JANUS Williston’s Visual and Literary Arts Magazine
Volume 66 Winter 2020
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JANUS Editor in Chief: Ruby McElhone Yates Managing Editor: Na Kyung Lee Faculty Advisor: Sarah Sawyer Members: Abby Belfer Emily O’Brien Sylvia Rhodes Elsa Frankel Sarah Markey Lily McAmis Sofia Michalski Pippa Berry Amara Rosario Milan Blanton 3
Table of Contents Home - Yijune Hong - Cover To My Lights - Junseok Hwang - 5 Untitled - Olivia Lu - 6 Mandate - Abby Belfer - 7 Autumn Day - Linda Askenazi Mochon - 8 Wandering the Darkness - Diana Yaseen - 8 The Quiet One - Anonymous - 10 Do You Want to Dance? - Melody Pan - 11 Leaving the Dorm - Melody Pan - 12 Untitled - Anonymous - 13 Sacrifice - Lily Ann Vengco - 13 Third Grade and the Aztecs - Abby Belfer- 14 Spending my Summer Nights - Aashish Suresh - 14 Liebesleid, Love's Sorrow - Linda Askenazi Mochon - 15 The Fox and the Cornstalk - Abby Schulkind - 16 Untitled - Andie Kinstle - 17 Untitled - Olivia Lu - 20 Civil Disobedience - Abby Belfer - 20 Bathtime - Abby Belfer - 21 Coexistence - Yijune Hong - 22 Someday I’ll Love Grace Bean - Grace Bean - 23 Peru - Linda Askenazi Mochon - 23 Untitled - Taryn Queenin - 24 Someday I’ll Love Sage Friedman - Sage Friedman - 24 Someday I’ll Love Myself - Julia Borden - 25 Untitled - Taryn Queenin - 25 Someday I’ll Love Sarah Markey - Sarah Markey - 26 When You are Reminiscent - Melody Pan – 27
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To My Lights Junseok Hwang I always question myself about my identity. My nationality, personality, and quality. I still cannot answer, I am confused. Does the place where you were born define who you are? Does the place where you grew up define who you are? Why have people always denied my identity? Anyone, please tell me who I am! Why am I a foreigner both countries? Why my life full of darkness? Can keeping two bright lights be harmless? Is my life supposed to start in the dark, and eventually end up as one single spark? I long to swim out of this dark destiny. My two Lights are full of beauty Today, I yearn for my Lights.
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Untitled Olivia Lu 6
Mandate Abigail Belfer She waved him into a chair of starched brown leather, worn and soft. This did nothing to improve his mood; if anything it pissed him off, the thought of every shmuck who’d come before him, bitching about their problems and wearing down the chair with their infernal sweat. It was disgusting. He didn’t want to be here. “We’ll start slow,” she soothed, as if she were talking to a particularly slow child, or maybe trying to coax a cat into a crate. “What’s your name?” “Danny. Daniel Bianchi.” She made a note in her asinine little notebook, of what he couldn’t imagine, because of course she already knew his name. “Now then, that’s a very nice name.” she smiled encouragingly. “Yeah, well, it’s Italian.” “And do you know why you’re here, Daniel?” “It’s Danny,” he snapped. "And I’m here because the judge told me two months.” “And why did the judge tell you that… Danny?” “’Cause I got picked up a couple times, drunk and disorderly type things, and one count of public urination.” “That’s very good, Danny. I’m glad you understand what you did.” And then she got quiet, wiped at the lenses of her thinframe, vomit-orange glasses, and looked at him expectantly. Maybe she thought he’d start crying, spew some childhood memories, toss out a parental divorce or a sibling’s death or a case of sexual abuse, but he just stared back at her. It wasn’t silent; there was a white noise machine in a corner, gritting out what sounded like radio static through a plastic cup. He was sweating. 7
Autumn Day Linda Askenazi Mochon Wandering the Darkness Diana Yaseen Before I knew how to write in the lines of my story I used to wander the empty pages of my book. And I watch as my life unfolds before me, the wonder that is the circus below me. I'm in the audience desolate and alone so I just watch, waiting to be on my phone. I remember a time when I had my sister beside me, as we stood on the outskirts of society. Back then I did not need to be an endless pit of anxiety. Some people think I'm shy, or that I don't have anything interesting to say but they don't know what it takes to live in a world 8
where judgement is accepted, and hate survives. Because words are a weapon, and I'll bet you know someone whose used them against you. So, my thoughts stay stuck in my head, fighting the fear of being read. So instead I pick happiness off the ground and I make little bouquets, handing them around. Then I look towards the future, a shining light beckons me. But my past is so heavy, I'm scared I'll fall again I'm sorry.
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The Quiet One Anonymous Before I knew how to read, I used to believe that the words attacked me. I used to believe that reading Was the pebble in my shoe But now the pebble is People think I'm quiet but I am louder, Louder than what they can hear They can hear what they want but will never hear that I am the one who was hurt by drowning. I am the one who got stronger by fighting. My scar cuts deeper than my skin I am the one who knows nothing about people. My family is a circus that I don't understand In the circus of my family I am the clown. I never know what's going on It's always chaos That is our circus, Our chaotic circus And every day In the morning I'll be calling saying sorry for the words I said. Knowing that they Will never forgive Because apparently if you do you'll be hurt But people will never know Because I am always the quiet one 10
Do You Want to Dance? Melody Pan 11
Leaving the Dorm Melody Pan
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Untitled Anonymous They can’t hear your voice, even when you shout. So to silence you resort. Someday, I’ll be loud. Someday, they’ll hear and listen. You used to speak for others, now they speak for you. Voice lost, But silence says more. Disrespect, hatred: all things silence could convey, But no, you mean no harm.
Sacrifice Lily Ann Vengco 13
Third Grade and the Aztecs Abby Belfer a man laid replicas across our matted blue rug and we went up single-file to choose I got there first I took the sacrificial knife, the slab of obsidian that tore beneath the ribcage and carved out a still-beating heart. later, in therapy, after I finished a second strawberry fruit roll-up, I modeled the ritual sacrifice out of Legos. the temple pyramid was all the colors except red, which I had to save for the plastic man at the altar, who was brick-bleeding into the floor.
Spending My Summer Nights Aashish Shuresh Strolling through the trees Many miles away from home Feeling the misty breeze Wondering where to roam Enjoying mother nature 14
My muscles aching with pain From afar, as high as the sky, I see a glacier And after many miles, it starts to rain I traverse the frozen lake Hoping to get home In time for mother’s cake Just in time before the gloam I sit on my bed, and reminisce about life Flying those yellow kites Setting up those campsites And spending my summer nights
Liebesleid, Love’s Sorrow Linda Askenazi Mochon
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The Fox and the Cornstalk Abby Schulkind
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Untitled Andie Kinstle I ended up eating quickly, with no appetite. I collected an old sponge and a cleaning solution, one I made by mixing leftover supplies from various shifts. I did not mention to Dad that I had seen Katie, instead heading silently towards my room. I’d known for a while that the mold was growing. I saw it on my walls every day, all large and peeking through the paint. I knew it was there. I walked inside of my room and kneeled onto the floor, right in front of the mold. The largest part was right below the window, big clumps pressed together. I wet the sponge with my solution and began to scrub at the wall, starting at the bottom where the largest amount was and working up towards the ceiling. After some time, with little progress, flakes of splotchy pink paint crumbled onto the floor. They fluttered from the wall, one after another. As they fell, the mold remained stuck in place. If anything, my cleaning made it worse. Now there was less paint to somewhat cover the mold, and it could be seen clearly for its black, green color. I scrubbed the wall raw, and still, the mold would not go away. My room was very small. There was not a lot of space, which was fine. I continued cleaning down the base of the wall, moving slowly. When I drew nearer to my bed, I paused. There was some random clutter underneath it, including the dictionary Katie had given me when we were younger. I had tried to avoid thinking about her since I saw her earlier. Seeing the dictionary, I wondered if she had become a writer. If that was what she was doing now, where she was headed. Off to sell something worthy that she had created. I reached for the book and carefully brushed off the dust from the cover. It had a few scratches and tears from when we would mess around with it. There were a few pages with sticky 17
tabs attached to them. We used to sit together and flip through random pages to find the long words we couldn’t pronounce, convincing ourselves we would use them in the stories we would write someday. “Make sure you get rid of all the mold.” I put the dictionary back under my bed and turned around. Dad was standing in the doorway, cocking his head at the wall. “It looks worse.” “I know,” I said. “The paint is coming off. That’s why. I’ll clean all the mold off.” He nodded and walked off, leaving me alone again. Instead of picking up the sponge, I remained seated on the floor. The sun had risen not too long ago. I could not see much through the window I had, but I could make out the faint orange tint lighting the bumpers of old cars outside. I imagined the horizon still warm with an orange glow, like the sky was savoring the sunrise for as long as possible. It was a pretty image. With my schedule at the office buildings, I never got to really see the sun come up. I would get home from my night shifts, eat quickly, and try to fall asleep. I usually did not give it too much thought, but today it felt different knowing that this was something I always missed. I wonder if Katie got to see it. I reached under my bed and pulled out a wrinkled piece of paper and a pen, left over from my time in school. I began to write. I didn’t know what I was trying to say, or even wanted to say, but the words still spilled out of me in a way I could not control, like a river with a dam about to break. I continued writing, scribbling back and forth across the paper, crossing some lines out and circling others. The paper was mess of sloppy sentences, but I didn’t mind. Later, when I was finished, I looked back at what I had written: 18
“When the sun rises, it graces the world with beautiful waves of pink and orange light that slip between the clouds. I have not bathed in those lights in a long time. But today I saw them. I saw the trails of her blazing colors and the warmth she radiates. I saw the wonder hidden in her tracks and the place where she now belongs. Or maybe she always had a place? I think the sun was always bright but it’s hard to remember. Will I get to see more of the sun? Will I see her tomorrow or was this my only chance? Will the sun always rise without me? I hope that one day, if I grab the sun this time, maybe I could rise too.� I slowly and carefully folded the paper and tucked it inside my pocket. With a strange new lightness in my chest, I started scrubbing at the mold again.
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Untitled Olivia Lu Civil Disobedience Abby Belfer I had no problem going to bed angry, contorted, leg wrenched over head, arm twisted behind knee, fingers knotted up in fists little limbs pinned up like a butterfly in a frame 20
even in sleep, I wanted the world to know it was unforgiven. I woke up red-faced and disoriented, one hand asleep and the other aching, neck cricked, elbow bruised it wasn’t worth it, I knew that from the start (but I kept at it for years) Bathtime Abby Belfer Ally grabbed the lotion, slathered it all over her hair she thought it was conditioner, or so she said! when my aunt did her hair, still streaked through and smelling of baby powder, the brush went through like butter my hair was tangled as always, lotion-free. I cried and cried it was all so unfair 21
Coexistence Yijune Hong 22
Someday I'll Love Grace Bean Grace Bean Grace, don't be nervous. If it does not matter in five minutes, It will not matter in five years. Don't fret. Your sister is only your sister Until you steal her clothes and she blocks your number. Like how rejection is a cycle of trial and error. Grace, are you spacing out? The most characteristic Element of yourself is one that did not fall from the tree at all. It sprouted on its own far off in the orchard. Someday I'll love Grace Bean. Someday when I find the sprout Someday when I understand that in five minutes, Or five years Nothing will matter at all.
Peru Linda Askenazi Mochon 23
Untitled Taryn Queenin Someday I'll Love Sage Friedman Sage Friedman Someday I'll love Sage Friedman. Someday I will open up my arms to your faults, I will blow out the birthday candles and I will forget to make a wish. I will learn to love The big nose they teased you for, The dark veins in your skin, The knees bouncing up and down. But for now, I will try to forget. I will blow out the birthday candles and I will make your wishes, However insignificant they may be. Listen to the rain on the roof and drift slowly to sleep. Let the water carry your body. I promise it will hold you up. Wait for someday. 24
Someday I'll Love Myself: Julia Borden Don’t wince… I mean blink, Jules For the longer our eyes stayed closed The quicker it’s over our life is that little red tricycle, So you better learn to lose the training wheels or Stay off the bike But choose quick or else you'll be like that white pawn, Slipping off board, chipping as you hit the floor, getting pushed around Forgotten And where did that broken little pawn go? Still wedged under the couch Covered in dust Consumed in darkness Crying with no tears left screaming but the sound goes Nowhere.
Untitled Taryn Queenin
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Someday I’ll Love Sarah Markey Sarah Markey Sarah, you know combustion has always been inevitable. It was too many years and too little change. Wick does not reach The heavens. Or maybe The heavens do not reach the wick. It doesn’t matter anyhow. It’s just My wick. Jesus’s back arches on the crucifix to hold my flame but I am Jesus. No, I am not Jesus. I am not so grand, just so weary. No, Not so weary, just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Or maybe Sarah… maybe flappers were only meant for the 1920s. But my light is so light now, I am withholding and withheld and holding and held by Jesus on the candle stick. There are mashed potatoes, and turkey, and cranberry sauce on the table too; eat them. Winter is long. Burn thinner, thinner, thinner. And Sarah? Sarah, don’t let the flame go out.
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When You are Reminiscent Melody Pan
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“Our truest response to the irrationality of the world is to paint or sing or write, for only in such response do we find truth,” - Madeleine L’Engle
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