Underground Pool 2015 by The University of the Arts

Underground Pool

// Issue 5, Spring 2015

Fiction Editor

Emily Famularo

Poetry Editor

Alyssa Langenhop

Designer

Anna Rising

Cover Artist

Sam Cardelfe

Readers

Allegra Armstong Aaron Brownlee Maggie Fenning Iman Hanif-Jones Miranda Kaplan Mervin Toussaint

Faculty Advisor

Elise Juska

Illustration Coordinator

Jason Greenberg

uarts.edu/undergroundpool undergroundpool@uarts.edu The University of the Arts Philadelphia, PA Spring 2015

Letter from the Editors As college students, we are in a constant state of transition and development. We feel an (almost) natural inclination toward longing, which overwhelms us as we are regularly asked to “look toward the future.” The fifth edition of Underground Pool explores these yearnings and desires through narratives filled with anxiety and unknowing. Often, in this edition, we’ll see our narrators interested in making change, making sense of their situations, trying to understand their places in the world—with love, with family, with the self. The poetry in this edition reveals personal aspects of the past—struggles, lingering daydreams—but optimism for the present and future. The poems often touch familiar places, like the constant bus and train rides to visit family dinner conversations in Anna Ladd’s “I’ll Ask For Help When I Figure Out How To.” These habitual customs and surroundings often result in deeper curiosities—about why life is the way it is and what lies beneath the surface. “I Would Like to Write About” by Maris Garden questions what determines luck in living, while Richard Matthews’s “Bang Bang” makes us painfully aware of social injustices. These cravings for someone, something, or somewhere are dispersed throughout the collection. The six short stories in this edition can be read as narratives of desperation. Their longings extend deeper than just hopefulness, but show real, sincere desire for change—whether through the appreciation of the little things, as in “American Giants” by Carter Horton, or the out-of-breath desire for something better in “Running and Other Indifferences” by Ashley-Sarah Mooney. The characters in these stories are striving for a sense of control over their situations, whether good or bad. It is this for which the fifth edition of Underground Pool has developed a voice: the constant upheaval of ideas, people, and places in the world around us and how we, as young artists, are dealing with them.

Forest // Kuba Jennes

Emily Famularo

Alyssa Langenhop

Fiction Editor

Poetry Editor Underground Pool

Fiction 08 // 16

Running and Other Indifferences by Ashley-Sarah Mooney llustrated by Cindy Lau Silence by Vanessa Gross Illustrated by Anonymous

34 //

Mass by John Yazzo Illustrated by Vince Williams

40 //

Water by Haley Dow Illustrated by Kristen Miller

56 // 70 //

Dearest Demons by Lauralee Martin

I Am A Rock by Jackie Papanier

68 //

Bang Bang by Richard Matthews

Artwork 02 //

Forest by Kuba Jennes

06 //

The Bad Day Serum by John Roeder Freeman, Jr.

Hunter by Hannah Gregory

American Giants by Carter Horton Illustrated by Courtney Cortez

Fallaxia Valley by Phillip Mastrippolito

Scottsville by Anna Ladd

If You Want Me, You Should Know by Sarah May Butler Illustrated by Kevin Hetzel

28 //

Poetry

Existent by Shaina Nyman

Awakening by Shaina Nyman

Church of the Crucifixion by Catherine Carrozza

Inside Out by Rachael Longo

07 //

Bastard by Carmen Frias

46 //

Untitled by Alex Pruden

Monsters Under the Bed by Kristyn Stickley

A Period Piece in Four Acts by Claire Merritt

Mapping Nostalgia by Samantha Morris

24 //

When Will Our Love by Jackie Papanier

Quiet by John Roeder Freeman, Jr.

26 //

Johnstown by Leyna Bohning

Sanity Falls by Phillip Mastrippolito

29 //

South Street Last Week by Allegra Armstrong

66 //

30 //

I Would Like To Write About by Maris Garden

Bologna by Samantha Morris

Encroach by Kate Hanna

Harry, Harry Quite Contrary by John Roeder Freeman, Jr.

Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll Ask For Help When I Figure Out How To by Anna Ladd

80 //

48 //

A Compressed Childhood: Day 1,858 by Maggie Fenning

Untitled by Justin MacDonald

Stem by Jotie Mondair

54 // 4

64 //

Skin & Streets by Diana Musgnug

Passion In My Grip by Andrew Purvis

Saunter by Shaina Nyman

A True Account of Talking to a Puddle at 13th and Pine by Sarah May Butler Underground Pool

Bastard Carmen Frias The sky was Dad jean blue. A blind Water washed faded Dusk over jean The ripping texture A sound Baby blue, don’t know Dad jean blue. Don’t know Dad jean Baby blue, don’t know Dad.

The Bad Day Serum // John Roeder Freeman, Jr.

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Running and Other Indifferences

Illustration by Cindy Lau

// Ashley-Sarah Mooney

I miss knowing that rainbow sherbet is my favorite dessert, or knowing anything for sure, like God is real or that good writers aren’t just good writers because they’re alcoholics or sad daughters of alcoholics with mostly dark roots like the purple half-moons under their eyes because they are tired and tired of life, and sleep feels better than ever when you’re fifteen, like drying up under the sun and kissing slow like how in the silver movies they just sort of mash their faces into each other, and now here you are walking on the side of the road where the cars go fast because you want to, and you’re less than fourteen some of the time and you’re the youngest all of the time, and you like Tom Petty and poetry and beer and rap music and you’re not scared of boys, and other things that sound good and effortless when you say them in a list just like this, so you’re thinking you’re something special cause you’ve been told your whole life you are and you speculate it’s because you’re pretty but you hope that’s not it, and sometimes you sit on shoulders at concerts and sometimes you’re sixteen and your body is fine art but you only know it when you’re drunk and your hair sounds like the chorus of “Semi-Charmed Life” by Third Eye Blind—abrupt and in all Technicolor—and the boy whose shoulders you use as your throne, he’s drunk so he trips and you fall off and that doesn’t mean anything deeper than that, it just means he had bad footing and you hit your brain on the dirt ground—dull thud, and this time in your life always smells like Daisy by Marc Jacobs, and then there is the pretty dishonesty like grass stains—but you laugh cause you’re high, and you know your mouth looks so damn pretty so you climb up off the ground, up to him with all the collarbone-charm in the world, you grab his neck and kiss him cause your motto is “first come, first served” and you kiss your older brother’s friends because doesn’t it just feel like the whole room’s toasting you, and the older boys like you and you think you know why but after awhile you stop feeling so sure and the certainties that kept your eyes off the cement before are paling now and you don’t feel beautiful—you feel exactly how they all make such good use out of you, strictly business, so you take off your makeup all the way that night and look in the mirror and wonder if there’s anything else or if this is all there is, but the next morning you don’t tell yourself about what you thought last night like Arthur Miller saying to Marilyn Monroe, “They’re just thoughts, just some notes—writer’s stuff, come back to bed,” and you won’t notice if it’s the next day or that it’s a year later and you’re at your cousin’s wedding and you feel pretty for the first time since sixteen but

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your dad says you look very heavy in your dress so you dance with your cousin’s black frat brother right in front of your dad to remind him that the Union won the Civil War and so will you but it doesn’t stop you from wondering when your recent weight gain will stop making others so uncomfortable like what a shame and she’s gotten big, as if your softness offends them and here’s the poison of it all, you shouldn’t but you do: you hate yourself, and soon things go back to shit and you go back to talking to yourself and when you’re out, forgetting how it feels to know, you hear your dad’s favorite song and it makes you sick like when you hear the same ringtone you use for your morning alarm and you’re reminded how fucking terrible it is to wake up, and you think about a little bit ago when things seemed better and how you hate yourself for writing about being in love like it’s the best feeling in the world when, really, watching bad reality TV with Alexis on the old green couch is, but you go back anyway because the events of that one July are of good reference and can probably be condensed into one moment and you make it sound like this: my legs spilled out across the back seat of his car, our evil bodies tangled like vines, articles of clothing misplaced even in the confined space of his two-door sedan and in the cup holder sat my half-drunk iced coffee, at high tide as the ice melted into a thick layer of murky overcast and continuously I ignored the slipperiness of our relationship and let him slip his hand up my blouse and let him stain my neck just as I’d stained his blue sheets with my mother’s red wine—only it doesn’t really sound like that at all and I want you to know that life doesn’t sound as pretty as “slipperiness” and “slip” do when they’re in the same sentence and I do too wonder if the universe did that thing on purpose but it didn’t, and I’m not saying life is bleak and all downcast but it is indifferent which is worse because sometimes you can decide if it’s short-tempered and sensational and fast and pissy and terrified and electric like the movies make doing coke off of a glass tabletop seem but sometimes you don’t decide because you can’t because cancer is in your family, or your brother becomes an addict, or a drunk driver hits your neighbor, or your best friend’s ex-boyfriend was driving, or the boy never loved you at all and you didn’t choose that and god didn’t plan that, it just came down to the fatelessness and light years and how big space is and funerary rituals, and how sexist nature is because men have to have an orgasm to create life but women don’t, and how humans are the only species that create art or wonder about god, and missing the train by eleven seconds makes you think about life and death and question how many people have ever lived on Earth, and how unfitting and foreign your name sounds when you think of being a grandparent one day, or what if Farren had been aborted instead of adopted, what if you knew what you wanted—would life just be so good—or what if Danny had never tried heroin, and now you’re jaded and the crescendo stops charging inside you, is it falling—you think so—you text your best friend “I’m happy you weren’t aborted, bitch” and she texts back “lmfao ikr me too” and you don’t think about how wondrous texting is or if this is how Hamlet felt or where fire was before it was discovered because it doesn’t hit you so hard, you’ve desensitized yourself enough to avoid existential inquiry for at least a week, so you just think about Erica’s Snapchat story from last Wednesday when you pulled and contorted your nose and eyes and forehead with Scotch tape in all directions and the sound of her laugh, and through tears she screamed, “Bruce Jenner!” and you laughed so hard you spit coffee across the table and you laugh aloud now and the person next to you, you don’t know them, they look over and tilt their head like a dog and you feel like Charlie when he said, “I feel infinite,” because you don’t understand how you can sob into your mother’s chest and four hours 10

Running and Other Indifferences

later rap Biggie in front of a room of fifty people like everything is hilarious and totally okay and you don’t understand why everything is so divine and thoughtless and chanceless or the “almostness” of places and times and then you know that life might be purposeless by default and the universe might not be good or bad, it might just be indifferent, but when you write a 1,387-word sentence on it, you’ll either end up laughing or crying or angry or something, and you’ll know by the time the sentence stops running, you’re not indifferent, not at all.

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Untitled Alex Pruden I owe nine lifetimes worth of time as debt For three-hundred-sixty-four days I am reminded of its payment To one who can never hope To perceive the world as I do It is a long slow story I am truly a liar though I am neither a murderer nor a thief I am vain cruel and greedy So someone told me I am Three-hundred-sixty-four Years older than I look Most of that time I remember Having spent it pretending to sleep While others lay there Playing dead I learned about you Never say Dear Lord when I get To Heaven I will make sense Of all of this though Look in the corners of This map Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve stolen The moon is red very red Like wine or the rust In my veins and my shoulders

Hunter // Hannah Gregory

I swear someone is listening To all of this in a foreign language It was translated from something exotic Everything is lost in translation And sounded much better at the time.

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A Period Piece in Four Acts Claire Merritt 1. Just so you know, this poem isn’t for you. You or Adam or his soft, easily-tempted hands or your green-eyed dimple smile. This isn’t a poem about peeling off your skin or those freckles on your arms that say something apocalyptic, in Hebrew, maybe. This isn’t a poem about ghosts— even though ghosts have slipped into the sinews and buckles of my joints. This is nothing. Really. This is a man in a big coat laughing at my shoes. This is the way they stared in the airport. This is, Father, please send pens.

and I’m already burning, so you tell me to just quit already. Put yourself out, why don’t you? 4. My hands tremble when you take a bow and duck off the stage. The curtain closes. The sirens stop, and the smell of you dissipates— if it’s you at all. More likely, it’s just some lingering poisonous fumes that someone—Adam, maybe, should have warned me about. Sorry I had to do that, Snake-Fruit. Sorry that it’s killing you and I didn’t tell you to run. Stop letting your hands shake like that and put the gun down.

2. You never wrote me love letters so I wrote them for you, hid them under my bed. My windows. Everywhere. When you left, the smell of you was all over me. It shattered my walls, set off sirens, started air raids. If one of my ribs were to ever pierce one of my lungs, they might cut me open (1-2-3, dip, rib, split), spread me wide. Hack out those pieces that aren’t quite working the way they should. There would be ropes on me, running down my skin. Big enough to hang myself from. There are a handful of traumatic reasons why surgeons always leave a scar. 3. This is a poem, if anyone wants it. It doesn’t have fist-fights or a murder or Grace Kelly, but halfway through, I scale a wall to a window in black and white. I’m supposed to be quiet, and you’re there and you have a gun and you tell me stop. Just stop it. Because I’m a funeral pyre big enough to house both of us, easy,

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Silence

Illustration by Anonymous

// Vanessa Gross

The sun was rising over a motionless forest. The soft pink light began to warm the miles of arching hills and valleys. A thin stretch of broken concrete cut through the forest and led to scattered houses and cabins. Most of the homes had been abandoned and could never give shelter again. The only home that was still occupied sat next to a small lake. The sun began to seep into glassy water. The rays grasped deep into the lake, searching for flesh and blood, but sank downward empty-handed. Nothing moved in the early morning light. The wind did not blow and the birds did not sing. It was as though the world had been emptied of all life except for a young woman lying naked on a short jetty. The jetty was old and decaying, but the woman was frail, so the jetty compromised and let her stay. Her calves hung off the edge and into the crisp water, creating shallow ripples that danced around uneven wooden stilts. With eyes shut, she focused on the chilled water on her sun-kissed skin. She listened to the conversation between these sensations closely, unaware of the rising sun. The muscles on her face tensed as she tried to recall a lost memory. The gentle flow of the lake reminded her of her childhood, or was it last week? The details slipped through the cracks in her mind as she searched for them. Heavy footsteps fell behind her and brought her out of her reverie. “Eloise?” A breathy voice called from the tree line. Eloise blinked the sunlight out of her eyes and sat up. The jetty groaned as she shifted her malnourished frame toward John. He stood where the jetty met the firm, dark earth. His cheeks were flushed and his blonde brow creased. He looked toward the horizon, where jagged, continuous smoke rose from the trees. John questioned if the smoke had always been so close, but couldn’t remember ever worrying about it. “Why do you come out here every morning?” John tried to sound frustrated, but any anger he felt had drained out of him long ago. He stood with his hands in his pockets, back hunched, looking as though he hadn’t slept the night before. “You stay out here longer and longer. I wake up and can’t find you and, fuck, Eloise, it scares me!” Eloise laughed. She wanted to release the tension between John’s brows, but it wasn’t a surprise to either of them that her smile was more condescending than relieving. She raised an eyebrow, looking out over the lake. “Are you worried someone is going to take me? If I get kidnapped, it would be pretty hard to find someone out here.”

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“No. That’s not my point.” John gave a deep sigh and rolled his head forward. He had to think if that was what actually worried him or if the feeling of uneasiness was just a habitual impulse. The question of where this impulse would have come from darted through John’s brain. The subject was too morbid and the fogs in his mind too heavy, so he made up a simple lie to avoid any deeper thought or conversation. “I don’t want the jetty to break.” John gave a weak shrug of his shoulders. “That thing is ancient.” Eloise tiptoed over the creaking wooden panels. She slipped her hands into John’s pockets and interlaced their fingers. His hands were shaking, but that was normal; or at least, Eloise assumed it was normal. She tilted her head down and pressed her lips against John’s. John didn’t kiss back, but he didn’t need to. He gripped her hands and let his head fall on her shoulder. “I am an excellent swimmer,” Eloise whispered. “You don’t need to worry.” John only wanted Eloise to apologize, but she would never say sorry. He gave a weak smile and Eloise knew that he was trying his best. They barely spoke to each other for the rest of the day. At some point the silence of the forest had seeped into their lives. It had left a heavy coating in their mouths as it crawled down their throats and filled their lungs. The weight of it choked them if they tried talking about the increasing burden of their lives. They had never had to worry about food, but their stash of canned and dried goods was finally dwindling. They rationed their breakfasts and wiped off the dishes when they had finished eating. That morning John noticed how sickly Eloise had begun to look, her bones visible in places he had never seen before. They used to be able to eat well enough, raiding food from neighboring houses, but eventually they’d walked for days in order to find anything that hadn’t spoiled. The forest extended for miles around them no matter how far Eloise and John walked. In time, they had abandoned the search and begun to carefully ration what they had collected. Along the way they had also abandoned any questions about where the former tenants of the houses had gone, or even how the two had ended up in this forest. The more they searched for these memories, the foggier they became. It soon became easy to avoid questioning their fate. Eloise picked up a novel that she’d already read from the bookshelf and stretched out on a love seat. John dragged a crooked chair to a crooked side table. On top of it sat an old rotary dial telephone and worn copy of the Yellow Pages. The phone was covered in dents and scratches and was an awful shade of chartreuse, but it worked fine. Eloise pretended that she remembered when John had first found the copy of the Yellow Pages. She pretended that she remembered how ecstatic John had been. He’d said that it was going to be their escape from the cabin in the woods. Somehow, in this faint memory, she also recalled that they knew why they were alone and why the forest was silent. The memory bent and blurred around itself, but Eloise could feel the need to escape etched on her skin. The feeling always gave her a headache and she shut her mind to it whenever it crept into view. Eloise had no problem remembering John finding the Yellow Pages under the kitchen sink, but sometimes John said he found it in the bedroom closet. John flipped open the Yellow Pages and found where he had marked the last number he called the previous day. He picked up the receiver and dialed the first set of digits. John said what happened on the other side of the phone line was not always the same. Usually, the phone would ring forever. There would be ten-minute gaps between 18

Silence

each number as John gripped the receiver, willing someone on the other end to pick up. Sometimes there would be generic answering machines, without a name or number, just asking to leave a message. Sometimes the phone would click as though someone was answering, but there would only be white noise or silence. Rarely someone would answer the phone, but once the person hung up, John could never recall any details about their voice. It never mattered how John answered the phone; as soon as he started talking, the person would make an excuse and hang up. After almost two hours and sixteen numbers, John stood up suddenly. “Yes! Hello! My name is John and—no, please, it won’t take up any of your . . . ” John swallowed and sat down. It was always the same. “People are always going to be assholes,” Eloise deadpanned from behind the back of the loveseat. John wanted to respond. He wanted to tell Eloise to shut up and force her to offer to help. He remained silent and continued on to the next number. That night, like most nights, Eloise and John had sex. It had been a long time since the two had made love. They were beyond emotional connections; sex had become a purely physical action. Their skin was raw and hands desperate. They reached down each other’s throats and ripped out the silence that coursed through their veins. They lacerated it and wrestled it down to the hollow springs in their mattress. With every moan and every kiss, their bodies sweated out the empty threats that they would never confess to in the sunlight. Eloise dug her nails into John’s back and sunk her teeth into his neck. John retaliated by forcing Eloise into the mattress and thrusting into her. They only fought this way in the dark and under the covers. They could never face the reality of their anguish in the day. Eloise and John exhausted each other and fell into a dreamless sleep. John woke up the next morning in an empty bed. There was a racket coming from outside that his mind wasn’t able to process in the early morning. He called out for Eloise as he stretched and rubbed his eyes. Glancing out a dirty window, he saw the forest swaying in the heavy wind. He shot up, blinking rapidly. John nearly fell out of bed and almost knocked over the dresser as he grabbed a pair of sweatpants. He called out for Eloise again, but the house was silent. Terror and adrenaline pulsed through his chest as he ran outside. John couldn’t remember the last time there had even been a breeze. Now the entire forest was howling, domineered by a forceful gale. John’s heart pounded in time with his feet against the dark earth. As the trees cleared and the lake came into view, John saw what he feared most. Eloise was standing on the edge of the jetty. The water’s shine was gone, and it rolled and pitched against the ancient wood. Eloise stood firm with her gaze fixated on the horizon. The endless column of smoke that fell into the sky had been dispersed by the wind. It was thick over the lake, but it didn’t smell like smoke. The scent was humid and stagnant. John’s mind raced as it was filled with the pungent smell. The way it hung on the edges of his nostrils was painfully familiar, but he didn’t have time to remember why. John cried out Eloise’s name. His voice cracked in desperation, begging for her to be safe, simultaneously condemning her for her actions. Eloise’s eyes met John’s as the jetty splintered underneath her. She remained silent as she slipped into the lake, quickly resurfacing, and the panic spread across her face. She gasped while the churning waters overwhelmed her mind and body. John dove into the lake and swam the short distance to where she was. As his arms wrapped around her waist, Eloise gave up. Her breathing was

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heavy as she allowed herself to be dragged toward land. When the two reached the shore, Eloise swore and coughed. Tremors rolled through her body and she collapsed onto the dense earth. A gash ran along her left calf, but it didn’t appear to be deep and the bleeding was light. John glared down at her. “What the fuck,” he spat. “I had just asked you yesterday to never go out there again. What the hell were you thinking?” “I . . . don’t know.” Eloise sounded lost and confused. John could barely hear her above the roar of the wind. She couldn’t remember why she had gone out on the jetty. The memory beat against the inside of her skull. It was a decision she had made barely ten minutes before. Had it been longer? Her mind emptied as she stared back at John’s severe gaze. “I don’t know. I’m sorry.” John closed his eyes and sighed. His body shivered and his mind burned from the odd, humid scent of the smoke. He held out a hand to help Eloise stand and the two walked back in silence. The tension between John and Eloise grew palpable as the day continued. John opened the Yellow Pages and dialed a new number as Eloise eventually made her way to the loveseat. She wrapped her leg in a makeshift bandage and elevated it on a pile of cushions. The bleeding had stopped, but sharp pains coursed down her leg. She listened to the clicks of the rotary dial and stared at the ceiling. Her mind felt raw and abandoned. After half an hour, someone answered John’s call. Eloise heart skipped, her attention shifting as she listened closely to John’s voice. John remained calm and spoke clearly, but the results were the same. “Good afternoon! My name is John and I would like to— Oh, okay, yes, have a good day.” 20

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John dialed the next number and almost choked. The phone must have been answered again. Eloise’s heart beat faster, reverberating down her spine. This had to be a sign that the two weren’t alone. This had to mean that there were people out in the world. She didn’t know what she was expecting. The result would be the same. “Do not hang up the phone. No! Please, please, just don’t!” John felt the growing frustration in his core give a kick. He hung up and glanced over at Eloise, ready for her to retort with one of her usual quips. Eloise kept her mouth shut. John had never acted so desperate. Everything about her surroundings was becoming vague and uncertain. She felt her throat constrict as she questioned for the first time if John was really speaking to anyone. Another minute went by before John dialed the next number. Eloise heard ten clear clicks and the phone receiver smacking the floor. She sat up and saw John paralyzed, hand raised as if he were still holding the phone. No sound came from the fallen receiver. Rage crept onto John’s face. Eloise’s heart froze. She watched as John stood up. An earthquake ran through his jaw. His face contorted and he yelled and swore. He knocked over the table and the phone crashed onto the floor. He swore again and punched a wall, but he was weak and the wall didn’t even dent. Tears fell down Eloise’s cheeks as she stood and limped over to where the phone lay on the floor. She picked up the receiver and then held it to her ear. There was no dial tone. All she heard was silence. Dread flooded every inch of her body. She looked up at the unfamiliar blank stare of the man she thought she knew so well. “Eloise?” Her name sounded nauseating on John’s lips. Eloise ignored the throbbing pain that shot up her leg as she ran out the front door and into the forest. Her body felt hollow as it launched itself forward. John called after her, but his words were unable to reach Eloise. She hadn’t made it far into the trees when the pain in her calf stopped her. Dry heaves rolled through her body as her own life had forced its way up her throat. Her lungs burst and ribs shattered. Phantom pains knocked her heaving body onto her hands and knees. She wanted to rip open her gut as it knotted into itself. Another dry heave rocked through her as she tried to throw up her memories and thoughts. Her hollow fists splintered as they beat against the ground. The earth became opaque and thin and Eloise slipped through the cracks. She fell into an unfamiliar darkness. Her body fragmented and she watched it fall to pieces. Soon all that was left was the silence that used to fill her lungs and flow through her veins. John wanted to be worried, but all he could feel was a slight annoyance. The sun was just beginning to set, but he was emotionally exhausted. He climbed into bed when there was still light out and fell into a deep sleep. At some point during the night he felt Eloise’s warm body crawl into bed next to him. John woke up as usual in his bed, an empty bed. Eloise must have gone down to the lake again. Wasn’t that supposed to make him angry? For a moment John couldn’t remember why he felt the need to be angry. The events of yesterday edged to the front of his mind. The memory felt distant, like it wasn’t his. Without getting dressed, John walked out into the still forest. He took the short path down to the lake. The sun was rising into the clear sky over the motionless trees. Why’d he come out to see the sunrise? No. He came out here for Eloise, but she wasn’t here. When had the jetty broken? It was ancient and bound to happen eventually. The morning air was chilly and John was still tired, so he walked back to his bed. As soon as he

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was under his sheets, he felt himself drifting off to sleep. He stretched out, looking over at the empty side of the bed. Why did he feel like someone should be lying there? He shifted his body toward it. No, it had always been empty. Yet the unoccupied half of the bed felt warm, like someone had just left. As Johnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s eyelids became too heavy to hold open, he recognized a humid scent on the sheets.

Fallaxia Valley // Phillip Mastrippolito

Silence

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When Will Our Love Jackie Papanier When will our love stop sounding like an orchestra of indecisive cymbal crashes? Walk away with everything while Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m left to make small talk with strands of your hair in the sink.

Scottsville // Anna Ladd

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Johnstown Leyna Bohning Family takes form of a hometown. Pride describes this family.

We had a small school that barely fit the 400 students who attended. They said for years that they were going to build a new, bigger one. The school hasn’t been touched. I witnessed a fatal accident on my way home with my friends. Her tire popped and her car flew through the air and wrapped around the telephone pole. The telephone pole snapped in half and would have crushed us if I hadn’t stopped.

Ladies and Gentlemen, under the direction of Mr. Joe Carver, we proudly present The Pride of Johnstown.

I saw her body. I knew the body.

The Johnstown Johnnies Big Red Band!

My friend got into a fatal accident a few weeks after graduation. The whole town showed up.

That was my introduction every Friday night. Football games, Varsity Show, Massillon, Cleveland Browns, Disney.

I cried.

They don’t really seem to go together in one listing unless our band’s name follows it.

Bonfires were a recurring weekend activity at my house. We lit Chinese lanterns into the night sky.

There are only four stoplights here.

I still feel bad about them landing in someone else’s yard.

One night, I wanted to run a stop sign to prove I wasn’t a goody-two-shoes driver.

It is illegal in the state of Ohio to set off professional fireworks on your property without a license.

I stopped anyway. There’s a pink Victorian house on Main Street. An old couple lives there. The elderly man always puts on a suit and a top hat before going outside.

One time we did it and a cop showed up.

There’s a Bed and Breakfast across the street from that pink house. The owner, Elizabeth, said that she would sell it to me after college.

I know every single Johnstown police officer and firefighter by name.

One footstep out of town and you’ll be in a farmer’s field. I grew up in a house outside of town, on a one-lane road. One lane doesn’t mean one way. The speed limit sign says thirty-five, but if you go the speed limit, the cows will run you over.

He watched.

When I told the Chief that I didn’t drink alcohol he laughed and said he didn’t believe me. I guess everyone in Johnstown drinks. I had a sip of wine in Paris once. I asked my dad to have a sip of wine at dinner, and he said we weren’t in Paris.

My friend and I could tell what the weather would be like by looking at the cows.

A lot of my friends say that they don’t want to live in Johnstown for the rest of their life. When Elizabeth asked me if I wanted to live in Johnstown for the rest of my life, my answer was clear.

They would stand in the sun, and sit in the rain.

I do.

In the summer, wolves sing me to sleep. In order to fall asleep, you have to pretend to be asleep. I’ve never met one person who lived in Johnstown and didn’t own a truck. We had “Drive Your Tractor to School Day” twice a year. People brought their combines. People brought their push mowers. 26

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South Street Last Week Allegra Armstrong I told myself I’d go a week without you just to prove I could but midweek broke my pact I ran to your house & said, “I’ve been gone!” And you said, “I thought you’d just lost your phone.” At the barbecue pit We turn left That stroke of luck the last one. You greet the owner and I love you like I can count on eggs in the fridge Unless I ate them before & forgot, in which case there’ll be none. At least as much as I love the Tattooed Mom clientele which is never just yuppies or old gross men. You are the perfect mix of Penn graduates and Temple graduates new to Center City with glossy jobs in advertising. Last night you bought me nachos and dared me to walk all the way around the jungle gym, no hands. I fell like the wind when skateboarders ruffle us to arrive home before dusk. If our affections are just hormones lying in wait I’m glad the cells that made me drove me to you.

Existent // Shaina Nyman

Someday these same hormones’ll kill us in one last acid-trip-flash. I hope it’s you there beside me & not some other boy who doesn’t know a million rap lyrics who didn’t train his own dog who can’t bake bread or instruct me on the best bike routes— I could go on. What I will tell you is yesterday, one old man said to another, “This is the most beautiful day. My favorite day.”

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I Would Like To Write About Maris Garden I would like to write about a rare bullet of thought that once swept through organ after organ. Telling new story after story, meaning nothing, and saying everything. I died as one does in a crime show, right after asking a question, but never receiving an answer. Are you a storyteller or a writer? Is it a painting or a picture? I would like to write about how I wanted Olde English to be absinthe, but we can’t all get what we need. Clovers should be lucky, but why is four luckier than 3? I would like to write about how my bra is hanging out of my shirt not in a sexy way. It just is. I would like to write about how he asked me, “Why haven’t you changed your shirt?” Or I must have been imagining that.

I would like to write about how the space is too big between these words, almost like cinnamon freckles sprinkled as belly kisses. The candlelight will intensify you into oblivion, as we fuck in an Indian restaurant pavilion by the white fabrics that don’t match our dark skin. Creep me in the kitchen when you know I’m easy like 1-2-3 but why is four luckier than 3? I would like to write about how I want you to empty me like a bottle of your beer, found on a shelf up high near the absinthe that I wanted to be Old E. I would like to write about moving in paralysis, like Gregory Peck in that movie where he’s at a ski resort, when he’s moving through the revolving door, running to tell his lady that he really loves her. But the door’s moulding slides too slowly over the granite floors and every second matters, like dying matters to the afraid. I would like to write about yellow patio chairs, which you spray-painted over the summer with your boyfriend, but yellow spray-painted patio chairs remind you of the father you had when the chairs weren’t yet rusted enough to need another coat of spray paint.

I would like to write about how donuts shouldn’t be so normally misspelled. It’s dough—d-o-u-g-h nuts, dickhead.

I would like to write about how I think I saw bags under my eyes but maybe my cheekbones were protruding. I stuck my cigarette in my teeth as I pulled my too-tight jeans over my too-flabby legs but the gap of the thigh was the trophy, and I was once an Olympian of malnourishment.

I would like to write about how I wish I were writing as brilliantly as I was when I wrote Lord of the Rings. I’m probably more stoned now than I was when I wrote those words of fairyland aggression.

Do I die thin? I think that is a lovely way to die. But I don’t want to know my death. I don’t want to know the taste of nothing.

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I am tired of tasting only the ash of my throat. I would like to write about a question of doubt that won’t go away. So I’m asking you to tell me the truth— how long do I have to stand in the street before a car comes and hits me? Also, why is four luckier than 3?

Awakening // Shaina Nyman

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Mass

Illustration by Vince Williams

// John Yazzo

Sunlight touched my face and glittered softly above my eyes. I could feel the warmth of it on my skin as I stretched my legs across my bed and let out a huge yawn. I barely opened my eyes to look at my nightstand. 7:58 a.m. I had beaten my alarm by two minutes, a new personal record. I instinctively shut my eyes, hoping that maybe time would slow down so much that I would get another hour or two in sleep. This, sadly, was a delusion. I opened my eyes again just as the eight turned into a nine on my alarm clock. One more minute. Just one minute before my alarm would billow through my room. Should I get up and turn my alarm off before it goes off? I pondered that for a moment, but decided the warmth of the sunlight and the cool sheets on top of me were too powerful a force to fight. This would be the last time I would enjoy the comfort of my own bed, my own room, my own sanctuary. I put my hands underneath my pillow and felt the cold fabric send chills through my arm. Maybe if I just stayed put, they would forget about me. Maybe they would just leave and let me lie there for another couple hours. I looked over again at my alarm clock, instantly locking my gaze to the numbers, just as 7:59 became 8:00. I braced myself. Nothing. There should have been a blare of synthesized music coming from my alarm. But instead there was silence. No noise. No music. My eyes fixed on the clock atop the nightstand. Why didn’t my alarm go off? Is it broken? Maybe I’m dreaming? No, this wasn’t a dream. I could vividly feel everything around me. I pulled my legs close to my torso and managed to sit up in my bed. My toes glided and ran circles in my sheets, gently tickling them with each motion. This definitely couldn’t be a dream. My sheets were tickling me. I got out of my bed and slowly moved one foot at a time over my wooden floor.

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I tried to make as little sound as possible. If they couldn’t hear my alarm, maybe they wouldn’t bother with me. Each step made small creaks in the floorboards, and with each sound, more and more fears began to surface. I won’t let him control me. I’ll be stronger than him. They can’t hear this noise . . . can they? No. They can’t. They won’t hear it. I’m fine. Keep walking. I found myself face to face with my alarm clock after about five steps. It now read 8:02. It didn’t seem like two minutes had gone by, but I guess I must have been extra slow and careful with my footsteps. Then, as if a trap had gone off, his voice filled the emptiness the alarm had left in my room. “You ready?” He had a deep and calm voice. It was unnerving. It was too calm. I moved as quickly and quietly as I could back to my bed. I pulled the covers over me and closed my eyes in hopes of creating the illusion that I was still sleeping. “You know, I can hear you in there.” He started to open the door. I could hear his footsteps getting closer to the edge of my bed. “We can’t be late for the Mass. So, please, wake up.” I could feel his hand on my shoulder and I began to sway back and forth as he pushed and pulled me. I’m awake. Stop pushing me. Stop it. “Stop pushing me!” I shouted. “Oh. So you were awake.” He stopped moving my body around. An uneasy stillness came over my body. Don’t make me get out of bed. Don’t make me go. I don’t want to go. Please. “Come on, let’s go. They won’t be waiting much longer.” He had a sense of urgency in his voice just then. Had fear started to show up in him, too? “What if I don’t want to?” “You don’t have a choice.” This was quick and to the point. He’s not happy with me. He’s going to be very mad. Please don’t be mad at me. I’ll listen this time. I promise. I promise. “Get dressed. We don’t have a lot of time left. 8:05. You’ve got ten minutes.” He started to head for the door. “Please, I don’t want to do this . . . I’m scared.” I could feel tears welling up in my eyes. He stopped walking. He turned to me. What is he going to do? What is he going to say? 36

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What have I done? Please don’t hurt me. I promise I can be better, but you have to help me. “The Body and the Blood, huh?” He turned around. “God’s made his plans this way.” He made his way back to the door. “You’ll save us, you know? There is no escaping that.” He reached for the doorknob and started to turn it. “Embrace it, and find peace with that.” “But—” I tried to get the last word in. “Don’t. Nothing you do or say will change your fate today. You’ve been raised, trained and taken care of for this very day. You’re to get dressed. You’re to go downstairs, where all the priests and myself will be waiting. Our Mass will offer you to the Lord. You’re going to save us. You’re going to grant us salvation. Our Second Coming is so close now . . . We will find each other when it’s all over.” He paused, then spoke again. “You’re our last chance, and I refuse to perish for your selfishness.” He took out a chain and placed it over my doorknob before he left. The Cross fell down and swayed from side to side, banging into my door. Suddenly the sunlight didn’t feel so warm against my face. The cold sheets of my bed no longer felt cool and refreshing; they pierced me with a bitter cold. Static filled the room. I could hear a piano and a choir of voices below my room. “Keep me close . . . when they come in for us. Keep me close. Stay cold.”

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Church of the Crucifixion // Catherine Carrozza

Encroach // Kate Hanna 38

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Water

// Haley Dow

The trolley screeched to a shaky halt. It always took four seconds for the brakes to really start functioning, sending the people standing in the aisle forward. Eva briefly imagined one of the more elderly patrons flying through the windshield, the fantastic spray of shimmering broken glass and crimson underscored by the solid thud of a body hitting the pavement. She caught her own eyes in the window and winced. They were dark today, and even she couldn’t find any warmth in her own gaze. She closed her eyes, mustered a good-girl smile and gathered her bags, rising from the seat and walking toward the door. She beamed at the driver. “See you tomorrow, Henry!” Henry grinned a toothless smile, his dark face full of wrinkles, old white stubble sprouting from his ruddy cheeks. She found her way down the steps and onto the street. Just three steps to the curb, ten more to the corner, and a left onto 13th Street. She stopped counting when it came to the blocks; there was no quality left to counting when you ended on a number like 47 or 52 or 68. Eva didn’t like the metallic taste it left in her mouth and she closed her eyes, composed her mind, and moved past it.

Illustration by Kristen Miller

Two blocks and she happened upon her row house, a brownstone, quiet and cute enough for her liking. She juggled her grocery bags, fishing in her coat pocket, fingers scraping against a pack of cigarettes and a crumpled receipt before finding her keys. Three steps up to her door. She rubbed her thumb down the key’s rippling spine, sliding it into the lock. Her apartment was warm and quiet. She had the bottom floor of a sublet and didn’t mind because the basement was a definite perk. Nothing had felt like home for Eva since her mother died, but she did what she could to keep herself happy. She kept things in the house that were reminiscent of her mother, like lavender-scented candles, Granny Smith apples, pots of spaghetti sauce on Sunday nights. There were ways she could keep home close to her heart, even though she knew she would never get back what she once had. She was always struggling to hold on, leaving ugly claw marks on the things she’d had to let go of. She pulled her lighter out of her coat pocket and lit the three-wick candle that sat on her small dining room table, breathed in deep and unwound the scarf from her neck. She shed her coat and pulled the hat off her head, laying the clothes carefully on the back of a chair. Eva strolled out of the kitchen and walked through the living room and into her bedroom, pulling on the comfy sweater

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her ex had left in her room the other night. She kept it because it was big and roomy and she liked to keep bits and pieces of people that left her life. He had slipped out as easily as water, without caring or bothering to pick up what he had left behind. Things like that sweater littered her life. The sweater came over her head, her sheaf of chestnut hair tumbling to her shoulders, down her chest, just above her breasts, barely brushing her nipples, which seized at the change of temperature, change of texture, change of scenery. Eva ran a thumb over her now hard left nipple and sighed, digging through her laundry basket for a white tee shirt. She pulled it on, turning on her heel and grabbing her black apron from the post of her bed. She began tying it behind her back, walking out of the room and back to the kitchen. She pulled her hair back and reached into the apron’s pocket for her elbow-length gloves. She checked the front door: locked. She checked her back door: locked. She pulled the gloves on and shut the kitchen light off, turning to face the basement door. The basement wasn’t finished and it had a musty smell that made her mind buzz, just like her mom’s candles. The steps were uneven concrete, and there was no light switch, just a dim light bulb with old, crunchy string. She knew how many stairs there were and the dark didn’t scare her. Her feet made tiny sounds, tiny, hushed sounds that were muted by the dark. Eva found her way into the middle of the room and reached up to find the string, fumbling in the darkness for only a few moments before her hand found it. Gentle grip, click, and a flutter of hazy amber light. The laundry bag at her feet was dirt-smeared and rust-colored. Its hems were starting to pop and she sighed at the sight. As she nudged the bag with her foot, it shuddered. She nudged it again to the same reaction. Eva wound up and drove the toe of her boot into the bag, hard. A muffled cry evaporated into the cellar’s musky air. She did not react. She leaned down and pulled the string on the bag, letting it open. Another whine came out before she reached into an apron pocket for a knife, cutting the bag down the back, like one would cut open a pig to reveal its contents. He was blindfolded and gagged. His hands and feet were bound. The man was naked and covered in his own blood and vomit, long since crusted over. Eva grabbed the ends of the bag and dragged it and its treasures under the light bulb. The man started to writhe in his bindings and tried to scream against the balled-up rag in his mouth. It was a gurgling note, the sound a sink drain makes when it struggles past a bit of food you forgot to scrape into the trash. Her heart felt heavy. Her chest tightened and she blinked hard, closing her eyes, getting away from it. She rolled him onto his back, taking his head gently in her hands, soft and pink under the rubber gloves, and untied the cloth around his eyes. When she pulled it away, his pupils reeled in the amber light, constricting to pinpoints before widening again. That was animal instinct and fear. Her throat tightened too, and her voice leaked out, quiet, barely there at all. “Hi, Pete.” She remembered that morning, but it was gray and fuzzy around the edges. Six months ago, she rolled over groggily and saw him stuffing the clothes he kept in her house into a duffel bag. He wore only the boxers he had slept in, his bed head still evident and his eyes still sleepy. It was 5:46 a.m. To her, the details of trauma were incredibly specific. The hushed sound of Pete packing away his things, the quiet patter of rain. It was gray outside and she felt it becoming gray in her heart. He zipped the bag slowly, quietly, not 42

Water

thinking to look back at her. She kept her head on the pillow while he pulled his jeans on, zipping those slowly as well. When he pulled his shirt over his head, she sat up, startling him. He looked like a spooked animal, an opossum trying to play dead. Anything except for what he was, but he was what he was: a boy running away. He didn’t say a word, just grabbed the bag and left. Like water, slipping out through the cracks in her life, down the side of the windowpane. Like the blood slipping out of his mouth, as he lay like a scared animal who now understood the fragility of life, on the floor of her basement. He started to sweat. She could see it beading on his brow. He had been in her basement for three days. No doubt he was tired, hungry, confused. He was maybe even slowly dying. Eva knelt down, straddling his torso and running a gloved fingertip over his chest, feeling his heartbeat pounding through his ribs. He groaned through the gag, coughing blood and spittle. He was actually dying and it was because of her. For the first time in months it felt like her heart was actually beating, like the blood was moving through her veins with real purpose. She was alive again. She hiked her gloves up tight on her arms, watching his eyes water and roll. She reached back into her apron pocket and retrieved the knife. Pete started to buck and thrash beneath her. He may have been weak, but he was afraid and adrenaline was powering his fight. Eva slapped him across the face and he sat still momentarily, his body shaking beneath her. “I used to think I couldn’t live without you.” Her voice hummed. He looked up at her, right into the darkness of her eyes. She inhaled deep, the smell of his sweat overwhelming the musty cellar smell, even overwhelming the scent of the blood and vomit and all else that had come out of him since he’d gotten there. She bit her lip and tried not to scream, tried not to remember that what she was doing was very wrong and not okay and just plain awful. This was important; this was unique to her healing process. It needed to happen and she had to do it. She looked back down, the sweat still beading into tiny rivers, slipping out the cracks. She reached behind his head and cut the gag, looking into his eyes. He coughed up a phlegmy chunk of bloody something immediately after she pulled the rag out of his mouth. His breathing rattled as he strained against her, inhaling, ready to scream, ready to fight for his life. She put two fingers over his lips, hushing him, feeling him shake under her harder still. She kept her fingers over his lips and ran the tip of the knife down his chest, gently pulling up a line of blood. A tear danced down the side of Pete’s face, and his breath hitched as if he might scream. She looked directly at him again, leaving the knife at the end of her impeccable line of crimson. “Every day without you was harder than the last, but recently things have started to look up for me. I realized I can be okay,” Eva explained quietly as she dragged the knife down to his belly button. “And, you know, I’ve figured out how to make sure that I’m okay.” She began turning the knife slowly and reaching back up, against the grain, harder, making sure she broke his skin. He cried out as he watched the blood spill from his belly, and caught a glimpse of his own organs before his peripheral vision went away completely. Eva looked at her past lover with the fondness a person has for their work or their livelihood. Affectionately, she mentally compared the look to the way a butcher

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would look at a great cut of meat in his display. “Please,” he croaked, trying to move, but afraid and aware of the gaping wound that took up the majority of his torso. Her eyes darted back up, nearly black with the anger and hate in her now. “Hush,” she hissed. She leaned her face close to his, the blood pooling under her legs squelching as she rose off his body. She ran a hand through his dirty hair, brought it down to his cheek and ran her thumb deftly across his sweat-stained skin. Maybe she would miss him terribly, but she was prepared for what she was about to do. It was necessary. She leaned down and kissed his lips. He didn’t kiss back; his lips trembled violently against hers. When she pulled away, she looked into his eyes, refusing to move her gaze. “I am alive without you,” she said softly. She took the knife to his throat, plunged it in deep and let the spray of his severed jugular cover her face, her neck, her chest, her whole body. It washed over her as easily as water.

Inside Out // Rachael Longo 44

Water

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I’ll Ask For Help When I Figure Out How To Anna Ladd i am learning that the buses that used to bring me up north couldn’t take me far enough to change a thing. i keep a log of all the people that i meet on the train. their greetings echo and repeat. i smile and nod. i am their answering machine. they tell me that they are just visiting. they tell me that they are only here for the week, to see family or friends or because they need a break. i tell them that we all do.

Skin & Streets // Diana Musgnug

my mom’s friends ask me in a chorus, how was the train? how have you been? are you enjoying school? i do not tell them: i am getting a degree in making people pay attention to me. i do not tell them: i pick up old parts of myself whenever i come here and my stomach is empty because of it. i tell them: i took the train in this morning. i tell them: i am doing well. the last bus that i took north caught on fire and if i believed in signs, if i believed in symbols, i’d let it stand as a reminder that old habits die hard and know that mine have died harder.

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A Compressed Childhood: Day 1,858 Maggie Fenning I became the victim today. I was robbed. I accuse a pudgy, blonde girl of the crime. My favorite My Little Pony. She had been stealing all the other kids’ toys. It’s the only logical assumption. Two hours after my judgment, the My Little Pony is sitting just where I left it. I grow hot with anger or embarrassment. Am I crazy? “It wasn’t there before!” I wail, upset because justice is dead. Upset because mine wasn’t good enough to steal.

The evening is the fall wind. Rushing. Transparent. If you put us all together we make 1½ women. Alone in a big house that we take care of for the church. I don’t realize his absence until I go to bed, and his voice wakes me in the night. Sounds distant but it’s the loudest noise I’ve ever heard. At the window I see him screaming outside at the pastor whose study is on the first floor. Light from the open door hits him like judgment. It’s like I see him for the first time. Mommy rushes to comfort sister. Who I didn’t know was crying. She tells me to leave the window. I don’t want to. I’m not crying. I translate Mali’s tears, “Why is Daddy a monster?” I tell myself it’s not his fault. Mommy tries to comfort me, but I’m not crying.

They can’t know I’m humiliated. They can’t know I’ve been defeated. I will kill them before that happens. I will hurt something. But all of this comes out as my hands shaking. Nothing more. It’s time for art and I feel better, because none of them can grasp the concept of the sky. A boy argues with me. I pry, “Look out that window! Where is the sky?” “At the top!” he says. The sky is all around us. Wraps us like a blanket. Tucked beneath us. I am like Copernicus, martyr. Martyr I sometimes think is a furry animal. Martyr, I sometimes think is you. They voted me drama queen, again. The name has queen in it so I wear it with honor. But I know it belittles me. Discredits me. David knows I think this way. That there are these poundings, poundings in my head, they pour out as words, as anger. He’s an ageless man who talks to me like I am ageless too. Because I am. I always will be. He’s the only thing that makes aftercare worthwhile. They serve too many granola bars, too often. I question him about the universe. And he tells me, all the creatures I see in the corner of my eye, are real. You don’t speak to me like I don’t know. Like I am only living naivete with curly hair. I have already absorbed the pain of this world. Already pustules festering under my smooth skin. When you speak to me, you renew my faith in black men. In aftercare my best friend calls me out for selecting a granola bar when Oreos were offered. I tell her it’s for health. But she knows I only picked it because no one else was. The granola bar is dry. Tastes like compulsion. Mommy is here with eyes tired with heavy and purple. But, I take in her face like the moon, a solid glow of light whose details are too far for me to reach. Sister’s in the car. She’s small and pudgy and I love her but fear she will become more beautiful.

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Untitled Justin MacDonald I saw you in the dark once, lying like a sheet over everything, not saying much. I saw you sitting there in the branches where the sun shone through the leaves looking right at me. I saw you when momma sang walking along her voice like a balance beam. I saw you dancing across graves breathing life into the dead just long enough to blow up birthday balloons.

Monsters Under the Bed // Kristyn Stickley

But I never wanted to disturb you. I knew not to wake you up so, I wet my finger and followed the curve of your edge until I could hear you ring.

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Stem Jotie Mondair Your delicate stems withered Sapling, caught it comatose The cold wet ground as your elixir Desolation as me

Mapping Nostalgia // Samantha Morris 52

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A True Account of Talking to a Puddle at 13th and Pine Sarah May Butler I can always tell the bottoms of your feet apart from all the others since you crashed them into me, unapologetic purple rain-boots, size five, a Band-Aid pressed into the sole. You sent me scattering into fissions of light, wincing ‘sorry’ as you plodded off to disorient another one of me. If there’s another one of you, I may evaporate. I saw you again crouching, violet drawers peeping. Had it been anyone else I’d have seen your knees before they filled my vision, one yellow and fleshy and flecked, an infected strawberry.

the ventilation in your skin like so many stairs. ‘They said they can see themselves in you,’ you rambled. I stilled. ‘So why can’t I?’ Could I not close the vents for one more day, could I not at least close your eyes? Eyes redder than clay at my Another day. And you blinded me. With your heel and hate. Last time I saw you there was a nebula under your eye, blond streaks each time you blinked. As you swayed. As you sighed, ‘He makes me clear. I don’t need to ask anymore.’ Thin shoes, size nine. Varicose vein. No Band-Aid. No ventilation. At last I speak— You don’t have to be—but I look up to see so many feet. I can’t find yours anymore.

You said— ‘Where do you come from?’ so I thought hard. Only saw fog. Can’t recall. You breathed, ‘Me either,’ stirring my surface, your face sheer splotchy vague. ‘Why can’t I see my reflection when I look inside you?’ I knew, but couldn’t say. You inferred, ‘Another day,’ dashing off as another foot came down. Another day you plunged a plumb toe all the way through me to the pavement under my spine. Your inner wrist rippled above me, my eyes climbing up 54

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American Giants

Illustration by Courtney Cortez

// Carter Horton

Muse was being a total bitch, so I left her. I ducked around the corner while she was exhaling a cigarette into her coworker’s face and headed straight on for fifteen minutes without looking back. I was shaking, and I couldn’t stand it. I needed to calm myself. I wanted to be distracted. So I decided to turn on Eywell and head down to the playground. Muse could just breathe herself out, but I couldn’t; I had to shake. My teeth were raucous, too, cackling at me. I sat down on a bench, trees bowing in the wind, rats turning under bushes. The children busy climbing on public art. There was one, his hair out from under his orange beanie and his lips a frown. He was the only one looking up. While his peers were testing gravity, he defied it. His gaze would fall back to earth, only to look up again after a few minutes. He wandered, guided on a trail marked by treetops. His eyes floated down on me and remained. It seemed that my bench had slid toward him more than anything else, but he ended up sitting next to me in a matter of seconds. I jumped, it happened so fast. A dagger of a lock jutted out through a hole in his beanie. He wouldn’t speak to me; he just kept smiling at me. Hello. I cracked. Hi. What’s your name? Terry. What’s yours? David. Where’re your parents? My mom left a couple of hours ago, but my dad’s watching me. Where is he? You can’t see him. He’s over behind that building. How can he make sure you’re safe then? He has very good eyesight. Terry winked over in the direction of a skyscraper and giggled. He had freckles that spotted the rose in his cheeks; he wasn’t wearing a warm enough coat. I tried my best to keep the shaking inside, hold it down to nothing but a pounding heart. Do you have a girlfriend? Excuse me? I do. She’s over there.

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He pointed to a radiant little girl with blonde ringlets and plump cheeks. She was riding a bronze lion like a pony. She seems nice. She isn’t. She doesn’t like to play with me when other boys are around. She says she doesn’t like me, but she kissed me under a tree last week. Does your girlfriend do that? What makes you think I have a girlfriend? All grown-ups have girlfriends. Does that make you a grown-up? I guess so. He beamed. His teeth were mossy, and a little crooked. He was going to need braces soon. Despite this, his smile twinkled, pouring out his happiness for me. Well then, welcome to the grown-ups club. Are you all right? You look like you’re angry with someone. Is it your girlfriend? What is it with you and my girlfriend? I just want to know. Fine, yes. I’m mad at my girlfriend. Did she kiss another boy in front of you? No, nothing like that. She won’t talk to me, though. I understand. Out of reverence, he bowed his head. He looked ridiculous in his bright orange beanie. The wind came and brought the shakes out of both of us. You cold? A little. Here, take my jacket. With my oversized denim jacket, the picture was complete. He was the poster child of American poverty. Won’t you be cold? I don’t mind. I’ll get another. He beamed up at the skyscraper. I made a friend, Dad. Where is your dad? I told you, he’s behind that building. That’s why I wear this beanie. He can see me from wherever he is. It was my mom’s idea. That’s smart, but how can he hear you? That’s a pretty long way off. My dad’s a great listener. He hears everything I say. Terry’s girlfriend had dismounted and was cavorting with the other boys in the park. Their parents lined the outer perimeter of the grass, watching their little grown-ups playing house. One particularly adventurous boy took a death-defying leap off the lion. I found myself admiring his bravery, the way he spread himself to the autumn breeze. He had failed to think about the inevitability of the ground, and scraped his knees. His swelling eyes looked up to his mistress, but those golden strands had already turned away, to another boy climbing a tree. He didn’t cry. He just sat down, Indian-style, and looked at the blood. Terry nudged me with his elbow. Are you going to break up? I don’t think so. She didn’t do anything, after all. I just needed to sit down. 58

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Why didn’t she sit down with you? Well, I wanted to be alone too. I don’t think she would want to sit anyways. She likes to be going from one place to another. I get that. He pointed the crown of his head toward his girlfriend. Then he looked back up to me, whispering. I’d be pretty upset if my girlfriend broke up with me. Me too. What’s her name? Music. He had a riot, pulling the brim of his hat over his face to stifle the laughter. Her name’s Music? Yeah, but everyone calls her Muse. That’s pretty. Is she pretty? Yes, very pretty. My mom’s really pretty. That’s why my dad fell in love with her. Isn’t that right, Dad? Why doesn’t your dad come and join us? I’d like to meet him. He can’t. He’d scare everyone. I don’t think he’d scare me. I’m pretty brave. Yeah, but not everyone’s brave. He’d scare someone. That’s why he has to hide behind that building. He smiled at the concrete block off in the distance.

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Your dad isn’t allowed to see you anymore, is he? He shook his head. The shaking stopped with that. He can’t, but sometimes I’ll catch him watching me. Sometimes I’ll look up and see him trying to hide behind a building. He follows me everywhere. He can because it’s a city and no one looks up. There are lots of giants in the city; you’d be surprised. Your dad’s a giant? Yeah, and one day, I’ll be just as big as him. That’s why I don’t mind if my girlfriend ignores me sometimes. Cause one day, I’ll be just as big and handsome as my dad, and then she’ll see me. Would you see me? I don’t look up that much. Well, you can see me now, so I guess that’s good enough. When did your mother leave? A couple of hours ago. She’ll be here soon. She lets me be in the park so Dad and I can have some father-son time, and she goes to talk to friends. She usually comes back around now. How do you know? See that tree there? When the sun starts to touch that tree, she comes. Maybe you should get a watch, to keep the time. No, thanks, I look up plenty. His gaze wandered back up to the sky. I wanted to buy him a watch, a cup of hot chocolate and a book about constellations. The inevitability of my exit, the simple fact that I would have to leave him, pressed against my temples. Once I left him, I couldn’t return either. I couldn’t stomach the sight of him curled up on a bench. I felt small under the treetops. I looked over to Terry, growing to meet the sky, and felt even smaller. Before I could reach out in any way, a small head of yellow hair bobbed into my periphery. Hey, Terry. Hi, Emily. Who’s your friend? His name’s David. Hi. Hello. Are you mad at me, Terry? No. Then come play with me. I don’t want to play right now. I just want to spend some time with David and my dad. Where’s your dad? He’s not here right now. Well then, come play with me. No. I don’t want to. Fine. She marched off to a green-eyed eight-year-old with a plaid clip-on tie. He looked up from the dirt he was playing in, smiled, and trotted off behind her. I didn’t want to mention that Terry had gotten my name wrong. I didn’t want to ruin the myth that he was building around me. To him, I would always be David; I had no right to take that away from him. 60

American Giants

Sorry. You’re fine. I don’t get it. I’ll let you in on a little grown-up secret. He bent into me, eager for a taste of adult life. You never get it. It stays confusing your whole life. That’s stupid. You’re right. I pulled out a cigarette. Mom’s friends smoke. Do they now? It’s really bad. You shouldn’t do it when you grow up. I am grown up, though. I suppose you’re right. I had half a mind to offer him one. Cigarettes were the only things I had left to give. I don’t like smoking though, cause I don’t like Mom’s friends. Why not? You said your mom was a nice lady. Nice ladies should have nice friends, right? I guess so, but not these ones. They have mean smiles. My phone buzzed, probably a text from Muse. I still didn’t want to deal with her, so I left it alone. He looked up at his giant in silence. I caught myself staring with him, hoping for a familiar lock of brown hair sticking out from behind the building. Terry! Terry, who’s this? A woman in her mid-thirties was walking toward us, followed by a grim case of five-o’clock shadow. He hunched his shoulders forward, uncomfortable seeing the woman’s despondent little kid. Hi, Mom! This is David. Pleased to meet you, David. The man jumped his heel up and down a few feet behind her. His head was down, but his eyes were right on me. Pleased to meet you. Thanks for spending some time with Terry. Of course. We have to get going now, though. Say goodbye to your friend. As she bent down to grab his arm, a brown bag clinked its head out from her purse. She froze in place and looked to me. I pretended not to notice; maybe David could save this boy, but Daniel couldn’t. All right. Bye, David. Bye, Terry. And give him back his jacket. Oh no, it’s quite all right. He can have it. I’m not that cold. Well, that’s very kind. What do we say to nice people? She kept avoiding my gaze. Thank you. Of course. She turned around and took Terry with her. They met up with the man’s sunken

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frame and began to head off. She didn’t check to see if he was all right. Hey, Terry! Yeah? I’ll be sure to look up. He smiled, and his mother pulled him out of the park. I followed them with my eyes as they left the park, the opposite direction of Terry’s giant. My gaze floated up to the trees for a while, watching the light bleed through the browning leaves. A child’s laughter brought me back, and I saw the little debutante pointing her finger at a boy rubbing her femininity off his lips. A mother giggled at the innocence of it all and I saw a sea of lonely heads nod in agreement. They were by themselves. I looked up to the buildings surrounding the park, and every one of them had a tuft of hair or a frayed collar popping out from behind. I got up from the bench and checked my phone. I headed home to Muse.

Quiet // John Roeder Freeman, Jr.

American Giants

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Dearest Demons Lauralee Martin Hello my friends, welcome back. It’s been ages since you’ve been here. We missed you so much. How could you forget to visit us? After all aren’t we yours? Your friends. Your confidantes. Your fears? Tell me, do you always scream this loud? Is it fun to grate the inside of my head raw with your ranting? Why did you hand me the gun, mother? So I can protect them? These demons that play in my head? I am afraid that I’m not that nice. I wish they would just die already and leave me in peace. But they can’t die. They are as immortal as I am. They live in my mind. How could I kill them? Dear demons born from my thoughts. They are my children in a sense. Ice down my temple. Then fire igniting. But—wait, who pulled the trigger? Was it me, mother?

Sanity Falls // Phillip Mastrippolito

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I Am A Rock Jackie Papanier I am a rock shaking under a speeding train. You are my fast moving inspiration. My 95-mile-an-hour heart ache.

Passion In My Grip // Andrew Purvis

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Bang Bang Richard Matthews Bang Bang, he shot me down. Bang Bang, I hit the ground. Bang Bang, that awful sound. Bang Bang, My America shot me down. Another one bites the dust. Black man. Free hand, still somehow is dangerous. Less than. Brown skin. On pavement. Blood spilled. Multiple bullets. Shoot first, then asks questions. White man. Innocent. There’s a difference, and that is a problem. That I blend into darkness. That I am a monster. But the animal is your weapon against black culture’s soul.

Divide. Black man, such as me, will have the sword of their tongue pointed at him. I will have to tell my black boy, “people will kill you without reason.” Only with suspicion, because you are black. Bang Bang, Emmett Till. He shot me down. Bang Bang, Trayvon Martin. I hit the ground. Bang Bang, Michael Brown. That awful sound. Bang Bang, My America shot me down.

My identity has been erased. Slavery is gone, but we are still brainwashed. Manipulated. Ideology. A system of ideas and ideals, especially one that forms the basis of economic or political theory or policy. “Not to be racist, but...” “There’s no such thing as race, but...” “Stop pulling the race card...” But I must. Subconscious or not we offend and oppress the America built on blacks’ backs. Black History Month is really every month. Because at the end of the day, the black man is still profiled to steal and kill. So we must destroy him. He is up to no good. 68

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If You Want Me, You Should Know

Illustration by Kevin Hetzel

// Sarah May Butler

It was before I heard my younger brother murmur “I want to taste you” to a girl I’d never know, and before my ninth grade philosophy teacher leered at me in the hallway, an expression I fell in love with— Before I learned that everyone was not a slightly different shade of skin tone, like my mother used to say, and that mine was luckiest to have— It was before I felt worthy of my cousin’s hands at the base of my neck and my face in the shallow end, and the non-smile on her face when she said, “Let’s play doctor,’’ and I couldn’t not play doctor or she’d tell my parents I’d said yes last time, and before I was afraid to be swallowed by cold water and my little brother thought it was funny my razor-burn looked exactly like his favorite planet, before my cousin hit me with her bike and I didn’t tell anyone— Before my stepmom told me the love of her life was named Ricardo and not Dad, and before I started vomiting before every swim meet he came to, but after he stopped reading me the book about the boy who the townspeople called too small to ride dragons and I finished the series alone, and after the British girl in my class told my best friend that she could do better than me, and Ida agreed— Before I saw snow in person, and my brother frowned and said, “It’s only water you can’t jump into,” and before my stepmom choked with a Grey Goose spun around her throat that she hated my father and I’d never find a good man in the world— Before my teacher made me buy him an apple after class, and bob for it— Before I watched my best friend putting her lipstick on with eyes closed and backed away so I wouldn’t drape a choker of moths around her nightsky neck, before I wrote a love letter to that married mister and he responded by leaving school and state, and before my words determined how much longer my best friend would keep believing that the good things would still happen, that “this is the year you’ll find someone to tolerate you,” and soon after I said that she let the pastor’s son fondle her, and when I asked her why, Ida jumped off the diving board— It was before I knew being touched is not being intimate— The sign outside the car said Absolutely NO stopping here and the legs around my waist had no eyes to see out windows— Before I couldn’t be honest, even in a mirror— Before the little pink fish ate up her hair, and what was once that abstract fear made my cousin stop riding her bicycle— When I didn’t mean it when I said “I hate you” but before my best friend told me that mental institutions are not romantic like we thought because “they don’t let you wear makeup!”—

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Before I stood in nightclothes as pale as a traffic cone in front of Dad’s bumper, blinking give-it-up eyes like my mother had when she seized my six-year-old arm and told me to leave her, just leave her in the bed and I thought, Oh God, I don’t know if you’re going to run me over on your way out— When I chased those tires in wide strokes, just like Dad always told me to, before my best friend told me it doesn’t matter where you go, that you can’t walk away, and I screamed, “Well, that’s why I swim!”— When I still thought I had a personality, and when I knew if you’re always full of memories you have nothing, kid, nothing at all, and that the inversion of déjà vu is something a person cannot place but has not experienced, and so, who did experience it, and is that what gives me this terror, just the residue from a past life— And this was before I asked God bless what while flipping through albums with my aunt’s voice-static screwdriving into my skull, her drilling of “Oh wasn’t she so full of life!” and I nodded— And it was after I knew that notoriety-monetary-systemary does not know merit— The two have never met, like I should have met you— And before I curled into my brother’s side the night I saw him last, and sobbed— he said nothing, and then his cell rang. Well, had I known it would go like that! I pick up the glass and look at whatever’s refracted in the framework, taking a gulp of chlorine. Is this why I always swam with my mouth open? Into the pool it is still falling, with a cold aftertaste that leaves no ripples in its wake.

Bologna // Samantha Morris 72

If You Want Me, You Should Know

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Bios Allegra Armstrong // Creative Writing 2017 Allegra is a part-time eyeglass saleswoman from Gladwyne, Pennsylvania. In her free time she enjoys knitting and Chex cereal. You can follow her on Twitter @69allegra420.

Leyna Bohning // Creative Writing 2018 I grew up in a small town in Ohio, where having dreams wasn’t wildly accepted. On top of owning multiple exotic animals, I wanted to be a writer, which didn’t make me a very popular person growing up. Here at UArts, however, I finally feel like I belong.

Sarah May Butler // Creative Writing 2018 “‘Being here is a...spiritual surrender. We see only what the others see. The thousands who were here in the past, those who will come in the future. We’ve agreed to be part of a collective perception. It literally colors our vision.’ ‘They are taking pictures of taking pictures,’ he said.” —Don DeLillo, White Noise

Sam Cardelfe // Illustration 2015 Sam is originally from New Jersey but now lives in Philly permanently, going to school and doing freelance illustration.

Catherine Carrozza // Photography 2016

Harry, Harry Quite Contrary // John Roeder Freeman, Jr.

Catherine is a New York native with a passion for art, music, fitness, and adventure. She lives a straight-edge vegan lifestyle, enjoying every second of it. Catherine’s motto through everything and anything is always: Positive Outlook.

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Courtney Cortez // Illustration 2015

Vanessa Gross // Dance 2015

Courtney’s interests lie in children’s book illustration and other related markets. Most of her work is character-based and accompanies various types of narratives.

Even though I love to read happy endings, I have discovered that I just don’t seem to be interested in writing them. I have thus found a rather surprisingly gothic writing style that concerns my family and friends.

Haley Dow // Interdisciplinary Fine Arts: Printmaking 2016 Haley is a printmaker, poet, short fiction writer, horsewoman, and sad girl. In her visual art, she projects herself emotionally through her work. Many of her pieces revolve around the natural world and the exploration of rabbits inspired by Watership Down. Her literary work takes on a darker tone, exploring the limits of the human psyche.

Emily Famularo // Creative Writing 2017 Emily loves being an editor for Underground Pool, almost as much as she loves giraffes and mac and cheese. She is a writer, poet, and friend above all else, with the hopes that all the little things turn into really great big things.

Kate Hanna // Photography 2017 Kate is a twenty-year-old human that likes taking photos, writing poems, and drinking iced tea.

Kevin Hetzel // Illustration 2015 Kevin is from Lower Bucks, PA.

Carter Horton // Acting 2017 Carter is a Philadelphia-based actor, writer, and student at the University.

Maggie Fenning // Creative Writing 2017 Maggie Lily is a woman of color, a feminist, a Christian, a part-time anarchist and a parttime distributist, a pansexual, an environmentalist, a evolutionary creationist, a bone enthusiast, a fan of all things cat or basset hound, and equal parts lover and fighter.

Kuba Jennes // Illustration 2015

John Roeder Freeman, Jr. // Illustration 2016

Anna Ladd // Photography 2016

John gives everything but up. You can find his work at www.nonnihil.com.

Anna was born a baby and loves burritos and dogs of all sizes.

Carmen Frias // Creative Writing 2018

Alyssa Langenhop // Creative Writing 2017

“Bastard” is a piece I wrote based on a classmate’s observation: bad blue jean. I had no reason to write this poem, no prompt that ties to it, just another’s thought that I made mine, that I made yours.

Alyssa is a writer and the poetry editor of Underground Pool. She consumes too much coffee, is friends with more trees than human beings, and enjoys long walks with no destination.

Maris Garden // Creative Writing 2018

Cindy Lau // Illustration 2015

Maris draws her writing inspiration from her family’s involvement in the arts and her interest in music, fashion, and visual art. She strives to unwrap the spectrum of humanity’s emotions and inspire her readers to experience her findings.

Besides painting and drawing, I also love gardening, traveling, cooking, and photography. Life never can be perfect but we can make it more interesting.

Hannah Gregory // Illustration 2016 Hannah is a warrior fated to protect the balance of good and evil masquerading as an art student.

Kuba is inspired by fashion, reportage, and foreign posters.

Rachael Longo // Illustration 2017 Rachael is an aspiring illustrator who aims to integrate the raw beauty and emotion of human nature into her artwork. Her other hobbies include midnight walks to Taco Bell, befriending local cats, and astrologically analyzing people.

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Lauralee Martin // Creative Writing 2018

Shaina Nyman // Photo + Film Media 2018

Lauralee is a freshman in Creative Writing from South Carolina.

I grew up and reside in a quiet town in Pennsylvania. I love to doodle, I’m usually taking pictures, and I have always been inspired by nature and poetry.

Phillip Mastrippolito // Painting 2015 Phillip would rather illustrate children’s books, make concept art for animated films, compose classical music, or do anything that makes money than pursue fine art after graduating. He does not hate painting; he loves the Spanish masters and Bob Ross.

Richard Matthews // Dance 2016 Richard is an artist from Lithonia, GA. He has worked with Atlanta Word Works and Atlanta’s VOX Teen Newspaper. His outside activities include dance, writing, theater, and Korean pop.

Claire Merritt // Creative Writing 2018

Jackie Papanier // Film 2016 I’m always documenting something.

Alex Pruden // Creative Writing 2017 Alex, a Creative Writing major with a concentration in Fiction, is from New Jersey. In addition to writing, drawing, and music, he is very fond of swords, clocks, lanterns, fortune-telling, and mind-reading. He assures us that it usually works.

Andrew Purvis // Sculpture 2018

Claire was born somewhere and now lives somewhere else. Her name is most often associated with Appalachian clog dancing—a skill she picked up during one of her prison stints. A lot of what you’ve heard about her is inaccurate, but this is true.

Often I create work to pull myself out of my own body into a land of concepts or to stimulate the viewer on a purely visual level. While I do spend a great amount of energy on my pieces conceptually, at times I allow my thirst for visual acuity and greatness to haze the conceptual thoughts.

Kristen Miller // Illustration 2015

Anna Rising // Graphic Design 2015

Kristen’s work has close ties to both horror and film. Her pieces are digital and take inspiration from screen printing and other printmaking methods.

Anna is a graphic designer from Seattle who enjoys foreign accents and dog parks.

Kristyn Stickley // Illustration 2017 Jotie Mondair // Multidisciplinary Fine Arts: Painting 2015 I am interested in the spaces in-between a physical being and a distant memory. I’m attracted to and aware of the deterioration of time, space, and capacity as it morphs into something new and other than what it once was.

Art is more than self-expression; it is an integral tool in the development and healing of others. I strive to discover its most potent qualities in order to extend them past myself.

Vince Williams // Illustration 2015 Samantha Morris // Interdisciplinary Fine Arts: Painting 2017 I am very interested in collage and working with found materials. My work is centered on nostalgia, personal experience, and memory.

Diana Musgnug // Photography 2017 Diana likes indie movies about love, cuddling with her cats, and hopes that someday her art can inspire people about their own lives.

Vince is 24 years old, a huge Philly sports fan with an interest in skateboarding. Most of his artwork deals with surreal but fun imagery so this particular piece was a little out of his element, but hit home to a certain extent, so he felt in touch with it from the beginning.

John Yazzo // Acting 2016 John is a Corgi enthusiast who, as an actor, plays pretend a lot. He also dabbles in writing and improvisational comedy.

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Saunter // Shaina Nyman