Thoroughfare Fall 2012 by Thoroughfare Magazine

L@GJGM?@>9J= why colors are better

>9DD *()*

FEATURED SECTION: p30 Stereo Photography Andy Vargas-Delman FEATURED FILM: p42 Country Bear Hannah Ingersoll

KL9>> E=E:=JK =P=;MLAN= :G9J< President:

Isaac Brooks

Vice President:

Lay Kodama

Secretary:

Jane Wang

Treasurer:

Ryan Bender

Publicity Chairs:

Alessandra Bautze Georgina Edionseri

Webmaster:

Rachel Louie

Poetry:

Katherine Quinn

Prose:

Alessandra Bautze Vicky Plestis

Visual Arts:

Georgina Edionseri Jose Nino

Layout:

Lay Kodama Carolyn Tsai

Interested in joining the Thoroughfare staff? Just send an email to Thoroughfare Magazine at thoroughfare.mag@gmail.com and request an application. No experience is necessary. 2

Editors-in-Chief:

Isaac Brooks Lay Kodama

Poetry:

Katherine Quinn (head editor) Annie Cho Laura Ewen Rachel Ewen Hannah Ingersoll Constance Kaita Alexa Kwiatkoski Christina Luk Andrea Michalowski Kiran Parasher

Prose:

Alessandra Bautze (coeditor) Vicky Plestis (coeditor) Kathryn Alsman Jesse Chen Jessica Cohen Hilary Jackson Ran Liu Lucy Miao Katie Naymon Florence Noorinejad Ruth Portes Isabelle Schein Katherine Seger Abby Sussman Madeline Wheeler

Visual Arts:

Georgina Edionseri (coeditor) Jose Nino (coeditor) Kathyrn Alsman Julia Bradshaw Annie Cho Antonio Spina Madeline Wheeler Caroline Youse

Web:

Rachel Louie (head editor) Lucy Gao Brian Ho Asako Inagawa Sue Kulason

Layout:

Lay Kodama (coeditor) Carolyn Tsai (coeditor) Jessica Cohen Brian Ho Asako Inagawa Hillary Jackson Sue Kulason

L9:D= G> ;GFL=FLK 06

Abridged Entrance by Samual Cook

Awakening From The Bonds Of Sable

STEREO PHOTOGRAPHY: Andy VargasDelman

Night by Edgar Allen Fiallos

Mindful by Andy Vargas-Delman

Atman by Brandon Fiksel

Cozy by Andy Vargas-Delman

Pirouette by Hon-Wai Wong

Frontline by Andy Vargas-Delman

Ballerina by Hon-Wai Wong

Sinuous by Andy Vargas-Delman

Herstory by Alessandra Bautze

Stargazing by Michelle Ho

Backstage, After Rehearsal by Hon-Wai

Parking Lot by Matthew Parman

Wong

Last Night by Mary Han

A Collective Thought by Lay Kodama

FEATURED FILM: Country Bear by

The 90â&#x20AC;&#x2122;s by Naomi Bouchard

Why Colors Are Better by Hannah

Suspended Leaf by Jiyoon Kim

Ingersoll

The Swing by Peter Yao

Skipping Stones by Lay Kodama

SKETCHES: Angela Hu

Hears by Naomi Bouchard

Beckon by Angela Hu

On Honey-Coated Combat by Alexa

Gesture by Angela Hu

Mechanic

Back by Angela Hu

All Is One by Antonio Spina

Marshmallow Warfare by Louis Foxwell

Karl by Georgia Koepke

Absolution by Djana Chen

Holiday Confetti by Brittany Leung

Direflame by Brandon Fiksel

Hannah Ingersoll

Directions by Hieu Tran

Lullaby For Myself by Shari Rosen

Vertigo by Samantha Tuepker

Broken Pieces by Beth Flaherty

Behind Glass by Mary Han

Still by Katherine Quinn

In the Bed by Lauren Bryant

Afterlight by Katherine Quinn

Above by Hieu Tran

Dimitry Klokov by Alp Yurter

Alone in Central Park by Cara Schulte

Patrick Dempsey by Alp Yurter

When Life Happens by Samantha

Blue Eyes by Keven Perez

Tuepker

103

MUSIC: Watch Me Work by Brandon

Mickey Finds His Spinach by Louis

Fiksel

Foxwell

104

Dominion by Katherine Quinn

Francis by DeAnna Pope

106

Old Timer’s Alzheimer’s by Mary Han

Da Firenze, Con Amore by Brittany

108

BW5 by Farhad Pashakhanloo

Leung

110

Stained by Tania Chatterjee

A Typical Roman Night by Jiayi Wang

111

Go Home, Marshmallow by Hon-Wai

I Like AVICheese On My Burgers by

Wong

Georgina Edionseri

116

Narthaki by Tania Chatterjee

Leonardo D’AVICII by Georgina

118

Beyond by Beth Flaherty

Edionseri

125

MUSIC: Lost In A Dream by Sarina

The Gibson by Rebecca RImsky

Bear of Soap by Sarah White

Raman

Y :JA<?=< =FLJ9F;= Samuel Cook

Atman Brandon Fiksel

9O9CAF? >JGE L@= :GF<K G> K9:D= FA?@L Edgar Allen Fiallos

Awaking from the bonds of sable Night, I found myself upon a summit high, And was of Sense devoid but mental sight That emanated from ethereal sky. Now looking past a host of clouds uplit, Such scenes of bliss and glory did I view, As angel chorus rose with perfect wit, Where all about Edenic garden grew. Once for unknown desires I exclaimed, Then instant a Titanic form appeared, And Hypnos in his thund’rous voice proclaimed: Choose sorrow, or choose nothingness unfeared! . . . Thence—as I stared into eternal deep— I wondered—Do I wake, or do I sleep?

stock image courtesy of Billy Alexander sxc.hu

:9DD=L

H o n -Wa i Wo n g

Pirouette

Ballerina

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Alessandra Bautze

She was new, unaccustomed to the ways of the high school, and—since the second semester of senior year had recently started—unlikely to really assimilate into our school culture. She sat quietly in my English class, an elective on women’s literature. The class was called Herstory. The day she first slinked though the door of the classroom, the class was five minutes into analyzing Sylvia Plath’s “The Eye-Mote”: Blameless as daylight I stood looking…

in every part of my being.” The room continued to stay silent as she quickly sat back down. The teacher smiled in her direction and called the next person, a bored-looking boy holding only a scrap of loose-leaf paper, up to the front of the room. I went back to my magazine. The bell rang soon after. I nearly jumped, shoved Cosmo between the pages of The Bell Jar, and darted off to calculus. ***

A little over a month later, sometime in early February, I was driving home from school in my mother’s Prius when, through the freezing rain, I saw a figure shivering by the bus stop. I recognized her—it was the girl who had joined our lit class late. Despite the cold, she wore a baggy sweatshirt from a different school, not a coat. I pulled over, rolled down the passenger side window, and called out to her: “Let me give you a lift. You must be freezing.” What I want back is what I was She looked up, surprised, and shook her head. Before the bed, before the knife, “That’s OK. Don’t worry about it,” she said in a soft Before the brooch-pin and the salve voice. Fixed me in this parenthesis. “No, really,” I insisted. I had a car—why shouldn’t I use it to show some goodwill? One day, a couple of weeks later, we were reading She squinted, scrunched up her face a little, and Eve Ensler’s The Good Body. Everyone had to read a shrugged her shoulders. She slid into the passenger section in front of the class. Holly, reading the first seat, lowering the hood of her sweatshirt. Her wet essay in the book, started off slowly, in a quiet voice: hair tumbled over her shoulders. We drove in silence. “When I was a little girl, people used to ask me, What We came to her street, passing a vacant lot. She said do you want to be when you grow up? Good, I would nothing except, “Drop me off here.” say, I want to be good.” As she continued, she began I stopped. It was desolate. “Look, Holly. I can’t to look up from her paper and scan the room. She just let you off anywhere. Just let me pull up to your grew more impassioned. I looked up from the issue house.” The car idled. of Cosmo hidden in my lap. “It’s OK. Here is fine.” She began to get out of the Holly was reading the part of the monologue car but I gently touched her arm. She turned back about the “good girls” of today—who join the Army to me, a nervous look on her face. Her right leg was and wear lipstick. “They don’t eat too much. They shaking. She tried to avoid my gaze but I looked her don’t eat at all. They stay perfect. They stay thin.” in the eye. She paused, and as she finished, I sensed a slight “No, look. It’s no trouble. I live just down the hill; change in her voice as it became more high-pitched: it’ll take me no time to get home. Which house is “I could never be good. This feeling of badness lies yours?” New Girl’s name turned out to be Holly, and she didn’t sit in the back like I would have expected. No, she sat towards the middle. Right next to me. She needed a copy of the poem, so I let her look on with me. She focused intently on the material and so, not wanting to look bad, I followed her lead and scanned the words:

She shifted in her seat. Finally, she blurted out, “I…I live in a dorm.” A dorm? I narrowed my eyes, confused. “What—I mean, um, which—” “It’s over there.” The words came out hastily. She pointed down the street, and then looked away. I pulled up a little further, and she jumped out. “Thanks,” she mumbled, and then darted inside a large, yellow house without have a front porch. I gave a little wave of acknowledgement as she slipped through the half-open wooden door. Then I heard the screen door slam. Before turning away, I noticed a small sign tucked away in the shadows, among some bushes: St. Anne’s Residential Treatment Center for Girls. Below that were fading letters, long-neglected but still present: Eating Disorder Program. I pressed my lips together and turned back to the door Holly had disappeared through. There was no sign of her, of course. I turned, climbed back into the car, and slammed the door. I took off down the hill, passing dark rows of trees and quiet lawns before rounding the corner and speeding into the darkness.

Backstage, After Rehearsal

Top: A Collective Thought Lay Kodama Bottom: The 90s Naomi Bouchard

Hannah Ingersoll

O@Q ;GDGJK 9J= :=LL=J

I am not very good with numbers, but I am good with colors. So to better understand math I color-coordinated the problem

This makes sense, right? Good.

pink: y=-x

blue: y=x

Now take an equation and draw the graph that represents that equation, and if the equation has either of the two symmetries above then substitute the variables for the proper symmetries, remembering an equation can have

more than one symmetry and an x-axis symmetry, as opposed to even symmetry, would substitute the y-variable for a negative, however origin symmetry would make it odd. Makes sense, right? So I thank God I am good with colors

KCAHHAF? KLGF=K Lay Kodama

The water striders rest near lily pads, Their legs in strained positions forming grooves That ripple ‘cross the plane like silent sound waves. Their god-like feet inspire You as you teach me how to skip Stones. Crawling on fours, We look for perfect ones, and test their grip. “The stone should fit between your thumb And index,” you say. “Not too light so it can punch Through water.” Rocks that don’t have wings become forgotten, forming piles – the unwanted bunch. The one you choose is flat, its body hugs Your hand’s slight curvature, its jagged edge Gets smooth for finger holds. You squat, as bugs Still do their balancing acts, and cock Your arm parallel to the lake. Without a thought, you fling the rock and shake The water surface, scattering Water striders from the fault line. The stone leaps four times before sinking To join the stones that skipped before. The water bugs return again, Their legs competing with your ring-like waves that tore A path. With time the stillness forms once more.

@=9JK Naomi Bouchard

GF @GF=Q%;G9L=< ;GE:9L

All is one Antonio Spina

Alexa Mechanic Beneath the dripping honey plains Where milk conceals the mines, A bunker full of soldiers strains The spilled blood into wines. The Wailing Wall is weeping now, For missiles storm the skies; Does Yitzhakâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s unit wonder how To look God in the eyes? Our kids are clad in split-pea green, In heavy boots they march â&#x20AC;&#x201C; Their deepest fears will go unseen In clothing set with starch. While kissing stars around their necks, They fiercely chant the ancient hex.

C9JD Georgia Koepke

(.,, A loud thud startled Karl when Dr. Palmcrona slammed his hand on the desk. â&#x20AC;&#x153;God damnit, Karl! I need to have the information regarding the lab samples by this afternoon! What could possibly be taking you this long?â&#x20AC;? Karl watched as Dr. Palmcrona stormed off in a huff and noticed that Dr. Palmcronaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s aggressive handprint remained on the once-clean glass desk. He smirked to himself, knowing that Karolinska would take a huge hit if the Genesis team ever lost him. Irritated, Karl switched on his desk lamp. The fluorescent overhead lamp flickered, and the thought of worsening his migraine by adding to the strobes made him cringe. Each year, winter in Stockholm transformed workers at Karolinska into quasi-mole people. The season began with waking up in the dark and as it carried on, the lights diffused out of the city until the brightest hues were found only in the hospitalâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s overheads and dancing white coats. Karlâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s desk was cluttered with anonymous DNA samples, but despite the long hours of sequencing, he felt at ease. Currently, Genesis was researching the possibility of vaccines and

other immunotherapies for cancer. Karlâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s job was to compare genetic data from both cancer cells and normal cells. Each sample, however, provided Karl with fascinating, endless information about its donor. The anonymity of his subjects enabled him to tell a story, to create an eclectic cast of characters that provided him with an outlet on these long, dark days. Sample #0643 was a female with thick curly black hair, freckled skin, and a serious predisposition towards addiction. Perhaps she smoked like a chimney, or ate toilet paper, or looked something like the so-called leathery â&#x20AC;&#x153;tanorexicâ&#x20AC;? woman that had been mentioned on late-night television. Lovely to meet youâ&#x20AC;Ś Lena? Yes, Lena seemed to fit nicely. Karl needed a break. As he carefully placed a slice of Swiss cheese on some whole-wheat toast, Erik, a colleague of his, alerted him. â&#x20AC;&#x153;Karl! Why are tertiary structures selfish?!â&#x20AC;? Karl took in a deep breath. Erik had a patch of silvery-white hair sitting atop his chin, and his eager green eyes shone through his wire-rimmed glasses. He groaned. â&#x20AC;&#x153;Why, Erik? Do enlighten me.â&#x20AC;? â&#x20AC;&#x153;Because the amino acids are all wrapped up in themselves!â&#x20AC;? 25

Karl forced a smile and wiped his hands over his right eye. He had no patience for this elementary doctor joke, but he nonetheless forced a chuckle. On the way back to his desk, he could hear Erik slap his thigh and laugh, almost envious of Erik’s amusement. Erik wasn’t the only co-worker of Karl’s that had made a valiant effort to get to know him, but Karl was frankly disinterested in their company and preferred his research.

A vivid sentence of the Genesis privacy contract rushed through Karl’s mind:

Karl began scanning sample #0644, checking the clock every few minutes with hopes that he could hang up his lab coat for the day and fall into a deep slumber. Another female, he thought. This sample was a blonde with two different eye colors and tiny, attached earlobes. Her long, limber traits resembled those of the DNA’s double helix, and soon enough his imagination carried him away. Karl delved deeply into Agneta’s genome, learning of her adorable stutter and her musical perfect pitch. He clasped his fists together in excitement, and a warm, comforting sensation wafted up his legs.

Karl scurried through the lab to find the nearest computer containing the database of donors, knowing that his darling, his Agneta, must be saved. As Karl scrolled through the contacts, he found that none of the donors were who he envisioned them to be. Finally, he clicked on #0644 and -

As his sweet Agneta pranced inside of him, Karl longed to know this sample. Karin Boye’s, “You Are My Purest Comfort” raced through his mind: Du är min renaste tröst, Du är mitt fastaste skydd, Du är det bästa jag har, Ty intet gör ont som du. Karl continued to scan. He envisioned her widow’s peak, and watched her roll her dainty pink tongue. Something seemed not quite right, however. There was a flaw in his darling, a taint in the genome that was so beautiful to Karl. Upon learning more about his lover, Karl discovered coding for the destructive virus that causes AIDS. The rosy pink that once sat atop Karl’s cheeks bled out of his face until his tone resembled that of his coat. His eyes sunk into his head, and suddenly, Karl was lost. The dance of the double helix began to slow to a halt, and Karl found himself face-to-face with Agneta. Her innocent eyes, unknowing of her own disease, stared up at him. Please help me, she cried. 26

“Under no circumstances may any doctor contact the sample donors.” Dr. Palmcrona’s words sat with him for a brief second. He came to the conclusion that he would ignore them.

“Karl! How do you tell the difference between a male chromosome and a female chromosome?” At this moment, Karl didn’t even think to listen. He grabbed his belongings and stormed into the next room, leaving his abashed co-worker behind. Erik tried to piece together what he had done wrong, and finally said, “Freak.” Karl sat with the computer and again found Agneta’s file. She wasn’t Agneta, she was Sofia. He looked at the screen and stared in disbelief: Sofia Dubin 33 Lundagatan Stockholm, Sweden 37 311 Karl didn’t want to help Sofia, he had not a care in the world for this woman. He closed the file, and before beginning sample #0645, he opened an e-mail from Erik. “You take off their genes.”

stock images courtesy of schulergd, Renata Horvat, Flavio Takemoto at sxc.hu

" " Brittany Leung

stock image courtesy of Florin Garoi at sxu.hu

KL=J=G H@GLG?J9H@Q A technique for creating or enhancing the illusion of depth in an image usually by presenting two offset images separately to the right and left eye of the viewer. These two dimensional images are then combined in the brain to give the perception of three-dimentional depth.

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is a sophomore, majoring in Cognitive Science and Spanish. He started with black and white film photography, and has since developed a particular interest for creating stereoscopic images, which are vivified by their three-dimensionality. An enthusiast of thoughtful, experimental art, Andy hopes to expand his repertoire in the realm of stereo photography, creating permanent 3D renditions of people and places of the world.

@GO LG K==

Pick a point on both images Cross your eyes and follow the point Overlap the points and let your brain focus the image (you should see three of the same image, with the middle image in 3-D)

Left: Mindful Right: Cozy

Top: Frontline Bottom: Sinuous

KL9J?9RAF? Michelle Ho

His name was Edouard. He did this thing with his tongue that set him a little above all the rest. Walking in the dark, along a cobblestone path to his stargazing class, little did I know I was going to discover more than where Orion’s belt was that night. Edouard showed me his telescope. I smiled. The professor looked at me twice. It was more than obvious I did not belong there. We climbed ladders to reach the lens, Edouard was right behind me, the palm of his hand always on my lower back. Somehow we wandered from rest of the pack. “Want me to show you where Gemini is?” How could a girl resist? We laid down on the wet grass. That night Delphinius, Leo Minor, The Big Dipper, and Piscis Austrinus were especially prominent. It was a shame I did not see any of them. I ended up walking back to my dorm with swollen lips and grass stains on my skinny jeans. 38

stock image courtesy of julien at sxc.hu

Parking Lot Matthew Parman

Ykl fa_`l Mary Han

It is without a hope that doubt is lost Two pairs of hands raised to the fading sky The heavy air lay overwhelmed with cost They know the answers to each otherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s why. The broken glass hides in the corners well As do the wails and tears that pool in dust The vibrant red is now a pink pastel Which paints the cracks and masks the rotting rust. Ripe emptiness has dropped the seeds to set To build new lives and bloom a happy sight The past is done and with some soft regret They both part ways and step towards the night. Goodbye to us, goodbye to cowered rage Perhaps weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll see each other soon in age.

;GMFLJQ :=9J Hannah Ingersoll

click to watch

Suspended Leaf Jiyoon Kim

Peter Yao

L@= KOAF? It was a nice place, the place where she was buried. She was the one who picked it. The day before she died, she said my name as I was looking out the window. “Jonathan,” she said. “Do you remember the lake where we used to go when we were young, where the swing was?” I knew what was coming next, but I didn’t know what to say. I kept looking out the window, staring intently at the tree outside as if I was trying to burn the image in my mind. “I want to be buried there, Jonathan,” she said. “Promise me.” I tried, but no words came out. So I simply took her hand and clutched it tightly. The next day, that was where I took her. It was a real beautiful place, I couldn’t have picked anywhere nicer. I remember when we were young, when we had just started dating, we’d go out there every weekend. We’d get up early every Saturday: I’d make sure the bikes were in working order, and she’d be in charge of the food. She made the best darn sandwiches I’d ever had. Thick cuts of ham, turkey, Swiss cheese, and a generous helping of mayonnaise, all in between two big old slices of freshly baked bread. We’d load them all into a wooden picnic basket and fix it right on the front of my bike. Then I’d check the air pressure on her tires, and we’d head out, the whole day ahead of us. It was a long trip, but we didn’t mind. We’d ride alongside each other on the edge of the road and talk about the new play she was starring in, or whatever book she was reading. She was always involved in something new and exciting, and she could talk for days about anything. With someone else, I’d probably just nod, listen, and stare ahead until they gave up and we’d ride along in silence. But the thing was, when I was with her, I could talk for days too. I’d ask her about her family or her cat Rita, who she adored, and then we’d get to talking about me, my family, the kind of music I liked – and just like that, we’d be there before we knew it. It usually took us about an hour to get there. By then it would be close to noon, just in time for our picnic.

I remember when we first started going to the lake there was nowhere to sit, nowhere except for the ground. We’d sit down right there at the side of the water and continue talking while we ate our sandwiches. It really was a beautiful place. The whole area was very secluded, a small lake surrounded by a circle of trees. She’d sometimes point out the way a vine wrapped around a tree the way someone would wrap his arms around a lover, or an especially bright flower, or a family of ducks sailing across the water, but most often I was too absorbed in her to notice. After a few times, I decided it wasn’t proper for a lady to plop down on the groud and get dirt on her pretty white dress, so I went to the hardware store, bought some long planks of wood, and built a swing. I had to tie the planks together with twine and carefully strap them to the back of my bike, along with a hammer and nails. It took me a whole day to build that swing, and build it sturdy enough to support my weight. I still remember the look on her face when I first showed it to her. That was where I first kissed her, right underneath that tree while sitting together on the swing that I built for her. I still think of that place often, and the images are always the same – her expression of joy as I led her there, the hours

we spent sitting there talking and watching the stars. It was very different today when I went to visit. It was much colder, unlike those lazy, warm summer days when we used to come here. The trees had lost all their leaves and were coated in a thick layer of snow. The small lake was frozen over now, and beams of sunlight made the surface shimmer. She would say the dancing light was the angels ice skating. We couldn’t see them, of course, but we could see the trails they left. Ice skating angels. I never did have the way with words she did. Everything seemed so familiar, yet so different. Even if it wasn’t winter, it would have been difficult to spot the place she was buried, it had changed so much. They had put in a playground nearby, and some benches for people to sit at. The swing I made all those years ago was nowhere to be seen. But I recognized the tree, the same tree from all those years ago, with the protruding branch I had chosen for the swing. I walked toward it. Anyone who was passing by would have assumed I was just out for a stroll, enjoying the chill winter air. But that was far from the truth. To be honest, I hardly noticed my surroundings this time at all. I had come here to say goodbye to my wife,

perhaps for the last time. I saw the small stone marker in the ground, still there, lightly dusted in snow. I sat down. I touched the marker right where her name was, but it was a while before I could bring myself to say anything. “Hi Rose,” I said. I traced the outline of her name in the stone. “How’ve you been? I know it’s been a while.” We sat there in silence. “It’s real cold today.” More silence. “It’s been ten years since you…” I tried to find the right words. “It’s been ten years since you left. But I still think about you. Every day.” Snow had started falling, though I didn’t notice when it had actually started. I removed my hat and dusted it off. For some reason all I could think about was that swing, and the look on her face when she first saw it. “Remember that swing? The one I built for you? Someone must have taken it away, it’s not here anymore. I don’t know if I ever told you this, but that moment when I first showed it to you, and you hugged me and you told me you loved it and that it was the nicest thing anyone had ever done for you… that look on your face. Well, that was probably the happiest moment of my life.”

The snow was falling heavier now. I supposed I’d just get to the point, the reason I was there. “Anyways, I uh came here to… I came here to say goodbye. You know I’ve never been real good with these sorts of things, but I thought I should stop by one last time. I got a job in Georgia. Legal counsel for some company. I guess that means I won’t be able to come up here too often anymore.” I put my hat back on. Then I decided to take it off and place it on the marker, so that it shielded her name from the snow. “But I just wanted you to know that I still think about you, all the time.” I sat there for another while, I lost track of how long, until finally, I stood up. “So I guess that’s it.” I could still see her face like it was yesterday, that unrepressed joyous expression when I first showed her the swing. How I missed that face. “Goodbye, Rose,” I said. I turned around and walked away, away from the lake and the swing and the ice skating angels. That was the last time I saw her.

kc]l[`]k Angela Hu

Right: Beckon

Left: Gesture Right: Back

E9JK@E9DDGO O9J>9J= Louis Foxwell

I am sitting with my mother and stepfather by the chimenea in our backyard. The sun has just set over the hills of the power lines. I probably should be spending time with my friends, but the truth is I don’t really have any good friends. The three of us are roasting marshmallows. I am fourteen years old. It’s two weeks before the start of ninth grade, and I have promised myself to savor the remaining days of summer, because everyone has told me how much harder my life will get in high school. That is all I am thinking about while I roast my marshmallow. I have mastered the art of cooking marshmallows. My stepfather, Andy, has mastered the art of burning them. That is why I always keep my ‘mallow a safe distance away from his in the fire. My mom is pretty quiet, and she seems content with her own

private roasting session. I look at the end of my stick. The marshmallow is a crisp brown. It is nearly perfect to eat, but I become too greedy. It is a roaster’s nature to be insatiable in this moment. I always have a picture in my mind of the absolutely perfect marshmallow—a heavy brown, like fine leather. And sometimes I attempt it. Though, the fire quickly reminds me that such an accomplishment is impossible. “Oh man,” I say, and I pull the flame out of the fire to blow on. I don’t want to waste it, so I let it cool down for a minute and start to pull it off with my fingers. Its brittle outer layer slides right off, but the hot core clings to the bark. I grip the remnants of the marshmallow and tug on them, trying not to touch the dirty stick. As a naïve fourteen-yearold, I don’t even register that the marshmallow is just as dirty as

the stick that it is on. My hands are sticky and the process is overwhelming me. “This is literally impossible to eat,” I groan. “And the stick is too dirty.” Andy is the kind of person who enjoys dirt. He doesn’t mind touching it, rolling in it, or even having a sprinkle of it in his food. He tells me to slide the marshmallow off with my teeth and I respond with, “That’s What She Said.” My parents don’t laugh, because the sexual joke doesn’t make any sense. I start singing along to Neil Diamond’s Tennessee Moon, which is playing on the pool speakers thirty feet away, just to ease the tension that I created. My mom breaks her silence. “Grab me another marshmallow, please,” she says. I give her one, and grab myself another one too. My sharpened stick reminds me of a sword in the midst of a battle. The white guts of the last marshmallow still cling to it, and as I slide the next marshmallow on, I start thinking about death and how high school will probably kill me. I hear a scream. This scream is not casual, nor is it violent. It is worse—like the shower scream in Psycho. I turn my head, only to see that my mom’s marshmallow has been engulfed in flames. Why she sounded like she was being stabbed, I have no idea. I start to laugh, because I like the fact that she is suffering through the same exact thing that I just experienced. Now, my mother has two options in this moment. I expect her to do what I did and slowly pull the marshmallow out of the chimenea to blow on. Or maybe she will let it fall into the fire. I am wrong, as she pursues option three. My mother swings her stick like Ken Griffey, Jr. The motion is smooth, and the flaming marshmallow accentuates her perfect form. It creates a strobe effect, making the uppercut seem like it is

happening in slow motion. The ball of fire leaves the stick and I immediately recognize its trajectory—my baggy Air Jordan shorts. The marshmallow enters the opening of my pants under my right thigh with a fiery conviction and I perfectly imitate my mother’s scream. Jumping out of my seat, I yell, “Holy Fuck!” This is the first time I let my parents hear me say the “f word.” In fact, it’s the worst thing they have ever heard me say other than “damn.” My right thigh is so hot that I start convulsing. I rip my pants off and realize that my boxers have caught fire. I run towards our pool to the tune of Shame, and I throw myself into it the moment I reach the surrounding pavement. I stay under for as long as I can hold my breath, and come up sucking in water. I look over to the chimenea. Andy is laughing. My mom is standing, looking at the chair that I was sitting in. Some stray pieces of the marshmallow must have burned through the chair’s wood. “My chair!” she screams. “Mom!” I yell. “What about me?” She suddenly realizes her son is much more important than her patio chair, and she runs to me. I think about what has just occurred as I hold the pool’s edge and wait for her. I think about the guts of the marshmallow that I stabbed, and his friend that burned me for eating him. Then I start to worry again. If roasting marshmallows can turn into such violent warfare, then what will high school be like?

stock image courtesy of Maxime Perron Caissy at sxc.hu

You will not find salvation in my arms; I cannot liberate you from your guilt. But I can promise you a sanctuary where, at least for one night, you can forget your troubles and indulge in yet another sin with me. If guilt drives you back into my arms the next night and then the next, then I say, â&#x20AC;&#x153;Let us surrender.â&#x20AC;? Let us enter a cycle of sin and regret and denial and

and

and regret and denial

sin

sin. And if, perhaps, this cycle continues for a week or a month or a year, then maybe we may call it Love, and be absolved.

Djana Chen

Direflame Brandon Fiksel

Directions Hieu Tran

N=JLA?G Samantha Tuepker

A shirt that has more folds and creases than the origami swans I used to make for you, and cuffs rolled twice as small but twice as much. Hair that is starting to touch the back collar of your shirt, with a vest covered in the tufts of hair from your dog. Around and around in the swivel chair. You’re not dizzy? But with each complete spin, your eyes meet mine for the slightest moment. And each time, you smile the smile I like. But there isn’t a smile I don’t like. Now I can live easy knowing that I won’t have to call to wake you up for work. I won’t have to worry about whether your car will break down while you’re on your lunch break. And I won’t have to bring you ice cream when your teeth get pulled. But today, I don’t think of those things. Instead, I find myself spinning in your chair, attempting to make mundane eye contact with anyone. Everyone. Nothing. I stop the chair and try to think your thoughts. I can’t.

:=@AF< ?D9KK Mary Han

Stock photo courtesy of TJustin Ficklin at sxc.hu

Two grinning faces behind glass Like cherubs A man and woman standing beside them Beaming With a wet rag I wipe dust off the frame The shelves And the dresser with the mirror I see myself Cleaning, polishing, making perfect Today John is at work Everyday His peck on my cheek still stinging The clock on the dresser sounds the alarm My boys will be here from school The boys who will soon be screaming One of them crying about his brotherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s toy His stupid toy His stupid tears Their freshly baked cookies are waiting by the door The red roses1 I cut this morning lay on the side Each petal perfect, refined I lift them up And start to shred each perfect petal To rip them To slash them My fingers stop. My mind does not. I sweep them into a porcelain vase instead Behind the frame They take their place Two grinning faces behind glass Like cherubs A man and woman standing beside them Beaming. 61

AF L@= :=< Lauren Bryant

“So, we’ll share the bed, then?” Flo asks. She fastens the top button of her nightgown and shuffles to the bed. Night has long since settled over the bed and breakfast and onto the lonely road that winds past the door. In the hall is a sign that says, “Love the little things!” and below it is a set of tiny chairs and a table with toy teacups perched on top, each with their own miniature teaspoon full of fake sugar. Outside, a wind blows the Vermont leaves to and fro and causes the windmill wings of the two wooden ducks outside to spin and creak. “Share the bed? Don’t be ridiculous!” Barry says and he sweeps his arms wide and dips his head down into a bow. Barry is large, with massive, hairy hands and a thick neck. He is the kind of man who, when his daughter, Emily, is at her mother’s for the weekend, converses with a stray Furby she has left behind over a plate of warmed-up peas and pork cutlets. Flo stands by the bed, fingering the cuffs of her long-sleeved nightgown and waiting to see if Barry is serious or joking. She is the same size she was in college, but couldn’t help but feel, slipping into

an old sweater set just before boarding the plane, that she looked rather more withered, like a plum discovering herself as a prune. It has been thirty-five years after all, the class of 1977. Barry spreads a blanket and pillow on the floor. Flo sighs, turns out the light and pulls the covers up to her chin. There is nothing to be done. The town is small, every room is booked, including this one— twice. No matter how many buttons she jabs on her iphone, she is stuck here for the night. Somewhere below them, someone is watching late night television. Flo can hear the rough voice of a comedian, the pause, and the sudden release of canned laughter through the walls. “Fred,” says Barry. “What?” says Flo. “Fred,” he says again. “What a guy! You must remember him. Wore bright yellow sneakers every day to school. Never did find out why he liked those things so much, but boy, wasn’t he the nicest?” “I don’t think I knew Fred,” says Flo. “But he knew everyone! You couldn’t walk anywhere with him,”

“He didn’t know me.” “Oh,” says Barry. Flo turns away. Barry is humming to himself, something like “Staying Alive,” thinks Flo. She can hear the thump of one his massive, hairy hands swatting his chest with the beat. “Did you ever take Psych 101?” she asks. “Did I?” he says. “Wasn’t it a good class?” Flo says, “And remember Professor Thompson—he had those funny caterpillar eyebrows. I could never quite take my eyes off them.” “I was an electrical engineer,” says Barry, “but that does sound nice.” “Oh,” says Flo and they both fall quiet for a long time. Barry stops humming. She can see the dark line of his chest moving up and down. Flo listens as the rain begins to spatter on the window and thinks about seeing her old friends tomorrow—Suzie, whose hands, once tan, will look so old now as she shows off the wedding ring from her second marriage. Mary Lou, who somehow will not have heard about Flo’s divorce, will ask how George is doing.

Flo is just on the edge of sleep when the bedsprings creak beside her. She shoots up and sees the outline of Barry sitting on her bed in the dark. “I don’t know who you think you are,” Flo says, “but I’m not that kind of woman.” She clutches the covers to her chest and, even though she knows he cannot see her, glares at Barry’s outline. “No, no, it’s not that,” Barry says and he half stands up, his weight still shifting the balance of the bed. “I wanted to be chivalrous, but as soon as the light went out, I remembered I hate sleeping on the floor.” “Well of course you hate sleeping on the floor,” Flo says, “but why’d you offer it in the first place?” “It just seemed like the thing to do,” says Barry and Flo can feel him slowly, slowly shifting more weight onto the bed. “Well I don’t know why you’re sitting there,” Flo says and she lets out a small huff. “It doesn’t mean anything,” says Barry. “It’s not like we’re spooning.” It’s been a year since Flo shared a bed with anyone. She’s been having coffee with a new guy, Mitch. He builds computer systems. Last Wednesday they ordered Chinese take out and listened to

“Dancing Queen” on repeat. “What if we did spoon, just a little?” Flo says, surprised, even at herself. “Like a baby spoon?” Barry asks. “More like a cereal spoon,” says Flo. Barry pauses. “No, I don’t think I could do that.” “Oh,” says Flo, “Okay.” The rain spatters on the window outside. “Don’t get me wrong, you look nice. I like the little lace on your nightgown.” Flo settles into bed again. “I mean you look nice too,” she says, “although I have nothing to compare you with in college.” “Are you sure we didn’t know each other?” Barry says. “I mean I wouldn’t mind it if we did. You seem nice,” Flo says. “Did you know Mary Lou Peterson? She was one of my best friends. Or Cindy Shaffer? I see now she wasn’t too nice to me, but I did know her.” “No,” says Barry, “What about Nut Feeney? He was my best friend. Boy, the things we would get up to,” he laughs and runs his hand through his hair, shaking his head. “I don’t think I knew him,” says Flo. “I think I’d

remember a name like ‘Nut,’” and she laughs too. “You sure? I think he was in Psych 101,” says Barry. “There were a lot of people in that class,” says Flo. “What about Dale?” asks Barry. “Dale Hillcrest? I knew him!” “Dale Jacobson,” says Barry. “Oh,” says Flo. They can feel each other’s weight on the other sides of the bed. They are both on their backs, staring up, watching the vague reflections of raindrops dance on the ceiling. “Maybe we could hold hands,” says Barry. “Spooning just seems…it just feels a little too close for me, but holding hands isn’t so bad, right? You remind me a little of my ex-wife, the way you button up your nightgown.” “Holding hands seems more intimate to me,” says Flo. “Oh,” says Barry. “You won’t spoon?” Flo asks again. “No.” They fall silent, but their eyes remain open. The dim sound of canned laughter comes through the walls again. Finally, Barry says, “You looking forward to

tomorrow?” “I guess,” says Flo. “What do you mean, you guess? You flew all this way and you’re not excited to see all your old chums? Why’d you come, then?” “I don’t know. It just seemed like it was something I should do.” She fingers the edge of the quilt they now share. “Are you excited?” Flo asks. “I guess,” says Barry. He lies there—a dark, massive outline gone still on the creaky bed. He crosses his hands over his chest and thinks about Emily at her mother’s and the Furby at home on the kitchen table with no one to talk to. He wonders if he’ll see Nut Feeney or Dale Jacobson or if any of his old friends will bother to show up tomorrow. Flo lies next to him, covers pulled up to her chin, face free of make-up, thinking about what she will say to Mary Lou tomorrow and about the Vermont wind that used to come and tickle her young legs as it passed by. She thinks about George and speculates as to whether or not he will show up for the reunion. Flo wonders what corner of the room she should hide in if he does. Outside, the windmill wings of the wooden ducks

continue to reel and the lonely road winds away, on and on, from the little bed and breakfast. “Fred,” Barry says all of a sudden, “You remember Fred?” and he looks at Flo. “Yeah, I think maybe I do,” says Flo, turning to face him. “Gosh, what a guy.”

stock image courtesy of Stephanie Hofschlaeger at sxc.hu

Hieu Tran

Alone in Central Park Cara Schulte

O@=F DA>= @9HH=FK Samantha Tuepker

The bullet hit his abdomen and passed through it before he had the chance to realize what was happening. It took only a fraction of a second for him to go from standing to lying down: his face hitting the cold, wet pavement of a side alley in New York City. Life is full of irony. How just 30 minutes ago he was sitting in the police barracks, wearing a bulletproof vest that could have prevented all of this. How he decided to walk a different way back to his apartment, hoping to avoid his ex-wife on her typical ride home. But all he could think about was how today would’ve been their thirteenth anniversary. “Honey! Honey!” He sprinted through the banged-up screen door, not noticing the ever present smell of its rusty frame, and leaving

it to slam behind him as he took the creaky stairs two at a time. He knew exactly where she’d be: in bed, reading her weekly romance novel. It’s where she always was when he got home from work. Their bedroom door was already open as he ran in. She put her book down, face-open, on her lap and the wind from his arrival blew its pages over, making her lose her spot. She didn’t seem to notice, but rather, looked up at him with a bemused expression. “What is it?” She asked, sitting up in bed and pulling her thin knees to her chin. She looked like a little kid on Christmas day, anticipating Santa’s arrival. He threw his hands in the air. “I got it! I got the promotion! I’m a captain… a captain for the New York City Police Department! I’ve been waiting for this for so long. We’ve been waiting for this.” His hands

dropped, but the smile remained as he stood in the doorframe waiting for her reaction. At first, she had no emotion. She sat there looking at him, unmoving. But just as the gradual smile grew across her face, her eyes began to water and she started to cry. He ran to the bed and kneeled beside her, pulling her quivering, huddled-up body from beneath the sheets and cradling her to him. “Honey, honey, what’s wrong? I thought this is what we wanted.” “It is, it is!” She sobbed, looking up at him through her tears, which had already started to soak her white shirt. “I just… this is so perfect, Ted. This is just what the… what the three of us need.” He looked at her. Looked into her eyes, her beautiful, blue eyes, and saw a new light. She let out a breath of air, and smiled larger than before. “I’m pregnant, Te–” But before she could even finish her sentence, he kissed her. And in that moment he was more in love with her than he had ever been. His lips broke apart from hers as he placed his hand on her stomach, and looking down, he felt complete. The searing pain in his abdomen kept him conscious. He lay there on his stomach for some time, knowing that he could not muster the strength to get up even if he wanted to. But he didn’t want to. His instincts told him to lie there unmoving, and after almost twenty years of being a cop, he knew to listen to his instincts. A car drove off loudly in the distance, leaving him alone in the eerie and uncommon silence of this New York City alleyway. As he closed his eyes it seemed as if all his senses had been heightened. Each little pebble beneath his hands felt like a shard of glass cutting into his skin. He smelled the always-present smell of fried food and it reminded him of his ex-wife’s cooking. He hadn’t eaten one of her home-cooked meals in a while. He walked up the porch steps trying to find his footing on the crooked pieces of wood that led to his house. Meg had forgotten to turn the porch lights on again, forcing him to rely solely on his sense of touch

as his feet found each step purposely. He fumbled his keys in his hand; trying to feel for the big, silver one that opened the front door. Movement from the side window caught his eye. He turned to his right and saw Meg and Lynn sitting around the dining room table. Lynn was eating from her orange Donald Duck bowl, which meant Meg had caved again and offered her ice cream for the second time this week. He could hear Meg quacking like a duck, impersonating Lynn’s favorite Mickey Mouse character, followed by his daughter’s boisterous laughter. After scooping up the last of the now liquid ice cream, Lynn put down her bowl and leaned back against her chair, pulling her knees up to her chin the way her mother did. Meg leaned in to Lynn and whispered something, causing her daughter to laughingly jump out of the chair and run to the kitchen. Ted lost sight of his daughter behind the wall, but when he looked back to the dining room, he caught Meg’s eye. Realizing he had stopped looking for his key, he quickly resorted to grabbing the spare on top of the doorframe. After letting himself in, the smell of chicken stir-fry enveloped his nose, immediately making him regret working overtime tonight. Meg walked into the entrance way and made eye contact with him without slowing her pace. What was that in her eyes? Anger? He followed right behind her into the kitchen, anxious to see Lynn for the first time today. He ran up behind his daughter while she was putting her bowl in the sink, grabbed her by the waist and threw her up in the air, successfully catching her and placing her back down on the linoleum tiles in a matter of seconds. “How’s my Linny dear tonight?” He asked just as her sweet laughter filled the kitchen. She turned and hugged her father. “Now don’t go riling her up, Ted. I just told her it was time for bed,” Meg interjected, effectively silencing Lynn’s laughter. “Lynn, honey, why don’t you run up stairs and brush your teeth. I’ll meet you up there.” Lynn let go of her chokehold around his neck, kissed him on the cheek, and ran upstairs. Meg

turned to Ted. “I thought you’d be home by seven,” she said harshly, her voice monotone and louder than normal, yet quiet enough so Lynn would not hear. “I’m sorry, Meg. But John had to leave by seven so he asked me to cover for him until 8:30. We need the money, Meg. I thought you’d be ok with it.” “You thought I’d be ok with it? Well I’m not the one I’m worried about. Lynn hasn’t enjoyed a dinner with her father in I don’t know how long. You’d think you could make it home once a week for dinner. She needs you, Ted. You’re her father.” “Meg I’m–” “Save it, Ted,” She said while turning her back. “I’m going to go put Lynn to bed.” Ted followed her to the end of the stairs and sat on the last step, listening to her distraught breathing as she slowly climbed each stair. He heard hushed voices and then a loud plea from Lynn, “Mommy pwease! Pwease pwease pwease!” “Ok. All right.” He heard Meg say. There was a strange silence that followed, but within a matter of seconds their tiny house was suddenly filled with Meg’s sweet voice as she sung Lynn a lullaby. Sleep warm, sleep tight, when you turn off the light, Sleep warm, sleep well, my love. Rest your head on your pillow, what a lucky pillow, Close to you, so close to you all night. Sleep warm, sleep well, let dreams within you dwell, Sweet dreams of me, my love. The house fell silent again. Ted couldn’t even hear the crickets outside and he imagined them awestruck by the beautiful voice as well. But as he rose from the stairs he thought he could almost hear the faint snore of his daughter, drifting into a peaceful and innocent sleep. Picking up his head off the ground, he looked to his right, but quickly laid his cheek back down on wet pavement, feeling a release of pressure from the strain he had just put on his whip-lashed neck. He

was in between a dumpster and a brick wall and only his head could be seen by anyone who was walking by. But no one was walking by. He thought about Lynn. At nine years old, she was the only third grader who went to Mrs. Flenderson’s daycare. At this point, he was already ten minutes late and she was probably sitting by herself watching the last of her playmates leave with their parents. He imagined Mrs. Flenderson looking at the clock, rolling her eyes at the thought of him being late again. He was a good father, why couldn’t anyone see that? So he was late a couple times, it didn’t mean he didn’t love his own daughter. It seemed as if he had lost everyone in his life, but Lynn was the only person who he couldn’t stand to lose. He rolled over onto his back and found himself looking up into the branches of a large spruce tree in central park: the sun’s rays broken up by its massive leaves. “Daddy, daddy! Look ah me! I gonna go down da slide! Are ya watchin? Daddy, ova here!” He turned to see Lynn climbing quickly up the stairs to get to the top of the slide. He got to his feet and ran over to the big blue swirl of plastic, waiting at the bottom as he always did so that she could slide right into his arms at the end. She called up from the top, “Ready, Daddy?” “I’m ready, sweetheart. Come on down!” He loved coming to the park with her on his days off. She was starting pre-school on Monday and he knew that once school filled her weekdays, he wasn’t going to see her as often. He was as nervous as any parent should be when their child starts school. Would she make friends? Would she do well? Would she be all right without his wife and him? His thoughts were interrupted by the thump of her body against the slide and the sound of the static between the plastic and her clothing. But it was her loud scream of joy that really made it obvious she had started her downward spiral. He knew it would be only a matter of seconds until she was in his arms, but it couldn’t come soon enough. At last he saw her face, with her

mom’s beautiful blond curls blowing behind her, moving toward him so fast he could barely catch the huge smile consuming her face. He closed his eyes, expecting her small hands to grab his shoulders. Yet, in the time it should’ve taken her to reach him, all he felt was a rush of wind. He opened his eyes to find himself face-up in the alley, with the wind whipping his face. That moment of carelessness and joy was quickly lost in the distant echo of his daughter’s laughter. He moved his hand downward from his chest and felt the warm blood rushing from his body. He didn’t know what to do. Almost twenty years of police work in the City and he had never been shot. He closed his eyes. How did I get to this point? He thought. Somewhere in the distance he heard something that his ears were almost too weak to pick up. It sounded like footsteps. He heard a gasp. A shuffle of movement. A voice. “Ted? Ted! Oh my god, Ted!” He felt warm hands around his cool, sweaty face. Another brisk movement. Buttons being pushed, yet that constant warmth on his face. Her voice was distant for a moment, but returned to him in a matter of seconds. “Ted, it’s going to be ok. I just called 911 and they’re on their way,” the voice said to him. A voice he hadn’t heard since the settlement hearing. He wanted to say everything he felt. He still loved her. He knew that. But she didn’t know. He thought about what he could possibly say in that moment to rekindle the love they once shared. But he knew that nothing he could say would change the way she felt. She had fallen out of love with him, a love he thought would be permanent. He didn’t have much strength left but he tried to sit up, and failed. She sat down on the pavement next to him, with her back against the brick wall, and put his head in her lap. She danced her fingers through his rough brown hair, which was now laced with dirt and wet blood. He turned his head ever so slightly to the right so he could look into those beautiful blue eyes. “What happened to us, Meg?” She looked down at him and sighed. He could tell she was at a loss for words. “I don’t know, Ted. Things

have changed. We’ve both changed… I still love you, Ted, I do. But it’s different now. We’re not the same people who fell in love with each other thirteen years ago.” She took a deep breath and looked away from him, focusing on the steam from the hotdog vendor at the end of the alley. Her eyes started to water as she looked back down at him. “I’ll always be a part of your life, and so will Lynn, but we have to think about what’s best for her.” But I love you, Meg. He thought. Isn’t that enough? He wanted to be the carefree husband who used to run through the screen door everyday, bolt upstairs, and kiss his wife until she blushed. He wanted to be the father who brought Lynn to the playground every week and do nothing but wait for the smile that always lit up her face. But he knew he wasn’t that guy anymore. He had changed, like she said. He wasn’t carefree. He wasn’t a good dad. It was his fault, and he hadn’t realized until now. He had lost himself somewhere along the way. Some time after the promotion and the pregnancy. The days at the playground. The dinners with his family. He had lost himself. Lost sight of what was, and what still is, important in his life. He looked up into Meg’s eyes and saw his daughter. His family. He knew that with time, he could change back into that man that his wife fell in love with. He could change back into that father that Lynn used to laugh and play with. He just needed time. Meg voice brought him back to reality as she started to sing Lynn’s favorite lullaby: Sleep warm, sleep tight, when you turn off the light, Sleep warm, sleep well, my love. But she could only get through the first two lines. He had always thought Meg had a beautiful voice, but for some reason, he never told her. He lost himself in those two lines, and knew that, despite everything that’s happened, he would be forever safe in her words. And in the background, the sound of the ambulance sirens was a gentle lullaby, reminding him that he never was, and never will be, alone.

EA;C=Q >AF<K @AK KHAF9;@ Louis Foxwell

A flame on the timber danced Over the bricks beneath the logs. Mickey, in Popeye pajamas, peeled The wrapping paper and drank his eggnog. Rubbing his rough fingers On the round record, he leaped From the base of the tree, Onto his feet. “Father, who is this?” Mickey handed him the vinyl. Conducting with the stylus, His dad responded, “The Beatles!” His father stabbed the record on the groove, Then Mickey heard the lovely words, “Hey Jude.” He watched his father sing along with Paul And imagined a crowded concert hall. Then little Mickey felt his muscles swell, And knew right then how Popeye must have felt.

>J9F;AK

DeAnna Pope

And now I think of you, while summer’s storm is finally heard. But I lie on stars and stripes Round my bed, a lofty pillow at my head. Nails, still wet and subtle pink Face drying, all my hands can do to fumble around with an envelope on the bedspread here with me. You say you’re under fire, but no steam blows high from smokestack newsprints. You write you’re at war, but what cover story forgot (to cover) you? And while July’s justice falls, its own battle rages Civil war drums at my window.

Da Firenze, Con Amore Brittany Leung

I’ll wonder, watch, turn a weary eye To a steadfast hero’s face, furrowed brow of mock stony glare They wouldn’t have let you smile for this passport. Two strong shoulders, damp with tears of summer storm, stand tall In strapping uniform on my bedside table. That smile I know, encased in sienna sanctuary. My eyes follow from the blonde wood grains wind around on the table to your picture safe and dry. And lightning flashes back to an envelope, still crisp since opened, For summer sheds no more tears.

A Typical Roman Night Jiayi Wang

Top: I Like AVICheese On My Burgers Georgina Edionseri Botton: Leonardo Dâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;AVICII Georgina Edionseri Right: The Gibson Rebecca Rimsky

Bear of Soap Sarah White

DMDD9:Q >GJ EQK=D> Shari Rosen

Hush, little baby, don’t say a word, Try to forget what you just heard, Mama is crying, but she’s okay, Papa had a rough time at work today, And when he said I don’t love you, Remember that wasn’t meant for you. Hush, little baby, don’t say a word, Try to forget what you just heard, Mama’s alright, see no more tears, She’s fine with just a couple of beers, And maybe she’s drunk, but that’s okay, Tomorrow will be a brand new day. Hush, little baby, don’t say a word, Try to forget what you just heard, Mama is happy, look at her smile, Papa will be home in a little while, And maybe he’s late, but that’s okay Mama will rock the pain away. Hush, little baby, don’t say a word, Try to forget what you just heard, Mama’s not quite sure what to do. Papa said he’d be home by two, And maybe it’s four, but that’s okay Mama will…Mama will….What will Mama do?

stock image courtesy of GoFish at sxc.hu

And

W Hardly

And we dream and we h

:JGC=F HA=;=K Beth Flaherty

For

With their

We come into this world knowing nothing Nothing of how or where or why we came Nothing of what it means, or what’s to come But suddenly we feel, we need, we scream d maybe someone cares and soothes and strokes And maybe that’s enough for when we’re small But blink, and then we’re older and no wiser And suddenly we feel we have to know We wonder what will happen when we die We wonder if the universe will care If anyone will follow or remember If anything with meaning will remain We wander through the hours, through the years At intersections meeting, sharing, speaking Cross lonely spaces drifting, rushing, passing knowing where we’ve been or what we’ve done Or what it is we think we’re headed for Maybe we love, maybe we lose, and maybe We merely make the motions; maybe we wonder Why we never seem to catch our dreams Fulfill our needs or find our callings, sate Our longings, grasp what we’re reaching for Maybe we wonder, or maybe we forget Or maybe we do it, and maybe then we find That we still wish for something more. We wish, We want, we wonder. We wander. We reflect We wander alone in the dark and we reflect hurt and we wish and we grieve and we wonder How we came to be, to where we’ve come Where we’re going and why we should go on And everybody claims to have the answers And soon we learn there’s no one we can trust Because no one doesn’t wander, doesn’t wonder Doesn’t wish or want and isn’t waiting r something more to begin – unless they’re blind Blind by ignorance, blind by choice, content With their current lot of small ambitions r ticky-tacky houses on their rickety foundations

Laid by long-flown fancy, half-raised by group think And certified as safe by social mores – For those of us who see it’s not so easy. We test and we try and we build up stone by stone And the structure is wrong and we have to begin again And so we break it all down, and we begin again With blueprint after blueprint, day by day Structure by structure, until we finally see That all of them are broken and flawed and impossible – And it’s impossible – And most days we’re just left to wander and to wonder And we live and we breathe and we go on step by step And we try not to care – But then one day we are back in the blueprints again Back with the stones and the structures, back out on the sand And we’re fixing and forcing, we’re trying and hurting And it’s fallen and twisted and broken and making us bleed And we’re sitting alone in the rain and we’re getting all wet And we’re sobbing alone in the rain and we’re getting so wet And we’re bleeding alone in the rain and we’re not finished yet – In the sweat and the tears and the rain we still feel dry – And we rant and we rage but there’s nothing left to try – And we rage and we sob and we scream and we bleed and we cry – And we bleed and we break and we bow and we shiver. We still. We’re out all alone in the rain and we’re just getting wet. We breathe in, we breathe out. The sorrow begins to subside To a soft, still-flowing trickle locked inside The floodgates of our eyes. We shiver, we still. We stare at our tangled, broken stones and sticks Of so much nothing, knowing it means nothing Knowing there is nothing left to do Nothing we can ever hope to do With all our hurts and fears and sweat and tears – Except this one last wish, this one last breath This one last broken, half-formed gasp: To make something beautiful From the pieces.

Still Katherine Quinn

9>L=JDA?@L Katherine Quinn

The white-haired gentleman stepped out of the taxi, his right hand clutching a hefty brown cane, his left hand grasping a small white envelope. Though I saw hundreds of people each day, I noticed him for a variety of reasons. First because he rode in a taxi and no one takes a taxi to the beach. Second, because of his clothes: a gray sweater, dress slacks, and a pair of supportive sneakers. They stood out amongst the pastels and flip-flops of the beach-goers surrounding him. In the humid heat of August, I wondered how he could stand the layers. As I watched, he let go of the cane for a moment to pay the driver. With his curved back and stooped shoulders, he didn’t need to hunch to speak into the taxi window. I strained to catch their dialogue, but heard nothing. The man tipped his bowler hat and turned away from the sand-strewn road. He began the long march from the street to the boardwalk. As he came closer, I noticed that with each strained step, his knuckles grew paler and paler. For the next few moments I forgot him, selling some daily badges to the latest round of shore tourists. Then I peeked at my watch: four o’clock. One hour until the end of the day. I caught sight of the elderly man again as he, at long last, found a seat on one of the

boardwalk benches. The passerbys paid no attention to the oddly dressed man, but I kept an eye on him. Everything about him reminded me of my grandfather: the way he squinted his eyes in the mid-afternoon the sun, the slight limp in his left knee, the knowing smile at the toddlers in their parents’ arms—I felt as if I were seeing a ghost. While pretending to read my summer reading book, I watched for any signs of movement. I expected him to stand up again, take out a book, or fall asleep, but he did none of these things. With all the patience in the world, he watched as everyone filed off the beach, the late day clouds settling in for the rest of the evening and night. I was startled from my daydream about the elderly man as Joe, one of my co-workers at the next gate over, stood and yelled, “Yo, Liz? Headed in?” “Yeah,” I called back, “be there in a sec.” I glanced around me, packing up the remaining unsold badges. I stared at him again, seated on the same bench. He hadn’t moved an inch. I thought about doing many different things: informing one of the office workers, approaching him, or returning later to see if he was there after signing out for the day. But I did none of them, ignoring my conscience until I was halfway out of town. I tried to resolve not to think about it—he’d gotten 89

persisted though the sun had set. He spoke again, “I suppose it’s the afterlight, now?” I nodded. A moment later I heard the honk of the taxi on Ocean Avenue behind us. “Well, that’s my taxi,” the man said, “It was nice meeting you dear.” He got to his feet and placed the bowler hat back on his head. Tipping the hat to me, he began the trek back to the waiting car. I listened to the mellowing waves for a few minutes longer until I’d heard the taxi drive away. I turned back to the bench, only to discover the man’s white envelope remained. I debated a moment before opening, but the temptation was too much for me. Inside I discovered a small silver ring—no diamonds, no rubies, no jewel of any kind. Around the band, however, there was a simple script inscription, untarnished from years spent unworn. Forever. I stood for a moment in silence. Then I placed the envelope back on the bench and continued on my run. Glancing back, the faint moon reflected the light of the pale envelope, forever illuminated in the glow of another forgotten day.

Stock photo courtesy of Thom W at sxc.hu

there, hadn’t he? He could call a taxi to pick him up. Still, I worried. I worried as I helped my mom cook dinner. I worried as I made plans to go out with some friends to a midnight movie. I worried as I put on my running clothes. I sat in the living room, debating about what to do for twenty minutes. Above the fireplace, my mom had hung a dozen family photos. I glanced at one of them for a moment before turning away. It was the last photo I’d taken with my grandfather when he visited me at the beach: my arms wrapped around him as he clung with one arm to my waist and the other to his hefty brown cane. As memories rushed back, I made a decision: I had to go back to the boardwalk and see if the elderly man was still there. It took me twenty minutes to get back to the beach in the summer night traffic and another ten to find a parking spot. Finally, just as the sun was nearly set, I started my run. A mile into it, I reached the bench. Sure enough, the man was still there. I stopped a few yards before him, putting my arms on top of my head and breathing heavily. I walked towards him, taking in his expression. He appeared perfectly at ease. His hat rested on the bench beside him, arms folded across his chest, face open and pleasant. He looked up as I approached. “Hello,” he said. I shivered in the cool air. His voice was eerily familiar. “Hi,” I said. I hesitated a moment and continued, “I’m sorry—I work here, and I couldn’t help but notice—do you need help getting home?” “No, no that’s very sweet, but I’m quite all right.” A dim smile played on his lips. “You know I was supposed to meet someone here a long time ago—sunset—that’s when we planned.” “Oh?” I said, encouraging him to continue, moving closer to listen to his soft voice. “Yes,” he said, “Though that was a long time ago.” He stared at the moon over the water, a small crescent rising higher and higher into the sky. Light

stock image courtesy of Alan Witikoski at sxc.hu

Dmitry Klokov Alp Yurter

Patrick Dempsey Alp Yurter

:DM= =Q=K The playground was deserted. The swings and merry-go-rounds creaked weakly, put into motion by a sudden gust of wind. The rusted teetertotter remained forever stuck in one position, never to be teetered nor tottered again. Parents jokingly referred to it as “the plank.” Their children decided to use it as a prop for whenever their imaginative games called for an intensive dabbling in piracy. A few kids approached the playground. They were enrolled at the local high school a few blocks away, but as all the students knew, the staff didn’t care enough to worry themselves with attendance. The one in the lead held a dirty basketball beneath his arm. The group walked over a littered sandbox

Keven Perez

and made their way to the court. Neither hoop had a real net. Instead, a web of multicolored shoelaces hung off of them. The tallest kid dribbled the ball toward the nearest hoop, jumped, and dunked it in. The hoop wobbled precariously for a moment afterwards. “Alright. Me and Carlson against you two,” he said, spinning the basketball on his index finger. The one named Carlson quickly walked to his side and grinned triumphantly, revealing a splendid row of yellow teeth. “Hell no. You ain’t leaving me with Blue Eyes again, Mendez. He can’t do shit, man.” The smallest of the group, Blue Eyes, lowered his gaze to the floor. A small puddle of water collected by a crack in

the pavement carried his reflection. Radiant, sapphire-colored eyes peered back at him. They contrasted with his almond colored skin and dark hair, traits that were almost universally present in all the residents of the neighborhood. He was different. He was the only one with blue eyes. “Sucks to suck, J.J. Tell you what.” Mendez thrust the ball at Blue Eyes. “Your ball first.” The basketball knocked the air out of Blue Eyes’ chest, but he maintained his guise of content. J.J cut in front of Mendez and waved his hand, asking for a pass. Blue Eyes threw the ball to the ground, attempting a bounce pass, but the ball bounced weakly and rolled right into the hands of Carlson. He spun around J.J and took a jump shot. The

ball bounced off the rim, and Blue Eyes ran toward it. Just as he was about to grab it, he felt someone tug at the back of his t-shirt. He fell backward, knocking the back of his head against the pavement. Mendez stood above him, ball in hand, smiling wickedly at him. He jumped over Blue Eyes and took a shot, sending the ball straight through the makeshift net. “Screw this shit. Dumbass can’t even make a rebound.” J.J spat on the ground and pulled out a cigarette. “Yo, Carlson, gimme a light.” Carlson looked over to Mendez. Mendez shrugged and pulled out his own pack, gesturing for Carlson to give over his lighter. “Smoke break ‘til J.J stops acting like a li’l bitch.” Blue Eyes watched from the ground as the three of them drew from their cigarettes, blowing out clouds of smoke at each other. He pushed himself up and walked toward them, rubbing a hand at the back of his head. Mendez smirked as he approached them and handed him a cigarette. Blue Eyes shook his head at the offer.

Mendez scoffed. “Speaking of li’l bitches…” He took a heavy draw of tobacco and blew the smoke right into Blue Eyes’ face. The haze stung his eyes, and the noxious smell made him cough. The rest of them laughed. Blue Eyes forced a thin smile in response. A car drove past the playground before making a U-turn and parking on a nearby corner. An old police officer stepped out of it, holding a notepad and a photo. He stepped onto the basketball court, looking between Mendez, Carlson, and J.J. His brow furrowed as they continued to smoke despite his presence. His gaze shifted to the photo in his hand before it rested on Blue Eyes. “Are you Enrique?” the officer asked. Before Blue Eyes had the chance to speak, Mendez slapped his hand against his shoulder and drew him in close. “’ey, you got the wrong kid. This is Blue Eyes.” Mendez winked at him and shook his shoulder. The officer sighed. He looked back at the photo, and then at his notepad.

“Enrique M. Rivera. Seventeen. Mother, Luz Rivera. Father, deceased. Lives on Castle Street. Arrested for acting as an accomplice in an armed robbery.” The officer glanced over at Mendez through narrowed eyes, and then returned his gaze to focus on Blue Eyes. “That’s you, correct?” Mendez withdrew his arm from Blue Eyes’ shoulder, stepping toward the others. Blue Eyes looked between the group and the officer, appearing both confused and afraid. The officer nodded. “You better come with me, son.” The officer placed a hand on Blue Eyes’ shoulder. A sensation suddenly surged through Blue Eye’s back. He didn’t want the officer to let go. His hand prevented any other hand from gripping him. As the officer guided him toward the car, he looked back at Mendez and the others. They each wore a wide grin on their respective lips as they waved their cigaretteholding hands at him. He didn’t want the officer to let go.

The door was closed shut. A woman lay sleeping on a bed in the middle of the room. Various tubes protruded from her nose and arms, and her head was wrapped in a white dressing. Large, rectangular machines whirred and beeped against the far wall. A small clipboard hung from the foot of her bed. “Chronic coma” was written in black permanent marker under her name. Blue Eyes sat down on a chair beside his mother’s bed. The officer had driven him to the hospital without speaking. Blue Eyes chose not to press him with questions during the ride. As he entered the waiting room, he explained that an addict had shot his mother when she refused to hand over her purse. The addict’s name was Christopher Mayo. Blue Eyes went to kindergarten with him. While waiting outside, the doctor explained to him that the bullet grazed the right side of her brain, severely injuring her physical and mental capabilities. She could not speak, feel, see, or wake, and there was nothing the doctors could do to fix it. The hospital did not have

the resources to maintain life support for long stretches of time. If she did not wake soon, she never would. Blue Eyes placed his palm against the side of his mother’s face. She felt cold. The color in her vibrant cheeks had waned into a pallid shade of its former self. Her warm, red lips, now dry and brittle, would no longer be able to grace his forehead in the mornings. Her words of encouragement, love, and hope would no longer be able to fill his ears. Her large, dark eyes would no longer be able to sparkle at the beauty of life around her, a beauty only she still believed existed. Tears welled in his eyes. The foggy liquid clouded the radiance of his eyes, and they appeared as though they were gray for a moment. He buried his head into his mother’s neck and sobbed. Smoke drifted from his lips as he walked down the steps from his apartment building. He flicked the cigarette to the side. It bounced against the graffiticovered sign of the building and fell onto the sidewalk. As

he crossed the street, someone called out his name from behind him. He continued to walk. Footsteps sounded behind him as the person ran behind him. A hand gripped his shoulder. “Yo, Blue Eyes! Haven’t seen you in forever, kid. You been goin’ to school or something?” asked Mendez. Blue Eyes roughly brushed Mendez’s hand off his shoulder and continued walking, shuffling in his pockets to find another cigarette. He pulled one out with trembling hands, nearly dropping it. Mendez hopped in front of him and snatched it away. A giddy smirk crept over his chapped lips. “Well, lookie here. L’il Blue Eyes is a smoker now!” Mendez put the cigarette in between his lips. “I’m disappointed, man. First, it’s cigarettes, then its weed, and then comes the heavy shit.” He pretended to blow a cloud of smoke into Blue Eyes’ face. Blue Eyes stood motionless and unresponsive. Mendez’s smirk widened to the point where the cigarette accidentally fell out of his lips. “You know the heavy shit,

right? I heard you get addicted like that.” He snapped his fingers. “And when you can’t get any, you go freakin’ insane and start shooting people’s moms and shit.” Mendez laughed and bent down to retrieve the fallen cigarette. Blue Eyes suddenly gripped the sides of his head and thrust his knee against it. Mendez stumbled backwards, dazed for a moment. Blue Eyes threw a punch at his stomach, and then another, and then another. As he aimed a jab to his jaw, Mendez gripped his wrist. With a violent twist of his arm, Mendez caught Blue Eyes off balance and swung his elbow at him, crushing his nose. Blue Eyes fell to the ground. “You think you tough now, kid? Huh? A couple of smokes and now you tough? Man, you’re still nothing.” Mendez stood above him, cigarette in hand, smiling wickedly at him. He jumped over his legs and stomped on his chest. Blue Eyes gasped. He closed his eyes, the sounds of his cracking ribs making him wince. Mendez clutched his hand into a tight fist and struck the side of his face

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“Ain’t nothing going to change for you, Blue Eyes. Nothing. You’ll always be a l’il bitch.” Mendez sent a glob of spit to the ground beside Blue Eyes’ head. He didn’t respond. Clutching at his torso, he remained silent. Mendez gripped the collar of his shirt, lifting him up to his face. His eyes were bloodshot. Rivers of red surrounded his pupils, steadily penetrating their borders, and the color that used to be reminiscent of a polished gemstone was now as dim and lifeless as a common rock. Mendez let the collar go, letting Blue Eyes thud against the ground. He slipped the cigarette in between his lips and lit it, taking in a long draw. After blowing another stream of smoke toward the fallen form of Blue Eyes, Mendez turned around and made his way down the street. Blue Eyes lay motionless. Vast, gray clouds rolled across the sky, surrounding the brightness of the moon. They slowly drifted in front of the moon, clouding its pale light, and engulfing the sky into darkness. He struggled to breathe. Pressing

his hands against the ground, he attempted to push himself up. Bursts of pain erupted in several parts of his body, but with an agonizing amount of effort, he managed to regain his footing. He glanced down the street. Mendez was gone, and from here on out, he would never be able to feel the familiar hand on his shoulder again. Blue Eyes gazed upward, eyeing over his apartment building. On the fifth floor, the rightmost window’s light was turned off. His mother would leave the light on whenever he was out, waiting for him to come home no matter how late Mendez and the others kept him. His very own Northern Star, extinguished. He searched through his pockets for another cigarette, but only pulled out his lighter. His distorted reflection on the shiny metallic side of the lighter stared back at him. His eyes were bloodshot, tired, and full of tears, but they still shone a clear shade of blue. He was different. He was the only one with blue eyes. He was alone.

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Stock photo courtesy of Andrzej Gdula at sxc.hu

O9L;@

OGJC Brandon Fiksel

Click to Listen

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Dominion Katherine Quinn

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GD<%LAE=J K 9DR@=AE=J K

Mary Han 106

Sunbeams float through the half-open window Sweeping across the sea of shelves they meet An old man Incomplete He runs his spider-veined fingers down each spine Tracing every curve, stroking every line But he can’t align the pieces. His eyes follow the worn carpet down to the desk Rows and rows Of people and words Unread and unheard Unfamiliar He can’t identify the pieces. He once was the keeper here Of far away places and people and things Monsters and men Heavenly beings But he can’t find the pieces. Hemingway, Dickens, Austen, and Twain When will we meet together again?

Stock photo courtesy of Andronicus Riyono at sxc.hu

BW5 Farhad Pashakhanloo

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Stained Tania Chatterjee

Hon-Wai Wong

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“See the short guy in the black-and-gray cardigan? The one with the hideous square specs? That’s my brother.” She was speaking in a near-whisper, but the dank hallway carried her high-register to my ears. I was just about to leave for my third job interview of the week in the blue of the Thursday morning when she emerged from the elevator with a pocket-sized tuxedo-wearing man literally nipping at her tail. I had only a few encounters with her since moving in last month – most of which involved her being hounded by strange men not unlike today’s specimen. I was most acquainted with that one tune she hummed as her heels clicked past my door around three or four in the mornings. I had wondered sometimes, as I tossed about my sheets, if she were a dream. “Come on, babe. We had good times, didn’t we? I’ll pay you extra!” drooled the disgusting little man while tugging at her white blazer. “Please, I want no trouble. My brother won’t like this,” she said in an airy voice that I found pleasing. Dumping him by the elevator, she glided towards me. Her unbuttoned blazer revealed a simple black halter-top evening dress with a neckline that plunged like an Olympian. Her hair tumbling over half of her face reminded me of femmes fatale in noirs. Only her right eye, blue as a rancher’s windbeaten jeans, gazed upon me. She coolly walked past me and went through the open door of my

apartment. “Come on, babe! Twenty dollars extra?” the pervert made a final attempt from the other end of the hallway. Lazily raising her right shoulder and smiling like a child who had just stolen a cookie from the parlor table, she purred to me, “Sorry, marshmallow. Bad night.” The thing that one would notice about her was not her urban chic or sapphire gaze, but the curious way in which she spoke. “I have been chewing this big, juicy apple for the last four months. Every small-town girl dreams of that first bite,” she said, the cigarette that she had taken from the box on my coffee table dangling from her nude, light pink lips. “But that initial euphoria for me has faded into blackness. I’m still chewing, but it’s a matter of time before I spit it out into the gutter.” Her speech was devoid of the inflections and accentuations that one would expect from a girl in an almost-not-there white tank top and a pair of hot pink sweat-shorts on a Tuesday morning. She articulated every word, as if each had a life of its own. I stretched to light her cigarette with a fifty-cent lighter. Something about her smell distracted me from the suffocating early-March air that hovered around my studio apartment. It was a cocktail of coffee, Parisian perfumes and poetry. The gramophone in her next-door apartment was

left spinning a distant tune of hot jazz and old days. She had the endearing yet disconcerting child-like mien that nourished the Humbert Humbert in me. I settled once again into my chair, like Degas stepping back to study his painting. She was indeed the finest handcrafted doll – cream-colored porcelain complexion with the right amount of healthy bloom about the cheeks and ears. The pink toenails of her feet propped on my window sill glistened in the 10 A.M. sun. “So you’re an artist?” she said in a light contralto – her true voice that I found somewhat incongruous with her pixie-ness. “What do you paint?” “I don’t really paint. Too messy. I prefer drawing. Figure drawing, to be exact.” “Like the human body?” “Yes.” “Do you draw full-frontals? Or peek-a-li’l-cheek’s?” she said in a loud whisper, her eyes rounding. “What?” “Peek-a-li’l-cheek’s. You know, teases that leave the erotic to the dirty imagination,” she explained, fingering the tiny silver heart suspended just below her neck. “Anything otherwise is exhibitionistic and coarse.” “Some of my drawings are in that sketchbook on the shelf. Yes, that one just behind you.” “You drew these? You dirty dog.” I turned as red as the stray strap that hung off her left shoulder. Her head was bent towards my sketchbook; legs crisscrossed like a Buddhist monk in meditation. The long, straight dark auburn hair hanging down to her chest hid her face from me. I noticed the streaks of blond. She placed her finger on a drawing every now and then, as if to feel the sharpness of a jaw or the roundness of a thigh. The

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repetitive careless tinkles of ivories from the music school at 46 Barrow Street pounded in my ears. She studied my sketchbook as if it were a Pali manuscript. “What do you do for a living?” I blurted out, my stomach muscles contracting on realizing the awkwardness of my question. “Mmmm… I meet people,” she mumbled, her attention still fixed on my drawings. She finally replaced my sketchbook on the shelf when her cigarette had burnt out. “So, marshmallow, what do you do to pay your bills?” she said, pouting her lower lip in the direction of the Blackberry in my hand. “My mum–” “That’s terrible! How old are you?” “I’ll be twenty in May.” “Oh, so you’re younger than I am. Don’t ask my age. I won’t tell,” she said. “You’re young. You should be in school.” “I dropped out of the University at the end of last fall. My father wants a lawyer in the family, but I want to live life.” “But to live life off another. Don’t you feel like a canary in a cold, cold cage?” “My father doesn’t know about my allowance coming from mum. He’ll cut me off if he finds out. I write poetry, too. I want to be a real artist and a real poet.” “Okay, read me something.” I had never shown anyone except my professor at the University my poems. My lips quivered for a moment. “A laptop? Don’t you write in a Moleskine? On pieces of paper strewn around the room? Like a real poet?” she asked as an inquisitive child at the mu-

seum would. “I want to be a modern, real poet.” She rolled her eyes and bobbed her head. Clearing my throat, I began: “One night has gone as the heaven rings with tolls of the copper bell. I look into the black window. Two nights–” Her muffled chuckles exploded into a loud ha-ha. I was baffled. Hurt. “I’m sorry. I truly am. It was difficult to keep a straight face when you sounded like a stiff-upperlipped-penguin. Poetry is just fancy words. Oh, don’t walk away. Would you forgive me, marshmallow?” I stood up and placed my laptop on the bed. It was true. I chose pretentious phrases to compensate for the lack of meaning. I refused to paint not for fear of the possible mess in the studio, but that on the canvas. Walking to the other window, I watched the little sparrows that flew from the rusty, steel fire escape disappearing into the late morning traffic. I shivered for a moment as the cold wind that blew at the creampuff clouds in the blue sky came in through the window. The stench of vehicle fumes and dust was slowly overwhelmed by that cocktail of a fragrance – a sensory pleasure that I could find no one word to describe. I felt warm, velvety fingers sliding into the gaps between mine. “Tell you what, marshmallow. You’re a real artist. If you behave and if the apple hasn’t gagged me by then, I may peek-a-li’l-cheek for you.”

Since the morning with that dwarf of a man, I had posed as her brother on a few other occasions. I did not mind though, for I secretly enjoyed my triumph every time she walked away from those men into my door. She, however, was a capricious breeze – coming in and going out of my life at her whim. Counting the little spots on the pavement that the mild 3 P.M. sun had failed to find, I could almost see her, long dark auburn hair and cotton PJs, dancing in a splash of light coming through her window. Soft footsteps went in time with the gramophone music just beyond the wall. A pencil hung limply from my lips; chin resting on my left hand, elbow on the window sill. A nine by twelve, blank but for a scribble at the bottom corner, sat between my elbow and a wilted pot of pansies. I had contemplated killing myself, but she may come again tonight, tomorrow or next week. I looked out to the angry, cloudy sky. Dropping my pencil on the bald head of a man below, I laughed at his bewilderment while taking the last sips from my cup. Coffee had never tasted so bitter. Taking my last cigarette from the table by the window, I placed it between my lips. Her gramophone now played the song that she usually hummed. The impregnated clouds roared as the skyline disappeared in darkness. It would rain diamonds and snow rubies if she wished for it. My cigarette fell to the ground as my lips began to quiver. My hands shook. The fire escape reverberated as millions of pins fell from the sky. I could hear her singing her song. She was my white unicorn, with stars shooting from her eyes and rainbows from her nose. I fell to the ground. Papers flew about the room. The reading lamp crashed and

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shattered as I struggled for the little box on the table. I took a deep breath of the white powder. The rumbling lulled me into a comatose state of oblivion. An old man in a stained sweatshirt slept in the seat across mine. Next to me, a slender girl no older than nineteen was coifing herself before her round, pocket mirror. A sleepy traveler poked his nose into a five-dollar NYC map. I picked up my weathered sketchbook that had fallen to the ground. The past few weeks were a hectic blur of studio sessions and sketching at Central Park. I had even spoken to my former poetry professor. Then two days ago, at the intersection where the crowds of Times Square parted, I saw my father with a red-haired woman. His slouch was unmistakable. I had now been sitting for hours in the subway that lifelessly snaked uptown and downtown. Plastic faces and unshaven chins moved in and out of the continuous stream of crowds. When I finally got off at 116th, the last person I had expected to see was her. She had been elusive about her recent whereabouts. I had neither heard her usual humming in the early hours of the morning, nor played brother-sister with her lately. Yet, I found her, in her black evening dress, puffing a cigarette on the steps of the University’s main building. As I ascended to where she sat, I calculated the incongruence between her crystal-pool eyes and her black dress. I sat a few steps below her. The golden lights that lined the paths and illuminated the monolithic buildings shone over students exchanging intellectual chatter in the warm night. Her slender silhouette glistened in the gold. “You should go back to school. You’re young,” she said in a swirl of smoke. “What is that song you always hum in the wee hours?” She looked at me. Turning away, she sighed, “Falling in Love with Love. It resonates.” We sat back against the towering columns while watching lowflying airplanes drifting by the endless black canvas. I stared at the cracked face of my Casio, its hand

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seconds away from midnight. I was once again in the subway, with her seated on my left. “I got a nine-to-five at a small firm, beginning next week. Nothing big, but it’s a start. I’ve also sent my poems and drawings to a few magazines,” I said. “That’s nice,” she replied softly, without the enthusiasm that I had expected. “I’m leaving. For good.” “You’re moving away? Where are you going to?” She looked into the blackness outside. “Will I see you again?” I asked, sidling ever so slightly towards her. Being so close to her for the first time, I saw that the air had corroded her make-up, revealing a sunkissed complexion spotted with freckles about the upper-cheeks. Smiling softly, she turned towards me and cupped my chin with her hand. “The first birds will soon be singing. Go home, marshmallow.” She stepped off the subway as the nearest door opened at 59th. The clicks of her jet-black high heels thundered across the still-empty platform. She walked with grace like a swan but also with a slight wobble about the ankles – like the almost-waddle of a duck. I stood up, my arm wrapped around an icy pole, hoping to meet those creek-water eyes again. The doors closed. I saw the last of her high heels disappearing up the stairs. The outside of the subway gradually slid into blackness. Returning to my seat between two faceless passengers, I stared at the flashes of white light outside zipping into and out of view. As I rocked to the movement of the subway speeding beneath thoroughfares and avenues where fat children wielded iPhones and size-zero debutantes flashed million-dollar grimaces come daytime, I breathed deep; I breathed hard, hoping to catch her last lingering smell. She was the Queen of Spades to my Rothstein; the Zelda to my Scott; the Madame X to my Singer Sargent.

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Narthaki Tania Chatterjee

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I Green hills shine Clear waters sparkle Song birds laugh Peace is here So that if I reach out And cup my hands It might trickle through my fingers And I might catch some And hold it like A wide-eyed child holds A sleepy fledgling As tightly as he dares To feel, to keep, to protect Though still quite loosely Lest it die within his grasp. Ice catches the last light of day Stars pierce inky black A lone wolf cries in a still world. A tear streams down my face. Beauty is here So that if I hold my breath And don’t look away It might wash over me And I might memorize Every snowflake, every drop of ice Every point of light Every shadow’s shade Every breath of wind And every note it carries to my ears Missing nothing Almost knowing Why I almost feel Like I’m alive.

II “There we wept when we remembered Zion.” Something--almost worth remembering “There is a way to be good again.” Something--almost worth living for “Step follows step Hope follows courage.” Something--almost worth trying for “May it be a light for you when all other lights go out.” Something--almost worth trusting in “For you, a thousand times over.” Something--almost worth giving for “Father, forgive them; they know not what they do.” Something--almost worth dying for. Something-Substance that almost transcends What I know, what I understand What I do every day How I feel every morning My petty ambitions and fears My success and disappointment My belief, my disillusionment My little joys, my heartaches. Myself. Something Of beauty Something Of pain Something Something more.

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III

So many times In so many ways I come here.

Sometimes I sit Here, at the Threshold Every fiber of my being Awakened, taunted Straining

Light leads me here Warmth draws me here Desire calls me here Joy takes me here Ideals guide me here Beauty shows me here Pain leaves me here At the Threshold of Beyond. IV So often In downcast eyes Lighted faces Lingering glances I see Beyond Every day In heavy words Stirring stories Poignant strains I hear Beyond Once in a while In almost-moments Breathless pauses Silent cries I feel Beyond But never Have I gone Beyond.

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But if I grasp The sands of Beyond trickle through my fingers And if I memorize The vision flees me And if I step out I fall. If the pinnacle of existence Lies here near the Threshold It is hardly enough to see Beyond Or to show Beyond to another Unless that other might do with the knowledge of Beyond That which I cannot fathom For if the Threshold cannot be crossed If desire is the summation of fulfillment If the end of beauty is sorrow If the end of hope is waiting If the end of contentment is fear If the end of friendship is memory If the end of idealism is imperfection If the end of struggle is failure If the end of wisdom is inaction If love That meanest and easiest Of paths to the Threshold Ends In vulnerable, soul-searching eyes And a sudden, fierce wish That maybe he sees That maybe sheâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s real

If all lesser paths End in boredom Or restlessness Or never end But ever lead And never arrive Crisscrossing Back-tracking Circling Skirting the edges Of the Threshold For an entire lifetime If when at the Threshold Is the only time When something stirs Deep within And cries To be more than what we are If the Threshold Is, alone, That which makes us Almost truly live Almost truly free Almost truly home Almost truly lovely Almost truly worthwhile If the Threshold of Beyond Cannot be crossed-If the end is only almost there--

VI Then never do we truly live Then ever are we meaningless Then futile are the hours spent Here, at the Threshold As futile as the billion lives That never come this way And why such joy should almost come When I have filled my hands With a small matter of the Threshold And lifted it for all to see For me to see To remember-Is Beyond me. VII Yet still I sit Here, at the Threshold And gaze Beyond There there is life There there is joy There there is peace There there is love There there is freedom There there is beauty There there is hope And better than hope, reality I know For I have almost seen.

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VIII Here there is longing Here there is pain I cannot tell What lies Beyond I cannot fathom Fullness of life Without; But I have never been Beyond. IX Sometimes, here, I close my eyes And let the winds blow over me Almost whispering Of Beyond. My soul would cling To the Threshold For all of my life Ignoring the pull of reality Calls of easy laughter Mundane demands of time Mediocre entertainment Routine But the body is weak And wastes away It cannot take the pain Of desire;

And if not more, Then, for mercy, less. If my art could capture What I almost feel I should write a thousand words Paint a thousand colors Dream a thousand tales Sing a thousand anthems Sound a thousand notes And such words And such colors And such tales And such anthems And such notes As would steal your breath And my essence And give to me Beyond And set my soul free And save me. X So close Come we who spend here All our lives To tasting Beyond To revealing Beyond. But there is no more This side of the Threshold

It cannot stand the almost taste Of Beyond.

And I have come to know That the Threshold of Beyond Cannot be crossed

It cries for more,

In life.

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stock imagecourtesy of AD-Passion at sxc.hu

DGKL AF 9

Sarina Raman

Click to Listen

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