Thoroughfare
Johns Hopkins University Literary Arts Magazine Winter 2017
Thoroughfare Johns Hopkins University Literary Arts Magazine Winter 2017
Contents
Cover Art Miro LaFlaga x Ashgrxphics PG-13 Luke Grabowski City Cat Elisabetta Hobbins The Battle Lauren Alpert The Morning Market Spandana Mandaloju for what is lost Hannah Thorpe Mister, the day the lottery I win Sebastian Kettner Juice Train Roderick Bowlby Graffiti Artists Spandana Mandaloju Party Time Justin Neal Tenderness Teja Dupree Am I Welcome in your Garden? Miro LaFlaga x Ashgrxphics Photography Elisabetta Hobbins Dana’s Diner Mary Chong Photography Yangyiran (Wendy) Xie At Dusk Hannah Thorpe Train Station Yangyiran (Wendy) Xie Memento Sabrina Pyun The Princess of Baltimore Elisabetta Hobbins
PG-13 by Luke Grabowski
the dollar store blowhorn a scream, dread solid like cement in the throat. when the bowling ball rolled at parkway lanes, i thought it was my head hitting a strike and plunging into voids. pepperoni slice goes down slimy, too fast, too many smiles with friends excitable, hahas on the verge of sickness. mama all domestic, has-her-shit-together masquerade, paper plates and napkins distributed, and any second she could shatter, trillion painful nothings. and if you unzip my forearm, blue confetti would burst out and everyone would drone the birthday song again as the other stuff followed, extra pizza sauce for danny’s tag-along brother whom i knew only from recess.
Elisabetta Hobbins City Cat
The Battle by Lauren Alpert
Don flipped through one of his World War II books, relishing in the quiet crinkle of each page between his thumb and index finger. With a steady hand and precisely sharpened pencil, he underlined a fact that he had not yet memorized. Then, on a yellow legal pad, he copied down the sentence in capital letters in order to retain the information better: THE FIRST BATTLE OF EL ALAMEIN WAS COMMANDED BY ERWIN ROMMEL, ALSO KNOWN AS “THE DESERT FOX.” He said it aloud as he wrote, hoping that it would finally stick in his memory. Occasionally, Don needed to pause and let his brain digest the information, which, although extraordinarily pertinent, was dense as hell. He glanced across the living room at his wife. She seemed to have aged a decade in the five years they had spent together as retirees. Deep lines curved down her cheeks, creating a series of gentle ripples, and Don briefly admired the softness of her face. He was quickly snapped back into reality when, in her low and slow voice, she said, “I’m going to the grocery store in a couple of minutes. Do you need anything?” Don detected irritability in her voice, as if she were saying, “I’m offering this to you, but don’t you dare make my grocery list any longer than it already is.” “No,” he replied quickly, as if to say, “Get out of here so I can get back to work.” With her purse in one hand and reusable grocery bags in the other, she shut the door behind her. Don was relieved. His wife was like a hawk, constantly hovering and probing. She had learned to sit on the opposite side of the living room when he was working, and that she could only watch TV when he wasn’t. She wasn’t a reader like he was, one of her least commendable traits, so she simply sat in the armchair, her hands crossed in her lap, with her eyes closed. Don knew she wasn’t sleeping; instead, she was listening to his every breath and movement, ready to pounce if he cleared his throat or dropped his pencil. “Is everything alright?” she would ask. Don had learned not to respond. At last, Don’s house was free from all potential distractions, and his mind
was recharged for another round of studying. He turned the page once again, gently pinching the corner with his fingers, when his hand quivered out of control. His first instinct, and he wasn’t sure why, was to grab his right wrist with his left hand. Each thick finger pressed so deeply into the base of his right arm that he could see five ivory imprints flash before him. His mind drew a blank, and he lost track everything: his location, his age, and, most notably, Erwin Rommel’s nickname. When he finally became aware of what was going on, he steadily removed each finger from his wrist and rested both hands on the surface of his antique mahogany wood desk, a strangely vulnerable position for his taste. He glanced at his World War II book, angered that it could not provide him solace in such a grim situation. Then, with his eyes shut tight, Don took a series of deep breaths, acutely aware of the slowing of his heart rate after each exhalation. He speedily regained his composure, as he always did, irritated that he had lost valuable study time. Once again, he attempted to flip the page. Don had only formed the first few letters of a new sentence in his legal pad when his wife returned. She held six bulky bags of groceries, each overflowing with cartons of milk, loaves of bread, and various healthy snacks that he despised but inevitably ate between every study session. Her forehead glistened with perspiration and her cheeks were pink and flush. For a brief moment, Don pitied his wife. She had trekked to and from the grocery store in the middle of winter, undoubtedly risking a broken hip or brain hemorrhage, like the stories he always heard about on the news. And yet, he could not help but glare at her indignantly, furious that her return had terminated his attempt at memorizing the location of the Operation Barbarossa. Don and his wife met eyes for the first time in hours. After a lengthy pause, she broke the silence. “Sometimes,” she said deliberately, “I wish you would quit memorizing those useless facts and act like a decent husband for once.” She spoke almost inaudibly, but with great resentment. Before Don could defend himself, she turned around and hobbled towards the kitchen. Don instantly stood up, his head slightly foggy from having been seated for so long. Quickly, he packed his World War II book, legal pad, and box of wooden pencils into his brown leather briefcase. His heart pounded in his chest and his hands quivered once again. This time, however, he attributed the shaking to a mix of anger and exhilaration, and not a lack of control. He grabbed his green winter coat and mumbled to his wife that he was going to the library. “Be back soon,” she said, speaking to Don with a surprising lack of concern. The screen door screeched closed behind him. The sunlight reflected off of the mounds of crunchy snow that lined
the sidewalk, and Don had to shield his eyes with his hands to continue moving forward. In an attempt to recall when the snowfall had occurred, Don was left with nothing. He stopped abruptly in his tracks, hunched over so that his eyes were in line with his frayed shoelace. Somehow, he hoped the answer would appear on the top of his shoe, and that he could bend down and neatly underline it and then remember it forever. Don waited with remarkable patience, his back burning from standing in such an uncomfortable position. Eventually, he decided that he had already wasted enough time earlier in the day, and that the question was irrelevant anyways. He straightened his spine, allowing each vertebra to crack, and continued to make his way down the block. As Don walked through the entrance of the library, he was greeted by the scent of old books and a blast of hot air from the radiator, a combination that brought him unparalleled joy. He made his way to one of the cubicles behind the book stacks, overwhelmed by the prospect that such an enormous quantity of information could be so densely concentrated on each shelf and in each book. Don grinned more widely than he had ever grinned before, feeling nothing short of victorious. He was particularly enamored by the fact that his wife was nowhere in sight. Don removed the contents of his bag, neatly lining up each of his pencils at the top right corner of his desk, and carefully turned to the correct page of his World War II book. It was at this moment that Don entered a euphoric state, blinded by unadulterated bliss and sheer contentment. Within minutes, he made up for all of the day’s unproductivity. His mind felt clear and sharp; he found himself retaining each word that he read. In fact, he was so concentrated that it was no longer necessary to underline each sentence, methodically copy it down in upper case letters, and whisper it quietly to himself, as he had always done. Instead, for the first time in his life, Don read the book like a book, savoring the storyline and marveling at each country’s dramatic history. This, he thought definitively, was his reward for spending years of his retired life as a student of World War II history. Hours passed, and Don remained absorbed in his book. Lunch came and went, and so did dinner, but Don was not aware of the time of day. The sun set slowly, turning the sky spectacular shades of orange, pink, and purple, but Don did not notice, and his head remained buried in his book. His neck craned downwards in an awkward and twisted position, but Don did not, and could not, feel any pain. At one point, he heard someone calling his name. “Don,” the person said, “it’s getting late. You missed dinner.” “Don,” he heard again, “I’m not going to wait around for you all day.” The voice was familiar, low and unhurried, but Don could not place who’s it was or where it was coming from.
Don opened his eyes, startled by the pungent odor of floral perfume. He heard someone yell his name beside him. The carpet tiles of the library floor felt rough against his cleanly-shaven cheek. An inexplicable pain shot through his chest, and when he glanced downward, he found himself clutching his World War II book tightly against his body. “Sir, can you tell me where you are?” he heard. The question came from a uniformed young man, his blonde hair neatly combed in a side part. “Sir, what is the name of the president of the United States?” he asked. The words were garbled, as Don imagined they might sound if he was inside a submarine during the war. He was nevertheless able to make out the question, and so, as one might expect, he began to formulate an answer. “Yes,” he replied. Don was aware that this did not answer the question, but it was the only word he could manage to say. He groaned in frustration and discomfort. The familiar female voice returned, this time, much louder than before. “I’ve never seen him have a seizure this severe,” she said, clearly panicked. “Don,” she shouted, “When did the United States enter World War II?” Don blinked rapidly, attempting to produce the correct response. This time, he could not come up with a single word, and instead, imagined himself floating in a black abyss. Don noticed that tears were streaming down his cheeks and creating a puddle beside him on the cold floor. He began to cry hysterically, and the woman beside him sobbed profusely. “What was Erwin Rommel’s nickname?” she asked between hiccup-like breaths and frantic sobs. After a prolonged silence without any response, she buried her head into her hands and continued to weep. Don looked up, watching intently as the woman wiped tears from her cheeks. He noticed her soft wrinkles, which cascaded down her face like a delicate waterfall. Don closed his eyes and let a wave of sorrow wash over him.
Spandana Mandaloju The Morning Market
for what is lost by Hannah Thorpe
on a day when the sound of one hand sliding into another grates the inner ear and speaking is abject, registering in the silence a hundred decibels too loud, we hold our breath, too proud to allow the unwelcome liberation of a sigh that could create crevices in the marble since even ambience is absent in the apse that stretches tall, elongated by ionic columns, that crown the coffin of cedar wood
Mister, the day the lottery I win by Sebastian Kettner They closed down the auto plant in Mahwah late that month. Ralph went out lookin’ for a job, but he couldn’t find none. The factory whistle cried, and I awoke to summer sun. I kissed my wife a soft goodbye; she went to wake our son. I’d worked that line a long-old time, since ‘fore I turned eighteen. With sound of metal hammer-chime That factory town would sing. The owner guy I never seen, until he came one day. He said to us all smilin’ mean: ‘The factory’s gon’ away.’ I got my stuff and left all sore, and kissed my wife goodnight. I went to sleep to think no more And dream that all was right. As I slept, I dreamed I was a king and stars moved by my hand. The land I held was everything, winter slope to summer sand. My days were right in morning light and never was there rain. The stars at night always shone bright, and never was there pain. When I awoke, my heart was broke to find the life I led. The sun shone through the factory smoke and I wished that I were dead.
Roderick Bowlby Juice Train
Spandana Mandaloju Grafitti Artists
Party Time by Justin Neal
Michael huffed as he stepped from the staircase onto his floor. Three flights should not tire him so thoroughly, but his prime had long passed. Gone were the toned, lithe muscles of the runner he had once been. In their place were weak fleshy lumps and feeble bones; the sedentary life had wrought havoc upon Michael’s masculinity. His consumptive nature contrasted sharply with his true age. At a time when others of his generation were bathing smiling through their youthful joy, those same joys melted away from Michael like wax in a fire. These were Michael’s thoughts as he caught his breath. The stairs always brought out his self-loathing. Having regained his composure, Michael walked on. He fished for his keys and thought back on his day. It started like any other weekday: 7 AM alarm. Brushed teeth in the shower. Refused to shave because the stray chin hairs made him look “distinguished.” breakfast of one over easy egg, one scrambled egg because the yolk had broken, two slices of half-burnt bacon, and a slice of wheat toast topped with a slice of Kraft cheese product. In the car at 8:30. At work by 8:55. This day was different, though. Michael left work at 3 instead of 5. An ear infection had had tortured him for several days, and he had finally been able to schedule an appointment with his doctor. He had been worried when the examination had turned into an x-ray, which had turned into blood work, which had turned into him stretched out on a gurney as nurses with urgent faces assured him that the operation was mild. No trouble at all. Lying on that gurney, eyes darting from the water-stained ceiling to the clearly aged surgical implements of the only doctor his barebones insurance could help him afford, Michael found it impossible to not think about his life. His childhood was a muted sensation rather than a memory. Happy, he supposed, even with a father who chased the holy dollar with a single-minded focus matched only by a zombie’s pursuit of flesh. Happy enough, even with a mother who listened to Keith Urban. High school was a land of mired confusion. Those first feelings ran raw and inconsistent. He loved her, he hated her. The feeling changing from week to week along with whomever “her” was. Michael found his niche when he started running. Funny, that he would be good at a sport that rewarded you for getting away from other people. Then came
college. Jesus Christ! College. If someone had told him during his freshman year that he would endure four years of mind rending stress and anxiety just so he could spend the next twenty-three years of his life doing insurance work in Cleveland, he would have lied face down in the nearest puddle and went to sleep. A nurse interrupted his thought when she put a mask over his face, told him to breath normally, and count backwards from one hundred. He reached ninety-nine, and the next thing he knew he was standing in his stairwell with no ear pain. He felt guilty for a moment at having driven in such a state, but the feeling passed. Michael found his key as he reached his apartment door. With it he unlocked the deadbolt and stepped inside the unlit room. Quickly his hand found the light switch, and flipped it on. “Surprise!” In his too-small apartment stood thirty uninvited guests. Michael, dumbstruck and half-blind, pleaded desperately with his eyes to adjust to the light. Once they had finally done so, Michael’s surprise turned to terror. In front of Michael, crowded together like cattle in a stockyard, stood every bastard, monster, and villain from his life. There was Levi. Michael had not seen him in ten years, but he could remember the way Levi would “bump” him as Michael made his way to class. Some of these bumps were known to throw Michael to the other side of the hall. One time, Michael lost all composure and broke Levi’s nose, but that ended with Michael suspended and the bumps started coming from Levi’s friends as well. Michael choked when he realized that Melissa was there, too. For nearly two years Michael had fawned over her like the pathetic worm that he was, and for nearly two years she has strung him along. Tugging and teasing she had twirled his heartstrings. She dated quite a bit during that time, but she always kept Michael around just in case. After a particularly nasty break-up Melissa had come to Michael in tears. She claimed that the guy had left her because she was pregnant. She told him that she needed five hundred dollars for the abortion. Michael did not know that the pregnancy was a lie, but he suspected as much when he never heard from her again after she begged the five hundred dollars from him. Last he had heard, Melissa had moved out west. Just another demon in the city of angels, the clichés write themselves. The hyperventilating began when Michael saw Mr. Shaw. Mr. Shaw had murdered Michael’s dog, Sparks, after becoming convinced that Sparks had killed one of his chickens. Michael had pleaded with Mr. Shaw to see reason. Sparks was old, arthritic, and he spent all day and night in a locked yard. There was no way Sparks could have chased down a chicken. Michael was right: the truth was that Mr. Shaw’s hound, Beaver, had killed the chicken, because Mr. Shaw had forgotten to feed him. Mr. Shaw did not know any better than Michael, but he was a man quick to anger, so
when he got it in his mind that Sparks was the culprit, he demanded blood. In the end, Sparks lay dead, and a devastated Michael spent the next three years of his life sneaking over to Mr. Shaw’s farm twice a month to kill a chicken. Mr. Shaw eventually moved to Kansas, where he began a successful poultry farm. The list goes on, every story a similar shade of terrible. Michael fought to steady himself. In a ragged voice that battled back tears Michael managed to plea for an explanation: “Why are you here?” The crowd was silenced. They looked at one another confounded. Then, as if they were acting as one, they began to laugh. Cackle really. In a unified voice they cried out, “Happy Birthday!” If Michael was feeling ill before, now he felt plague-stricken. It was not his birthday, or, at least, he did not think it was his birthday. The members of the crowd raised their right arms to point to a conveniently placed calendar. On it, a trail of “exes” crossed out the past and led to the present. The uncrossed date was in fact Michael’s birthday. He began to notice the streamers and bright balloons that decorated what should have been bare white walls. A pop of static jerked Michael’s attention to stage that should not fit in his apartment. On it stood four men in denim jackets without undershirts. Two picked up guitars, one sat at a drum set, and another grabbed a microphone. Michael was becoming increasingly confused. He did not recognize the men, he could not understand how the stage had gotten into his apartment or why he had not seen it before, and he did not understand why denim jackets were all that the men wore. The man with the microphone cleared his throat and said in a voice that was comically deep and unnecessarily mumbling, “Hellerho, weare Creed, an’ we got somethin’ real special for err’one her t’nit. So les git sterted, yea.” Hearing the opening chords for “With Arms Wide Open” was Michael’s breaking point. He screamed and grasped for the door. It did not budge. He pulled and he flexed and he tore, but to no avail. He pounded and kicked and shouted, but the door held fast. Exhausted and numb, Michael sank to the floor. In baffled horror he sat, trying to block out Creed’s unwanted sonic advances. Michael felt a tap on his shoulder and looked up. He did not recognize the face of the man confronting him. It was a wrong face: the smile was too large, the lips were too red, and the teeth were too sharp. The stranger hoisted Michael onto his feet and dusted him off. Devious eyes locked with Michael’s and the stranger asked, “Enjoying your party, buddy?” The disturbing grin never left his face. Michael wrestled with his shock as he attempted to register the question. “Who are you?” “Oh, come on, man! You know your theology! I’m the goddamned Lightbringer!” The stranger struck a noble pose, eyes to the sky and clenched fist
aloft. He continued, “I’m the Adversary!” His blue eyes flashed yellow and his hands became talons. They changed back just as quick, making Michael question if he had seen anything at all. Someone threw the stranger a beer, which he shotgunned. Michael stammered out his response. “Y-You’re the devil? What the- no no no. Stop. Why are you here?” Usually Michael would have clung to his skepticism (he was too lethargic to jump to conclusions), but the toll of recent events had made rational thought impossible. Michael was weak, and his breaking point had been reached two tragedies before Creed showed up. The devil answered between fits of laughter. “Where do you think here is, friend? Baby, you’re in Hell! This is my house! I get so tired of just flaying you poor saps that I need to mix it up, hit you crazy kids with the psychological angle, and whoo-boy your melon has some juicy baggage for me to play with. The beauty is that it never has to stop. I’m gonna get to watch you break over and over again, and I just can’t wait.” The devil leaned in close. He whispered into Michael’s ear: “You’re my bitch, now.” Satan’s tongue scooped Michael’s earlobe into his mouth and he bit it lightly. Michael was petrified, yet… aroused. The devil’s nibble turned into a chomp, and Michael’s ear came away in a shower of blood. Hands, cold enough to burn, seized Michael’s throat. “Now lets get this party started.”
Tenderness by Teja Dupree
The first time I am struck By your tenderness, The carousel on the other side Of the street is going-round. There is a wind against my face, Breathing onto my cheeks— It makes me understand what it is To be kissed. (My heart races.) The street light above us is amber, In its glow we stand trapped Like mosquitos. You smile, Happiness bleeding from your face, Bending down to grasp at a dandelion. Your knees drop to the ground as you Twist to blow its seed, too afraid To rip the flower from the Earth.
Miro LaFlaga x Ashgrxphics Am I Welcome in your Garden?
Elisabetta Hobbins Photography
Street Talk
Proud Car Owner
Dana’s Diner by Mary Chong
The overplayed jazz tune sounded like static. With a flick of his lighter, he lit the end of the cigarette, and let the vapor burn through his nose and throat and into his burly chest. He held back the urge to cough. It hurt but he didn’t care. The strong taste and hot fumes numbed his nerves and cleared his mind. It was ten before midnight. He leaned against the brick wall outside Dana’s Diner, and he knew, after so many hours of crummy restaurant music, crude co-workers, and scanty paychecks that he wanted to quit his part-time job as host, and quit for sure. But he would wait for the perfect moment. “Lucas, didn’t I tell you not to do that here? Not allowed on the premises. I’ll have to write you up.” Dana’s sharp tone sliced through his thoughts. “Sorry, ma’am,” he mumbled, and stared down at his feet. Cursing under his breath, he flung the cigarette to the patch of grass beside him and grinded it into the ground, making sure it was dead. “By the way, you still have five solid minutes under your belt,” she commanded. Without hesitation, she marched, with gusto, back through the glass doors. The bell on the door jingled. Dana, though petite, dominated like a dictator. Her shrill voice could make even the most annoying person cringe. For all Lucas knew, Dana slept in the restaurant, and awaking only to snap her whip on the backs of her workers. “Yes, ma’am,” he said, again. Lucas glanced at the large sign in front of the restaurant entrance. Faded white chalk spelled out the mysterious words: WELCOME TO DAN ‘S DI ER. TOD ’S SPECIAL IS GOURMET CRAP CAKE. Some dumb kid rubbed out the letters when Lucas wasn’t looking, and it was then he realized why no one ordered the crab cakes today. It was a shame. Lucas sighed and gazed at the intricate light fixtures on the restaurant ceiling that lit the empty storefront. He figured the restaurant never attracted many customers anyway, especially at midnight. The mercury 24-hour OPEN sign on the door should more accurately say CLOSED, in squiggly fluorescent lights.
He felt the urge to snap at Dana. But, of course, it was too late. She wasn’t in striking distance, and he was too weak anyway. He stayed outside. He stood under the long shadow of an oak tree, just steps from Dana’s Diner, the only lit restaurant on the block. The curb was just steps away, and when a car rushed past him, the leaves of the oak tree silently rustled along with the breeze. The street was devoid of cars and of life, reminding him of the limits of the small town in which he lived. I could leave, and never come back. Lucas thought to himself. He smiled. He had run away from home before, which worked—since running away from his problems, solved them in a way. This would be no different. Glancing through the glass doors of the restaurant, he noticed nothing but clean, white counters and the bare linoleum floor. In his tacky lime green company shirt, Lucas sprinted down the block, passing Sandy’s Dry Cleaners, Gail’s Nails, and Bark ‘N’ Paws Canine Center. He could only see as far as the step in front of him. When he neared the end of the block, Lucas realized the light from the diner ran out. He was never afraid of the dark, but this was a different kind of dark. Lucas liked the rush of being free and lost at the same time. The dry wind numbed his body and made his face numb. He gasped between strides. Lucas stopped at the end of the block, realizing the street was covered in darkness, except for the stoplight that blinked red. A glowing light from the near distance caught his eye. Could it be one of Dana’s silly ad displays? he thought, laughing to himself. The light was strange, unusually bright against the sleeping street that breathed rhythmically, appearing to inhale and exhale with every passing second. As he squinted at the source of light, Lucas felt an overwhelming sense of heat emanating from his direction. He smelled smoke coming from a distance. Lucas took a deep, ragged breath and swallowed, the leftover taste of his cigarette lingering in his throat.
Yangyiran (Wendy) Xie Photography
View of Hualien
Happiness in Youth
Taipei Subway
Rooftopping in KaoHsiung
At Dusk by Hannah Thorpe
Two pigeons dead on the concrete outside the museum’s tall windows. The sun has set. Decals don’t deter the blind from flying boldly, from breaking beaks against cold silent glass. If only their senses were dulled, as they flew through the corridor, distorted by their failing sight. That would be too perfect. To fall side by side heads cocked toward each other, angles odd but bodies soft, aloft in a space they thought continued.
Yangyiran (Wendy) Xie Train Station
Memento by Sabrina Pyun
On a day like this, with cold wind rolling between winter and spring, you gave me your jacket and kissed me against a brick wall like we were supposed to. I enjoyed playing at love with you you set the bar and it’s done me justice ever since.
Elisabetta Hobbins The Princess of Baltimore
Winter 2017