1
until forever : sadye
CONTENTS TEXT
IMAGE
soon: opal winfrey : front cover untitled : nina feinberg : inside cover untitled : margot field : 3 runners up : margot field : 8 ha! : ryan molloy : 10 untitled : nina feinberg : 11 untitled : nora anderson : 12 summer 2014 : margot field : 13 untitled self portrait : margot field : 14 untitled : nina feinberg : 15 fog : photo : alexandra zelle rettman : 16 untitled : marietta surette : 17 haircut : margot field : 20 untitled : marian siljeholm : inside back cover salt queen : ryan molloy : back cover
wtcpbrandeis@gmail.com fall 2014
where the children play
turbulence : grace gallagher : 3 collapse : emily duggan : 4 the family unit : aliza vigderman : 5 rilke’s angel : sumner alperin : 9 into the dark : theresa gaffney : 10 not you : zuri gordon : 15 improvizations on a landscape : jackson holbert : 16 charlie in april : kim chon wong : 17 echo location : elaine mancini : 18 how to stage a divorce : ryan molloy : 19 map maker : grace gallagher : 21
2
2
turbulence all passengers have closed eyes, but I have lived among these weather-bearers who strike as hard as Zeus, but only from the yellow-bellied turbulence all passengers have closed eyes, among these weather-bearers who strike but only from the yellow-bellied the trick is running footed as thought, to nothing, revealing
but I have lived as hard as Zeus, above and below
frantic in the thick of it-- dancing light then the water in breath will strip
Cirrus takes her amour off at the end of a storm she breathes tendrils of moonlight for daytime like a child in winter, she looks caught as a deer, turning to my face in the odd oval: a rude metal bird belly her eyes are sunlight on new coins passengers hung heads eyes closed. -Grace Gallagher
untitled : margot field
3
Collapse “Collapsing must be done completely/ and alone” – JH Listen, bud: we’re scared too, but we’re not stupid about it. None of this “attempted.” You do it, or you get the hell out of Boston, where winter sits like a huge mound of shit on this living cemetery all year round. You unplug your fingers from the wall socket, you static cling to the cheapest beer they got. Then you follow the tracks the Downeaster takes to Maine, of all the goddamn places, until the whistle wrestles you back to earth. I mean really enter that winter. And then – who knows, maybe you find something there. Why are you looking at us like we have the answers? Stop. Because – because – oh, Jesus – while you were looking over here, you didn’t see the engineer, who also didn’t see you, probably because she was looking for answers somewhere else, too, and the goddamn thing kept going – so she creamed you with the 2:15, and we don’t know. We don’t know if you will be okay. -Emily Duggan
4
The Family Unit I sucked on a pixie stick and pretended it was a cigarette, smoking it like my mother smoked her American Spirits. I could feel the pink pixie dust running through my veins, from my tongue to my tummy to the tips of my fingers. I was jittery and couldn’t sit still. My face crinkled as I pulled at my itchy white cowgirl outfit. “Keep smiling, Ashlyn,” mom said. Her breath smelled like cleaning solution, as if she just Cloroxed her molars. While other moms wore dowdy blouses and loose-fitting pants, she was youthful in a tight v-neck sweater, high-waisted pencil skirt, and kitten heels. Her eyes were blue and flat, surrounded by spidery eyelashes that she painted on every morning. She took the pixie stick from my hand and put it on the counter. She rubbed Vaseline on my teeth so I couldn’t shut my lips. She put a cigarette in her mouth and reached for her lighter; she only smoked when she was nervous. We were a team and that day, we were backstage at the Sally Sue Glitzmas pageant. “And don’t forget to wink at the judges!” I slapped her hand as it travels into her purse and gesture to the No Smoking sign above the doorway. “You’re right, honey. Thanks for letting me know.” She smeared blush on my cheeks. I made my smile dentist-wide, ignoring the harsh taste of petroleum jelly that seeps through my lips. “That’s it, Ashlyn. Show them how much fun you’re having.” Backstage, mothers were trying to calm down their daughters and daughters were trying to calm down their mothers. My stagefright was residual, creeping up on me like a sore throat. “I’ll just be right outside. If you forget, just look at me, and I’ll show you what to do,” Mom said. She licked her thumb and rubbed my forehead with it. I scrunched up my face and thought of primates. “Do you want to go on stage with dirt on your face?” With a final once-over, she hurried out into the audience. The announcer called my name and I sauntered out on stage, which was not really a stage but the front of a hotel conference room two hours away from our house. In the audience, Mom’s eyes were wide, her smile wider. She tipped an imaginary hat, beginning to perform my choreography. For a minute, we were mirror reflections
5
of each other, moving perfectly in sync while the rest of the audience disappears. The adrenaline clears my mind from its clatter. When we moved together, it was instinctual. As I received the first place trophy, I could hear her claps separate from everyone else’s, louder, more desperate. Everyone’s eyes were on me, but I looked only at her. On Saturday nights Mom’s friend Kevin came over for dinner. Mom asked me how she looks and I said nice, but maybe she should wear her hair down instead of pinned up. Mom went to the bathroom to make the changes; I was a dating expert. We have spent the last hour trying on different outfits, tidying up the apartment, and preparing a feast for her and Kevin. I sat on the floor, drawing while I watch an episode of Full House on our staticy TV. I heard a knock on the door and got up slowly, my eyes glued to the TV. After making sure it wasn’t a stranger, I opened the door for Kevin and sat back down, displeased that he couldn’t have come during a commercial break. He wore his usual uniform- khaki pants, a cobalt blue shirt, and a geometric tie that made my head hurt if I stared at it for too long. His shirts and ties came in a box from Kohl’s so he doesn’t have to think about what goes together, he told Mom once. Kevin bent down to my level as adults always do when they’re talking to kids, but not when they’re talking to people shorter than them, I’ve noticed. His hairline was an arrow of brown fuzz over a bumpy scalp. “Hey, kiddo. How was your day?” I shrugged. He continued to ask the standard questionsschool, grades, what am I watching, what am I drawing. I asked him why he doesn’t just look for himself, holding up my picture. On screen, little Michelle does a synchronized hip-hop dance with three adult men. Kevin showed his tiny, off-white teeth to my picture. “You are a cutie pie, alright. Is your Mom home?” he said. “Would you be here if she wasn’t?” His scalp got red, and he stood back up to his full height. The room filled with chemical hydrangeas and Mom was here, a buffer through which Kevin and I could speak but not really say anything. “Hi, Kevin!” mom said, but her voice was too high. “Honey, get those crayons off of the rug. And will
you turn the TV down?” I gathered my crayons from where they had rolled onto the carpet and shuffled out of the living room. I peeped into the refrigerator and grabbed a carton of lo mein for dinner. I sat where I liked to sit when I’m not watching TV, on the heating vent between the living room and the kitchen. It’s warm there, and I could still hear everything that’s going on without being “intrusive.” “How was your day, honey?” mom said. “Would you like a drink?” Kevin sat down on the couch, his big black shoes crushing the beige rug. She perched next to him, hands folded in her lap. She handed him the cup and he took a small sip, his face contorting. I slurped my lo mein, careful not to make a sound. “Well, I have an unbelievable amount of work, and no time to do it in.” Kevin said. “But how was your day?” Mom was silent. Descriptions of glitter, dancing, and frills felt frivolous. “You just need to relax,” she said. She started to massage his shoulders. “Jean. I’m really not in the mood.” A noodle went down the wrong pipe and I coughed it back up. The noise was a surprise; for a second, I had forgotten that I was there, like when I’m watching TV and really think that I am one of the Tanner girls. I hurried back to my room and shut the door. A few hours later that Mom came into my room, face stained and eyes bloodshot. She lay down next to me on my bed, thinking I’m asleep. Even if I were, her whimpers would wake me up. I turned towards her, our eyes parallel. “What’s wrong, Mommy?” I only called her Mommy when I think she needs it. She sobbed for a few minutes, then explained to me that Kevin might have to transfer to a different branch of his company, and that he didn’t ask her to move with him. That asshole, that jerk, she said. I consoled her, running my hands through her hair, rubbing her back until her sobs become harmless sniffles. “Maybe he just hasn’t asked you to move with him yet,” I said. I regretted it immediately. Now that I’ve said it, I know it’ll happen. My stomach hardened into stone. Mom took a deep breath, too tired to continue
crying. “You’re right,” she said. With that, she left my arms and went back to her room. Through the wall I could hear her turn on her lamp, change into pajamas, give her hair a brush, turn off her lamp, and get into bed. Her snores followed soon after, a soft nasally noise that sounds like a forgotten instrument. I laid awake, aware of my tiny room and all the stuff in it, and how easily it could be placed into boxes. The next day was my best friend Olivia’s birthday party at Chuck E. Cheese. My mom dropped me off outside. Her eyes were still puffy from the night before and she didn’t want anyone to see her like this. “Just tell them I’m sick,” she said. I hopped out of the car and into the building, the smiling rat gazing down at me from his stucco perch. Chuck E. Cheese smelled of cooking grease and body odor, and was filled with blinking lights and screaming children. Olivia had two parents and a little brother, all versions of the same face like Cabbage Patch Dolls. They greeted me as I appeared, their faces frozen in identical smiles. “Where’s your Mom, Ashlyn?” Olivia’s mom asked. Her sweater was an eggplant cable knit which completely covered her doughy torso. Her youngest saw me and hid his face in her legs. “Oh, she just dropped me off. She had to buy some food for us for dinner,” I said. “She’s making us an apple pie!” It wasn’t true, but I couldn’t stand the single wrinkle that formed between her eyes. I put on my best pageant smile and walked out of her reach. What a bunch of goody-goody’s, I thought, using Mom’s words. I went to the Whac-A-Mole, and began to bop the creatures on the head one by one until they crept finally back into their holes. The next Wednesday Kevin and Mom sat me down at the kitchen table and told me they had an announcement. Mom kept rubbing her hands together and could not sit still. Kevin had his hand on her knee like he was making sure it won’t fall off. He wore a t-shirt tucked into belted jeans. It’s the first time I’d seen him not in a tie. I asked if I can at least finish my Lean Cuisine first, but
6
Mom insisted that she couldn’t wait any longer, that it’s torture not telling me. I hated when she gets like this, girlish and antsy. I put my fork down. “What is it?” I asked, but I already knew. “We’re getting married!” she said. She stood up and we all followed. She hugged me close to her, crushing my ribs. Next, Kevin put his hands on my shoulders and brought our bodies an inch closer together, the top of my head on his hips. “Are you excited?” Mom said. Her head nodded up and down, and I mirrored her. Kevin squeezed her shoulder. He called me honey and talked like a sitcom dad, all sing-song baritone.
each morsel of Raisin Bran was perfectly moistened, chewed, and swallowed. “Well, Ashlyn? How would you feel about not doing pageants anymore? I know you’ve always hated the makeup, and the dresses...” Mom said. They both leaned towards me. Kevin tapped his fingers on the table. “I understand,” I said. Mom straightened her shoulders. Her spine was a straight line. “That’s fine, honey.” she said. She gave me a smile and went to kiss my head, but I moved and missed her. We laughed and tried again, succeeding this time. We were now a family unit, a group of three. If we went on a rollercoaster, someone would have to sit alone. We ate Kevin started to sleep over, skulking in our breakfast together, as a real family, and nodded as Kevin kitchen with his instant coffee and boxers. His thighs, complains about upper-level management. usually veiled under a layer of khaki, were exposed and pale, the veins shining through his skin like they forgot - Aliza Vigderman to hide in time. His coarse black hairs clogged the drains in the bathroom we all shared. They clung to our fluffy white towels. Next month, we would move to a bigger place in a development with beige-sided townhouses and a communal gym filled with ellipticals. I’ll finally have my own space, Mom told me. Kevin and Mom were having “grown up talk” and the kitchen table was a sea of papers. I listened on the other side of the table as I eat my cereal, balancing the bowl on the tops of my knees. “Where does this money go?” Kevin said. Mom’s head was in her palm, squinting at the numbers through her painted eyelashes. “Well, it all adds up after a while, I suppose.” She rambled off expenses, dresses, makeup, entrance fees, hardly covered by the prize money, if any, and you wouldn’t believe how expensive satin is these days... “It costs how much?” She dug around the pile for receipts, telling Kevin that he knows that she is not good with numbers. “Well, I understand that it’s nice, but for the love of god, Jean...” She mumbled something about our time together, how it’s a nice thing, how I really do seem to be getting something out of it... “She doesn’t even like it, do you Ashlyn?” It was my turn to talk. I finished my spoonful with precision, as if the world depended on making sure that
7
runners up : margot field
8
Rilke’s Angel In fear the firmament is watched for signs of you, your silver-cold presence settling in the dust of the empty-seeming sky. You must be watching the holes in the roofs of shivering cities, the weak inheritance, stuffed but unfulfilled, whilst I pretend to sleep in pretend silence. Rapping on windowpanes, blowing in the wind when I turn my head from my misplaced dream. You batter skull and soul alike, throw paintings from walls, smash desks and shred books, turning and turning This must be you taking what is owed you. This must be your greatness; your sizzling magnet skin turning the lights into fires. This must Be you coming to tell me How far beneath you you will soon drag me. When I pretend to wake up, You are gone again. The hole in the roof has widened - Sumner Alperin
9
Into the dark “And one day, my eyes packed up and left me,” the blind man said. Loving her took his sight, eyes traveling wherever her beauty left a trail strong enough to follow in the dark. Now, his cheeks hollowed, his ears sunken and sagging, his body mourned the tingling, like needle pricks and secrets and falling asleep, of skin when it had eyes to send the tickles of her beauty. Now, I blink at him (my eyes are still here) as his body crumbles. I reach out to hold his ripping hands, but stop. He will never know I tried. ay, my eyes packed up and left me,” the blind man sa her
- Theresa Gaffney id. Loving ha! : ryan molloy
10
untitled : nina feinberg 11
untitled : nora anderson 12
13
(left): august 2014: margot field (right): untitled self portrait : margot field
14
Not You Even your laugh has an accent, but I do not deserve nice things I dug up the plants in the garden let our cat into the street I told lies in my journal forgot the dishes in the sink I left without saying goodbye again and again and again I made this poem about me and not you again and again and again - Zuri Gordan
untitled : nina feinberg
15
Improvisations on a Landscape I A year’s worth of children are born in a single week. The placenta stand at the farmers market slashes their prices. II Someone’s uncle mails a letter to himself to make sure there’s nothing funny going on. III A storm unfastens half the shingles in the neighborhood. Morning, the lawns look paved. IV An old man hobbles down to the river and performs his own baptism. V Mother gave up gardening. Every flowerbed filled with weeds. VI The drought lasted for years. No one thought anything had changed. - Jackson Holbert
16
Charlie in April In the t-shirt you’d borrowed, left crumpled by the window without a thought, I buried my nose. With a pillow between my legs, blanket balled in my lap and eyes shut, it took me til morning to know I was alone. - Kim Chon Wong
untitled : marietta surette
17
the end is the most beautiful beginning : jun zhao
Echo Location if you were small and as smooth as dust you could glide down the dead summer hall on the air’s slight discontent although, it seems you already do pass by in this way I am not here to pass judgment only to see you against the stale wallpaper stale rug to see you tramp on that dust in this mansion by the breakers, by the breakers in the place of sunlight unspun now it is July your bathrobe is left by the stairs the ones of white marble resting on tiles like caramel cubes and cold on the feet like a sea floor of refrigerated pear skin what matters your bathrobe was there you were somewhere else, exposed - Elaine Mancini
18
How to Stage a Divorce Start with her. The one planted across the dinner table with the gray roots and the glowing eyes of a toddler flicking pennies in a fountain. The one who has yet to grab her fork because she’s watching you and the other, examining faces in hopes that the chewing will turn to smiling will turn to more chewing will turn to a clear plate, a full dishwasher and a pat on the shoulder. The one on the edge of her seat ready to bound up and fetch a ladle of marinara, a wad of parmesan or a pinch of garlic salt because everyone has a different taste and a little can go a long way. The one who, while mitted and bent over an open stove, mentioned that her knee has never felt the same since last year’s trip to his parents’ and that the act of standing up feels like wedging a golf ball in between her femur and patella. The one who made note of this pain under the heading Things to Fix, right under cellulite and above relationship w/ in-laws. Chew slowly. Try to look as if someone just asked you a difficult question and you’ve got a mouthful of bazooka gum. If you answer too quickly (see: squash casserole) she’ll see the insincerity. Even if it is good, and there’s a strong chance it will be because, let’s face it, the squash was a fluke, wait on your haunches. Use this time to think of something novel, something beyond This is really good or I love. Take another bite. Let the ricotta slosh over your tongue and fog the roof of your mouth as the saucy noodles slide and the spinach embeds itself in your gum delta gap. Spinach. Is that what it is? Pay mind to the palate. Show her that the dish deserves a dutiful eat, and pick out that extra touch. Palm your tongue against your front teeth, and try to decide weather that leafy texture is a rogue piece of basil or a finely chopped bit of chard. One of her grocery bags from that store he hates said something about collard greens being the new something. Something about twice the vitamin D, all the fiber and half the price. But of what? You had seen it just the other day when you walked into her room to ask where he was, and she responded meetings always meetings in the same smiley voice she uses when trying to convince you that the purple cough syrup tastes good except she wasn’t looking at you when she said it. She was looking at a book, but it wasn’t a book. It was a pack of Top-Flite tees, the plastic wrap of which sat crumpled on the blanket nest on her lap. She was pulling them out one by one, clutching them between her fingers and flicking them across the room and into that paper bag
19
while muttering something about priorities. Some green bloom was drawn on the bag’s side, but the room was dim, and after watching her make her way through the package, you went to bed. Still staring at the wall, she said dinner was on the stove. In truth, you don’t need to be spot on. Sort of like her haircuts, the change just needs to be acknowledged. Why yes it is kale she tells you as she lowers her fingers to the table and waits for you to elaborate. Hopefully by now you’ve thought of something nice. If not, remember that everything she knows, from egg counter cracking to sprains wrapped in onion, she has learned from grandma and that her entire life has been a concerted effort to live up to those nightly feasts of hand stuffed sausage, homespun pasta and carbonara that clung to them like custard. Having a family less than half the size of this, she has always thought of herself as attempting to not only fill her mothers shoes but also scale a mountain in them all the while pretending that her kneecap didn’t feel ready to shoot out from beneath her as she races from a session with Dr. Raydeh who had just asked her if she’d ever considered that she may just be her own problem, something that she had considered but would wait til next time to discuss at length because the man had texted something about traffic and the calamari was set to broil. Be sure that you do not imply that her lasagna is better than grandma’s. Her resentful reverence for her mother is the sort that one normally has for god, resigned to never surpass. Insincerity, or at least the perception of it, is to be avoided. With that said, a simple likening of the dish to her mother’s will do the trick. It reminds me of grandma’s. Not even a compliment really, but hearing her name in the same breath will do wonders. She’ll smile. She’ll thank you. She’ll begin eating. Let her. You’ll feel compelled to take further action, but wait. You are one person. One tiny person brought to table height on the yellow pages. Do you remember what grandma said about trying to change people’s minds? It’s okay if you don’t because it probably came in between a fistful of graveyard coughs and recurring elegies for true olive oil, but she compared the act to trying to boil a cucumber. Grandma said this while the other two were in the kitchen, looking back and forth between you and the mumbling doorway. She followed up by noting that good bread is most easily recognized by sound it makes when cut. Now finish. It really doesn’t matter how fast at this point. Take your time, and she’ll think that you’re savoring every bit. Wolf it down, and she’ll assume it
so good as to push you past the point of restraint. But while your eating, look to your left. Watch him. The man with the loose tie and voluble breathing, the one with golf on Wednesdays and meetings on any other, the one whose undereye bags have begun to collect some sort of beige detritus not unlike breadcrumbs, the one who drops his forehead to his hand, stares at his half eaten plate and sighs Kale? She’ll put her fork down, and he’ll ask her why. She, wondering whether he means the fork or the kale before realizing that acerbic wit requires a swiftness and saying that change can be a good thing. He’ll contemplate whether he should say that one hundred dollars per session is worth more than Raydeh’s fortune cookie wisdom. But he’ll think nothing of this interaction. In fact, he’ll probably be patting himself on the back for biting his tongue and being the bigger man, but he’ll slip. With nothing else to discuss, he’ll make some offhanded remark about kale being a tasteless signifier of taste, or he’ll suggest that upgrading the D quality beef might prove a more worthwhile change than tossing on a faddish leafy green. The more he talks, the better. The
more he salts, the better. She’ll roll her eyes, stroke her knee and continue eating. Faster though. She was taught that meat grade matters not in a lasagna, but was there even a ranking system in the forties? She often feels like every word from his mouth is an effort to coax her from her mother’s jurisdiction. A part of her enjoyed the thrill of defying her, even something small as seasoning method, but another part felt like listening to him just put her under a new evil, like jumping from a burning building only to miss the pad and crack her skull on the sidewalk. Keep waiting. Maybe she’ll shoot you a consolatory smile to which you should respond with empathy. But if she doesn’t, don’t worry. This is not about earning her favor, not entirely. While such an acquisition would help, it’s not essential. Just focus on the lasagna. Give it a glowing review that keeps her from tearing the recipe from the cookbook. You are a foil to his lack of appreciation. He does not recognize the time that went into each lasagna layer. Yes, she’d cut corners on the homemade rotini flats and by using sauce that comes from jar rather than tomato, but he didn’t know that. He is unappreciative. He is inept. He has calls to make, and you are asking for a second slice.
haircut: margot field
-Ryan Molloy
20
Map Maker, 1. I’ve forgotten my borders you used 2. the earth of you : heavy I am learning the world the names never stuck, but some are like bodies and some look lit up naked and like mountain ranges some look and rain I am learning to touch a train line that goes forth where I live —
to make up maps: now we’re plotting ours
the water : weightless; the air flies
I’ve drawn the Middle East and Europe beautiful, some nations look like cities laid out and laughing and some bodies look knowing of something you don’t, and like meadows who want for only wind I am flooded with your patience
all lit up from
where you live - Grace Gallagher
21
Where the Children Play is an art and literature magazine created at Brandeis University. We publish original artwork, literature and sheet music selected from the work of the student body. Student editors choose the contents. All work is published with the name of the student writer or artist. We reserve the right to edit contents for publication. The magazine is funded through F-board and is published every semester. It is distributed to students and to members of the university community without charge. Copyright laws protect the contents of the publication. Production Notes: The magazine is printed by Archer Publishing in Waltham, Massachusetts. Garamond font is used throughout the publication. All art reproductions were produced by using a scanner or digital camera, when submissions were not emailed directly by the artist. All layout was done using Microsoft Word, Adobe Photoshop CS and Adobe InDesign CS.
Editors in Chief: Elaine Mancini Ryan Molloy Editorial Staff: Devi Acharya Nora Anderson Sumner Alperin Theresa Gaffney Jackson Holbert Rachel Hughes Matt Manning David Valletta Aliza Vigderman
untitled : marian siljeholm