diamond / alp yurter / daniela kusuke / shelby stewart / ramon lee / brianna pomeroy / jonathan ho / veronica jordan-davis / rachel ayers / barbara lam / sheerin habibullah / jasmine torres / diem vu / cinthya garcia / sebastian salas-vega / roberto tron / yelena tsilker / leah liberman / sevdalina sabeva / nadia shobnam / kiersten dockeney / curry chern / diem vu / shayna abramson / katherine visconti / zoe rammelkamp / michael tucci / hannah moulden / austin tally / ann wang / curry chern / jean fan / brittany leung / leah liberman / jerusha barton / ann wang / melanie love / gabrielle barr / alexis von kunes newton / alexa kwiatkoski / kathryn alsman / kristen calogero / laurin wolf / jean fan / shelby stewart / emily cortright / kelsey miller / sharon sun / hannah diamond / alp yurter / daniela kusuke / michael tucci / ramon lee / brianna pomeroy / jonathan ho / roberto tron / veronica jordan-davis / rachel ayers / barbara lam / sheerin habibullah / jasmine torres / brittany leung / cinthya garcia / sebastian salas-vega / yelena tsilker / sevdalina sabeva / nadia shobnam / kiersten dockeney / shayna abramson / katherine visconti / zoe rammelkamp / diem vu / hannah moulden / austin tally / curry chern / jean fan / leah liberman / jerusha barton / ann wang / melanie love / gabrielle barr / alexis von kunes newton / alexa kwiatkoski / kathryn alsman / kristen calogero / ramon lee / laurin wolf / shelby stewart / emily cortright / kelsey miller / leah liberman / sharon sun / hannah diamond / jean fan / alp yurter / daniela kusuke / michael tucci / diem vu / ramon lee / brianna pomeroy / ann wang / jonathan ho / roberto tron / veronica jordan-davis / rachel ayers / barbara lam / sheerin habibullah / jasmine torres / brittany leung / cinthya garcia / sebastian salas-vega / yelena tsilker / sevdalina sabeva / nadia shobnam / kiersten dockeney / shayna abramson / leah liberman / katherine visconti / zoe rammelkamp / jerusha barton / diem vu / alexa kwiatkoski / alp yurter / hannah moulden / austin tally / curry chern / jean fan /

thoroughfare Thoroughfare is a multimedia literature and arts magazine catering to the diverse creative pursuits at Johns Hopkins. Published once a semester on CDs and online, Thoroughfare showcases the best of student fiction and poetry, as well as music, film, art, and audio recordings of readings.

How To Get Published in Thoroughfare

1. Paint a picture. Write a story. Compose a musical piece. Take a photo. Create a work of art.

2. Submit your artwork to thoroughfare.mag@gmail.com as Windows-readable (.doc, .docx, .jpg, .mp3, etc) attachments.

3. We review your submission(s) with a committee of specialized and dedicated staff members.

4. If we like your submission(s), your work will be published on the CD and online version of Thoroughfare Magazine.

Staff Editor-in-Chief Poetry Committee Prose Committee Art Committee Film/Music Committee Web Committee Layout Committee

Leah Liberman Gabrielle Barr (editor) Kathryn Alsman Emily Cortright Hannah Diamond Alexa Kwiatkoski Kelsey Miller Ann Wang Laurin Wolf Jerusha Barton (editor) Kristen Calogero Melanie Love Alexis von Kunes Newton Shelby Stewart Sharon Sun Jean Fan (editor) Curry Chern Leah Liberman Veronica Jordan-Davis Curry Chern Jean Fan Curry Chern Jean Fan Curry Chern

Executive Board President Co-Vice Presidents Secretary Treasurer Publicity Chair Webmasters

Leah Liberman Yelena Tsilker Veronica Jordan-Davis Ann Wang Melanie Love Gabrielle Barr Jean Fan Cover design by Jean Fan Stock photo silk stock. by Kalea Molloy Curry Chern

Table of Contents

Osmosis by Jean Fan

Untitled by Sheerin Habibullah

For G.M. by Austin Tally

Numbers by Shayna Abramson

Nancy Sitting by Jasmine Torres

Snuffbox with Figures in Landscape: Swiss, Geneva c. 1800. c. 2009 by Shayna Abramson

Tag Politics by Barbara Lam

Light Study by Jean Fan

Bee and Pollen by Roberto Tron

Walk From Bloomberg by Nadia Shobnam

Cast Off by Barbara Lam

An Acquaintance with Letters by Barbara Lam

Stray Hair by Zoe Rammelkamp

Terminator by Alp Yurter

The Heights by Ramon Lee

Colossus by Alp Yurter

Equilibrium by Daniela Kusuke

The Un-driven Jaguar by Barbara Lam

City by Daniela Kusuke

In Gingko Shade by Diem Vu

Reprise, A Beautiful Collision, The Lark Ascending, In the End by Ramon Lee

Pine Universe by Sevdalina Sabeva

Rescue is Coming by Ramon Lee

Freedom by Brittany Leung

Pipes, Valve by Jonathan Ho

Fever by Shayna Abramson

Dated Wheel by Sebastian Salas-Vega, The Rule of Life by Cinthya Garcia

All That Glitters is Gold by Jean Fan

Sunburst Lilies, Lilies by Rachel Ayers

Untitled I, Untitled II by Michael Tucci

Summer Romance by Hannah Moulden

The Bend by Kiersten Dockeney

Gulls at Sunset II by Nadia Shobnam

A Tale of Two Cities by Jean Fan

To India and Back by Katherine Visconti

Post-Coitus by Shayna Abramson

LionFish by Jean Fan

Batman by Alp Yurter

Joker by Alp Yurter

Teknaf by Nadia Shobnam

Untitled by Brianna Pomeroy

Buggy by Daniela Kusuke

External Music (click to listen)

Deja Vu by Charles Zogby

Checksum Invalid by Charles Zogby

Transformers by The Mental Notes

One More Minute by The Mental Notes

External Films (click to watch)

Project X by Daniel Schwartz

Osmosis by Jean Fan Photography

For G.M. by Austin Tally Poetry

One summer afternoon, in brilliant heat, a worker asked you for the time. You said, “When the sun sets, then you stop working,” and walked away. You’re from some older age, when pain was gain, and slaving to the sun with aching backs built character. Your face is rough and turned to leather – you don’t sweat anymore. Creases – furrows – on your brow are deep and neat like rows you scuffle-hoed in berry fields. And when the burn-pile caught the breeze, and showered embers on the farm, you watched your peaches burn. Yet laughter’s worn it’s lines about your face – you smile as if you know the punch line to some perfect joke. You’re fair and strict, respected out of awe, you’re hated sometimes, never understood completely, though the workers all have tried.

Instead they just tell stories – how you’d catch a nest of rabbits and drown them in a bucket, or how you built the barn yourself, by hand, or how you’d shoot a crow and nail it, splayed like Jesus, to a fence-post by the apples. You don’t deny, and each day hint at more – one afternoon you said you ballroom-danced, then turned away to pick another peach. The workers do not know how old you are; the wind and sun have made it hard to tell. But you’ll go smiling, out into the rain, and walk the rows alone. The workers come and go like seasons; still, at eight o’clock each morning you will lace your boots and stand before the open doorway of the barn and look out at the fields. Your only love is growth, small lives uncoiling at your hands. Your fields are full; it seems your sun can’t set.

Numbers by Shayna Abramson

Poetry

You tell me I lost weight, and smile that special smile: Now I can get married, grow round with the bulge of children, soft as the moon with loveâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s glow. Donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t you understand? Your words turn the cookies in my hands to poison, the meat in my mouth to mud, the salad to sand, the bread to bugs Why can you not tell me that my beauty does not depend on a number on a scale, three digits leering at me from below like you leer now, expectantly. What are you waiting for?

Nancy Sitting by Jasmine Torres Traditional Art

Tag Politics by Barbara Lam Prose

As the reigning royalty of Kindergarten, Jennifer was captain of the girl’s tag team, and Nicholas was captain of the boy’s tag team. She had fallen into the position of queen by luck and lack of rivalry. He had seduced his way to the top, with his short black hair, spiked with the help of Mom and L’Oreal hair gel, and the cocky grin he wore when he climbed to the top of the jungle gym faster than everyone else. Girls were forever the rivals of boys, and both teams were at a standstill a few months into school. One day, Nicholas approached Jennifer and her team of girls, hands up in a display of defeat. “Hey Jennifer,” he said, approaching cautiously. The girls advanced towards him. “Whoa, whoa. I’m not going to tag you guys.” Jennifer held up a palm, indicating that the girls stand down. “What do you want?” Jennifer said, hands on her hip, one hip thrown carelessly out to the side. “I decided to join the girl’s team,” he said. Jennifer eyed him suspiciously. “Why?” “Because I like you,” he said. There were gasps and twitters from the small crowd of girls that were beginning to press closer to Jennifer, whose breath had stopped. Nicholas liked her? Perhaps she was rightfully queen after all. “Okay,” she said breathily. She walked up to his side and took his hand in hers. Together, they walked out into their kingdom, proudly leading the girl’s team. “I’ll help you get the boys,” Nicholas said, turning to smile at her. “Over there.” He let go of her hand and pointed to the kickball field. “Come on!” Jennifer motioned to the girls and they began to run to the kickball field, invigorated with the anticipation of success. But there were no boys on the field, instead, they swarmed out from behind the tires and the see-saws and the swings, flanking the girls, tagging them left and right as they struggled to scamper away. Jennifer darted off the field, in hot pursuit by two boys, and as she ran across the playground, she could see Nicholas laughing.

Bee and Pollen by Roberto Tron

Photography

Cast Off by Barbara Lam

Photography

I am too stubborn, And will not allow my index finger To touch a strangerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s abandoned strand of hair. If you fell from my scalp, Long, brown, and thick, Making curly-cue squiggles, I would pin you down With the pad of my finger, And drag you away from the drain Like how I would drag a greedy boy Away from the window of a chocolate shop. I would dangle you over the trashcan, Shake you loose from my finger, And watch you fall into the bin.

Stray Hair by Zoe Rammelkamp Poetry

I see you in the public sinks, But you do not belong there. I attack you with water, I splash you from below, But you cling to the dirty, white basin Like a little boy Clings to the doorknob Of the toy store he doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t want to leave. You challenge me to touch you With my bare index finger, And slide you up The curved center of the basin, You, wet with water, And sticking to the edge With unexpected strength.

You will always win: You either stay rooted to the sink, Because I am too disgusted to touch you, Or you slide away, Taking a ride down the drain, Knowing that you succeeded in your mission Of repulsing another girl.

But you are a stranger. You make deformed circles, Shaped like lima beans And figure nines In the place where girls clean Their hands, their faces, their dishes, And spit out the foam from their toothpaste. The skin of my fingers cannot touch you. I want you gone, Gone like a bad date. I clog the drain To rid the sink of you. But you do not want to join Your brother and sister hairs In the dark, cave-like pipes. You ignore the growling girl, And hold on even tighter To the white basin. In the end, I surrender.

itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s an urban jungle out there 12

The Heights by Ramon Lee

Photography

Equilibrium by Daniela Kusuke

Photography

City by Daniela Kusuke Photography

(from top-left clockwise) Reprise A Beautiful Collision The Lark Ascending In the End by Ramon Lee Photography

Rescue is Coming by Ramon Lee

Photography

Pipes by Jonathan Ho Photography

Valve by Jonathan Ho Photography

Dated Wheel by Sebastian Salas-Vega Photography

The Rule of Life by Cinthya Garcia Photography

Untitled I (top) Untitled II (bottom) by Michael Tucci

Photography

The Bend by Kiersten Dockeney

Photography

A Tale of Two Cities by Jean Fan Photography

to india and back by Katherine Visconti Prose

September 27th, 2007 “So what brings you to India?” asks the Suit next to me on flight 133 to Delhi. I could be honest and say, “I want to try being a better person than I actually am,” or “I’m worried I’ll end up like you.” But I leave it at fact. “I am going to work in an AIDS’ orphanage.” I avoid his eyes and face the fluffy clouds. From my aerial porthole Delhi seems well contained. Streets spread across the city in neat triangles and hexagons like the stencils of spider-webs and bursting suns that I traced as a child. It’s on the ground that every semblance of order gives itself up. Those tidy lines turn into the shaky scribbles of streets with dirt braking through the cracked pavement, men shouting me towards auto rickshaws and a cow,

horned and arrogant, swaggering through. The red nylon pack on my back stands out against the cloth saris- a large sign declaring, I am a foreigner. I get jostled between cloaked bodies, emitting punched syllables. In the din, a hand slips up around my arm. A mess of white beard with black hairs crawling underneath it croaks, “You look lost, miss. Come with me.” I jerk my arm away. No one stops. I’m pressing into the crowd to be carried away. My backpack catches and I feel him squeeze in close against my hip. “Come with me,” he repeats. “I lead you to the prepay taxi booth.” “Stop.” The shout comes from a small black head by my waist. “She’s with me. Phir milenge man.” A brown heart-shaped face meets mine. Long eyelashes curl out more delicate than the rounded wings of a butterfly and when he bats them I see that his eyes are the red-black color of lit coal. I break my stare and the old man is already gone. The little boy begins to glide away with the crowd. “Wait,” I yell after him. The next moment he’s back in front of me with his hot, wild eyes locked on my lightbrown ones. “Dhanyavad,” I stutter out like someone learning to speak. “Nothing Ma’am.” “Do you know where the prepay taxis are?” In perfect English he says, “The taxis are a scam. They’ll take you for all you’re worth. It’s better to take the auto-rickshaw. If you want, I

can show you a good one.” “That’d be great. Dhanyavad.” He’s already jumping ahead and calls over his shoulder, “Follow me.” He keeps a two foot space between us; the distance is comforting. Behind him, I weave easily through the crowd. The big red backpack doesn’t hold me up. “Here,” he says pointing to a little vehicle painted with friendly yellow, red and blue shapes. “Put your bag on the back seat and sit upfront by the driver.” I follow his directions and tell him to wait. Hunching away from the driver, I reach awkwardly under my shirt. My fingers pick out some of the pink rupee notes in the moneybelt around my waist and I wheedle the zipper closed again. I turn around but he’s not there. I scan the crowd. There’s a cow, a produce stand, and a red backpack bobbing away with little legs springing under it. “Wait,” I scream sprinting after him. He’s so far ahead he can afford to look back. The black eyes flash over his shoulder. Vendors and taxis and women in bright saffron shawls all let him slip through as I slam past. I know I can’t catch him but I keep running. This is my first day in Delhi. September 28th, 2007 I thought Hope House would be yellow. In many places, where the calamine pink paint has chipped away, it is. But In most places it is the dirt stained color of exposed wood. Intricate carvings over the doorways must have made the building look elegant once but there

are big pieces missing now. If I have to explain to the children why it is the way it is I will say that a monster jumped out of a dream and began nibbling away at the building. He wouldn’t stop so the sisters cooked him delicious paratha, dal, tandoori chicken and palak paneer. The monster realized he liked human food far more than wood and stone and never ate another house again. But I doubt there will be questions. This building is all they know. Sister Shanti welcomes me through the cracked archway with a light head nod and serene smile. “Namaste. I’m Sister Shanti. What may I call you?” “Oh, ah Vivi will work. Namaste. I’m so sorry I’m late.” “There is no need to worry. We are happy you’re here.” “Thank you. I’m so sorry. I got stuck at the police station. My bag was stolen and I went to report it. But it was a complete waste of time. I tried to leave them this address in case it was returned. And they laughed at me. I guess nothing’s ever returned, right? Sorry to go on and on. It doesn’t even matter.” “Some believe in reincarnation. That way what’s important is never lost.” “Maybe Buddha was robbed a lot.” She smiles, “Come. I will give you robes like these,” and points to her own white dress. “And introduce you to the home of hope.” She doesn’t waste any time and bounces up the narrow stairs. She’s shorter than me and her hair is ebony and white like the back of an oyster shell but somehow I’m the one panting when we reach the third floor. There must

be thirty cots lined down the long turquoise room. At the last bed, someone is kneeling. The little body scrambles up, sliding its hands out from under the corner of the bed and runs to meet us. The boy is no taller than my waist. His irises are as dark as his pupils. And the clothes are exactly the same as yesterday. Onyx eyes gleam with my tiny white reflection. He stands in front of us straight as a toy soldier reporting for duty. “Beta, what were you doing on your knees?” asks Sister Shanti. Shifting his hands behind his back he says, “I’m trying a new way of praying, Sister Shanti.” “Of course,” she says. “We missed you at dinner.” Ravi’s eyes glow, “I missed you too Sister Shanti. It was a good day so I stayed late to make more. Look what I have for you.” He holds out both his hands and offers her a stack of blue, orange and purple bills. “Ravi beta, aapakaa bahut bahut dhanyavaad” She turns to me and explains, “Ravi is one of our best collectors. He always comes back with the biggest donations, isn’t that right Ravi beta?” “Yes ma’am.” “Ravi, I want you to meet a new friend. This is Vivi.” “Miss Vivi,” he says sweetly, “Nice to meet you.” “Namaste, Ravi,” I return. Sister Shanti pats him away saying, “Go play already.” He darts past us. She walks to the one closet in the room

and relates, “That one’s like a cat. He disappears but he always comes back. So private too.” “I actually met him yesterday at the station.” “Oh yes? That’s one of the places he makes his collection rounds.” “I feel uncomfortable saying this but I think I saw him stealing there.” She passes me a white alb. “There are many little boys there. Are you sure it was him?” “Yes, we talked and he stole my bag.” “Please take this, Vivi.” She offers up the colorful stack of rupees with both hands. “I want the House to have that. I just wanted to let you know.” Sister Shanti’s hands are still out as she says, “Please understand he’s not a bad boy. A hospital sent him to us three years ago. The doctor said some bad men may have passed him around.” “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything. Please keep that donation for the house.” Her hands finally drop down. “You have nothing to apologize for,” says Sister Shanti, “I needed to know. He will be made to stay in and do house work until he can behave.” Nothing is the way I expected, including me. November 12th, 2007 Maybe writing out what happened will force me to process it. I’m on bedtime duty. Someone shrieks.

Terrors in the night are common. It’s a single shriek. Then silence. Hopefully he didn’t wake the others. Moonlight from the only window at the end of the room illuminates the room. I tiptoe down the long room towards the silver light. I inspect one cot after another. One boy after another is asleep. I get to the last one. It’s Ravi. He’s shaking. His face is pushed into the pillow. I turn him over easily, lift him and press him to my chest. Back and fourth I rock him until he stops crying. His closed eyes are peaceful like the other boys’. My robe is wet. In the moonlight, I see red on white. Blood drips down his chin. It looks like he bit himself in his sleep. His mouth is open slightly like it could take a bottle. But the tips of the teeth are capped in blood. When a child’s hurt we wear gloves. But I don’t have any open cuts and the robe is ruined so I begin to wipe his mouth with my sleeve. I start at the corner. His eyes blink open at the touch of my hand on his face. The moon forms perfect circles in the blacks of his eyes. In any other child the image would be chillingly beautiful. But in Ravi the moons seem to burn. White-hot eyes focus on mine. Lips tighten. A full set of milky teeth stained in blood clamp down on the side of my thumb. He’s breaking skin. I pitch him back. His head thuds against the hard cot. I’m standing over him and yelling. “No. You asshole. No. You’re not human. You’re not a person. No. No person would. No. I hate you. How the fuck? No. No, no, no.” He glares up at me. For once the whites of his eyes are red too. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was afraid. But I don’t care. All I can think about is me. I run to the sink. The water

pooling around the drain has a pink tinge. May 1st, 2008 I am not the same person leaving that I was coming. Now I live as if in a house burning in flames. Where orange Fire writhes and twists her beautiful body. Her wild steps fling across the floor and she throws her arms up around the frames of doors and windows and vents. She’s curling in her fingers, an invitation to come closer. And her perfume, the hot scent of wood engulfed in fire, excites me. I press in. My ear quivers at her crackle or maybe at the sound of the room splintering around me. She’s squeezing the wood till it can’t breathe and I see in the white of her knuckles there is no door out anymore. There are only two choicesrun or let her consume me. I see a third way. I live in the moment, in the house, in the flames licking their way around me. All the artifice I’ve walled myself in my entire life is burning. We all die. And when we do, we won’t be able to bring our self-righteousness volunteer work, expensive clothes and memories with us. There is no point to grasping past object and emotions, like the hatred I had for Ravi. I hated him. For months my body loathed Ravi till I realized our bodies were never certain. Tomorrow was never guaranteed. Tomorrow, with or without AIDS, I could be hit by a car or stabbed in a mugging. It’s not that the antiretrovirals have made me pessimistic or nihilistic. I am ecstatic. Now, people say, “Your eyes look like they’re burning.” They think they see the AIDS. I know

it is only the reflection of burning. Surrounded in fire, I finally experience what is and was always was around me. On the plane a mother with her daughter asks me, “Where are you going.” “I honestly don’t know. But I’m not worried. I’m enjoying the trip, you know?”

Post-Coitus by Shayna Abramson

Poetry

I wanted to write a poem that was not a love poem: It would whisper of white petals drooping like eyelids over grass, buzzing bees nipping nectar from dusty stamens, water-beads sliding down stalks like a bug, the periwinkle sky not of your eyelids as you watch football, or you blonde hair showering my thighs. I wanted to write a poem that was not a love poem: This is goodbye. So please uncurl your yellow petals from my bed â&#x20AC;&#x201C; and throw the rotten lilies you gave me for my birthday in the trash on your way out.

28 28

LionFish by Jean Fan

Photograpjy

Batman by Alp Yurter

Traditional Art

30 30

Joker by Alp Yurter Traditional Art

31 31

Teknaf by Nadia Shobnam Traditional Art

32 32

Untitled by Brianna Pomeroy

Traditional Art

33 33

Buggy by Daniela Kusuke Photography

Untitled by Sheerin Habibullah

Photography

snuffbox with figures in landscape by Shayna Abramson Poetry

Your father would have had this box:

You bleat silently against him, his hands stroking your black curls.

Mother folds her arms. Her collar-white-lace-ruffle folds itself around her breasts.

Sky deeper than the pool where I first touched your thighs. The green trees are still, shielding a house in the distance. Curls the color of mud frame family faces. The purple son strokes his lamb, while ewes silently bleat.

Beneath the crescents of your half-closed eyes, your moon no longer shines.

There is no father here, no monster to hold his little girl at night, when she cries from the shadows.

e: swiss, geneva c. 1800. c. 2009 4.

At night your back is striped with white lace, your breasts sepulchered by the dark.

The trees fade into green-brown ground.

Shadows melt into your hair as I shroud myself in your sheets.

Bouquets of golden flowers dot the box-sides like tears.

Sister, holding a fruit basket, tugs at her skirt, as if the white cloth would give way to white lamb.

Would your father snuff a snuff from this jeweled enamel?

“My lamb, my lamb” I murmur. I kiss your neck while holding the sacrificial knife in my palm.

I see his fingers pinching; he tilts your chin like a pimp. “Madame, Madame.” he says. You kiss him in a way you do not kiss me. In your pool, naked, our legs were white against blue. But that blue was not blue like this box: bluer than your tears.

Light Study by Jean Fan Photography

38 38

Walk From Bloomberg by Nadia Shobnam

Traditional Art

39 39

An Acquaintance with Letters by Barbara Lam Poetry

If you saw me reach into the looking glass to touch the Jabberwock, You would know that I murdered the firefly trying to catch it. If I bruise my knees praying to the Brothers Grimm, You would know that I dream in color. If you saw me draw my katar to fight by Sabriel at the Old Kingdom wall, You would know that I gladly suffer your hot cigar breath. If I am arrested for smuggling truffles to Winston, You would know that I read your letters with a dictionary. If you saw me rendezvous with Gilgamesh in the Netherwold, You would know that I taped the cookie’s fortune into my Moleskine. If I a return safely from my pilgrimage to Avalon, You would know that I had smelled the wood in rosin. If you saw me fall asleep with Santiago and his sheep, You would know that I have counted Jupiter’s moons. If I drop a pearl into my glass of rosé at Gatsby’s party, You would know that I walked first across the fresh Connecticut snow. If you saw me watch the sun rise with Scheherazade, You would know that I saw a butterfly flap its wings in Asia. And if you saw me bloody my fingers digging out of the Château d’lf, You would know that I take the long way home to see you.

Terminator by Alp Yurter

Traditional Art

Colossus by Alp Yurter Traditional Art

The Un-driven Jaguar by Barbara Lam Poetry

This lustrous, nubuck interior, mahogany trim, stainless steel details, winning design

star, bragging of her first commercial on cable TV. For Mr. Hart, high school guidance counselor Monday through Friday,

of the Jaguar XK series. Hidden 8 cylinder engine, un-driven beauty.

Lead singer for death metal band Unholy Hearse on Saturday. Let the engine be reliable,

Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve assumed a great many things: the audacity of life, roles I did or did not play.

but let the Jaguar remain un-driven, and stand for appearances still wrapped in plastic, and for

But let the record show that I was aware. O let the Un-driven Jaguar

the unknown. Let me have in my future Something to show for beautyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s sake,

stand! For the next door neighbor and his blooming weed business in the basement, himself, his best customer. For Zoe Daniella, local movie

here Burbank, CA, 7 Bel Air Drive.

In Gingko Shade by Diem Vu Poetry

Beneath a ginkgo’s xanthophyll Screen I lie surrounded by shifting Swevens and suspirations. The lushness of summer Hangs in the air like a curtain Beaded by fat balls of dew, Cut only by the sound of swallows swooping. The cloying smell of rotting gingko fruit Fills up my chest like cotton balls Enveloping my alveoli. But to get up and leave is fruitless. I lie still. My feet curl from the touch of Austral sun, The licking blades of grass. I watch a painted lady flutter, Beating around the bush. I wait for her to leave the rhododendrons

And come closer, for the opportunity To pluck her wings off, a delicious Celebration of schadenfreude. I wait. The clouds move slowly, Silent but certain Like the eruption of new teeth, And the metastasis of a cancer, Like the rotting of castles, And the climb of oceans, Like the interstellar collisions In the far black depths of space As someone incredibly small Sips a coffee, absorbed in the paper: Hollywood’s Top Ten MILFs. And all the while, beneath us,

Below the roots of the gingko, Ibn Sina’s strata of earth Are rising beneath our feet. But we are numb and Blind to the stars overhead, Their dying like quiet candles.

Pine Universe by Sevdalina Sabeva

Photography

Freedom by Brittany Leung Photography

You are your own best audience: “Sun lights up the day, moon lights up the night”. Your feet forgot to dance. They try to find their sweet beat: jazz. When you’re alive, your heat is bright, like fire, or stars who delight to share their light. I trace white lips with fingertips that greet your beard like birds the sun. I touch your cheek, beneath the leaves that sing like our delight. Fever by Shayna Abramson Poetry

The song restarts. Your feet, too proud to jump, have found their wings. Like skirts at balls, we fly. “You give me fever when you call my name.” Because your star will fade: a thud, a thump, then silence cold as corpses, will you hold my left hand? If only we could sing again. Quotes from Peggy Lee song “You Give Me Fever”, played at the Visionary Arts Museum.

All That Glitters is Gold by Jean Fan Photography

Sunburst Lilies (top) Lilies (bottom) by Rachel Ayers

Photography

Summer Romance by Hannah Moulden Poetry

If you saw soft dimples in the sand, you would hear the crunch of dead horseshoe crabs. And if I talked too fast as I kicked my feet in the frothy waves you would press your hand against my mouth. If handfuls of sand sifted between my fingers, you would know that the sun bleeds into the sea in July. If my hands slipped on the line, if the hook sunk too deep, you would braid your fingers in mine and bring the light back, untie the knots, tie new ones. Like a ship holding its sailor, you would block the salt wind and blanket me in your arms beneath a cloud-wisped sky. If you ran with me over crumbling speed bumps, and if you smelled the charcoal burning, if you saw stars come out, you would push me on the tire swing, a pendulum of rope and rubber. And if you saw the flaming glow of fireflies smeared on our shirts, if you heard the pop of the Nerf gun against bare back, you would find Jose Cuervo in the freezer and limes on the table. And we sit in the hum of the crickets, pools of sweat in our collarbones, our hands salt-crusted, dirt under our fingernails, waiting for morning. Gulls at Sunset II by Nadia Shobnam

Traditional Art