r
rush.
Editor’s Introduction - to the 2011 Spring Edition -
Everything rushes by. For example, you will never be able to read that previous sentence for the first time again. You probably didn’t even notice that moment blossom, shut, and recede behind the gauze of memory. But it did. The surge of emotion is something familiar to us all. Euphoria and exhilaration, rebellion and love, sorrow and loathing; these engulf us like waves and drag us into their undertow. And just when we feel hopelessly trapped beneath the surface, suddenly we are ripped out and left gasping on the shore. But that is the nature of a rush. It cannot be relived once it flashes by. Time simultaneously grabs us and lets us go. As humans, there are only so many ways we can respond. People may duly note the minuteness of a minute and resolve to view every second as golden; or they may decide to roll with the breakneck pace of life, forgetting and repeating themselves, falling and flying where they may. As the last days of school speed past us, we hurry to complete our own final tasks. Life moves swiftly at this time of the year, and before you know it a new season will have already begun. We ask that you please enjoy the writing and artwork published in this magazine; few things please writers or artists more than the rush of recognition! And as you read through the issue, think about how your own rushes in life compare to the ones described here. P.S. In homage to the idea of being “at a rush for words,” we’ve included our own six-word stories at the bottom of each page. The original six-word story written by Ernest Hemmingway is located below.
001|
Baby shoes for sale—never worn.
Literature - by Author’s Last Name -
Assini, Nicole
Ruthless
16
Choi, JaeYoung
The Moment Before
23
Daniels, Caitlyn
Flame
18
Day, Nejla
Ice Bucket
10
Love
10
Feingold, Natalie
Aboard an Airplane
14
Hughes, Emily
Instrumental
07
Windblown
27
Mir, Kameel
Left Behind
21
Mitchell, Molly
The Remedy
06
Satterwhite, Shelby
Psychedelic
11
Seco, Ben
These White Shirts
04
Semrau, Espe
Daydreams in Motion
05
Manon
08
Steffes, Lauren
Late Night Drives
26
Stitzel, Alison
Catacomb
04
Flame
17
Crack
15
Taffe, Jennifer
Art Bremer, Theresa Doughty, Jack Gibson, Camilla McCann, Lily Mir, Kameel Simon, Hadar Taylor, Mallie Zhou, Ian
01
05
07
27 09 13 16 06 20 15 22 12 18, Covers 03
|002
003|
Prepare for greatness; fasten your seatbelts.
Catacomb - Alison Stitzel -
catacomb writhing larvae nestle in fetid coves of dangling flesh. gnarled roots rupture spoiled organs and inhale bile. staccato raindrops puncture capsized soil and flood deflated lungs.
These White Shirts - Ben Seco -
They dress in monotone To blend in with the street, And all I see are their crisp, white shirts. They carry phrasal blades Wrapped in thick paper For the verbal melee they are to attend. But they notice not, As they raise their voices in debate, The collars at their necks. A sudden show of violence And a gruesome work of art, There, painted in red. Can’t you see, there’s no-one around.
|004
Daydreams in Motion - Espe Semrau -
I stalk each moon-rise and chase each dawn. My vision blurs as I kiss the sky and drink from the wind. For I dwell within the dusky depths of my mind where daydreams liberate all. But though I try to sink into Wonderland, the shadows creep back with each minute ticking by. I live in the grey areas, between black and white, left and right, and what is really true. I live between people and places and things where flashes of memory strike clarity into the haze. Those moments when I could scream and stomp my feet in rage and droplets rolled off my arms into oblivion. But in the end I return to the stifling past-present of reality. For now I shall linger in the lithe spirals of sunshine that illustrate once black pages. And I will stay in my half-darks and semi-lights, alone, but with good company. There I can whirl around and around in inifite circles of musing and sighs and despairs and dreams that will forever stay one step ahead of my following-behind mind.
005|
Grave robbers finally put to rest.
The Remedy - Molly Mitchell -
My mind resolves its own discrepancy between deception and reality. My world begins to feel more rational, and I discern potential held in me. I thought I’d miss the one for whom I wept, the one who took the bounce from every step, but all concern for him I lose at once when confidence compels to intercept. My own awakening is rarely seen, for others’ days will follow like routine. But here I cure myself of all disease with simple use of only one vaccine.
One tear, that’s all it took.
|006
(An Excerpt from)
Instrumental
- Emily Hughes -
She stands there unmoving for a few more moments, and some of her crowd turns away, disappointed in the same routine. But they turn back at the sound of movement to see her opening the case. Her mahogany guitar, wounded with scratches made from passionate strums, has a neck worn by many lonely nights. Positioning the guitar in front of her, she takes a moment to close her eyes, run her hand down the neck, and breathe. Eyes still shut, her song begins. Her fingers delicately dance over the strings, slowly strumming and plucking out melodies that ring out across the pier and the waves. The tempo swells as she weaves her tale through the salty air, and the bitter notes intertwine with the chords to create perfect dissonance. She plays out every memory of him with harsh strums and notes that climb and rise in wonderful rhythm. His warm brown eyes slowly vanish from her mind as her fingertips move up and down the neck. A sweet understanding falls over the crowd as they listen to her story in the only way that she knows how to tell it. The tempo slowly begins to fall, and she strums her story’s end. As she slides her pick across the strings, she opens her eyes, looking for him for one last time. She sees a few clapping, she sees others tossing change and loose bills into her case, but she doesn’t see him. Finally, she is content. Her last memory of him, his smiling face gazing at her as he leaned against the wooden railing, floats out of her mind forever. Genially waving at her small audience, she locks up her case and wraps her fingers around the handle. As always, she parts the crowd, but now for a new reason. A small smile grows on her lips, and she walks back down the pier.
007|
Heart smeared from wearing on sleeve.
Manon - Espe Semrau -
My sister eats gum like a chipmunk. She bites off each centimeter separately and waits until its flavor is gone to take another bite. Her nose is always cold, and she can wiggle her ears. My sister has the best death stare I have ever received. The best puppy face, too. Her big blue eyes get all wide and shiny. If she’s really trying, she can make tears slide down her cheeks. It gets me every time. When she’s annoyed, she lifts one eyebrow and gives me this look that asks, What have I ever done to deserve this? If she weren’t so serious, it would be funny. My sister talks to her cat, but not like normal people, who coo or speak with baby voices. She imitates the sounds her cat makes. The cat meows; she meows back. My sister meows; her cat responds. When my sister leaves, her cat wanders around the house. It mews plaintively, like it’s asking, Where’s my girl? I take pity and call it, but it doesn’t answer me. My sister is a dancer, but mostly an archer. Her bow is almost as tall as she is. When she practices, her forehead wrinkles with concentration, and she bites her lower lip. She looks like Diana or a Cherokee Indian. Mom says Shoot only at targets or face dire consequences. But I stay out of the way, just in case. My sister reads almost as much as I do. She smiles with the characters and laughs. Or she scowls, her mouth pressing into a thin line and turning down at the corners. Or her nose turns pink, and her cheeks get splotchy, and a tear slides off the tip of her nose onto the pages of the book. I always know which books make her cry because her tears wrinkle the paper. My sister makes raspberry-blueberry-chocolate pancakes on Saturday mornings. When she was four, she wanted to be a chef. When she was ten, she wanted to be a vet. Now that she’s thirteen, she wants to be a neurosurgeon and go to Harvard. My sister stays up hours every night with homework, trying to make every little thing perfect. I think she finds it meditative. Sometimes, she takes breaks and plays the cello when no one in the house is awake to hear. Except me. The chicken squawked one last time.
|008
009|
You’re mine—for never and always.
Ice Bucket - Nejla Day -
Dunk my head in an ice bucket of nauseous. Breath held below the surface, bubbles of air whipping through the cold, dark disorientation. Numbness spreads willingly. I am blind to all beyond this metal shell. Curl up in that oversized sweater carrying a hint of our home. Gut-wrenching horror at the notion you could care so much less. My primal need to see your skull crack, an eggshell, spilling your naked opinions and thoughts of curdled yolk onto the filthy rocks for all to see. Vulnerability. You, stretching your arms wide with the momentary insanity that my bullet could puncture you. But iron and blood retract. Hot, bubbling red shrinks away from unmoving bleak. And so your moon continues unquestioningly onward whispering reassurances of false rationalization, pulling the salty resisting broth of my doubts inwards. My desperate want for a logical explanation. An apology. A glimpse of emotion that even in the most minute aspect I somehow affected you.
Love - Nejla Day -
White. The most subtle buzz stretched over the surface of these thoughts. Tiny fireflies pushing against this tight elastic membrane encompassing my mind, yearning to soar. Stomach seizes upward, a helium cushion lifting my heart to my throat. Eyes locked, breath captured. Desperate attempts to silence this drum. Lips part, ever so slightly. Attempt to speak this rush into logic. White buzzing. Shut again. Fireflies, free. Multiplying, crawling throughout, their miniscule legs send ripples beneath my placid skin. A night full of stars dotted across me, revealing. Power surge. Lifting me into completion, above gravity, above reality, away. Fireflies lay still, shining; rays of muted yellow emanating from within. Collapse. Quiet slumber. Relaxed in the security of you. Safe. There you are, where’ve you been?
|010
(An Excerpt from)
Psychedelic
- Shelby Satterwhite -
i. you asked me if i could have anything in the world what would it be i said it would be you, but you told me that i already had you so that doesn’t count you asked me again and this time i said i wanted the stars; they’re the ultimate super glue, they keep all those galaxies and nebulas intact; they’re stitches and with their stitching, i could never fall apart ii. maybe we could be something if we only tried dreams are for fools you say but for me—they’re all I have you just don’t understand i stand on a bridge and spread my arms out like wings and breathe— in and out, in and out and you stifle a laugh and tell me i don’t have wings— only angels do i asked if i were your angel . . . you just smiled, but i knew. then all of a sudden i realized you don’t think i can fly but you sure think i can 011|
Aurora doth make thine stars recede.
F A L L iii. maybe your smile could stop gang fights in mexico but they start wars in my heart and maybe the ocean is jealous of your blue eyes but they make me want to drown and maybe—just maybe— your whispers are nothing more than cold winds slowly freezing my damaged heart. everything about you is supernatural ; you’re an electric twist slowly killing me, zapping me until i break into a bunch of beautiful, colorful pieces you’re crazy but not, simple but complex you’re just you. and i hate it. and now i stand on that bridge with my galactic stitching and the taste of angel in my mouth and i spread my arms out wide— and when i jump, i have wings i can fly, if only for a second but i still laugh and smile until i can’t anymore
Have we met? You look familiar.
|012
013|
Whose bubblegum is in my mouth?
Aboard an Airplane - Natalie Feingold -
I find myself amazed at lift-offs, catching my breath and yawning to de-strain pressured ears as the cabin and passengers around me grow airborne. I wonder how someone becomes accustomed to such a sensation. From rolling stillness, to thunderous motion, to ascension so great even Pegasus would kick and buck and flick his flittering wings. Everyone feels it together; from the professor who grades essays with a regal smile as he sifts through C-level papers, moving on towards his favorite students’; to the man sitting on the left, who jokingly informs me which way he will direct his vomit in case of dire stomach emergency; to the tanned older woman on my other side that repeatedly offers me chocolate, her lip-lined, eye-lined face maneuvering with cartoonish gestures in strong opposition to my refusals. These people, too, gasp for a moment at lift-off, then bring themselves back to Sky Miles ads, lists of approved electronics, stewardesses forcefully requesting, “What do you need?” as they deliver the airplane-ubiquitous roasted peanuts. I hold my pack, and I try to remember if peanuts are monocots or dicots. A group of teenagers around me are hounded by questions from inquisitive seatmates—no doubt somebody else’s parents— but they would rather skip the answers and stare out the windows, at the kingdom of grass patches below. We fancy ourselves still princes and princesses of the land, rusty trees, and muddy waters, and we do not think of what school we wish to attend in the fall, or what we might major in, or where we will be in ten years. And I, my stomach still dropping from departure, look at my ink-tipped hands and speculate if I know, really, where this flight will bring me next.
Once born; twice lived; thrice died.
|014
Crack - Jennifer Taffe -
I can stop anytime I want, I swear. It’s nothing serious; I’m just a recreational user. When I’m on it, I feel invincible. I can do anything, say anything, be anything. Everyone’s doing it. And it’s spreading. It seems like the users get younger every day. I started when I was fourteen, but now kids are starting at the age of ten. It’s really not a big deal. My parents know about it, and they’re totally cool with it. (They can’t say anything because they do it, too.) If you walk into our house, you’ll see all of us on it in different rooms. I do it because I love it. The thrill I get from seeing the lives of my “friends” documented. Reliving the nights I wasn’t invited to. Laughing at the inside jokes I’m not involved in. It’s the first thing I do when I wake up, and the last thing I do before I fall asleep. It calms my nerves. I see the people I wish I was and judge the people I’m glad I’m not. And when I see someone in person, I feel like I know everything about them, and they know nothing about me. It’s intoxicating. When that little red box pops up in the corner, I get chills. You know you’ve had a good day when you get a wall post. I love it. I live for it. Obsessed is a strong word. Addicted is more accurate. I have a problem: Facebook. And it’s bad. Very bad.
015|
I’m not a stalker; I’m affectionate.
Ruthless - Nicole Assini -
The ice splits, and you must pick a side, so you pull out that gold scale. You watch, you weigh, and you decide to abandon those you think will fail. Yet beneath your feet the ice cracks again, quickly now! You have to choose. Run to the people you think will remain, the ones you believe you will never lose. The ice is crumbling, and friends fade away. You are losing them; it is almost too late. But because you have been led astray, you are unable to avoid this unfortunate fate. Now you wait on your scaffold of ice, alone, a tiny mar on the surface of this ocean. You think you are sturdy and strong on your own, but you are simply a slave to your own emotion. You may have won these battles, but not this war. When you leave me, you will not be wearing white because you are not holy; you will not soar, and you will fall the moment you take flight. Now you watch the ice as it melts beneath you, and you see that it leads nowhere but hell. We will burn the words that you have spoken untrue, and then as you run we will burn you, as well.
As eyes close, calloused hands release.
|016
Fragment - Alison Stitzel -
stars explode behind growling masses. sheds of desperation form a harsh exterior. bloodshot eyes search the west horizon frantically for traces of an unfamiliar sunset. warped planks creak beneath your weighted feet. rocking on unstable waves. the moon melts in your palm. silvery tears escape from between your fingers and pale your skin.
salty winds tangle your hair. gravity clings to the corners of your mouth.
tinted monsters scrape the side of your vessel. threatening murmurs collide against you, enrapture you with tantalizing whispers of relief.
tragic faรงade drips down your cheeks in tributaries of black. tapering staining. metallic screams scrape and diffuse above your swallowed body. rupture at the surface. silence. ship splinters burrow into your skin. infecting.
017|
You already know what I want.
Flame - Caitlyn Daniels -
The torrential downpour had lessened to a steady drizzle, sending down droplets of water that clung carelessly to her hair as she walked across the field. The spray of mud sent flying by each footfall made a Jackson Pollock of her jeans and knee high black boots; she noticed but didn’t care. She was too distracted right now. So distracted, in fact, that she didn’t even notice the man who followed her across the soggy field to the jagged patch of rocks she was heading towards. He was a man from the surrounding town who went by George simply because he looked like one. He had nothing in mind other than finding out where the Casteel girl went every day when she crossed his pasture. All he knew about her was that she lived with her father on the old MacEvoy property; her name was Aria or Arielle maybe. Though this was his field, he seemed more concerned with where he was stepping than the girl ahead of him. He picked his way cautiously across the rockstrewn landscape, careful not to twist an ankle or sink knee-deep into mud. As hard as he tried, the dirt and grime managed to cake his alreadydeteriorating work boots and heavy clothing. With both parties paying such close attention to their one goal, neither noticed the shadow of a third figure following them both.
Arielle reached the first rock at the base of the cliff and paused, counting four sharp, shoulder-high peaks to the left and three back. She’d done this plenty of times, but now she paused again to glance warily upwards at the steep incline that hid the entrance to her hideout. Realizing she couldn’t waste any more time, she leaped once to a low, flat rock. Dude, you’re out of your element.
|018
From there, she jumped off the sides of several others until she arrived at a fissure in the side of the incline and ducked inside. The dark here was no ordinary darkness. It pressed into her from all sides, threatening, menacing, promising to send her into a state of panic. But she found her pocket, flipped the lighter open, and slid her thumb down the striker, giving the dark a valiant shove backwards and sending it cowering to the crevices of rock all around. With the small flame as her guide, she continued down the almost-path. It dropped continually in a steep, descending spiral, reminiscent of a descent into hell. But for her, this was both a descent to hell and a climb to heaven. For what the cavern below her held were both the horrors of the past as well as her only hope for what was to come. Finally, the slender path opened up and made the yellow flame she held look somehow infinitely smaller than it had before. She closed her eyes and blew on the fire, as if to put a birthday candle. She focused on each individual candle that lay hidden under the dark, and when she opened her eyes, the cavern was filled with a fantastic light. The flame now lit the hundreds of candles throughout the space. She clicked it closed and returned it to her pocket, taking one final step forward to survey her abode. A smile spread across her features as her eyes took in the terrible beauty of what lay before her: the black lake seemed infinitely deep but was kept in check by the rocky shoreline and the blazing of a hundred candles. She reached her foot out, almost subconsciously, towards the obsidian water; but instead of sinking through, the sole of her boot found the slippery surface of a submerged rock. With each step, her pride in finding this place grew considerably. No one would ever be able to find her here or get across this moat without knowing its secrets as she did. The sunken rocks she stepped on lent the illusion of walking on water. She reached the other side quickly and sat down amongst the ancient books and gnarled candles. It was time to begin. George stood there utterly confused. She’d simply disappeared. He couldn’t believe he had lost her. This was his land; he should know more about his land than she did. His boot kicked out at the rocks leading up to the bottom of the cliff. His blood was pounding in his ears, but he never heard the soft crackle of the gravel behind him. Hours later, Arielle emerged from her hideout, looking once again upwards at the clouds overhead rather than where her feet were going. Because of this, she didn’t realize before it was too late what she had stepped on. She knew him simply as a man from the town. To her, he had no name, but that didn’t make this any less alarming. She frowned
019|
Leave gun loaded for next customer.
down at the limp body lying at her feet and nudged it gently with the toe of her boot. He was no longer a person, merely a vessel, making what she was about to do much easier. With a sigh, she knelt down and hooked her arms around those of the dead man, and, walking backwards, pulled him along the base of the rocky incline she had entered so long ago. The body lay before her once again, but now it rested on the cold marble of the mansion she was told was home. A man stood before both Arielle and the body now, surveying them with a cold horror. He bore no resemblance to her, but the angle of his shoulders and the deepness of his fear spoke of a paternal connection. She had already explained what had happened to the man, and he had believed her but was still more concerned than she believed he had reason to be. “Well, if you could accuse anybody of being downright evil, it would be him,” she said quietly, “But we can handle this right?” Her father merely met her eyes with foreboding look and shook his head.
His last words were not spoken.
|020
Left Behind - Kameel Mir -
look at the features on your face, they dance so swiftly, animated by your rage. pupils like puddles whipped by brutal winds like bodies black from stars that shoot too close. the corners of your mouth, i see you gnaw their insides, and i see you’ve finished here. (it’s true, i try so hard, but i can’t hear you over all of my mind’s ghosts that dance such complicated steps that seem to gnaw the muscles of my soles, and now i rage towards the door as it begins to close but i’m too late; you mount your steed, the wind.) you left behind a garden to the winds, bereft of cover, and though i’m always here, i cannot open petals newly closed— in wake of loss their pistils ceased to dance. and now within the soil there flows a rage so deep, so silent, through roots bound and gnawed. (it’s true that teething memory likes to gnaw best on the fibers spun by nimble wind which stitches time in an unyielding rage and all the while beneath this tent we hear of old lost friends who sold their lives to dance on jagged canyon edges far too close.) i move slowly throughout the day; i close the doors behind me but halfway; i gnaw my fingernails, i drop my hands and dance because no one can see me but the wind and long gone are those who would care to hear my whispered fears, my shameful bursts of rage. 021|
There’s no such thing as loyalty.
(through floating islets secret rivers rage and fishes shimmer swimming much too close to my hungry hands, and when deaf ears hear the milky lilt of your voice, and gums gnaw the woodgrain, and sightless eyes watch the wind whisk a blitzkrieg, and broken ankles dance) i’ll trot on over here, forget your rage, we’ve got to dance, the song skids to a close you pull back with a nod. i kiss the wind.
My world, my soul—is infinite.
|022
(An Excerpt from) The
Moment Before
- JaeYoung Choi -
I awake. My face is wet with sweat and tears. I can feel my panting breath. I lay on bedclothes soft and warm. The pillow is soft, too. I can’t see anything. Am I blind? No. The room is dark. I ponder: What just happened? A nightmare, possibly. The beam. My toes are trembling with a fear I cannot remember knowing before. I still feel the terror lurking beneath my consciousness. I think I slept for awhile, yet I am awfully tired. But now… I feel a presence beside me. Someone’s on the bed. I am always alone; there should not be anyone else here. Although I cannot clearly see, I can tell that the stranger is a woman. I don’t know how I know. I can hardly move, frightened. Am I still dreaming? I must not fear. I must face it. I calm my voice down and inquire: “Who are you?” “I am your wife.” I am in an empty train. I am sitting on a chair, hard and cold. The train clatters regularly like an unfailing pendulum. I’m probably on my way home. The flickering fluorescent lights and the grimed brown train floor. I’m probably on the No. 4 subway train. Was I asleep? The stool. Have I passed Redtree Avenue? Before the questions could be answered, I feel something is unright: something is missing. My wallet, keys, and gray handkerchief are safe in my pockets. What’s missing? Something’s not in my hand that should be. Then, I hear a presence—the sound of heavy breathing—in the train car I am in. I look around, trying to hide my surprise. A stranger standing on the corner of the car. The stranger is a stooping senile woman wrapped in green blankets; yet, she constantly shivers. Her face is hideous, covered with warts and blotches. She barely stands with antique rod she held. Each time the train clatters again, her body moves to and fro, slowly. She reminds me of something I cannot describe. To ask her some questions, I walk towards her. She makes not the slightest response to my approach. “Excuse me, ma’am,” I begin politely. “Have we passed Redtree Avenue?” “Honey! Honey! Are you sleeping on the toilet again?” the voice of a woman behind the door demands. It’s Maria. My wife. I find myself sitting on a toilet. I’m in a spotlessly clean bathroom with chess-patterned 023|
Today you’re engrained into my memory.
graphite floor tiles. The air is cold. But I feel warm. I have a toothbrush in my right hand and toothpaste in my left hand. I assume I was about to brush my teeth. “Honey, could you unlock the door? I’m in a hurry.” I know who she is, how she is, and why she is. I can savor every last essence of my dear lover. Maria and I were childhood friends; we’d see each other every day. I used to play hide-and-seek with her. I was always the finder, and she was always the hider. She wasn’t that good of a hider. She was almost terrified whenever I found her. So she really didn’t care about the game. She loved to swim. She used to live in a shack beside a lakeside and was proud of the view she had. The platform. She would swim in there for hours and hours. She smelled of fishes, always. I unlock and open the door. There is no one behind the door. “So? What did you dream about?” my friend asks, fixing his pince-nez. Funny thing, I can’t remember. My memories are as empty as the white room I am in. Just a moment ago I was terrified of seeing something. Wait, I was in a dark room. A blindfold. Could have I seen something? Her face! Her hideous face! It’s impossible. It’s impossible. “Umm, hello?” he urges. I try to answer. I cannot move my lips. I taste blood coating my tongue. My lips are sewn together with lead wire. Mysteriously, I know its color is crimson brown, dyed in white-yellow pus leaking from my lip punctures. I feel a scorching pain on my lips. My friend grins harder, slowly contorting his face into a wry grimace. He drools. He drools. His torso violently quivers. He is still staring at me. I smell spoiled fish on my head. It’s not a fish. Dead flesh. Stupefied, I do nothing. Nothing at all. What is his name? I attempt to recall. He does not have a name. He bursts out laughing. “Ma’am?” I ask. She stays silent. “Excuse me, ma’am, have we passed Redtree Avenue?” I ask. She remains silent. Her taciturnity frustrates and annoys me a little. “Ma’am?” I poke her shoulder in the hope of getting a response. The noose. She falls on the brown train floor. Cold, dead, and fetid. I see vacuous two black holes swarming with vermin where her eyes should be. Her limbs are decaying, emitting an effluent stench. Her jaw is dangling, a strip of skin away from being torn apart. “Of course,” she answers. “We passed Redtree Avenue long ago.” Attention: this is not a drill.
|024
Maria is in the bedroom, her glass-blue eyes gazing at my contrite stature. Her charming smile is now defiled and corrupted, and her clothing is torn and wet. What’s done cannot be undone. I stand still like a rotting scarecrow, too dumbfounded to say a word. Maria’s countenance is cut with a grotesque grimace, terrified of what I have done to her. I still feel the terror lurking under my consciousness. My heart races fast. My unwinged, silent angel floats buoyantly mid-air. Dripping urine from her toes to the floor, she slowly swings to and fro. Fall. I awoke. I was in the small concrete room. The walls were bleached white. My toes were trembling with fear. Soon I realized that all was nothing but a dream. I dreamed of things I never had. Things I demanded but never had. The room was cold and hard. The pillow was stiff, too. “Are you sleeping on the toilet again?” A man behind the door asked. “No.” I answered. Then a short, stout man with a pince-nez idly sitting on his nose entered. He asked me great deal of questions. I answered them all. I told him I can’t precisely remember how I drowned her. But I did remember how she looked and how she hated it. My hands still smelled of dead flesh. Like fish. Only in my imagination, the guilt persisted. With confused and somber eyes, the man said something which I did not hear and led me outside. The beam stood amid tranquil silence. The cacophonic creaks sounded each step I took. The stool was empty, waiting to be occupied. People on the platform uttered some prayers and covered my eyes with a blindfold. The noose slowly swings to and fro.
025|
I fall.
Have you ever taken a life?
Late Night Drives - Lauren Steffes -
do you remember the cold air prickling against our skin as the moon roof of your ’92 beamer rattled open to the fast-paced, heart-pounding drum beats of The Clash? cause i do, and i sure won’t forget the smell of the lemon-scented air fresheners your mom hid inside your car on your 18th birthday to cover up the much-anticipated smell of finally-legal cigarette smoke. or how about the way the moonlight shone on our smiling faces as we laughed at the blaring sirens growing silent as we sped away from the cops that one night? remember how we felt infinite? i’m not sure if you remember me but if you do you should know that my hair is getting a little longer, and my smile is growing a little less bright with the absence of you. maybe i’ll see you later– or never– but i hope you always remember those late-night drives.
Grew up wrong, came out right.
|026
Windblown - Emily Hughes -
I follow no guided route, turning left or right on instinct. The day is long, with time to kill and hours to waste. Slicing through the heavy summer haze, the rubber rolls smoothly over blistering pavement and fresh yellow lines. The concrete facades and pristine lawns blur together as I speed past. Jaded by rows of stucco and brick, I turn to trade in towering signs for treetops. Their long shadows whip across my tanned arms and hide me from the heat. One hand slips out the window to feel the breeze rush between my fingers, while the other taps to the drumbeat on the steering wheel. Saxophone and bass guitar swell from my speakers. Sunglasses slide down my sweaty nose as I nod my head in time. I am fueled by the sun and petroleum, feeling windblown and reckless
027|
Dog bones from a questionable origin.
Thanks to All! - but especially these folks -
Chief Editors Natalie Feingold Kameel Mir Co-Chief Editor Emily Hughes Design Editors Kimberly Luong Espe Semrau Lit Mag Team
Art Editors Mallie Taylor Copy Editors Molly Mitchell Lauren Steffes
Jordan Aaronson Stephanie Alberts Nicole Assini Haven Bills Haley Brown Pat Cambias Lindsey Carbo JaeYoung Choi Wes Clark Caitlyn Daniels Laney Davis Nejla Day Leslie Doctor Lane Dorough Rachel Elliott Ashley George Emily Hornberger Julie Katz Kamaria Liang Shelby Satterwhite Alison Stitzel Jennifer Taffe Eleni Zafirouli
And the world finally stopped turning.
|End