Thoroughfare Spring 2011 by Thoroughfare Magazine

Fall 2010 Edition a multimedia literature and fine arts magazine

NEW! featured series from

A Rainbow Medley of Squares by Jean Fan p52 Fantastical Creatures by Ava Yap p120

Thoroughfare Magazine

featured artists

ANGELA HU p24

featured section

STYLE NEEDS NO COLOR p93

THOROUGHFARE

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THOROUGHFARE MAGAZINE

SPRING 2011

Thoroughfare is a multimedia literature and fine arts magazine catering to the diverse creative pursuits at Johns Hopkins well as visual art, photography, music, film, and more. For more information about Thoroughfare and how you can get

University. Published once a semester on CDs and online, Thoroughfare showcases the best of student poetry and prose, as involved, check out our website at web1.johnshopkins.edu/thoroughfare/ or contact us at thoroughfare.mag@gmail.com

EXECUTIVE BOARD

--------------------------------------------President Alexis von Kunes Newton --------------------------------------------- Vice President Jean Fan --------------------------------------------Secretary Ann Wang --------------------------------------------- Treasurer Gabrielle Barr --------------------------------------------Publicity Chair Kathryn Alsman --------------------------------------------- Webmasters Curry Chern Jean Fan Rachel Louie

--------------------------------------------Interested in joining the Thoroughfare staff? Just send an email to Thoroughfare Magazine at thoroughfare.mag@gmail.com and request an application. No experience necessary; just enthusiasm! ---------------------------------------------

STAFF EDITORS

--------------------------------------------Editor-in-Chiefs Alexis von Kunes Newton Jean Fan --------------------------------------------Poetry Gabrielle Barr (head editor) Isaac Brooks Eva Gurfein Jennifer Hui Alexa Kwiatkoski Christina Luk Hannah Moulden Leemor Nir Laurin Wolf Jessica Yoo --------------------------------------------Prose Jerusha Barton (head editor) Allessandra Bautze Hillary Jackson Briana Last Doyen Kim Kate Orgera Vicky Plestis Katherine Seger Sharon Sun ---------------------------------------------

--------------------------------------------Visual Arts Jean Fan (coeditor) Ava Yap (coeditor) Julia Bradshaw Curry Chern Georgina Edionseri Anna Kleinsasser Luma Samawi --------------------------------------------Film/Music Curry Chern (head editor) Kunal Ajmera Eva Gurfein Michael Nakan Emily Schiller --------------------------------------------Web Curry Chern Jean Fan Rachel Louie --------------------------------------------Layout Jean Fan (head editor) Curry Chern Hillary Jackson Lay Kodama Diana Xu ---------------------------------------------

TABLE OF CONTENTS 1

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------10 - Without Form / by Isaac Brooks 11 - Leaky Faucet / by Angela Hu 12 - The Golden Years / by Joshua Gleason 14 - Firefly / by Devin Alessio 16 - Telephone / by Jean Fan 17 - Patapsco / by Austin Tally 18 - Rocks / by Kimia Ganjaei

20 - Black-Eyed Susan / by Coral J. Fung Shek 22 - Twin Ducks / by Thanapoom Boonipat 23 - Chinese Peacock and Flower / by Thanapoom Boonipat 24 - ARTIST FEATURE - ANGELA HU

36 - On the Benc 38 - The Santa M Luma Sama 39 - Vessels / b

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------62 - Divide / by Angela Hu 64 - Reverberating Afternoon Sky / by Eric Luitweiler 66 - Marseille, France / by Brittany Leung 68 - WANT TO GET PUBLISHED? WANT TO BE FEATURED?

70 - Wine / by Alex Morrison 72 - Shoreline Reflections / by Luma Samawi 73 - The Light From Mount Emmanuel / by Alexandre Polise 76 - Village / by Coral J. Fung Shek 78 - Lake Effect / by Jiyoon Kim

80 - Behind the 81 - Stopping at Srona Sengu 84 - The Future? Shek 85 - A Poem, Be Negative / b 86 - Cold / by J 88 - Paradise /

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------112 - The Look / by Samuel Cook 114 - Spotlight / by Joshua Gleason 116 - Winifred / by Angela Hu 118 - Ovum I / by Jean Fan 119 - Ovum II / by Jean Fan

120 - ART SERIES - Fantastical Creatures / by Ava Yap 125 - Heaven on the Horizon / by Qasim Hussaini 126 - Man on His Boat / by Coral J. Fung Shek 127 - When Words Fail / by Kate Orgera

130 - White Penc Angela Hu 131 - All the King 132 - Presidentâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s 134 - History / b 135 - Bricks and 137 - Kaliayev / 138 - Ouch / by

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nch / by Srona Sengupta Monica Silhouettes / by awi by Anna Gilmour

40 - Federal Inn / by Christina Warner 44 - The Waters Have Receded / by Colleen Dorsey 45 - Aftermath / by Christina Luk 46 - Daytime, A Quatrain Cycle / by Isaac Brooks 48 - Painting the Sea / by Angela Hu

50 - The Hills At Home / by Austin Tally 52 - ART SERIES - A Rainbow Medley of Squares / by Jean Fan

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Smile / by Jean Fan Rand Road Plaza / by gupta ? / by Coral J. Fung

ecause I Exposed the by Austin Tally Jiyoon Kim by Anna Gilmour

90 - Between Me and You / by Karla Hernandez 91 - Country Countdown / by Gabrielle Barr 92 - Ode to Meaning / by Jean Fan 93 - STYLE NEEDS NO COLOR 94 - Venice in Ink / by Angela Hu 95 - Mona / by Alexa Kwiatkoski 98 - The Abandoned Streetcar / by Colleen Dorsey 99 - Lost and Found / by Luma Samawi

100 - Barrels of Shiraz / by Eric Luitweiler 102 - Dead Things / by Christina Warner 104 - Harry Potter / by Alp Yurter 105 - Blade / by Alp Yurter 106 - After a Thoroughly-Celebrated Holiday / by Brittany Leung 107 - Greensboro, North Carolina / by Austin Tally 108 - The Basement / by Vicky Plestis

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cil Glass Study / by

gâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Men / by Anna Gilmour s Garden / by Kimia Ganjaei by Alessandra Bautze Stones / by Luma Samawi by Jean Fan Karla Hernandez

140 - Through All-Colored Glasses / by Luma Samawi 141 - Loss of Clarity / by Joshua Gleason 142 - Arrivals and Departures / by Angela Hu

150 - GET PUBLISHED

WITHOUT FORM

BY ISAAC BROOKS -------------------------------------------/ Literature / Poetry -------------------------------------------I was going to write you a poem in meter, to put all my thoughts into form; But they kept bleeding off the line, down, to a chaotic jumble of feeling. I thought, then, maybe a metaphor, could symbolize everything I felt; I tried to envision a superlative wonder, an eternal power, a beauty of the mind; but saw no metaphors, only visions of you. I can know what I think, I can know what I feel, but only in my mind, in abstraction, as a shadow of emotion. No matter how hard I endeavor, I fail to put into words my feelings for you.

Leaky Faucet by Angela Hu

---------------------------/ Traditional Art / Painting ---------------------------Based upon the paint-splattered sink in the back of the art room. Oil pastel on black paper.

The Golden Years by Joshua Gleason -------------------------------------------------/ Film / Short --------------------------------------------------

CLICK TO WATCH 12

Firefly By Devin Alessio

-------------------------------------------/ Literature / Prose ------------------------------------------- I once snatched a firefly from the sky, cradled it in my hands in an attempt to witness the length of its luminescence. Please recognize that I was not, in fact, a sadistic salt-on-a-slug kind of a child; this was my first and only attempted foray in the world of insect cruelty. A funny thing happened as the bug began to lose its luster: it started to rhythmically beat its body into my interlaced fingers, slowly at first, then building itself up into a steady sound, sort of like a tailor trying to repair a broken zipper. I caved in on my experiment and unlaced my fingers, watched the firefly zoom higher and higher into the sky, soon saw it attain its effervescent nature again.

I once snatched a firefly from the sky, cradled it in my hands in an attempt to witness the length of its luminescence. Please recognize that I was not, in fact, a sadistic salt-on-a-slug kind of a child; this was my first and only attempted foray in the world of insect cruelty. A funny thing happened as the bug began to lose its luster: it started to rhythmically beat its body into my interlaced fingers, slowly at first, then building itself up into a steady sound, sort of like a tailor trying to repair a broken zipper. I caved in on my experiment and unlaced my fingers, watched the firefly zoom higher and higher into the sky, soon saw it attain its effervescent nature again. Shannon has convinced me that I should think of myself as this firefly, that I should look upon the experience as a lesson in persistence. In an attempt to encourage me to think like the firefly, she’s painted its image across my drab white walls and upon the posts of my extra long twin bed. The light from the window behind my bed illuminates the image, and I fall back asleep. So why do you think you came here? I could lace my pointe shoes with my eyes closed perfectly. Knotting my hair into a bun became a ritual. It didn’t take Tiresias to tell me ballet was my destiny – I knew it was. My toes would throb as I tiptoed to the barre, and Madame’s pacing up and down the length of the studio while my classmates and I practiced posture and plies became a part of my personal soundtrack to the port de bras. “First position,” she called, and she repositioned Genevive’s hands. “You must round your hands like you are holding pottery, not like that, you silly girl. Second position.” Herfurthering footsteps became a siren for me to position myself perfectly. “You’re improving, Nina. Nice work. Third position.” I motioned my hand outwards and held it there, breathing heavily until Madame would come over to me. “Perfect, Alexandria. You are becoming our prima

ballerina.” I exhaled happily, but I felt the stench of her breath on my shoulder. “But a prima ballerina must have a prima ballerina body.” The new ballerina behind me chuckled. My stomach clenched and I glanced into the mirror. I scrutinized my figure: I was thin, but not slight like my classmates. The rest of Madame’s classes are a blur of this is how you plié this is how you grand jeté this is a pas de bourrée stand up straight shoulders back your pain is making your dance pretty. Her words became my mantra. I will have a ballerina body I will have a ballerina body I will have a ballerina body, I repeated to myself as I looked into the mirror. This is how you act like you were so busy you forgot to eat this is how you this is how you lie to mom about how you started buying school lunch this is how you wrap a band-aid around a finger without a nail this is how it feels to pull my hair back before meeting my friend of white porcelain this is how it feels to fill out – or rather, fit into – a leotard perfectly. This is how it feels to fly through the air effortlessly this is how good it feels when Madame says I look good this is how it feels to be a prima ballerina. Ninety pounds is how it feels to be perfect. I remember fitting perfectly into my custom tutu, the weight of sugar plum fairy’s wings slicing into my back, the hot stage lights gleaming onto my face so I could feel my makeup sweating off my face. Plié plié passé grand jeté jump into his arms turn turn turn I am the prima ballerina. I am perfect. And then nothingness. This is how it feels to wake up stage right in front of all of my classmates on the opening night of the School of American Ballet’s performance of The Nutcracker. This is Shannon. She’s going to help you get better. I hate the way Shannon follows me into the bathroom so I don’t hug the porcelain bowl. I hate how we sit

at the table in a staring contest all day because I won’t start eating breakfast until it’s lunchtime. I hate how she makes me start to like food: the sweetness of chocolate chip cookie, the acidity of an orange. This is how she teaches me to cut my food into teeny tiny pieces, like a serial killer or a surgeon of my sustenance. This is how it feels to start to have curves – to look like my mother, my sister, the real people I admire. This is how I’ve been learning to love myself. This is how perfect really feels. This is how I started becoming a firefly.

Telephone by Jean Fan

------------------------/ Photography / Conceptual ------------------------Nikon D80 + 50mm F1.8 Nikkor + SB-600 for bounce lighting again a white wall

/ Literature / Poetry

PATAPSCO BY AUSTIN TALLY Tugging current. “Come out to where I am.” The mud sneaking up between my toes, you standing with your hands on your hips. There are leaves floating face-down in the water. “Look how fast they’re moving,” you say, and pick one up. “They are moving fast,” I say, picking one up too. It is larger than my palm, and it is still green. We stand like islands in the Patapsco, gathering wet leaves.

Rocks by Kimia Ganjaei

---------------------------/ Photography / Nature

Black-Eyed Susan by Coral J. Fung Shek

---------------------------/ Photography / Nature

(on the left):

Twin Ducks by Thanapoom Boonipat

---------------------------/ Traditional Art / Painting

(on the right):

Chinese Peacock and Flower by Thanapoom Boonipat

---------------------------/ Traditional Art / Painting

FEATURED ARTIST

ANGELA HU Angela Hu is an undergraduate student majoring in Neuroscience and East Asian Studies, class of 2013. She has loved art and writing since she was young, but had never taken serious art classes until high school and AP Studio Art. Her concentration consisted of ten portraiture studies on the feeling of isolation and oppression expressed through dominant color schemes. Since then, she has taken Still Life, Interiors, and Landscapes, as well as Painting I with Professor Hankin, which was the first time she ever used oil paints. Although it is often hard to find time for art, she hopes to continue to grow in terms of both refining technique and artistic vision. In her spare time she draws graphics for the JHU newsletter. --------------------------------------------------(On the left):

My Grandfatherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Erhu by Angela Hu

--------------------------------------------------/ Traditiional Art / Painting / Portrait --------------------------------------------------A watercolor & watercolor pencil mixed media study of my grandfather playing the erhu. He has male pattern baldness, a beer belly, and a natural ear for music. I wanted to portray him vividly, so decided to mix together many highly saturated colors.

IN YOUR LET GO BY ANGELA HU -----------------------/ Literature / Poetry -----------------------We last until November with a swift gust swirling us apart. Like the leaves of the gingko tree. Like your smooth exhale.

The year turned what was green and honest into a yellow pallor I misnamed as the Golden Age. When we meet, you facing me, I turn

facing this tree. I catch the portentous tremor in the leaf and watch you spiral, struggling to rip out a weed by the roots.

Walking by Woods by Angela Hu

---------------------------------/ Traditiional Art / Painting / Portrait ---------------------------------Watercolor & colored pencils.

(On the left): Drowning In Blue (On the right): The View From Above by Angela Hu

------------------------------/ Traditional Art / Painting / ------------------------------(On the left): Acrylics (On the right): Colored pencils

Trade by Angela Hu

------------------------------/ Literature / Prose -------------------------------

“You haven’t moved since I left.” The lump on the hardwood floor shifts, exhales, and stretches her limbs. One hand reaches out and ruptures her blanket cocoon, leaking her hair out onto his loft. “How was work?” “Jesus Christ, these are my covers,” he says, stepping over her prone body. “Frances, I sleep in these every night. Do you have any idea how much dirt there is on this floor?”

“I’ve moved,” she replies lethargically, “since you left. I was on the couch first. You kind of,” a yawn, “admitted it yourself; I got up to get some blankets because it was fucking cold. Have you ever heard of central heating? Besides, somebody still hasn’t bought a Swiffer. I think that’s all this is really about.” “Oh, yeah? Get up, Frances. I’ve given you enough without charging rent. Come on, you’re making a mess.” “I don’t want to. How about

you lie down?” She peers up at him with a hazy smile, the sunlight streaking her hair with a pale fire. He has to admit she looks comfy, right at home, napping in the afternoon. The shadows of the windowpanes etch lovingly over her indolent figure. It took some long years to work from a studio apartment to this loft, where windows nearly fill the entire wall, and their light casts as far as the kitchen counter. Tony sits down, defeated, letting the boxes of sun tile over him

too. For a while they remain still and silent, Frances sighing into her pillow and Tony holding his mouth against his suit sleeve. “So what have you done all day? Cooking? Cleaning?” he asks in a low tone. Frances waves an arm around gesturing at the scattered books in the living room (from his meticulously alphabetized library), the Classifieds lined in red pen left all around, and her sketchbook and colored pencils to one corner.

Tony sighs, bringing his shoulders down like a shroud around him. He could see the receipts and metro cards Frances used to bookmark her way through Tolstoy, could see the newsprint and pencil dust on her fingers working their way into his duvet. “This and that,” she mumbles. “Were there any calls?” “Just the one from your mother. I think she thinks we’re together.” “Oh, god. You haven’t...”

“No, nope. Although I don’t see why keeping it a secret after all these years is still preferable to just telling her. It’d be easy. ‘Hey mom, girls don’t do it for me. Give me a nice hard cock any day.’ I feel like what you’ve been waiting for is just a good kick in the rear, and I wouldn’t mind simply...” “Don’t you dare. I have half a mind to kick you out on your rear.” Frances looks up at him, her rounded pupils nearly feline in their focus. “All right then. I’m just an old friend in need of a hand. I came knocking at your door, and God knows if it was the right one, but it was the only one I tried. How would I even know what’s changed and what hasn’t? Do you still want to design cars at all, or is is stock broker now, full speed ahead?” He can feel his temperature rising and moves instinctively to wipe his brow with his cuff. “You know,” he begins, “you say it with such sarcasm.” “No sarcasm. Just that I notice you’ve given up art and love because of that old bird. When were you such a mama’s boy?” she laughs, craning her neck up at him like an excitable child. As if that would ease the delivery. Tony looks away. He loosens his paisley tie as he gets up, telling himself to let the words slide off like melted snow. He has work to do. His briefcase is propping his door open to the world and he has a conference call early the next morning. He says as much to her. “That’s fine.” Frances tilts

her head towards him languidly. “No, it’s not fine,” Tony thinks as he’s walking away from the windows, until he realizes he’s put it to words. It’s too late now. Standing over her, lording over her, with his face in the shadowy cross of the windowpane, Tony’s impatience reaches a peek. He peels away Frances’ covers, tossing them aside like newsprint paper. For a moment, he just stands there, looking at her. “You know, I learned to be a mama’s boy, as you would say it, when I realized I’d rather not be disowned by my parents.” Frances lowers her chin, letting her hair fall over her eyes like a misplaced sunbeam. She stares out across the living space, focus far off from him. “Come on, Tony. It’s a tiff,” Frances says, laughing slowly. She doesn’t believe a word she says. “Tell that to them,” Tony says, waving his arms into the horizon. “Tell them that you’d call this life change of yours a tiff! That you’ve stayed for a week, not at a fancy university friends’ but with me, of all the people you were close to, for a tiff. Did you think I’d be more understanding? Because I keep things from my parents?” Frances coils in on herself; she’s wearing the same outfit from two days back. “Hey,” she says, and louder again, “hey.” “Where the hell do you get the right to lecture me, Frances? You may have picked art over solid money, Ivy League education, and a fucking acceptance into medical school, but we are not all as

spoiled as you are.” And so finishing, he dove for her sketchbook and threw it against the window in one motion, snapping his whole body like a mousetrap. The resounding smack against the glass sounded of pure satisfaction, like an explosion of every one of his pent up complaints. Frances reaches for the blanket again, obviously cold. Her skin is whiter than he remembers ever seeing it before. “Stop,” she says with the tenacity of a crumbled paper bag. Just, “stop,” again, this time with more hollowness. Tony paces two steps with his right hand perched on the back of his heck, feeling the furnace of his blood rush to his head even as he willed it to seep away. There is an apology on his tongue, but he swallows it. Frances sits up for once, gathering the covers like a shroud, “I would expect you of all people to understand what it’s like to live your life, not your parent’s. Okay? I came here because it was close, and because I thought of you. That’s all, I just thought of you. I was never full of it, okay? I knew. I knew for a long time where my passions lied, and I know now that it was mostly cowardice and shame that kept me from leaving the “doctor” path. I couldn’t begin to tell you about what type of medicine I liked, what the latest innovations in clinical studies were...” “I wasn’t trying to insult you. I meant for it to be about...” Tony interrupts. “But art!” Frances continues,

ignoring him. She seems to catch his fever; coming awake, coming alive. “I rave about things like the arc of a brush stroke, and the images that would latch themselves to my head, being able to capture the lighting, mood, atmosphere, or even pose just so, just right. Living without art, oh, god. I couldn’t imagine it. Without it...you know the ache in your hands when your muscles love an action enough to miss it?” She held out her hands, small, bony and red and Tony stared at them, watching the nervous trembling in her arms as she reached for him. He lets his hands drop down to his sides, and watches as Frances slowly mirrors him. “I meant for it to be about me,” Tony says, walking back towards her with heavy steps. “Who I choose to love has nothing to do with you or my parents. Whether or not they know is irrelevant.” They stay like that, staring into each other’s eyes as though they had only just been reunited after years apart following their high school graduation. One sitting, one standing, but they level the playing field. The sun sets as they continue. Frances tucks her wild hair behind one ear. “You never wanted someone to understand?” she asks. “I told my parents because I had to, consequences be damned. I can’t live life feeling like it’s a lie, don’t you of all people get that?” “But now you’re here doing what? Lounging around? Grieving? You can’t sit around pretending nothing’s changed, waiting to be forgiven.” Tony sighs, fighting back his

frustration, knowing for the first time how easily he had just peeled away Frances’ guard. Tony bends for the newspapers and scattered receipts, but the momentum leaves him. He drops to the floor beside her with the papers clutched in his hand. “I know that,” Frances says, getting up slowly. Her back is to the window and she looks embossed in a golden warmth despite her subtle shivers without the extra layer of her down feathers. She needs to leave comfort behind. “We can’t just chase our dreams into the stars on magical moonbeams, saying fuck all to the whole world and trouncing off. You just can’t do that. You’ve got to face reality.” “I know, I know,” Frances says, running her fingers through her hair. “You’ve got to take the small steps and kill some of your dreams. Get a job, find a place to stay, and do things one day at a time until you are standing on your own two feet.” “Like I’m an alcoholic?” She laughs. “On a 12-step reality check?” But he doesn’t look amused; a pool of steel still holds within his eyes. “You are not my charity case, Frances.” Tony punctuates his syllables by throwing the papers towards the window, his fists trembling through the air. “I can’t babysit you.” “I’m not, she says quickly, “You aren’t.” Frances takes the duvet cover in hand and wraps it around Tony, netting him to the ground. Somehow the two strike a

balance. “I feel like I am though,” Tony says. “Come on now, I’ll cook. I will.” She traces his cheekbones and jawline with a light touch, her eyes reflecting Tony’s exhaustion. And as he caves and sinks onto the hardwood floors with his covers, Frances retrieves Tony’s briefcase and prepares dinner, stepping barefoot through the tiles cast from the window. In her absence, Tony again notices her sketchbook, over by the window. He crawls over and picks it up hesitantly. It feels like a dense manuscript. As he flips the first page tenderly, he sees that she’s filled the book with the view from the window, buildings and faces that Tony easily recognizes. For the first time in a long time, he can see past his agenda books and bills off into a liminal horizon. The exchange that took place was not tender, but Tony cradles the new sensation left behind. The muscles of his hand feel a sudden urge to pick up a pencil and draw the sports cars and drag racers of his youth. He longs to dial his mother’s number and unburden himself from a lifetime’s worth of truths.

Lock It Up by Angela Hu

---------------------------------/ Traditiional Art / Painting / Portrait ---------------------------------Acrylics.

Rest, Dreaming by Angela Hu

------------------/ Literature / Poetry ------------------Eyes closed, my nightly pictures form like smoke Arising with the density of ash Off wadded schedule books; that heavy yoke Fades into feathered plumes in my mind’s cache. Those black lines I’ve sliced many a week through Interweave as ribbons out my window Descending, I will sight just out of view My rattling train, prompt on its route below. Onboard, I push back the red curtains, and Wonder where the iron rails will lead tonight A fountain of nectar, green Fields --Eden Where I may stop time to absorb these sights Until the mind’s music turns to urgent tones And paradise turns to bed sheets, awake, alone.

More works from Angela Hu can be found throughout this issue of Thoroughfare Magazine.

Want to be featured? Then tell us about yourself! Include a short biography along with your submission(s) and you may just be the Featured Artist of the next issue of Thoroughfare.

ON THE BENCH BY SRONA SENGUPTA ----------------------------------/ Literature / Poetry -----------------------------------

is my place. a good space for people-watching on the sidelines without guidelines, except one which is to not glance that way around midday when he comes and sits at the other end because these worn planks are simply too old to hold both of us and timeâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s baggage and the weight of my folded legs underneath me and his sprawled arms near mine why does he do that? the fact is that this is my bench iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve made friends with these frenzied squirrels before he even knew their names okay?

wrong, he’ll say because he thinks he owns the grass and trees and squirrels and girls like me with their benches well sorry i came here first with my papers and blank pages to meet the gazes of others who had stories to tell but he’s here for the second week now and the curly hairs on his arm are itching my own as i stare down my page and gauge the distance converting breaths to inches and twirling loose hair while the bench carves imprints on my thighs

and the wind sings lullabies to pull me back into me and while i’m heavy at work staring and converting i hear a soft sound around my shoulder which cannot possibly be the wind but him clearing his throat masking the bench’s solemn groan as he crooks his arm around my neck and asks me how i’ve been this past year

stock photo courtesy of bensonpupp at sxc.hu

VESSELS BY ANNA GILMOUR

-----------------/ Literature / Poetry -----------------(On the left):

The Santa Monica Silhouettes by Luma Samawi

-----------------/ Photography / Photojournalism

You sleep restless under red and white striped sails, salt-stiffened. Through the thick fog, I can barely see your lungs straining breaths shaking body half-curled on a blanket I brought you, stitched brightly in blue like an idealized sky. The vast expanse above our mast is much grayer. Waves break on the bow of the boat. The weatherman lied about today. I brought you out because tomorrow is the day: clean, pristine walls and starched spotless sheets. Well, at least when it’s done you’ll be able to breathe. Your sister’s saving up her energy, bones ready to give you back a little of the life that this disease stole from your grasp. You still won’t live past fifty-three. My stomach churns in time with the sea; I wonder what you dream. Sea sprays you lying there like driftwood washed up on a beach. Your skin breaks into a landscape of snowy hills and valleys. Shivering, pale bones— you make even me feel weak. The vessel shivers like a tree rustling its leaves. I should’ve known the water’s lullaby would rock you straight to sleep. Two colors of wine sit unopened on the seat next to me. Your left hand is clenched into a fist, chipped scarlet nails digging little parentheses into your palm. When I shut my eyes, I can almost see your blood cells phasing into little hardened crescent moons, waxing and waning.

FEDERAL INN BY CHRIS TINA WARNER

stock photo courtesy of Herman Brinkman at sxc.hu

---------------------------------------------/ Literature / Prose / Play ---------------------------------------------[An old motel. The fluorescent “Vacancy” sign flickers but the only letters that are illuminated spell “can.” Four doors - 107, 109, 111, 113 - line the back stage. DANI, 35, sits on a curb in front of the doors. She wears a dress, so she bends her knees to the side. JARED, 30, enters stage right. He is quite attractive but looks as if he hasn’t showered in a week. He carries a brown paper bag under one arm. He nods at her. She gives a weak smile. He unlocks the door to 113 and moves to enter the room but looks back at DANI.]

JARED Locked out?

DANI Sure.

DANI No. I’m just... I’m waiting for someone.

[JARED pops the tab on the can and hands it to her. She takes a sip as he opens his own can. They sit in silence for a few seconds.]

JARED Okay. [JARED disappears into his motel room. A few seconds pass. He opens the door again, stepping halfway outside.] JARED (clearing his throat) Are you... [DANI looks up at him.] JARED D’you want company? You look bored. I mean... you look fine, but -DANI It’s okay. I don’t want to keep you from -[She gestures ambiguously.] JARED Shitty motel cable? DANI Well... JARED Hold on.

DANI So beer and cable? JARED (laughing) There was going to be pizza too. [He shifts his body so he faces DANI more directly.] JARED Is it weird for me to ask what you’re doing? Well, I know what you’re doing. You’re sitting on a curb. But here, I mean. You’re sitting on this curb. At Federal Inn. [He gestures at the flickering sign.] JARED It’s not like I’m criticizing your choice of accommodations. Fuck. I’m here too. DANI I’m meeting someone. JARED Ohhhh... [He raises his eyebrows and takes a big sip.] DANI What? Just because I’m meeting someone at a motel it has to be like that?

[JARED heads back into his room and reemerges a few seconds later with the brown paper bag in hand. He sits to the left of DANI and pulls out a six-pack of beer.] JARED I didn’t say that. But, your ring -JARED Beer? [He points at her left hand.] [He offers her a can.]

DANI Doesn’t necessarily mean anything.

JARED Especially if you don’t let it. DANI Okay. I get it. I’m some terrible person. Cheating on my husband. JARED I definitely didn’t say that. [DANI drinks her beer and gives him a doubtful look.] JARED Look, you’re sitting here waiting for someone. I’m just trying to point out that you’re waiting. Shouldn’t he at least -DANI Have the courtesy to show up on time? JARED Well, at the very least. [DANI stands up and stretches a little. JARED looks at her bare legs but she doesn’t notice.] DANI I wasn’t aware there were rules for these kinds of things. JARED What kinds of things? DANI You know. Whatever it is that I’m doing here. [Jared rises and goes to stand beside her.]

stock photo courtesy of Caleb Pinkerton at sxc.hu

JARED (smirking) Carrying on some kind of illicit affair? DANI (smiling a bit) Exactly. JARED Maybe there aren’t. I wouldn’t know. You tell me. DANI (moving closer to him) If there’s one rule, it’s that no one finds out. That’s why you come to some bumfuck motel that no one’s heard of. [JARED nods.] DANI You always see it when you head down I-95, but you don’t stop there. Except when you do. And when you do, you don’t stay the night. You have your own bed at home. So, you pay 75 bucks for a door with a lock and a bed your wife hasn’t slept in. And then you fuck someone else. And you pretend that your ass isn’t touching the same sheets as the other people who came there. And you’re grateful that you have to leave right after. When her upper thighs are still smeared with your cum. (MORE)

DANI (CONT’D) And you’re still sweaty, the hair matted to the back of your neck. You get to skip the small talk and you don’t have to pretend like it wasn’t just fucking. And it’s, “see you next Thursday, babe,” and you can head back to the cul-de-sac. Because your wife’s expecting you home from poker. Because that’s where you go every Thursday night. You never win, though. Always up by a little. Then had some bad luck, made some shitty bets and lost a couple twenties. “I think John knows my tell. Can’t bluff for shit,” you say. So fucking earnest and she believes you. It’s not like being a bad poker player could end a marriage. But fucking someone else... JARED A dealbreaker? DANI Probably. [Beat.] DANI So you don’t get caught. That’s the rule. [JARED looks at her for another beat. They are standing inches apart.]

JARED But you don’t have to be on time. DANI Not a requirement. [Headlights shine onto the stage. DANI and JARED squint into them. The sound of a car door closing. MARTIN, 39, enters from stage left. He is dressed in a suit and is checking his watch. He stops in his tracks when he sees DANI.] MARTIN Dani? DANI Hi, honey. [She takes a long sip from the can. It is now empty. She hands it to JARED who looks confused and stunned.] DANI I don’t think she’s here yet. Poker doesn’t start ‘til nine, right?

The Waters Have Receded by Colleen Dorsey

---------------------------------/ Photography

Aftermath by Christina Luk

--------------------------------------/ Literature / Poetry --------------------------------------The baseline sine of your voice wavers sweetly twixt our bodies twined, and echoes, Echoes! of our earthly, sweaty love; The repeating rhythms of our rasping breathing, sighing, sharing diaphanous emotions, river-like coiling down the drain of our brain-chest-heartbeat! Oh, thumpthump of my heart, your heart: our hearts that beat and beat and beat and beat still.

[ ] DAYTIME

A QUATRAIN CYCLE BY ISAAC BROOKS / Literature / Poetry

While darkness still presides on land the sun begins to stretch his hand around the sky with an orange band and chases darkness from the land The sun starts rising in the sky and as heâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s rising wonders why the moon that he has loved must go and vanish to the sea below All morning the sun keeps on climbing to get to the top of the sky he calls to his love in her hiding but only come night sheâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll reply Angered from pining and lonely emotion the sun hurls his heat at the world that heâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s lighting but soon he grows weary of undeserved smiting and starts his descent to the refuge of ocean Before he fully sets the moon comes by to see him leave and softly say good-bye though saddened greatly, never does she cry but merely sings his silent lullaby The sun is lost, the moon forsaken alone but for the starry light At dawn her loved one will awaken but she will vanish out of sight

Painting the Sea by Angela Hu

-----------------------------------/ Traditional Art / Painting / Conceptual -----------------------------------Synthetic design. Watercolor.

The Hills At Home by Austin Tally -----------------------------------/ Literature / Poetry -----------------------------------The hills at home, I know, are all prepared for snow – every leaf has fallen. I’ve missed the quilts that spread across autumnal beds – now the trees are barren. I’ve barely seen the change – the buildings’ mountain range stifles every color: outside this window, trees bend wetly in the breeze – every branch seems duller. My memory preserves the hills at home in curves dappled green and teeming with life. When I return, no summer sun will burn, and gild them with its beaming. And yet, my mind’s enshrined each vein and stem, entwined; even when it’s snowing, I will watch the rolling drifts and warm my body with thoughts of small things growing.

stock image courtesy of Robert Proksa at sxc.hu

a RAINBOW MEDLY OF

SQUARES A series of colorful square-format photographs by Jean Fan. Square images have a quality unlike the conventional rectangular portrait or panoramic format. There is something stylistically unifying in its geometry and yet something aesthetically diverse in its composition. This collection of photographs are in celebration of this square format of photography.

> 53

Drop of Love by Jean Fan

--------------------------------/ Photography / Macro / Conceptual --------------------------------Nikon D80 + Tamron 90mm F2.8. Drop of water on an hyacinth. Heart wand in the background cast an upside down reflection in the water drop.

Ovary by Jean Fan

--------------------------------/ Photography / Still Life / Conceptual --------------------------------Nikon D80 + 18-55mm Nikkor + Self timer. Forelle pear on stomach. Chair in the background. A fruit is a ripened flower ovary.

Illuminated Spring by Jean Fan

--------------------------------/ Photography / Macro / Nature --------------------------------Nikon D80 + Tamron 90mm F2.8. Tone balancing to brighten the photo, color balancing, and minor vignetting added in post editing using GIMP.

Eviction by Jean Fan

--------------------------------/ Photography / Portrait /Conceptual --------------------------------Nikon D80 + 18-55mm Nikkor + IR remote. Tripod and ladder to help compose the shot. Ridges in the clothing are from pant pockets not pelvic bones.

No.Girls_Aloud by Jean Fan

--------------------------------/ Photography / Portrait / Conceptual --------------------------------Nikon D80 + 50mm F1.8 + self timer. ISO 1000 due to low lighting conditions. Window lighting. Fabric hung in the background.

dragon.fly by Jean Fan

--------------------------------/ Photography / Macro / Nature --------------------------------Nikon D80 + Tamron 90mm F2.8. Dragonfly (Perithemis tenera) amongst wrinkled giant hyssop (Agastache rugosa).

Jean Fan is a self-taught photography enthusiast specializing in conceptual photography. Her works have been published in national and international magazines and catalogs and have won regional and national competitions. She has also worked with various publishers including Random House Inc. Through her photography, Jean hopes to advocate free knowledge and self-education as well as encourage participation in the creative arts. She is currently a sophomore studying biomedical engineering and interning at the Institute for Computational Medicine.

SUBMIT YOUR

ART SERIES Thoroughfare loves art series! So if you have a collection of pieces that represent a consistent artistic style, technique, or common characteristic, (maybe a collection of a few thematically related short stories or photos, a couple poems written in the same form, or some musical numbers in a particular genre) submit it and get it published. All artistic media are welcome. Just email your submissions to thoroughfare.mag@gmail.com Be sure to include a few words about your series and of course yourself.

DIVIDE by Angela Hu / Literature / Poetry

The afternoon sun through a western pane sets the note of our rendez-vous at something sepia-toned and scented with cologne. Briefly, a halo illuminates your profile, but as you pace your silhouette cuts the light like a scene marker, and my mind races with thoughts of film noir and editing in post. I sit on the mattress at the nexus of your cast shadow and our history. With each billowing sigh I recall old visions: one where you proffer a single red carnation pinched between your fingers. In this shot, you are empty-handed-lines forgotten; smile erased. Rather than take it from the top, you pack my bag as I pray.

Reverberating Afternoon Sky by Eric Luitweiler

--------------------------------/ Photography ---------------------------------

Marseille, France by Brittany Leung

---------------------------/ Photography / Urban

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

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

2. Submit your artwork to thoroughfare.mag@gmail.com or online at web1.johnshopkins.edu/thoroughfare/

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

WANT TO GET PUBLISHED?

MA L M E E Y DIA T VIS R A UA Y/P PPL L A RO Y RT SE /M /F IL

Please write your biography in third person.

Some potential topics to include in your biography include: What is your artistic background? When did you get started? What tools or techniques do you like to use? What do you hope to accomplish through your art? Write about whatever you want others to know! The recommended length of biographies is 300 words minimum.

Want to be featured? Then tell us about yourself! Include a short biography along with your submission(s) to Thoroughfare Magazine.

WANT TO BE FEATURED?

Wine by Alex Morrison

---------------------------/ Photography / Rural

by Luma Samawi

---------------------/ Photography / Portrait ----------------------

SHORELINE REFLECTIONS

by Alexandre Polise

---------------------/ Literature / Prose ----------------------

THE LIGHT FROM MOUNT EMMANUEL

The soot coming from Mount Emmanuel was dark and ashy, falling on everyone’s heads and shoulders, creating shadows that followed every moving thing. There was smoke flowing upwards from Emmanuel’s eye – smoke that crept towards the clouds and lingered there, creating patterns that looked like waterfalls. During recess, Gordo and I walked around outside, sweating through our thin, red striped shirts and light sand-colored khakis. Gordo’s skin looked like it was falling off. He was dripping sweat here and there on the concrete basketball court and dust was collecting on his dark eyelashes, rounded cheeks, and pudgy hands. When he walked, a dark, wet track marked the ground. Nobody else chose to go outside for recess; it was just Gordo and me. We sat the whole time, looking out at Emmanuel and hoping something would happen, hoping that a burst of hot steaming lava would shoot out and land right next to us so that we could give it a name and probe it with sticks. Gordo and I liked science most. All the other kids who said they liked science were faking; otherwise they’d have been out there with us, sticks ready, eyes glued. The men of the town said that Emmanuel was just playing a trick on us, playing with our hearts. Everyone trusted the wise men of the town, and so everyone assumed that she wasn’t going to erupt. Every ten years she spewed dust – polvo – all around, just like she did now, winking her ragged-edged eye and sending flirtatious smoke into the hot, wet sky, but never erupted. They said she was just reminding us of her strength and her power. Emmanuel’s human form hasn’t been seen by a single soul since before the oldest wise man of the town was born. But there are old stories told of her last appearance atop her peak, and of her unimaginable beauty, so breathtaking that you couldn’t look away from her if you tried. Nobody remembers exactly what she looks like anymore and so people use their imagination and make up their perfect Emmanuel. Only one thing about Emmanuel is known for sure – her hair falls down straight and long, and reflects the sun like the backside of a spoon, creating a light so bright that it nearly blinds all who see it. Only a few years before Gordo or I were born, the men created a holiday for Emmanuel, mostly so that ev-

eryone could thank Emmanuel for being so beautiful, but also for protecting our town, Salmuera, from danger. And so every April sixteenth all the people of Salmuera line up hundreds of pure white calla lilies planted in painted ceramic bowls that are colored with every shade of red and brown and tan and black, the magnificent colors of Emmanuel’s mount, and hold an enormous festival that lasts through the month. And during that time every woman dresses in long, clay-colored vestidas with hand-made tassels and puts on a beaded headband and special shoes made perfect for dancing. The men create floats – each one depicting their own idea of what Emmanuel’s human form looks like – for the parade that goes through the center of town. Gordo and I went to the parade last year, and picked out which Emmanuel we liked best, painted by an old and talented wise man. She has dark hair that flows past her navel and even farther than that. She has a slender, brown body, curved this way and that, to the most perfect geometric standards. Her eyes and lips share the same deep, scarlet color – the color of soft, pure clay. On one side of his float, the wise man painted her smiling, with her eyes lit up and her lips pursed, and when every man and woman in Salmuera see her there they nearly faint. Of all of the Emmanuels, Gordo and I like her the best, even though there are other, different looking ones with light hair and purple eyes, or black skin and a tail, that are beautiful in their own ways. The festival of Emmanuel is the most wonderful time of the year, and Gordo and I were sure that this year it would be even better. We were sure that this year Emmanuel would appear and that she’d make her mountain erupt. Gordo and I sat outside for all of recess, and when we went back inside to continue school, Señora yelled at us furiously, asking why couldn’t we have just stayed inside and saying you’re going to track so much filth, so much polvo, into my room. She told us to go outside and hose off and then to go to the nurse to get new shirts. She also told us that we’d be staying after school was done to help her clean off our desks and the floor where we tracked so much waste. The next week continued on in the same way. Emmanuel’s dust fell and covered Gordo and me every recess. Every day after school we’d help Señora clean the floors and the desks, and after that Gordo and I would walk back outside and stare at the mountain with most interested eyes, trying not to blink, tapping our sticks on the ground and saying to each other yes I think I just saw some come out, I think it’s about to begin. * The festival of Emmanuel happened a few weeks later, and much to our dismay, she never appeared and never erupted. For a long time Gordo and I were sad and confused. She was still spewing soot and breathing smoke into the sky, but not an ounce of lava had fallen and we didn’t know how we could have been wrong about our beloved Emmanuel. Everything that normally happened during the month of Emmanuel’s adoration happened as usual, except the soot that fell on the calla lilies turned them a dark brown, and the floats could hardly be recognized because of their horrible discolorations. Nobody seemed to mind though; the men of the town said that it was a blessing

to have such lovely soot fall from the heart of Emmanuel, and that there was nothing that could have made the floats and flowers look more majestic. Emmanuel didn’t stop after a few days or weeks like usual; she continued to boil and spew for nearly six years. By the end of the first year, Emmanuel had covered Salmuera with so much dust that when people walked in the streets they’d shuffle it back and forth, and it’d get stuck in socks and boots and under toe nails. Everyone’s feet were as black as coal and nobody bothered to avoid getting polvo on their clothes, for everyone’s clothes were stained a permanent dark hue that was referred by all as Emmanuel’s embrace. The men of the village said that soon she’d stop raining soot, soon she’d stop blowing smoke. Just a few more days are left, they’d say. They explained that they could see the outer rim of Emmanuel’s eye beginning to cave inward – that was a sure sign that she was almost done. That was during the second year that the men said that, and they were wrong. Life continued on – Emmanuel never once took a rest, and Gordo and I never stopped spending recess outside, sticks ready. * One morning in early April, just shy of the first day of the sixth Festival of Emmanuel since she brought soot into the air, while Gordo and I were walking around outside during recess, and when the weather was most beautiful in Salmuera – the trees were green from the rain of the season past, and the flowers were blooming, not yet dehydrated by the choking heat of the summer to follow – out from Emmanuel’s eye shone a most brilliant light. It was so bright that nobody could see anybody else, and all of the soot looked as though it had disappeared. The light stretched out for as far as one could see – the sky wasn’t blue, and the ground wasn’t black. And when she shone out that light, not one person wasn’t staring at Emmanuel’s eye, most densely lit and most unimaginably striking. Right there, right at the top of the most wonderful mountain of all, was Emmanuel – her hair reflecting the sun while she danced, laughed and smiled that pursed-lipped smile. Her scarlet eyes were the only things that maintained their color in the light, and they looked as though they were staring at everyone and everything at the same time. There she is, the men cried. They fell to their knees, falling into the soot so deep that their pants were nearly covered, and let tears fall as they kept their gaze. Our Emmanuel, the men spoke over and over, you have finally come after all of our patient waiting, and you are more beautiful than we could have ever imagined. The women hid themselves with shawls, ashamed of their appearance, and the oldest wise man buried himself in the soot and died. He was free from all question and anxiety, the other wise men later said. Children ran into each other while searching for sticks to hold, in waiting for the moment that everybody knew was coming – Emmanuel’s most gracious gift, of lava, her love– but Gordo and I were already holding ours, ready. We knew that we were the most prepared, and we knew that Emmanuel would know that, and let the lava flow in big languid layers closest to us for our inspection and enjoyment.

Village by Coral J. Fung Shek

----------------------------/ Photography / Photojournalism

Lake Effect by Jiyoon Kim

---------------------------/ Photography / Nature

Behind the Smile by Jean Fan

------------------------/ Photography / Conceptual

STOPPING AT RAND ROAD PLAZA by Srona Sengupta ------------------------------/ Literature / Prose / Fiction ------------------------------ The stoplight comes out of nowhere. It’s one of those lazy lights that turns red in a millisecond but takes hours to flash green again. I turn on the radio and flip through countless channels, each more dissatisfying than the last. We want to go home, Dad and I. We’ve been working since eight in the morning, and it’s six-thirty now. He’s been on his feet making chemicals with 5-syllable names, while I’ve worn out my eyesight looking up patents on tiny particles. Come on, light. Come on.I turn on the radio to the soft rock station, right in time to hear some wailing from the tone-deaf tenor of the newest female sensation. I flip through other channels, each more

dissatisfying than the last. I end up with some angst-ridden metal band. Dad won’t have it. He grunts and turns it off in a single movement. I sigh. Then it’s quiet. Then it’s not so quiet anymore. I hear wailing, a new kind. It’s real, coming from the left, across the intersection and just inside the plaza. I crane my neck towards Dad’s window. A Chevy is stationed in the narrow intersection between the plaza and the road. A brown-haired man with a black wife-beater and tight blue jeans is yelling something that I can’t decipher. He’s yelling at this lady in the passenger seat – his wife or girlfriend, maybe – who’s just sitting there sobbing with her hands on her ears. Dadis watching now, too. His eyes are getting bigger, his pu-

pils smaller. He has that look in his face – that tightening of the jaw and the squaring away of the eyes – the same look he had when I came home high from Adam’s that day in April. I know the telltale signs. * “GET OUT!” the brown-haired man screams. The driver’s door pops open and the man’s left leg hits the ground. His other leg is anchored in the car, leverage for some good swings. He’s hitting her, hard. Pulling her blouse towards the car door. She’s sobbing so loud now. Gasping, more like. He hits her again with the back of his elbow. She cries out and slumps, gasping for breath. Between every gasp, she lets out one giant wail. A plea. I’ve never heard this sound before: long and grating, culminating in a high note that makes my shoulder blades smash together.

I stare on, dumfounded, ignoring my sore neck. Dad’s eyes dart near the Chevy. I think he wants to get out and help the lady, or find some help for her. He grasps the shift and says nothing. I wipe my palms. I don’t want him to leave. What if the man hits him too? Cars leaving from the drivethrough Starbucks pass the black tinted Chevy in the plaza. They roll on by – soccer moms with short hair bobs, executives with Armani suits, newly licensed teenagers with overloaded jeeps. One car slows, but it still passes. As do they all. * Somehow, perhaps mockingly, the stoplight is still red.The brownhaired man is still at it, and the lady is still wailing.With one leg planted on the ground, he tells the lady to shut the hell up. To get out, bitch. But she won’t. He gets out of the car and takes five determined steps to her side of the truck, while she frantically shifts to the driver’s seat. But she is too slow: he grabs her leg and yanks hard. She grips the insides of the door with her fingernails, yelling, “No, no, no, no, no…” He shoves his knee into her stomach. I look away. Something’s punching me hard now, real hard, right in the belly. I spot a Starbucks worker in front of the store. He’s talking on his phone and darting glances at the Chevy. I concentrate on the emerald green of his apron, but she’s crying again, drawing me back. I should turn the radio on. “No, no, no, no, no.” She moans, dragging each “o” out as far as her breath will allow. “No, no, no, no, no,” she cries as he swings her limp body out of the passenger

seat, putting the car in drive. She throws herself against the windshield, screaming. The man jumps out of the car and pushes her onto the curb. He wipes the smudges away from the glass, and takes off without looking back. The woman crouches on the grass behind the curb and rips out synthetic strands of blonde-brown hair. She is looking up at the sky, at us, at the string of faceless cars down Rand Road. She is rocking, holding her head. Her sleeve falls loose and her bra strap peeks out. “Somebody, please help me! Somebody, please…” Dad makes a grab for the door handle, but I place my hand over his: the Starbucks worker is walking toward her now. He’ll help her. The stoplight turns green. Oh God, please let someone help her.

stock photo coutesy of Ozan Uzel atsxc.hu

The Future? by Coral J. Fung Shek

-----------/ Photography / Urban

A POEM, BECAUSE I EXPOSED THE NEGATIVE BY AUSTIN TALLY

You were putting on your jacket – one arm in, the other outstretched, fumbling for the sleeve – your head was down, yet if I remember correctly at the last second you turned your eyes upwards to meet mine through the lens, but the film caught and tore as I rewound it and short of a darkroom, which I certainly did not have, there was no way to salvage it – just as a cicada molts, clinging motionless to the side of a bench, the film too will be shed and curl; your jacket will gather dust resting on a hanger until the fall.

Cold by Jiyoon Kim

---------------------------/ Photography / Nature

Paradise by Anna Gilmour

----------------------------/ Photography / Nature ----------------------------Canon PowerShot S3 IS. Slight editing in Adobe Photoshop CS3

Between Me and You by Karla Hernandez

---------------------/ Photography / Still Life ---------------------NIKON D3000 - exp. 1/40 - f/1.8 - 50mm ISO 100 - MF - tripod. Ambient lighting. Nearlywhite table and wall were used as the background.

Country Countdown by Gabrielle Barr

-----------------------------------------/ Literature / Poetry -----------------------------------------Crazy was the word I felt my first affection the last refrain I heard those Saturday mornings when I fell for your twang and two-step. Only pieces of you in calico and heels flit in footage a faded love that has left me with a longing for that Tennessee Waltz and a realization that you never really belonged to me.

STYLE NEEDS NO COLOR

A collection of monochromatic artworks indicative of the principle that true style needs no color - that an artwork should be strong enough to stand alone without the distraction of colors. --------------------------------On the left (on the cover):

Ode to Meaning by Jean Fan

--------------------------------/ Photography / Portrait / Self-portrait --------------------------------Nikon D80 + 50mm F1.8 + IR remote + SB-600. Bounce lighting.

Venice In Ink by Angela Hu

--------------------------------/ Traditional Art / Drawing / Scene --------------------------------Venice canal rendered in micron pens

MONA

by Alexa Kwiatkoski

-----------------------------/ Literature / Prose ----------------------------- “I like a man who can tell me about 1965,” Mona said, smiling mischievously into her tea cup. She took a delicate sip and scrunched up her nose. She swallowed and selected two more cubes of sugar from the porcelain bowl in the center of the table. Across from her, Carol snorted. “He could probably tell you about 1955.” “Not really,” Mona considered the idea, “he was only a child.” “Yes, but the fact of the matter is he was alive in 1955. And when were you born again?” Carol asked pointedly. Mona just shrugged and took another dreamy sip of her tea. “Jesus Christ, Mona.” It was the middle of summer. The two girls were about to begin their junior year at Wellesley College. At the moment, they were in the Boston periphery, having tea at Mona’s parents’ house. It was an impressive colonial in Melrose, brick with four chimneys. It was mid-afternoon. Sunlight scattered around the room in muted colors as it came through the diamond-

shaped panes of stained glass in the kitchen windows. Mona sat facing these windows so she had a multi-colored pattern on her shoulder. A bit of royal blue crept up her neck and brushed the side of her cheek. She looked like the Virgin Mary in a Catholic Church window. All that was missing was the halo. Carol had a splash of red on the back of her head, casting a glow over her blonde hair. She was only mildly fond of tea—she usually preferred the kick of coffee. But Mona adored the drink. She loved to sit in the glow of a Sunday afternoon and sip daintily from a flowery cup. She would imagine she was an English lady in a poufy Victorian dress. Carol, who had none of these illusions, was nonetheless unperturbed to accommodate her friend’s fancies. “What are you thinking, Mona?” Carol persisted. “I just can’t look at a man under thirty. They’re still like children.” Mona replied, sighing. She tossed back her dark hair and it glimmered in the vibrant sunlight. Carol laughed. “Some are, yes. But how many college guys do you really know? We go to an all girls’ school. I mean, you’ve never actually had a boyfriend, have you?” Mona looked at her harshly. Her lack of actual life experience was a sore topic of conversation. Carol blushed. “Not that you couldn’t if you wanted to…” “I don’t think I want to talk about this anymore.” “Look, Mona, I’m sorry. You can tell me more about Michael if you want.” Mona drained the last of her tea. She looked intently at her friend for a moment before speaking. “He looks a little like Robert Redford.” “Robert Redford could really tell you about 1955.” In the light from the stained glass windows, Mona’s smile was dazzling. For a long moment, Carol couldn’t take her eyes from the glistening teeth and ruby lips. She had always been jealous of Mona’s face. It was a face that could accommodate all kinds of styles and fashions. Mona could easily be a fairy princess or a flapper from the twenties. Right then she seemed like a religious figure, a pale Our Lady of Guadalupe. “I know he could.” Mona said, laughing. * The next morning Mona showed up at her summer job wearing a shift dress and heavy eye makeup.

She was interning at a Boston newspaper, only a short commute from her home in the suburbs. At 9:30 she knocked on the door of Michael’s office. It was solid glass, clear but sturdy. She saw Michael through the door, sitting at his cluttered desk. He waved her in with a smile. “Good morning,” Mona said, sliding into the office. “I made coffee and I came to see if you want some.” “Oh great, thanks Mona.” Michael got up from his swiveling black chair and approached the young woman. She handed him a Styrofoam cup and he took a sip. Michael was in his later fifties. Like Robert Redford, he was blond, handsome, and a WASP. His hair retained much of its original color, but had faded to gray around the temples. His clothes were classic: a simple collared shirt and pants. “Perfect: sugar, no milk. You remembered.” “Of course.” Michael took the coffee back around to the other side of his desk and sat down. Mona stood in front of him, peering out of his ninth story window. She arranged her face to its best advantage and fluttered her thick eyelashes for Michael’s benefit. Drinking his coffee slowly, he looked at her. Michael laughed quietly, “Today you look like you stepped out of Swinging London of the mid-sixties.” “Oh, really?” Mona said nonchalantly. But inside she beamed; this was precisely the effect she had hoped for. “Yes, a spitting image.” Michael paused and took a big sip of his cooling coffee. “So how was your weekend? Did you do anything fun?” “Not much. I did some reading. Yesterday I drank tea and watched a movie with my friend from Wellesley.” Michael put down his Styrofoam and looked at her roguishly. “Didn’t you go out at all?” Mona shook her head, smiling demurely. “No bars, clubs, anything?” She laughed. “No, sorry I’m so boring.” “Come on, you’ve got to learn how to have more fun.” Michael teased. “You’re twenty-one, aren’t you?” “Almost.” She gave him her most luscious smile. “I’m still just twenty though. And I do know how to have fun, just not other people’s kind of fun.” Michael laughed. “Good, as long as you’re happy, Mona. You’re an interesting girl, you know.”

Mona did not reply but revived her coy smile. * That Friday at noon Carol went to visit Mona at her office. She pushed against the central revolving door and felt a rush of cool climate-controlled air as she spun into the lobby. This building was colder than the one she had come from and was a shock from the sweltering summer air. Carol had an internship nearby; she was doing research at MIT. Today she had made the journey to Mona’s building so they could meet for lunch. Mona had also insisted that Carol catch a glimpse of the legendary Michael, the man who looked like Robert Redford and wrote like Bob Woodward. (All the President’s Men was Mona’s new favorite film.) Carol walked briskly to her right to wait for the elevator. She stopped and stood next to a striking woman of about forty who greeted her with an elastic smile. Carol was usually wary of people who seemed to be friendly for no reason, but this time she grinned back before turning away to listen to the hum of the descending elevator. There was a quick “ding” and the elevator doors opened. Once inside, the older woman found herself next to the buttons and so asked warmly, “What floor, honey?” “Nine please.” “Oh, me too.” She laughed lightly and pressed the button. Carol smiled and tried not to cringe as the woman focused big shining eyes on her. There was a pause before the doors closed and the elevator began to rise. “You must be the new intern.” The woman said as the number “2” lit up. Before Carol could deny this, she continued energetically, “I’ve heard so many good things about you.” “Oh, well…” “I’m Bianca, Michael Harrison’s wife. You probably know him: he’s the managing editor on the ninth floor.” Carol was jolted into silence. She watched the numbers rise while Bianca Harrison waited expectantly for a response. “I’m actually not an intern here, my friend Mona is. We’re going out to lunch.” “Oh.” The woman shrugged, her smile still expanding. “Sorry. My mistake.” The light illuminated the number nine and the

doors opened again. Bianca was out first with a spring in her step, and Carol watched as she continued along her merry way. She wondered if Mona knew. She wondered if Michael’s marriage made any difference to her. Then she wondered if she was just being ridiculous. After all, as far as she knew Mona had not actually done anything, and neither had Michael. Carol was not sure if her friend was even capable of acting on her impossible infatuation. She sighed, stepped out of the elevator, and continued after Bianca toward Mona and her Michael. Carol felt a surge of fear as Bianca’s heels clicked in front of her, but she quelled it quickly. Like many things for Mona, all this might be nothing but a fantasy. Carol was still worried, though; she knew Mona’s fantasies could get very intense. Mona was waiting in the break room, sipping tea from Styrofoam. Today she was wearing a fannedout knee-length skirt with her hair piled high like Audrey Hepburn. When she saw Carol her eyes sparkled and her smile glimmered. She gestured to her drink. “I hate this Styrofoam crap, it’s so generic.” She said. “Maybe I should bring in my own teacup or at least a cute little mug.” Carol smiled weakly as Mona finished the last of her tea and tossed the cup in the trash. “Come on,” she said, taking Carol’s hand. “Let’s go see Michael.” Carol followed hesitantly as Mona led her down the hallway. She stopped when her friend halted and spun around gracefully. She looked as Mona pointed subtly through a glass door into a small office. Inside the cluttered room was a handsome man, clean-cut and well-dressed. He had an arm around the woman from the elevator and was talking in her ear. She was at least fifteen years his junior. “That’s him in there.” Mona whispered, biting her bottom lip with a small smile. “He’s with his wife, Bianca.” She paused as Carol stared. “I think she’s rather pretty, don’t you?” “Yes, she’s definitely striking.” Carol replied, her voice stern but subdued. Her eyes left Michael and Bianca to return to the sparkle in Mona’s. After a moment, Mona turned her head and gazed at the couple. “Well,” she sighed, “at least we know he likes younger women.”

The Abandoned Streetcar by Colleen Dorsey

--------------------------------------/ Literature / Poetry / Sonnet ---------------------------------------

The city has moved away and left a fossil on defunct tracks. It declares the past in silence like the gathered drying bones of an apostle, slumped in the sunlight. There is no defiance of death left in it. Spring has brought its taint of mustard pollen to steal the old luster from the plastic seats. The green and ivory paint peels down the wood, flakes and falls in clusters on the dash, on the warped labels, on cracked dials with rust-grimed metal rims and inert hands. The crippled wheels have borne their heavy miles to this warm woodsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; edge, this decay that spans a breezeless day. A white-eyed vireo sings somewhere, alive within the lifeless thing.

Lost and Found by Luma Samawi

--------------------/ Photography / Urban ---------------------

Barrels of Shiraz by Eric Luitweiler

---------------------/ Photography / Urban ----------------------

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by CHRISTINA WARNER

/ Literature / Prose / Fiction

DEAD THINGS

The body appeared sometime between late evening and early afternoon. Gina couldn’t be sure because she found herself pulling the drapes closed earlier and earlier each day. And it was well after her shabby excuses for curtains could no longer block out the sun that she finally woke up. But whenever it had appeared didn’t matter. It was there now and something had to be done about it. The gray feathers clumped together in a sickening way. The neck was bent in an angle that made Gina think of the twisted metal coat hangers in her closet. The thin legs were cracked and dry like the bottoms of one’s feet in the winter. And the eyes, vacant and glassy, were focused where Gina stood at the sliding glass door. The bird lay on the far side of the wooden patio that Jim had built for her, positioned at the foot of the yellow-cushioned patio swing. She had to move it. One couldn’t very well have a cook out on the porch with an animal rotting off to the side. In fact, if Jim were to come home right now, he wouldn’t be too pleased. After all, he would hardly be tempted to crush Gina in his arms and make love to her on the yellow-cushions of the swing with the dead eyes of the bird staring at him. While Jim hadn’t returned yet, she was sure he would be back soon. A barely closed suitcase was all he had taken with him and he couldn’t survive on six pairs of socks for the rest of his life. There were things he needed that were still at home. Gina walked inside to the kitchen. She hesitated at the cabinet under the sink. A black drawstring trash bag and rubber gloves would seem to be the easiest solution. But maybe the trash collection services had rules about how to dispose of road kill. Perhaps, like batteries, they were forbidden to dispose of in one’s driveway trashcan. Or maybe it was more along the lines of throwing a bunch of plastic water bottles in the trash: not forbidden, just frowned upon. She opened the cabinet anyway and, when pulling the bag out of the yellow cardboard box, her hand brushed the shoebox filled with Ajax and Windex. It looked like it was big enough for the body to fit in without having to twist the neck to an even more acute angle. If Gina could find a lid, she could put the bird in it and bury it. The life of the creature would be nestled in a Steve Madden box between the two oak trees in the backyard. It seemed more dignified than throwing it on top of last week’s pizza boxes only to end up in a landfill. Gina stepped in front of the kitchen window, leaning forward on her toes to get another look at the bird before she went to find a lid. Crouched on top of it, its wings outstretched slightly for balance was a vulture, the cruel beak picking at the part of the bird where the neck bent. She ran outside, the opening of the door causing the vulture take flight to the other end of the yard. It didn’t matter, though; the faster decay didn’t make it any less dead.

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Left: Harry Potter; Right: Blade; by Alp Yurter / Traditional Art / Drawing / Charcoal pencils and Faber-Castell graphite pencils.

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----------------------/ Photography / Animals -----------------------

AFTER A THOROUGHLY-CELEBRATED HOLIDAY BY BRITTANY LEUNG

Greensboro, North Carolina by Austin Tally

---------------------------------------------/ Literature / Poetry ---------------------------------------------He got sick as spring settled on the golden tendrils of the old garden. I only heard scattered news of the disease’s quick progression, but I do know that the cat wouldn’t go near his room as he lay in the dark with the blinds closed. Even now his name only comes up now and then – a football game he played, some soft-uttered sly wit and words slow-spoken under a lazy ceiling fan. I remember ferns, moss, condensation on glasses of iced tea, Texas hold ‘em and gifts of arrowheads, fossils, smooth pieces of striped rock that I hoarded with my small hands. Now, at his widow’s new house, things are quieter. And over tall glasses of beer we watch the cat in a slender heap on the floorboards. Moments before he passed, they say, she entered his room, sat calmly beside his bed, and would not move.

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THE BASEMENT BY VICKY PLESTIS

---------------------------------------------------/ Literature / Prose --------------------------------------------------- There was a man who lived downstairs in the basement, and at night, when he thought I was asleep, he’d come upstairs to filch some of the chocolate from the pantry. I always chose my chocolate with him in mind—the couverture kind in the tight blue foil; the French chocolate that smelled slightly of raspberry and stuck to your molars like the evening on my windowpanes; anything with a name I couldn’t pronounce. I wanted it be interesting. I imagine it wasn’t very exciting living in a basement. The old woman who sold me the house had warned me about him. “It’s a shame. It’s a shame is what it is, living like that,” she sighed, staring at the lopsided basement door with her little round eyes and puckered lips like uneven knitting. “You’re not going to get rid of him. He won’t go. Oh, but darling, you’ll barely notice him.” I rather liked his presence though, and every once in a while on those murky nights when sleep hung just over my head like faint music, I’d sit small on the top step of the staircase by my bedroom and listen to the sounds of his timid footsteps disturbing the silence. * My mother came to visit even though she should

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not have. She filled the house with the look in her eyes and I worried the walls would give way from the pressure. “It’s crooked,” she said, twisting the rings on her fingers. “What is?” I asked. “Your house. It’s crooked.” “There’s nothing wrong with it.” I said. The house did lean crooked. It was the foundations, the old owner told me. Over the years they sunk further and further, rooting into the earth like redwood trees, so that every room slanted downwards. “Nonsense,” my mother said. “Absolute nonsense.” She settled into a kitchen chair, her tiny feet dangling above the ground, smoke churning from the cigarette that balanced between her tired fingers. She squinted through the smoke as the ashes fell on the table. “Julie, living like this, all alone in this giant house--” She glanced over her shoulders and then whispered, “What if there was a murderer in here?” “There’s no murderer,” I said. “I lock the doors.” “But it’s so big. I can hear my own voice echo.” “I’m not alone,” I said, and I thought of the man

in the basement. She folded her arms across her chest like the mummies I’ve seen in my old history books. “Nonsense,” she finally said. “Just nonsense.” * That night I sat on the top step by my bedroom, my arms cuddling my legs, and I thought of the days receding into the horizon, darting quietly and effortlessly like the footsteps of fairies. I listened for the noise. I heard the man in the basement enter the kitchen; I heard the house creak under his weight; I heard the pantry door groan open and the foil tear. I wanted to know him then—I wanted to know his eyes, and what he got for his tenth birthday, and what kind of chocolate he liked best. I wanted to know all about the man in my basement. I think this is what people call love. “Excuse me,” I yelled, leaning forward. “Excuse me—that’s my chocolate you’re eating.” My toes began to twitch. “But you can have it if you want.” “Thank you,” he called from the kitchen. His voice was thick like custard. “What are you doing?” I asked. “I’m getting chocolate.”

“No. What are you doing here?” “I like this house, I guess,” he answered. I felt my stomach rise like a balloon into my throat. “Well, goodnight then,” I said and I heard him walk from the kitchen back down to the basement. * For a while I wanted to be a historian. The past well told is beautiful, and sometimes, reading Thucydides, all I wanted was to rip open that moment in time, jump in, and sew it back up. I wanted to sleep there, in Thucydides’ arms. But history does not stand still. It grows and stretches and gathers weight. You can’t stop it. I slept in that house for three years, three years, and yet the only movement I felt was the force of gravity against those crooked floors and I knew I would be forgotten in my quiet house, in my history, and I knew I would be forgotten. That night I thought of the man in the basement, how it had been three years and all I’d ever gotten were the wisps of his voice. And I was angry because I knew I deserved more.

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The next morning I went down the kitchen and stared at the chocolate in the pantry until I heard a sound from the next room. I thought it was the man in the basement. I would have kissed him right then, I would have kissed the life out of him, I would have stolen his breath and kept it in my lungs, feeling it scrape through my body every time I exhaled. I had moved a step closer when I recognized the voice of the old woman who sold me the house. “There’s a girl who lives in one of the rooms upstairs,” I heard her say from the next room. “But darling, don’t worry, you’ll barely notice her.” * I cried that day and, bundled in my history, I called my mother on the phone to ask her to tell me what to do. “Julie, dear, what are you talking about?” she said. “You’re speaking nonsense.” Hanging up the phone, I went to the kitchen and tapped on the basement door. “Hello?” he said. “Who is it?” “It’s Julie,” I said. “Who?” “I live here.” “Oh… hello,” he said. “Can you open the door?” I asked. There was a pause and then the doorknob jingled. He had warm brown skin like cocoa beans and, in that moment I saw his face, my breath cut short. I felt time suspended between the kitchen and the basement. I felt an importance in that doorframe. I twisted the bottom strands of my hair. I counted the seconds. “What’s your favorite kind of chocolate?” I asked. “What?” “You know. What chocolate do you like?” He frowned. “I don’t really like chocolate that much,” he said. “Why do you eat it then?” “Best thing you’ve got in there.” I looked at the wrinkles in my hand until I saw him start back down the stairs. “Wait,” I said, and he did. “I think someone else is moving in.” He shrugged and kept walking. “Doesn’t make a difference to me,” he said.

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I stared into the darkness. There was such warmth in that doorframe, a calmness that rested in my stomach like a man whistling in a hammock. * Last week he told me he was leaving. He had knocked on the basement door until I opened it, and then he told me. “That’s it,” he said, and he closed the door again. All I wanted was to be home, at my mother’s place. I wanted to hear her brassy voice tell me how stupid I was. I wanted something to hold on to. For the next couple of days I didn’t believe he was gone, but at night I couldn’t hear his footsteps, and so, on the third night, I sat outside the basement door. Each breeze made it hobble in the frame; each time it sounded as if it were sighing. He did not come. On the fourth night I opened the door and walked into the basement. All I could find were piles and piles of chocolate wrappers tucked into faded boxes and jars of peanut butter and the corners of the room. So many crumpled wrappers and a stillness that dug into the creases of my skin. I wanted to forget them all. I wanted to sleep in that moment. My bed, I thought could fit nicely down here. I sat there, inhaling the scent of old, bitter chocolate, and the emptiness struck me like a match being lit in the darkness.

stock photo courtesy of Witek Burkiewicz ar sxc.hu

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THE

ook

by Samuel Cook

---------------------------------------------/ Photography / Photojournalism ----------------------------------------------

Artist’s Comments: I feel that Baltimore is an extremely colorful city, both literally and in terms of the characters of its inhabitants. I wanted people to see the city from a different perspective, one that muted the array of colors while amplifying the amazing emotions that Baltimore constantly evokes. This photograph was labeled by an outside source as having a “gangster” feel to it, and I certainly agree with that description. Baltimore, to me, has always had the undertone of being a city used to mystery and dark characters, and I think I have successfully conveyed those feelings through my photo. I consider myself to be imperceptibly creative at times and I find that I can’t focus on one project for too long, so my portfolios usually demonstrate a broad range of topics/main focal points. Sometimes my particular style of taking photographs can lead to extremely abstract finished products, but I enjoy what I make (most of the time) and can only hope others do too.

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Thoroughfare loves artist’s comments so tell us about your piece! Just include a few words about your artwork along with your submission and they may appear in the next issue of Thoroughfare Magazine! All media may apply!

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click to watch 114

SP TLIGHT

A Film By Joshua Gleason stock image courtesy of Caroline Hoos at sxc.hu

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Winifred by Angela Hu

--------------------------------/ Traditional Art / Drawing / Still Life --------------------------------Pencil rendering

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Ovum I by Jean Fan

----------------------------------/ Photography / Still Life / Conceptual ----------------------------------Nikon D80 + 50mm F1.8 Nikkor. Quail eggs. Background is a white board.

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Ovum II by Jean Fan

----------------------------------/ Photography / Still Life / Conceptual ----------------------------------Nikon D80 + 50mm F1.8 Nikkor. Branch from a Crape Myrtle tree.

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fantastical creatures

--------------------------------------------------------------

1. Centaur; 2. Faun; 3. Merboy; 4. Water Imp; 5. Imp; by Ava Yap

-------------------------------------------------------------/ Traditional Art / Drawing / Fantasy -------------------------------------------------------------Pencil and paper. Part of my series of fantastical creatures. -------------------------------------------------------------Artist’s Comments: Art has always been my favorite hobby because it was so easy to do: All I needed was a pencil and paper and I could create something beautiful out of a white vacuum. The truth is, I never know where my drawings will take me. They are the result of the disordered muddle of thoughts scattered in my aimless daydreams. I can splatter my imagination over a page, and always be curious about what will blossom out of the mess. The main reason why I decided to do a fantasy series was because I could draw a LOT of anatomy. The human body is one of the most fascinating subjects to study. Our minds are hardwired so that we make many conclusions in the first few seconds of meeting someone new. For example, making the nose a fraction of an inch closer to the eyes will make the face appear younger. I don’t think it’s prejudice, I just think it is a shortcut way to organize the people around us. It’s totally a psychological thing. I wanted to play along this psychology to evoke a sense of human beauty which bled into anthropological mythical creatures. In essence, fantasy beings were glorified versions of humans, depicting strength, charm, and debonair at a level that transcends the ordinary world.

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stock graphic courtesy of Sharlene Jackson at sxc.hu

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HEAVEN ON THE HORIZON ----------------------------------------------------------

Qasim Hussaini

---------------------------------------------------------/ Music / Instrumental / Guitar ---------------------------------------------------------[click to listen]

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Man on His Boat by Coral J. Fung Shek ---------------/ Photography / Photojournalism ----------------

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WHEN WORDS FAIL BY KATE ORGERA ------------------------------------------------/ Literature / Prose ----------------------------------------------- I trudged up the concrete steps, my head in a dull daze despite the fact that I was going to my favorite place in the world. I hope this helps, I thought. If this won’t cheer me up a little, nothing will. I readjusted my large, round glasses with a single hand before pushing the red double doors open, a familiar chime announcing my entrance. The cozy library’s calm, quiet presence comforted me a little. I looked left towards the information desk, smiling slightly as I saw Ms. Alden sitting behind it. I admired Ms. Alden. She wasn’t a stereotypically strict librarian; she always greeted people with a warm smile, didn’t mind a little hushed conversation in the library, and gave me great reading suggestions. As I approached Ms. Alden, I noticed that, though she wore her usual bright red, cat’s eye glasses, and her medium-length, ash blonde hair swept the same as always, she seemed older. Instead of her usual brightly colored blouses, she wore a long, black sweater over a plain, dark green shirt. The roots of her hair shimmered a pale gray, and the lines on her face seemed more pronounced as she frowned at whatever she was looking at. “Ms. Alden?” I said quietly, pushing my glasses up my nose. “Ms. Alden?” She looked up, startled. “Oh, Cadie!” she said, a slight western lilt in her voice. “Sorry, I was....” She trailed off, then gave a faltering smile and asked, “How are you, dearie?” I glanced down at my scuffed mary janes. “I’m okay, I guess.” I looked back up at her, combing a strand of chesnut hair behind my ear. “I was, uh, wondering if the new Tamora Pierce book had come in yet – Shatterglass?” She tapped her fingers on the desk. “Hm...y’know, I’m not sure.” She looked up at me. “Have you … have you seen Carrie yet? Since the accident, I mean?” I felt a rush of heat flood my cheeks and I stared back down at my mary janes. “Uh...well, yes. But, that was a few days ago, and she was still unconscious. She’s, uh, left since then, but my parents figured we

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should let her settle at her grandma’s first...” I trailed off, unsure of what to say, which, I thought with a frown, seemed to be happening a lot lately. Sure, I’m not exactly a chatterbox around most people, but when I do talk I want to say something that counts. Ms. Alden tilted her head. “I s’pose you’re going to the wake and funeral for her parents?” “Well, I’m going to the wake for a bit.” I fidgeted under her gaze, shifting my weight from one foot to the other. Not that I have any idea what to say to Carrie when I get there. “The funeral...I’m not so sure.” I don’t belong there. I didn’t lose anyone. Mr. and Mrs. Baker were nice and all, but I barely knew them. Out of politeness, I added, “I could tell you where they are being held.” I knew Ms. Alden was fond of Carrie, who came to the library nearly as often as I did. Perhaps that’s why she looks so down. “No need, dearie, I already know,” she said. “Why don’t I help you find that book now?” “That’s okay,” I said quickly, not wanting to bother her. “If it’s in, I’m sure I can find it.” She stood up abruptly, making me step back. “I insist,” she said, her smile not so much warm as forceful. I realized then that she wasn’t going to accept any refusal. Ms. Alden quickly grabbed something– it seemed to be a square of paper – off her desk, and slipped it into her pocket, then walked briskly past me. I followed. Ms. Alden stopped walking when we reached the juvenile fiction section. After quickly scanning the shelves and grabbing a green hardcover book, she turned to me, holding the book against her chest, and took a deep breath. “Cadence,” she began slowly, “Y’know, your friendship with Carrie reminds me of a friendship I... had not too long ago.” A shiver went down my spine at the use of past tense. Oh no. I don’t want to talk about this. “Ms. Alden – ” I tried to say. Ms. Alden shushed me. “Please dear, just listen. Now, she and I had known each other a very long time, since we were about your age. About five years ago, she lost her little sister and her brother-in-law. And then, about a year later, she lost her dad. Now, I had never lost anyone that close to me before. Still haven’t. So, what could I possibly say to her, I thought? I was scared stiff, scared that I would say something

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wrong or that I wouldn’t be able to help her. I knew she needed me, but I felt absolutely helpless.” She glanced at me over the rims of her glasses, and, very softly, said, “I have a hunch you know exactly how I felt.” Oh God... My heart ached in agreement. Now, I actually didn’t want to say anything. “No, Ms. Alden,” I said, edging towards the aisle so I could make a quick gettaway. “I – I’m okay, really...” Ms. Alden glared at me, hard, for the first time ever. “Cadence, I’m doing this for your benefit. I don’t like talking about these things anymore than you do.” Her glare pinned me to the spot. I wasn’t leaving until I said something. I wanted to cry. I wanted to scream. I wanted to disappear on the spot. But, instead, I spoke. “I don’t know what to do,” I said, my voice trembling. “She – she’s my best friend. I want to help, I should be able to. I was able to cheer her up when she got a bad test grade, or when she was teased by the boys in our class.” I clenched my fists, the feeling in my chest burning now. I had to take a few deep breaths to calm down. “I hate this. All of this.” She laid a warm hand on my shoulder. “I know. When it happened to my friend, it was... difficult for me to be around her, I’ll admit. Losing her family on top of the stress of raising two young children, well... she was a wreck. And she was a grown woman. For an elevenyear-old to lose her parents...” She shook her head. “I can’t even imagine.” I shivered. I couldn’t bear to think of my cheerful friend so miserable like that. “She’s in pain right now, and she’s going to be that way for a very long time,” she said. “There are no words that can soothe this. And I’m a librarian, so when I say it I mean it.” She sighed heavily. But, then, she smiled. “But, you don’t need any special words. In fact, saying nothing is better than saying anything. You already have what you need.” She stuck her hand in her pocket. “Maybe this will help.” She handed the square to me. It was an old photograph of two preteen girls, a little older than me. They stood, grinning, with their arms around each other. One of them was a young Ms. Alden, with glasses larger and bulkier than the ones I wore, her hair in a short bobcut. Her, I wasn’t surprised to see. It was the other girl, slightly taller and lankier than her friend, with long, thin strawberry-blonde

WHEN WORDS FAIL WHEN WORDS FAI HEN WORDS FAIL WHEN WOR

hair and freckles, that made me start. I knew that face, that smile, those freckles... Carrie’s mother. Carrie’s dead mother. I stared back up at Ms. Alden, barely breathing. “Ms. Alden! I – I didn’t know– ” She closed her eyes and shushed me. “It’s fine, don’t say anything. Just, think.” I stared back down at the photograph. It was one of those horrible moments where the answer is lying right beyond reach just when you need it most, and you’re begging it to strike you like a bolt of lightning... And instead, it settles into the mind and sinks into the body, like a ray of sunshine. I felt a smile bloom on my lips; small, but a smile nonetheless. I looked up at the librarian, whose smile mirrored my own. “Ms. Alden,” I said, handing the photo back, “Will I see you at the funeral?’ Ms. Alden nodded, then handed me my book. “You can count on it.”

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White Pencil Glass Study by Angela Hu

--------------------------------/ Traditional Art / Drawing / Still Life ---------------------------------

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ALL THE KINGâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;S MEN BY ANNA GILMOUR ---------------------------------------------------------/ Literature / Poetry ----------------------------------------------------------

We wake to the first rays of dewy light filtering through curtains. Our bodies are twined into a circle of sweaty limbs over a snowdrift of wrinkled sheets shadowed and stained by our losses, too yellow. You find your legs and rise to fix us omelets. I push up the sleeves of my goldenrod nightdress, place my hands over my stomach, feel nothing but a small swell and nothing to show for it. You wear white too bright in morning. Jagged mountains crack our picture window into two: a yellow mass peeks over the peaks and ranges, splits the picture into dark and light. I watch you from the living room, the way you take each cell from the carton, hold it to pale light. Each flaw shines through. Everything becomes bright. I remember a morning nine months before this, the same in light and color and so different in feeling. I sit still and watch you choose an egg to break, a shell to crack. Falling down to the harsh metal tin like gravity in your attack: becoming somehow more perfect and more perfect as the edge grows nearer, nearly balancing-and fragile, shattered in an instant. Did it come out already scrambled, scrambled like our last? I think of the tiny pulse beating to a still and feel sickness stirring. The sun cooks high in the sky, sharp horizon melting in the light. The eggs are well-mixed on the skillet. I pull the blinds and dress in black for mourning.

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Presidentâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Garden by Kimia Ganjaei

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HistorybyAlessandraBautze/Literature/Poetry 134

People were getting shot in the streets. But it’s been ten years since The Agreement so she pushes History out of her head. Instead she curls up next to him (her Lithuanian boyfriend) on the sofa in a Belfast flat. Phrasebook in hand, the first words from his mouth are tiocfaidh ár lá. She presses one delicate finger against his lips, whispering, ‘Be careful.’ He wants to respond but she would never listen. She turns away from him. People were getting shot in the streets. And she shoves History out of her head. His Doc Martens are strewn on the floor. Her white peasant top is thrown atop them. She nestles up to him, resting against the crook of his arm. Silence. An agreement on both sides. (She wonders when their day will come.) She closes her eyes. He breathes in once. They are tense and tired. The night is still. Quiet. His chest heaves as she sighs and outside there are no gunshots. Tonight, at least, there are only crickets, and the rhythmic breathing of two teenagers, asleep. They’ve pushed History out of their heads. -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------Artist’s Comments: The Agreement - The Belfast Agreement, also known as the Good Friday Agreement of 1998, a major development in the Northern Ireland peace process tiocfaidh ár lá - Irish Gaelic, translated as “Our day will come.” Popularized in the 1980s and associated with Irish Nationalists, who desire a united Ireland.

Bricks and Stones by Luma Sawami

---------------------/ Photography / Urban ----------------------

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Kaliayev by Jean Fan

----------------------------------/ Photography / Portrait ----------------------------------Nikon D80 + Manual Focus + Timer

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Ouch by Karla Hernandez

----------------------------------/ Photography / Still Life / Conceptual ----------------------------------NIKON D3000 - exp. 1/4 - f/7.1 50mm - ISO 100 - MF - tripod

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Through All-Colored Glasses by Luma Samawi

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LOSS OF CLARITY A FILM BY JOSHUA GLEASON

stock image courtesy of Konrado Fedorczyko at sxc.hu

CLICK TO WATCH

stock image courtesy of Mark Normand at sxc.hu

Arrivals & Departures by Angela Hu

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------/ Literature / Prose ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- My mother always discussed my birth with a troubling sort of humor, first lamenting that I had decide to kick around in her womb for an extra week, just to be purposefully late for mother’s day, then commenting in a nonchalant tone, which stood at odds with her usual pattern of speech, that because she and my father opted for my gender to be a surprise, were tragically unprepared with any female names, and named me “Ruby” after the ginger-haired nurse who delivered me, and the reminder her hair color brought of stories their parents before them had told. “In feudal times, wealthy landowners could afford wild excesses,” Grandmother Song almost fondly recalled, “they laid ruby in the foundations of their houses, for good luck and stability.” She herself boasted of coming from a wealthy background, as the daughter of a prominent businessman in the trade of salt. She was the first out of her class to have ridden in a car. Having never learned to drive, and then marrying my grandfather, who was an engineer from a pure class background (poor peasant), she was destined for the life of a housewife, and bicycle rides to and from town. Grandmother Song lived intermittently with my mother or with her son, my uncle, in the states, carrying around her annual astrological books and charts. Hearing about the choice of my name, she clapped her hands together and spouted nonsense words about how rubies symbolize love, healing, inspiration, and happiness, and how it was an excellent choice in name. (So I can only conclude that my mother had never mentioned to her offhand, on car rides back and forth from violin lessons, the last minute and spontaneous “choice” of my name.) It’s different in Chinese though, in both pronunciation and actual meaning. It’s a name which I find hard to introduce myself with to my parent’s friends at their dinner parties, or to my Chinese language class for the last

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two years I was enrolled, before we decided that attempting to learn Chinese was a waste of time and money. My Chinese name is Caihong, which looks innocent enough unless you know the translation. The literal translation is rainbow. I suppose I can see their train of thought. Ruby and rainbow, to any non-native English speaker, were not so far removed. They both started with “r” and they were both colorful, and any mention of nuance or connotation was beyond their grasp and their vocabulary. It’s not an easy name to bear in a family where everyone else has normal names, including my younger brother, whose name (Jingshen) well, I don’t know what it means since I dropped out of Chinese classes, but it’s perfectly harmless. Hong is also the Chinese word for red, which means there is some tie to ruby, which is literally translated as red gemstone, or hong bao shi. I tell Chinese moms, dads and their kids to call me Xiaohong, if they must stick to the Chinese, because xiao simply means little, but is a common way (besides saying the word twice, like my cousin: Yinyin) of making a nickname. For that reason, I ignore that in translation, they refer to me as “Little Red.” It’s not so bad only because the name is more popular than one might imagine. I was short and chronically overweight for the first two years of my life, unlike my brother, whose birth was discussed in reverent and profound tones because he had been born five weeks early, and came with a guaranteed name that would fit his gender. No humor or nonchalant hand waves, because my mother and father had been scared as they rushed to the hospital that they would not be able to use the name at all. Besides the annual visit to the pediatrician that may or may not be skipped altogether, these were the two times I had seen the inside of a hospital until many years later. My grandfather and grandmother brought me with them later to the hospital, so I remember only the second visit, and from what I remember as a five years old, it was incredibly boring. * Ruby looks up from the pages of her journal, marveling at her capacity to ramble on about herself. How long ago was this? Thumbing through the bound leather notebook, she finds the next few pages whirl by in the same fashion of slanted ink scratches, then the rolodex motion of the pages turns white. She must not have been able to continue writing for any sustained period of time. Her counselor from high school left her that notebook recently, chastising her in jest that she never seemed to come through on any of her assignments. “Oh, I remember then,” Ruby had said quietly. The journal had been a gift from Mrs. Bell in an effort to have Ruby write about her family. Perhaps she may have been better off seeking answers from transcripts and IEDs, detailing each transfer in school district, than from getting words out of a stone. Or she might have needed to specify for Ruby to write about her present day family life, eight years ago. Ruby sighs, setting the book aside. In the years that have passed since graduation, Ruby has stuck physically close to home, but has been farther away emotionally than ever before. She is now a nurse, specializing in RadOnc, the youngest nurse in her specialty, working at the nearby Westwood Montgomery Hospital. A lanky, pock-faced teen drops a folder of discharge forms in the busy hall of the third floor oncology wing, jarring her from her infectious memories. Westwood Montgomery, like any other hospital, suffers a perennial summer influx of high school volunteers and would be pre-meds running errands, or rather, running into everyone’s way for the sake of their precious curriculum vitas. “I don’t see why human resources insists on having volunteers deliver CT scans when they don’t know how to find their way out of the cafeteria,” a fellow nurse comments. Chrysanthia Parker, known only as Parker, comes down from the maternity ward from time to time to see that Ruby eats lunch as scheduled, instead of eating out from vending machines, and remembers to clock out after her shifts, rather than make rounds for sleeping patients and linger at their door. “Aren’t you picking up that friend from the airport this week? What was that bird’s name? Raven? No, hmm, maybe Robin?” Ruby’s eyes widen. “Magpie. I call her Magpie.” “Call her vulture instead. Can’t she find someone else to give her a lift after all these years? You deserve to

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be treated better.” “Thanks, Parker. Hopefully I won’t be late.” “Great. You didn’t hear a word I--” but she is interrupted by a swift peck on the cheek as Ruby, in a few fluid movements, sets aside the charts she had been reading, gets up, and grabs her lanyard and her book before rushing off to the locker rooms. “Hey!” she yells, with her cheeks flushed. She follows Ruby down the hall, leaping over the forms that the pock-faced teen, now sweating, hurries to clean. “Hey, Ruby. Tell her you’re busy. Come grab Panera’s with me.” Parker hangs onto the door frame, and leans in almost expectantly. “She can’t expect you to be there when she doesn’t even bother to stay in touch. Sure, you’ve done it before, but she’s starting to act like it’s your job to chauffeur her around.” Ruby opens her mouth then closes it, hurriedly grabbing her backpack and looping her car keys around her thumb. “Hey, I’d love to stay and chat, but I can’t back out now. We can get Panera’s on Monday.” “I won’t forget,” Parker answers, “about your patient who died this week. If that’s what you’re trying to do by pushing it off.” “I’m not, I swear.” “Are you all right?” Ruby’s eyes look up for a brief second, the flash of light in her eyes is mercurial, and the edges of her lips pull in different directions, trembling as she says, “I’m fine.” * “Mrs. Bell! What a surprise seeing you here after all these years,” I said, clutching my bag of salted almonds from the snack line. She looks a little lost in the cafeteria, and a little worn under, but I make no mention of it. “Hi, Ruby. Look at you, in uniform. How are you?” “I’m fine. What are you doing here? Paying someone a visit?” I briefly reconsider my phrasing when I see up close just how pale she is, almost translucent. She shoots me a poor excuse for a smile. “My husband is here for chemo.” “Oh,” I say, dropping all hints of peppiness from the usual lilt of polite chatter, “I’m sorry. I work in oncology; I can see which nurse he has and do what I can to make sure he’s taken care of.” It was only a week ago, but I forget how she responds, only that she told me it wasn’t going so well, he had a very low prognosis, and added something to the line of, “you know how it is.” I stood in for his nurse, administered his chemo (Cytoxan, adriamycin, VP-16) and made sure he took his prednisone. For the last few months he was completely bedridden and Mrs. Bell visited nearly every day. In the winters, she sometimes came earlier than I did, dressed in a long black coat that looked like Death itself had wrapped itself around her. * Two ad screens sit atop the # 8 baggage claim carousel, one displaying the incoming flight numbers for the baggage now churned out onto the conveyor belt, and the other proclaiming, “When One Suffers, We All Suffer” before quickly flashing to “Cymbalta Can Help,” ask your doctor, so on and so forth. She stands before them in her Alice blue scrubs, eyes glazed over, fully consumed by the way her past followed her like a shadow. Duloxetine, Ruby thinks after a few more minutes. A serotonin norepinephrine re-uptake inhibitor for the treatment of depression, anxiety disorders, diabetic nerve pain, and fibromyalgia. Scanning the baggage claims area, she spots a boy in denim shorts and Teen Titans sandals sitting down on the conveyor belt with a pleased smile. His mother holds his jacket, though this June is hitting record highs, while nagging loudly enough for everyone to hear, “Brandon, you get off there right now.” Her phone rings, and she picks up, saying “Hi, Maggie,” without looking at the screen. Her brother’s voice greets her and she distinctly feels a shudder run down between her shoulder blades, as though his voice were a ghost. “You should call dad. He’s too proud to say how much he misses you, but you can tell.”

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“He called grandma once a week until the day she passed away, and he can’t bother to dial a few different numbers once a year or so?” “Silly. He expects you to be the one calling him once a week. He never waited for grandma to call after all. And he’s got a point. Just both of you apologize to each other, and then come home, okay?” he says. “All right,” Ruby answers, but it’s a promise that she’s made before, and her brother hangs up without bothering to persuade her any further. * My mother loved to take me shopping. Not just shopping for clothes, but shopping for groceries too, and it might sound silly, but a Chinese supermarket is a place you will never forget about, even if you try. It doesn’t matter what state or which Chinatown you go to, or even you go to one in China, but at the very least all the seafood sections are identical: yellow fly tape and wet floors above and below you, drab-colored fish in huge open tanks, frogs in the same tanks, just without water, and glistening dead fish laid out atop a mountain of ice, sitting in old Styrofoam boxes with their eyes melting out of their sockets. And I remember being really happy about learning about something related to crab baskets in psychology, and telling my mother about it as we passed the tubs of crabs, each scrambling to get out, but never getting far, as the efforts of each crab relied on pulling down on the legs of the identical, small blue-gray crab above it. “That one,” my mother pointed at a crab at the bottom of the pile, tugging furiously on a crab hanging above it, “is my first husband.” I couldn’t believe what I heard and questioned her in a state of shock. “You married someone before dad? Isn’t that unheard of in China? Wouldn’t Grandma Song object?” She laughed and told me that her first husband had sabotaged her several applications to study overseas, because of the strict laws that limited who could have access to what. “I was already getting my Masters, which is quite fortunate, so the rationale was that the open spot should go to an undergraduate student, in order to spread the wealth.” I muttered something cruel about communism and then asked, “So why’d you marry dad? You guys fight all the time.” She jabbed a finger against my forehead, “Nosy girl. I married your dad out of love. It’s not my fault he doesn’t like to do chores.” Then on the car ride back home, I remember the expression on her face just from her profile alone, backlit from the overcast skies outside the window. She said, “Your father is a man who is more than what you see in the surface. My first husband couldn’t stand that I was ambitious about coming to the United States, and more successful at my job. Your father has no such insecurities. Have you ever heard him complain about working from eight to five each day, when I work less hours and still make as much as he does? No. Your father is content to just...live happily. I don’t understand it myself sometimes, but he is the type of person who seems pragmatic and cold on the surface, but is very loving and self-sacrificing once you understand him. Don’t you ever tell him I said that. He’d never let me live it down.” The light in her hair framed her smile in such a way that I honestly could remember no other time when she had been so radiant. And for some time after that, I recalled that image of her on a dressed-down lazy Sunday to comfort myself through all the worst stages of her battle with cancer. * When Ruby first arrives at Westwood Montgomery with a few other first year graduates, she finds it hard to keep her history with the institution a secret. “I swear, all the doctors and the head nurse of oncology has a sweet spot for you. What’s your secret?” Parker asks her over lunch. “I’m Parker, by the way.” “Hi, Parker, I’m --” “Ruby Feng. Yeah, I know. You’re a popular one. All that dark and mysterious business must work as a trope for girls too.” In Parker’s smile, Ruby thinks she sees something she hasn’t seen in a while, and allows the fellow

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nurse in Tigger and Roo scrubs and a crazy nest of hair to pull up a seat to her single table along the walls of the cafeteria. Recalling her mother’s usual tone of voice, Ruby says matter-of-factly, “My mother came to this hospital for nearly a whole year for chemo. I visited her a lot so everyone in that department remembers me, even after all these years.” “Oh, god. Cancer? I don’t think I could deal with that; I’ve had my heart set on peds from the start,” Parker shoots off, fully capable of carrying a conversation on her own, before she remembers and adds, “I’m sorry to hear about that though. It must have been tough for you. How’s your mom doing now?” Ruby swallows a bite of her sandwich. “She’s dead.” * Looking back, I couldn’t believe how much a routine check-up could have spiraled out of control. I drove to the hospital most days after school, but, afterwards, I stopped caring about school, and my body still seemed programed to go visit the hospital, as if she might be waiting there, and maybe it would be a good day, and maybe she could talk to me for hours, the way people talk when they know they don’t have much time left to clear out everything that they ever wanted to say. So I did. I kept driving there, just to stand outside the room, until the doctors grew worried that I might be scaring the patients who didn’t have it as bad as she did. I wasn’t, of course, they liked me fine, and I was asked for directions around the various wings so often, that some part of me had started working and belonging to Westwood Montgomery long before graduating from nursing school. The trouble was that damned psych evaluation before they gave me the job. I met with doctors who had seen me at my worst, younger, sobbing my eyes out, and deaf to all reason, and sat politely as they questioned me about how I was coping with my mother’s death. Then asked what I’d do with DNR patients, how I would handle having a breast cancer patient die on my watch, and how I might approach the grieving families if treatment failed. “Well, I think I’d be uniquely qualified to handle what the patient’s family members might throw my way. Dr. Snell, you can rest assured, I’d be professional.” The doctor pushed up his glasses and exhaled a sigh of relief. Told me he was glad to hear it, and then asked if I had dinner plans that weekend. * “Why don’t you tell me why you’ve been missing school, Ms. Feng?” “It’s fairly obvious.” “Well, beyond the obvious then?” “...” “Have you been writing in that journal I gave you?” “...” “All right then. How is the college search coming?” “You’ve got to be kidding me.” “No, I absolutely am not. You should have a list by now. You were the valedictorian of your class, and with your GPA prior to the, well, of course, you have every chance of going to Yale, or Princeton, or --” “Save your breath. I’m not looking at Ivies. No matter how much of a bonus you counselors would get for that.” “Ms. Feng, that’s besides the point. I’m just looking out for your future after graduation. Do you have any plans? Any majors you’d like to pursue?” “I just want to stay in a hospital.” “Good. So medicine. I can give you a list of schools with excellent pre-med programs.” “So I can wait a decade before I do anything meaningful?”

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“We could look into six year programs.” “No.” “What would your mother and father think?” “Don’t. Patronize me.” “All right then. What about nursing?” “...” “I have a few brochures for nursing schools. I’ll see you next Wednesday, Ms. Feng.” * Ruby spends an hour waiting at the airport, before paying more attention to the gigantic screen boards, which, she realizes too late, tell her that her friend’s flight arrived twenty minutes early and had finished unloading. Her hands reach down to her bag to feel for her phone, but her movements freeze to a halt, as a woman in a far off crowd reminds her very strongly of her mother, and another’s voice sounds like the polished and evenly toned voice of her high school guidance counselor. The memories attack her in waves, and before she can call her friend, she forgets where she is standing, and forgets what she had been meaning to do. * When Mr. Bell died, I finally started talking to Mrs. Bell, like I was paying back for several sessions of questions that never went answered. I sat next to her, handed her an espresso, and just started to talk, as though I had seen her every day of my life for the past few years. “You know. I had dreams back then, so mundane and commonplace that I could have sworn they were real, and I’d start to believe that she was still alive, that nothing had changed. And then I’d wake up, and it’d be like real life was some horrible nightmare.” I traced the rim of my own espresso cup, tapping the sides, and telling myself that she’d understand it now. “And rather than just deal with it, I found myself forgetting, so long as I followed my usual schedule, and I’d forget that it ever happened as I rushed to a class. Then I’d sit there, and maybe during a lull, I’d remember, and each time it would feel just as fresh as though it happened just yesterday. And I started to get a reputation for crying in classes, and, well, knowing me, no one but my closest friend knew why. They’d think I was going mental, and the teachers worried, and probably told you.” I looked at her out of he corner of my eyes and saw that she was staring down into her lap, nodding and sighing. “And it was the worst feeling, to know that when people talked to you, they only thought of the one thing, as if that alone defined who I was as a person. And if I denied anything, they’d just pity me. So you once asked me why I stopped going to classes.” She looked at me now, the look of someone who had recently been hollowed out and was trying to put all the pieces back together, back inside. “It was just easier,” I admitted. “It’s not a hard reason to figure actually. I was just too raw, too linked to how she was. If she was in a good day, I had a great day, but if she was hurting, I’d hurt all the more.” “Why are you telling me all this now, instead of all those years ago?” “Because I had been seventeen, stupid, and thought it’d be better to just stay home, avoid people, listen to loud music, and feel ways about things.” I get a small laugh out of her, which is enough, I decided. The next day, she came back to give me the old journal, saying, “Ruby Feng cannot live down a reputation of not completing an assignment. Maybe you can finally write in here what you couldn’t say aloud.” I considered saying thank you, but couldn’t find the words, ironically. My mind already began to wander back over the years. * The first time Ruby picks up Magpie, (her name for Maggie short for Magdalena), she is finishing her spring semester abroad in London and the two hug, cry, and marvel at how each has changed. “You already have a job! When I graduate--” “From Princeton.”

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“--I plan to professionally starve to death.” The two laugh, head to Lancer’s diner for late night waffles. Magpie is the only one who knew that Ruby’s last two years of high school was a form of daily torture. She is the only one from school who went to the funeral. She knows other people better than she knows Ruby, Ruby knows this, but that’s only because Ruby’s family had moved so often, forever improving their station in life, and representing that change in a bigger house, a better neighborhood. The second time she returns from Osaka, the third from Prague, the fourth from Paris, and now, she will be returning from Seoul. Each time her hair is a little different, her experiences more broad, the people she’s met each more brilliant and dazzling than the next, and all of them more young and energetic compared to her, where her age becomes, not the number of anniversaries, but the number of families she’d seen through the halls of the third floor oncology wing. When Magpie asks about what’s changed, Ruby can’t find much. Her job is the same. She hasn’t talked to her dad. Her brother calls her every month, and boyfriends. Ha. Doctors, married men whom she refuses. Then the men at bars who can’t seem to see past her raven hair and almond eyes, and when, peel her back to see that she is damaged goods, instantly grow bored of the girl who can’t seem to put away her grief for her mother. So she talks about condos and new TV shows, while Maggie talks about giving lectures and meeting famous writers. Magpie isn’t a bad friend, Ruby realizes. The bird has simply flown. She could have followed. She could have gone to a college, gone to college counselors, and skipped classes just as she’d done for high school. The thought scares and enthralls her. * Grandmother Song moves in with Uncle after the funeral service. I don’t blame her. The depressing atmosphere in the hollowed out house ages her too rapidly, as if the guilt of outliving her daughter weren’t enough. My brother can’t sleep, so I hug him close and read him the stories she once would have. Then, later, when I can’t sleep, I wander down to the study to see that my father has he same problem. I had been so angry at the time, I wouldn’t talk to him unless absolutely necessary. I was angry at him for the most ridiculous reasons, for taking leave from work, (not realizing how much he needed to work now, with her gone) and I hated that I had yet to see the man cry, and I hated that he called my other grandmother once a week, just as he always did, as if there was no gaping hole to his life. But he was angry with me too, for skipping class, for letting my grades slip, and for not looking into colleges, so I was fine. I only remember that one night, walking down the stairs, I heard the clinking of glass. My father drank socially, so to see him alone, I was too surprised to say much, even though it was the first time I honestly wanted to. The look on his face, the long shadows, and eerie yellow light from the study threw me into opposite memories of my mother’s smile, shining against a pale, liminal sky. “You,” he said to me instead. “Should say a few words for her.” My mind hadn’t begun to consider the funeral, which would be my first. I thought of mainland historical dramas, and funeral pyres, burning incense, and platters of stacked peaches, wads of money for the dead, and portraits framed in white sashes, the official color of mourning. And my memory is unreliable, I realize now, but I am certain that even in my surprise and momentary warmth towards my hardworking and reticent father...I am certain that I said, “You should too,” before taking the stairs back up to throw myself into sleep and dreams. * My mother was an exceptional woman. My mother had a large heart. My mother was tough; she swam the Yangtze river when she was 12. We all knew she would be tough for this as well. My mother was an exceptional woman. My mother joked that I had personally kicked around for an extra week just to miss being born on Mother’s Day. I’m sure it wasn’t purposeful. Had I only known that I was overdue, that it was making her sad and worried, I would have hurried up. Had she only said, had she only told me...anything for her, I would have done anything for her.

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My mother had a large heart but it just wasn’t strong enough. My mother left us too soon. What are we going to do? What am I going to do? Ruby scratches out every word she writes, walking up in front of the crowd, introduces herself as her mother’s daughter, as Rainbow, for the first time in years, and she pulls out the mammogram form, pretends that she has a speech ready, and just talks until her tears fall, until the audience falls away, and then she talks all over again, switching over to Chinese. Afterwards, Maggie hugs her, and tells her that, if Ruby didn’t want to, she would stay behind on prom night for the two of the to simply talk. It’s a little ways in the future, but Ruby tells her not to anyway. No need to stop her momentum, just because hers had been stunted. * I remember to call Magpie after standing still for a moment, considering my brother’s most recent call. She picks up. “Oh, Ruby. I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you.” “What is it?” “I just figured when you were late, that you wouldn’t show. I know it’s been a while, and you’re busy all the time, and it was a weekday after all.” “I’ll always have time for you, Magpie.” “I’m already in the taxi. We can do Lancer’s this weekend though?” “Sure,” I say. A noncommittal reply, because Lancer’s proffered in that way over the phone strikes me now as portentous --as though it would be an inconvenience for either of us to remain in each other’s lives. I head back to the car feeling a bit silly, dressed in my crocs and scrubs and leaving the baggage claim with no baggage and no friend. Sitting down, I see the brown journal lying on the floor of the passenger seat. Funny, I thought I had put that in my backpack. I reach for it to throw it into the glove department, but it’s too large. It no longer fits into the messy and overfilling glove box. I set it on the passenger’s seat instead and stare at it for a few moments. I then reach for my cell phone and dial the numbers I can’t forget even if I tried. On the other line, my father’s weary and resonant voice answers, “Wei?” “Wei, ba? Wo hao xiang ni la.” I miss you, dad. “Ni yao hui ja la ba, Caihong?” No hesitation, just: Come home, Rainbow. “Ei,” I say in agreement, brows creasing. I want to go home. Sitting in the parking lot, I see the sun begin to set. As it melts into the horizon, it casts a rosy hue on the metallic rows of cars. I hear the sounds of planes soaring away, and see their silhouettes from out my window; shrinking far away into some mass of clouds where, try as I might, my eyes cannot follow.

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