Cindy Hwang
Letter from the Editors
Lucas Sin
There are many booklets, all of them pieced together. You may take them apart. They may or may not work together.
Ivy Sanders-Schneider Happy in love, life...ry thing.docx
(photo Portfolio).pdf
paintings2.jpeg
Santiago Sanchez
paintings1.jpeg
Shift Report.docx
Kindly, Maya and Margaret
Dan Friedman
Our deepest gratitude to our designer, Lian Fumerton-Liu, and to Carmen Cusmano and everyone at Yale Printing and Publishing Services who helped bring this issue to life.
PORTRAIT IN WHITE.docx
Congratulations writers, congratulations readers. Thank you to Verlyn Klinkenborg for judging the Francis Bergen Prize.
Jake Orbison
It’s like every day just had this weird feeling to it. The issue is eating dirt and putting on a lime greenwig. It won the grand chili pepper eating prize.
photo 1...photo 2...photo 3...photo 4.jpeg
Dominic Lounds
What does it mean to begin with a refrain? We were saying goodbye. At the end of this issue, we began with a reordering. We had a certain texture we wanted.
Mall Series.pdf
If this issue were to have a theme, it would be benevolence. We mean that sincerely. One piece features a benevolent judge, another, benevolent ghosts. We ourselves are wellwishing, we wish you well. Goodbye readers. We are writing down everything.
cusp.pdf
Dear readers,
an epitaph for the damned.docx
fog.docx
April Wen
Spring 2015 Volume 23 Issue 02
Kevin Ogunniyi
Vincent Tolentino
THE YALE LITERARY MAGAZINE
Kevin Ogunniyi
Vincent Tolentino Cindy Hwang
cusp.pdf
Mall Series.pdf
Lucas Sin
Ivy Sanders-Schneider Happy in love, life...ry thing.docx
(photo Portfolio).pdf
Shift Report.docx Report.docx Shift
paintings2.jpeg
Santiago Sanchez
paintings1.jpeg
Dan Friedman Friedman Dan
PORTRAIT IN WHITE.docx
photo 1...photo 2...photo 3...photo 4.jpeg
Dominic Lounds
Jake Orbison Every 15 minutes I must update my report. Even when there is nothing to report I must update it. I must write “Nothing to report” in the “Update Your Report” box, and then I must click “Add to report” in order to add it. On some days, I must do this many times: every 15 minutes for a duration of hours. Today, I think: I will play a small game. I will write something different in the “Update Your Report” box. I write, “Patron requested my help,” though that is not true. I write, “Patron requested assistance.” I write, “Patron wishes to be sublimated into the icosphere, into the interstitial boundary of impossible space. Patron yearns for unspeakable movement, for horizonless void—for the key-frame-and-skeleton on wire grids beneath emptiness. Patron begs, bores, performs
an epitaph for the damned.docx
fog.docx
April Wen
Shift Report
contortions of frame, and of frame rate, face selection— Please recalculate normals. Our facilities implode; patron’s ‘Request for Service’ failed; I, alive, gasping gamma-rays, directed patron to the circulation desk.” At the end of my shift, I must click “Submit your shift report.” I am scheduled from morning to night.
Winner of the Francis Bergen Prize
Kevin Ogunniyi
Vincent Tolentino
cusp.pdf
Cindy Hwang
an epitaph for the damned.docx
fog.docx
April Wen
Mall Series.pdf
Lucas Sin
Ivy Sanders-Schneider
(photo Portfolio).pdf
Happy in love, life...ry thing.docx
Santiago Sanchez
Shift Report.docx
paintings2.jpeg
Dan Friedman
PORTRAIT IN WHITE.docx
paintings1.jpeg
photo 1...photo 2...photo 3...photo 4.jpeg
Dominic Lounds
Jake Orbison
Kevin Ogunniyi
Vincent Tolentino Cindy Hwang
cusp.pdf
Ivy Sanders-Schneider
(photo Portfolio).pdf
Happy in love, life...ry thing.docx
Santiago Sanchez
photo 1...photo 2...photo 3...photo 4.jpeg
paintings2.jpeg
The woman wears a lime green wig, covered her face all in white
paintings1.jpeg
BEAUTY SUPPLY *100% Human Hair *Cosmetic *Beauty Aid *Electrical Supply
Mall Series.pdf
Lucas Sin
Dominic Lounds
I consult, again, the sign:
PORTRAIT IN WHITE.docx
The store’s name is Beauty Supply, and I think Beauty Supply? Beauty Supply. There has been construction on this block for months but I never see men working.
Jake Orbison
Outside the store I see a woman.
an epitaph for the damned.docx
fog.docx
April Wen
PORTRAIT IN WHITE
like a kabuki show, or like a lady at the masquerade. Something anonymous about it. Something formal and physical, and reminding you, yes, to be still in your body can be quite painful; also, to be known is to be culpable, and despite what you might have read having a body is not arbitrary. How could it be, if dressing up is so much fun? You do look like you’re having fun. Apologies if I’m wrong. You know, my uncle works for the city sometimes. He throws events for special days. He told me once they hired Mexican dancers for the Israeli Day Parade.
Kevin Ogunniyi
Vincent Tolentino Cindy Hwang
cusp.pdf
Ivy Sanders-Schneider
(photo Portfolio).pdf
Happy in love, life...ry thing.docx
Santiago Sanchez
paintings2.jpeg
photo 1...photo 2...photo 3...photo 4.jpeg
paintings1.jpeg
The woman wears a lime green wig, covered her face all in white
Mall Series.pdf
Lucas Sin
Dominic Lounds
BEAUTY SUPPLY *100% Human Hair *Cosmetic *Beauty Aid *Electrical Supply
PORTRAIT IN WHITE.docx
I consult, again, the sign:
Jake Orbison
the store I seeI awas woman. IOutside was saying goodbye. writing down everything. The store’s name is Beauty Supply, and I think Beauty Supply? Beauty Supply. There has been construction on this block for months but I never see men working.
an epitaph for the damned.docx
fog.docx
April Wen
PORTRAIT IN WHITE You see me see you. I look at the time, down and away.
Kevin Ogunniyi
Vincent Tolentino
cusp.pdf
Cindy Hwang
an epitaph for the damned.docx
fog.docx
April Wen
Mall Series.pdf
Lucas Sin
Ivy Sanders-Schneider
paintings2.jpeg
(photo Portfolio).pdf
Happy in love, life...ry thing.docx
Santiago Sanchez
paintings1.jpeg
photo 1...photo 2...photo 3...photo 4.jpeg
Dominic Lounds
Fence and Window, Miami (2015)
Roger, New Haven (2015)
Kevin Ogunniyi
Vincent Tolentino
cusp.pdf
Cindy Hwang
an epitaph for the damned.docx
fog.docx
April Wen
Mall Series.pdf
Lucas Sin
Ivy Sanders-Schneider
paintings2.jpeg
(photo Portfolio).pdf
Happy in love, life...ry thing.docx
Santiago Sanchez
paintings1.jpeg
photo 1...photo 2...photo 3...photo 4.jpeg
Dominic Lounds
Roger and Harry, New Haven (2015)
Palm Tree, Miami (2015)
Kevin Ogunniyi
Vincent Tolentino
cusp.pdf
Cindy Hwang
an epitaph for the damned.docx
fog.docx
April Wen
Mall Series.pdf
Lucas Sin
Ivy Sanders-Schneider
paintings2.jpeg
(photo Portfolio).pdf
Happy in love, life...ry thing.docx
Santiago Sanchez
paintings1.jpeg
photo 1...photo 2...photo 3...photo 4.jpeg
Dominic Lounds
Kevin Ogunniyi
Vincent Tolentino
cusp.pdf
Cindy Hwang
an epitaph for the damned.docx
fog.docx
April Wen
Mall Series.pdf
Lucas Sin
Ivy Sanders-Schneider
Happy in love, life...ry thing.docx
painting1...painting2....painting3...painting4.JPG
photo 1...photo 2...photo 3...photo 4.jpeg
Dominic Lounds
Tan
Self-Portraits
Kevin Ogunniyi
Vincent Tolentino
cusp.pdf
Cindy Hwang
an epitaph for the damned.docx
fog.docx
April Wen
Mall Series.pdf
Lucas Sin
Ivy Sanders-Schneider
Happy in love, life...ry thing.docx
painting1...painting2....painting3...painting4.JPG
photo 1...photo 2...photo 3...photo 4.jpeg
Dominic Lounds
Kevin Ogunniyi
Vincent Tolentino
cusp.pdf
Cindy Hwang
an epitaph for the damned.docx
fog.docx
April Wen
Mall Series.pdf
Lucas Sin
Ivy Sanders-Schneider
Happy in love, life...ry thing.docx
painting1...painting2....painting3...painting4.JPG
photo 1...photo 2...photo 3...photo 4.jpeg
Dominic Lounds
Kevin Ogunniyi
Vincent Tolentino Cindy Hwang
cusp.pdf
Mall Series.pdf
Lucas Sin
Ivy Sanders-Schneider Happy in love, life...ry thing.docx
photo 1...photo 2...photo 3...photo 4.jpeg
Vulnerability comes in many different flavors, one of which is: terrible. I read in the news today that the MCAT started labeling their booklets “Battle Royale” in light yellow Comic Sans. “Honesty is the best policy,” my father said, shuffling the newspaper. The MCAT flavor was so terrible that my big sister Jennie came home from the test frowning. And Jennie always smiles, a professional smile that she can’t take off when she comes home from hostessing. This does wonders for her relationship with her boyfriend Craig, who gets especially confused when Jennie starts cryling (cry-smiling). My limited experience with vulnerability probably stems from observing Jennie and Craig’s honestly scary romance. And of course, my mother and father’s relationship — which isn’t a relationship so much as a pizza party with only calzones. But that summer, I found love. Not infatuation, not obsession — no. I loved him up close. “Vulnerability comes in different flavors,” he said, “with intimacy as the aftertaste.”
an epitaph for the damned.docx
fog.docx
April Wen
cusp
How often do you meet someone who has a mouth you want to talk to and kiss? In retrospect, his words had only the aesthetic of truth. But that didn’t stop me from loving them. I still remember his lips in the moonlight, like little pieces of bacon. That July, things started getting spicy. The whole town was ready to host its tri-annual chili pepper eating contest, and Jennie and I were helping set up food tents in Linkin Park. As we hammered pegs into the grass, someone behind us whispered, “Hey, ladies.” I wore a floral dress without bike shorts. Jennie and I were bent over, so this voice-man must’ve been talking to both of our butts. I turned around to see Guy Fieri carrying a child-sized chunk of Boar’s Head ham. “You want a piece of me?” he mumbled. Guy’s smirk dipped my whole body in fear. I glanced over at Jennie, who was still smiling, but I just knew she was frowning on the inside. Couldn’t Guy recognize the panic on my face, the universal sign for “You should go now”? The town had worked so
Kevin Ogunniyi
Vincent Tolentino Cindy Hwang
cusp.pdf
an epitaph for the damned.docx
fog.docx
April Wen Mall Series.pdf
Lucas Sin
Ivy Sanders-Schneider Happy in love, life...ry thing.docx
photo 1...photo 2...photo 3...photo 4.jpeg
hard at being emotionally on-point for Spicy Throwdown; I really didn’t want to make a fuss over him looking at our butts. But Guy Fieri kept inching closer to us with that ham. “Woah, man! Guy FIERI?!” Craig was running towards us with a bottle of hot sauce. I grabbed Jennie’s hand, but she couldn’t move. I took a step backwards into the tent, and, with a kaboom, it crumpled. One peg flew loose and hit Guy in the neck. Everyone in Linkin Park turned around to see Guy Fieri on his knees, clutching his double chin in pain, and Craig smiling really big, holding his autographed ham. Then the cameras came and slapped Jennie, Craig, Guy, and me with pictures. These remained the town’s only memories of that fateful day. Spicy Throwdown has since gained continental recognition. What makes me sad, though, is that no one remembers how my rabbi almost died after winning the grand chili pepper eating prize. As Jennie and I made our way back to the parking lot, we found the rabbi spluttering on the ground like
an amoeba. I had gotten a CPR certification in school that year, but I had no idea how to do CPR. “Call 911,” came a calm voice behind the trees. “Guy Fieri,” I mumbled sadly. I turned around to see where the voice was coming from. There, under the sycamore tree, stood the rabbi’s son. Before I could get a good look at him, he walked over, knelt beside his father, and administered the most breathtaking CPR I’d ever seen. The rabbi gasped and shook and began to take great gulping breaths. His son looked calmly out over the Linkin Park hulla-baloo. “Could you give me a hand?” he asked. After we hauled the rabbi’s spluttering body back to his Hummer, the son sat down on the pavement and put his head in his palms. “Every damn year,” he murmured. “They’re going to turn everything into an emergency episode of Diners, Drive-Ins, and Dives and say it’s good for the town.” When I saw a tear roll down his cheek, I knew: it was time to pull out the travel-sized Jenga.
Kevin Ogunniyi
Vincent Tolentino
cusp.pdf
Cindy Hwang
an epitaph for the damned.docx
fog.docx
April Wen
Mall Series.pdf
Lucas Sin
Ivy Sanders-Schneider
Happy in love, life...ry thing.docx
photo 1...photo 2...photo 3...photo 4.jpeg
Kevin Ogunniyi
Vincent Tolentino
Cindy Hwang
an epitaph for the damned.docx
fog.docx
Mall Series.pdf
Lucas Sin
Augment, not Neutralize
Ivy Sanders-Schneider
Happy in love, life...ry thing.docx
photo 1...photo 2...photo 3...photo 4.jpeg
Dragon Scales
Kevin Ogunniyi
Vincent Tolentino
Cindy Hwang
an epitaph for the damned.docx
fog.docx
Mall Series.pdf
Lucas Sin
Duck, Duck, Duck
Ivy Sanders-Schneider
Happy in love, life...ry thing.docx
photo 1...photo 2...photo 3...photo 4.jpeg
The Walk Home is a Series of Steps
Kevin Ogunniyi
Vincent Tolentino
Cindy Hwang
an epitaph for the damned.docx
fog.docx
Mall Series.pdf
Lucas Sin
Ivy Sanders-Schneider
Happy in love, life...ry thing.docx
photo 1...photo 2...photo 3...photo 4.jpeg
Kevin Ogunniyi an epitaph for the damned.docx
Mall Series.pdf
Ivy Sanders-Schneider
She’d read to the point of fear, then of drowsiness. To scrape it into something else. The magnolia grows its petals in spirals. To see the roadside sumac. The dream was of ghosts, several, benevolent. A loss. Before the windslept portico. Always ever only almost sure of anything. Their baby dear, their fragile darling, their cheer up what’s the matter, always ever. Now, summer. To begin with a reordering. A lull. Singing, sighing, like all her older sisters. Winter, no fall that year. I opened the tin of tea one time, a turquoise box, found bits of crumpled flowers, blue, electric, bright against the pitch-brown cloves and things. Felt I was talking too loudly. The girl in her stroller, her old soul still in her. All the Gauloises in her voice. Cornflower bloom. Mornings we would spend at the bar of her red-tiled kitchen, drinking tea. Two egrets on a glass table. Talking seeming suddenly strained.
Cindy Hwang
A loss. Cornflower bloom. Two egrets on a glass table. To scrape it into something else. Their baby dear, their fragile darling, their cheer up what’s the matter, always ever. Talking seeming suddenly strained. Winter, no fall that year. To see the roadside sumac. She’d read to the point of fear, then of drowsiness. The dream was of ghosts, several, benevolent. To begin with a reordering. All the Gauloises in her voice. Felt I was talking too loudly. I opened the tin of tea one time, a turquoise box, found bits of crumpled flowers, blue, electric, bright against the pitch-brown cloves and things. Before the wind-slept portico. Now, summer. Mornings we would spend at the bar of her red-tiled kitchen, drinking tea. Always ever only almost sure of anything. A lull. The girl in her stroller, her old soul still in her. The magnolia grows its petals in spirals. Singing, sighing, like all her older sisters.
fog.docx
A loss. To begin with a reordering. To scrape it into something else. Felt I was talking too loudly. Cornflower bloom. Singing, sighing, like all her older sisters. Talking seeming suddenly strained. Mornings we would spend at the bar of her red-tiled kitchen, drinking tea. Their baby dear, their fragile darling, their cheer up what’s the matter, always ever. The magnolia grows its petals in spirals. To see the roadside sumac. She’d read to the point of fear, then of drowsiness. All the Gauloises in her voice. A lull. Before the wind-slept portico. The dream was of ghosts, several, benevolent. Two egrets on a glass table. Winter, no fall that year. I opened the tin of tea one time, a turquoise box, found bits of crumpled flowers, blue, electric, bright against the pitch-brown cloves and things. The girl in her stroller, her old soul still in her. Now, summer. Always ever only almost sure of anything.
Vincent Tolentino
fog
Happy in love, life...ry thing.docx
TheThe bend of these curtains, the the whim of the wind. OurOur bend of these curtains, whim of the wind. parakeets chatchat withwith the the robin outside. Goose-down to to parakeets robin outside. Goose-down prick theirtheir gentle faces. BlueBlue andand green, andand red.red. TheThe reveprick gentle faces. green, lation that it’s been happening for years. Last night’s moon, revelation that it’s been happening for years. Last night’s a white thumbprint in the sky. in Still entasis. That’s the moon, a white thumbprint theassky. Still as entasis. maple. Unadorned ionic, capitals ionic, curledcapitals like smoke. The That’s the maple. Unadorned curled like revelation, twenty, that our bodies that wereour past their prime, smoke. at The revelation, at twenty, bodies were thatpast the slow would day begin.would The floortheir degradation prime, that the slowany degradation any boards’ wormwood smell at night. Still as the gods’ stone day begin. 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Goose-down to and cutlery. That’s the maple. To prick their gentle faces.before Unadorned ionic, capitals curled live there for years painting it. Birds singing a like full-bore smoke. Inassault the other with herGoose-down neoclassical to nonstop overroom this house. prick toccatas. To wrest those sweet notes their gentle faces. Unadorned ionic,out. capitals curled like smoke. In the other room with her neoclassical nonstop Goose-down to wrest prick their toccatas. To thosegentle sweetfaces. notesStill out.as the gods’ stone faces. The bend of these curtains, the whim of the wind. Blue and green, andtheir red.gentle Trash-pickers clinking Goose-down to prick faces. Still as the through the glass bin. Trap snares dopplering past the whim gods’ stone faces. The bend of these curtains, the window. on some distant shore crash, isn’t that of theIt’s wind. Blue and green, andthat red.you Trash-pickers what you mean, when saybin. you’ll crash, on some othclinking through theyou glass Trap snares dopplering er shore, where someIt’s other sun isdistant rising?shore To wrest past the window. on some thatthose you sweet notes out. Birds a full-bore assault crash, isn’t that whatsinging you mean, when you say over you’llthis house. To live there other for years before painting In the crash, on some shore, where some it. other sunother is room with her neoclassical nonstop toccatas. Allow and a rising? To wrest those sweet notes out. Birds singing remember. theover maple. bottles, full-boreThat’s assault this Car-parts, house. To live thereand for cutlery. years Ourbefore parakeets chat with the robin outside. The revelation painting it. In the other room with her neoclassithatcal it’snonstop been happening years. The revelation, at twenty, toccatas.for Allow and remember. That’s the thatmaple. our bodies were past theirand prime, thatOur the slow degraCar-parts, bottles, cutlery. parakeets dation any robin day begin. StillThe as revelation entasis. The of chatwould with the outside. thatasphalt it’s been thathappening private laneforlike a skillet beautifully seasoned, rinsed years. The revelation, at twenty, that our in oil-rains. Last night’s moon, a white thumbprint in the bodies were past their prime, that the slow degradation sky.would Unadorned ionic, capitals curled like The smoke. The of floorany day begin. Still as entasis. asphalt that boards’ wormwood atbeautifully night. private lane like asmell skillet seasoned, rinsed in oil-rains. Last night’s moon, a white thumbprint in the sky. Unadorned ionic, capitals curled like smoke. The floorboards’ wormwood smell at night.
Kevin Ogunniyi an epitaph for the damned.docx
Cindy Hwang Mall Series.pdf
Ivy Sanders-Schneider
Last night’s moon, honed to a vanishing. Don’t torture me, please, let’s go back, please. Paint beneath paintings or animal digestion. Illuminated cities, out of earthly focus. She had the most exquisite taste. They trace terrestrial, not solar, wind. An exercise in disappointment, or meditation on an unknown theme. Nothing until this named thing nameless is. After years of waiting, nothing came. This whinging, ailing mess. The geomagnetic storm, a six- to eight-grade solar flare, auroral ovals over Connecticut. And he feels afraid. Sound of small organisms metabolizing each other. Flaring on the frame of everything he is. I stare, I see, or think I see—a greenish glow. This is nothing. In search of fresher air, have driven north. Conspiracy of clods. Wound about her every word. Clouds spread out like blight. Through the open wound of the mouth. Egyptian chords immanent.
fog.docx
After years of waiting, nothing came. Clouds spread out like blight. In search of fresher air, have driven north. Egyptian chords immanent. This whinging, ailing mess. The geomagnetic storm, a six- to eight-grade solar flare, auroral ovals over Connecticut. This is nothing. And he feels afraid. Conspiracy of clods. Last night’s moon, honed to a vanishing. Flaring on the frame of everything he is. Wound about her every word. An exercise in disappointment, or meditation on an unknown theme. I stare, I see, or think I see—a greenish glow. Don’t torture me, please, let’s go back, please. Illuminated cities, out of earthly focus. They trace terrestrial, not solar, wind. Nothing until this named thing nameless is. She had the most exquisite taste. Through the open wound of the mouth. Paint beneath paintings or animal digestion. Sound of small organisms metabolizing each other.
Vincent Tolentino
The geomagnetic storm, a six- to eight-grade solar flare, auroral ovals over Connecticut. Conspiracy of clods. Clouds spread out like blight. Through the open wound of the mouth. Egyptian chords immanent. Illuminated cities, out of earthly focus. Don’t torture me, please, let’s go back, please. In search of fresher air, have driven north. She had the most exquisite taste. Paint beneath paintings or animal digestion. This is nothing. Wound about her every word. Last night’s moon, honed to a vanishing. Flaring on the frame of everything he is. And he feels afraid. Sound of small organisms metabolizing each other. This whinging, ailing mess. Nothing until this named thing nameless is. They trace terrestrial, not solar, wind. I stare, I see, or think I see—a greenish glow. An exercise in disappointment, or meditation on an unknown theme. After years of waiting, nothing came.
Happy in love, life...ry thing.docx
They fought untiluntil the the birds protested. To approach the the very They fought birds protested. To approach edge of edge artifice. count minutes till free oftillthese very of Will artifice. Willthe count the minutes free of people, place.this So place. that when he exhales thesethis people, So that when hebeneath exhalesthe betrees, onethe can’t know where smoke ends the ends neath trees, one can’tthe know where theand smoke breath A palm reflecting toward the cheek. andbegins. the breath begins. A palmsunlight reflecting sunlight toward Thethe revelation that revelation it’s been happening for happening years. On Suncheek. The that it’s been for days would ahead, would then go and sit forthen tea. go Theand ache years. Oncall Sundays call ahead, sit in the the ache fist, where door.itThis fills on forfat tea.ofThe in the itfatlanded of theon fist,the where landed the the children, fire, withinexpert a crippling door. inexpert This fills with the children, withawe. fire, The with a courtyard flinched withcourtyard frost. Every twentywith years, theEvery shrine crippling awe. The flinched frost. is ritually closestiswe comerebuilt. to religion. At night, twentyrebuilt. years, The the shrine ritually The closest grinding teeth, Driftingteeth, off between we come tosharpening religion. At incisors. night, grinding sharpen-linensing laundered forcesoff economical and unknown. A by palm incisors.by Drifting between linens laundered sliding across the cheek. smell isAlike nothing—it is the forces economical andThe unknown. palm sliding across opposite of smell. asisflight is fair. Impending morning the cheek. The Fair smell like nothing—it is the opposite withofitssmell. foreign rituals. Through the open wound Fairbreakfast as flight is fair. Impending morning with its of the mouth. These sounds, I’ve come realize, are the foreign breakfast rituals. Through thetoopen wound of same. wedgeThese of an sounds, orange unsticking itself from are the the theAmouth. I’ve come to realize, globe. TheAturning page. same. wedgeofofaan orange unsticking itself from the globe. The turning of a page. On Sundays would call ahead, then go and sit for tea. A wedge of an orange thesit globe. On Sundays would unsticking call ahead,itself thenfrom go and for tea. Through the open the mouth. Thefrom courtyard A wedge of an wound orange of unsticking itself the globe. flinched withthe frost. At night, teeth, sharpening inciThrough open woundgrinding of the mouth. The courtyard sors. Driftingwith off between linensgrinding laundered by forces ecoflinched frost. At night, teeth, sharpening nomical and Drifting unknown. palm reflecting sunlight toward the incisors. off Abetween linens laundered by forces cheek. The closest come toA religion. Every twenty years, economical andwe unknown. palm reflecting sunlight tothe ward shrinethe is ritually They we fought until birdsEvery procheek. rebuilt. The closest come to the religion. tested. Impending morning its foreign rituals. twenty years, the shrine with is ritually rebuilt.breakfast They fought Willuntil count minutes till freeImpending of these people, place. thethe birds protested. morningthis with its To approach the veryrituals. edge of artifice. palm slidingtillacross foreign breakfast Will countAthe minutes free the of cheek. smellthis is like nothing—it is thethe opposite of theseThe people, place. To approach very edge smell. The revelation it’s across been happening years. of artifice. A palmthat sliding the cheek.for The smellThe is ache in nothing—it the fat of the fist, opposite where it landed onThe therevelation door. So like is the of smell. thatthat when exhales beneath trees, can’t know it’she been happening forthe years. Theone ache in the fat where thefist, smoke ends and theonbreath begins. The when turning of the where it landed the door. So that of ahe page. Fair beneath as flight the is fair. These I’ve come exhales trees, onesounds, can’t know whereto realize, are theends same.and This the children, inexpert withof the smoke thefills breath begins. The turning fire,awith a crippling awe.is fair. These sounds, I’ve come to page. Fair as flight realize, are the same. This fills the children, inexpert with Willfire, count minutes till free of these people, this place. withthe a crippling awe. Every twenty years, the shrine is ritually rebuilt. These sounds, I’ve come to realize, same.people, A palm this sliding Will count the minutes till are freethe of these across theEvery cheek. Drifting off between laundered place. twenty years, the shrinelinens is ritually rebuilt.by forces economical andcome unknown. The revelation that it’s These sounds, I’ve to realize, are the same. A been happening for years. Sundays would call ahead, palm sliding across the On cheek. Drifting off between thenlinens go and sit for tea. closest we come religion. laundered by The forces economical andtounknown. Impending morning with foreign breakfast The revelation that it’sits been happening forrituals. years. So On that when he exhales beneath the trees, oneand can’t where Sundays would call ahead, then go sit know for tea. The the closest smoke ends and the breath begins. At night, grinding we come to religion. Impending morning with its teeth, sharpening incisors. thehevery edgebeof foreign breakfast rituals.To Soapproach that when exhales artifice. theone children, with the fire,smoke with a ends cripneathThis thefills trees, can’t inexpert know where pling awe. wedge of an orange unsticking itself from the and theAbreath begins. At night, grinding teeth, sharpenglobe. fought until the birds protested. as flight ing They incisors. To approach the very edge ofFair artifice. This is fair. flinched with with fire, frost. Through the open fillsThe the courtyard children, inexpert with a crippling awe. wound of theof mouth. A palm reflectingitself sunlight the A wedge an orange unsticking from toward the globe. cheek. turning a page. ache inFair the as fatflight of theisfist, TheyThe fought untilofthe birds The protested. where landed on theflinched door. The smell is Through like nothing—it is fair.itThe courtyard with frost. the open the wound opposite of of thesmell. mouth. A palm reflecting sunlight toward the cheek. The turning of a page. The ache in the fat of the fist, where it landed on the door. The smell is like nothing—it is the opposite of smell.
Kevin Ogunniyi
Vincent Tolentino
Cindy Hwang
an epitaph for the damned.docx
fog.docx
Mall Series.pdf
Ivy Sanders-Schneider
Happy in love, life...ry thing.docx
Kevin Ogunniyi an epitaph for the damned.docx
Cindy Hwang Mall Series.pdf
* There’s a picture of me as a toddler about to gulp a handful of soil. My mother remembers I ate a spider off the floor. Twenty-five years before, the year the U.S. banned lead pigment, her dentist advised don’t eat paint because children are eating the walls of their homes and she knew it was because plaster crumbles on the tongue just so— *
Happy in love, life...ry thing.docx
Like in the fable, the magpie swallows stone after stone, watching its swelling belly in the kitchen window— now, when it drinks, it won’t need so much water.
Ivy Sanders-Schneider
Happy in love, life, and every thing
She keeps a carton of Arm & Hammer baking soda in the bathroom. She says it brightens her smile and scoops cups of it from the orange box beside the sink and chews it. Once, we share a spoon: it tastes like chalk and sweetheart candies. * I call home Sunday night. Mom says Even before you were born I felt like I’d like to have sand in my mouth Although she doesn’t do it anymore hasn’t done it in a while hasn’t had the craving in quite some time. * In the South women buy white dirt by the pound in zip-tied plastic baggies or dig it from their backyards while their children are at school.
Kevin Ogunniyi an epitaph for the damned.docx
Cindy Hwang Mall Series.pdf
*
* My mother was born in Wisconsin, raised in the Midwest, she did not mine the Kansas mud. She tells me I had a certain texture I wanted and when I had it for the first time I realized this is what I’ve been looking for—
Happy in love, life...ry thing.docx
I read an article a doctor says it’s culture bound, in another generation it will disappear altogether.
Ivy Sanders-Schneider
They crave it in pregnancy, swallowing handful after handful. In a documentary one says Every day, twice a day, I take dirt from this wall and eat it—
Kevin Ogunniyi
an epitaph for the damned.docx
Cindy Hwang
Untitled Works (from Mall Series)
Mall Series.pdf
Kevin Ogunniyi
an epitaph for the damned.docx
Cindy Hwang
Mall Series.pdf
Kevin Ogunniyi
an epitaph for the damned.docx
Cindy Hwang
Mall Series.pdf
The thinker was called Antonio, or, as the Benevolent Judge had called him when they had met by chance at a function—some function, Devil take its name, and the name that the Benevolent Judge had called him, for Antonio had a prevision that names did not mean what they signified, though he could not explain why. He had been told that all languages were identical, that inflections and dialects were like rays of light oscillating in vain attempts to escape the event horizon, but he felt with an unspeakable conviction that thinking in Spanish helped him to curb his grief. I have not mentioned the time at which the story takes place, or the place, as a good storyteller would, but I do not know where this city is or when the story takes place. Moreover, this ambiguity of setting allows the intelligent reader to ascribe any degree of freedom or teleology to the actions of the characters. I allow my readers to fashion their own interpretations, to make what they will of time and space, and if those interpretations yield bad outcomes, the strong, white hand within the Universe will set things to rights. Antonio stood and stretched his strong, wiry body. The joints cracked, and he thought of the crackling of fried plantains on a stove. This thought gave him pause. While he pondered it further, the creases on his forehead increased in prominence, such that Antonio’s face looked as if he were emulating the dunes of a desert. Where had that come from? He could not remember having seen a stove or a desert, but these thoughts lingered in his head. Now Antonio was a dreamer, he thought of sentiments rather than causalities and laws. The doorbell rang. He thought of Tomas’s white hands and unsmiling eyes. Antonio had met Tomas some time before, he could not say when, nor could he say if any time had passed, for the Benevolent Judge had ordered to be collected the clock of every household in the city, citing fears that an awareness of time would lead men to speculate about their consciousness of freedom and foment a revolution that would leave the city crippled and ripe for some passing Asiatic warlord’s plucking. Antonio’s caretaker, before her death, had enlisted Tomas to come to Antonio’s home and help him with his studies of Astrology and Cosmo-philosopho-theo-dramatonigology. Antonio was too much of a dreamer, it was said, and a tutor would help him to realize that the best dreams are to be found in what Antonio himself thought to be banalities. Tomas wore a yellow “jumpsuit,” as it was called. Antonio had heard somewhere that yellow signified leadership, exceptionality, power, and that the person who wore yellow had to have a boisterous and stormy intellectual and martial presence. In truth, Tomas was precisely what the color indicated. Being the president of his school’s studentry, he had the privilege of often leading the school to a new understanding of the unlimited
an epitaph for the damned.docx
Yo pelearía a todo el mundo para ti. Si pudieras estar mi compañero, mi amante, ¿harías lo mismo para mi? ¿Por que no sonríes? ¿Estas recordando? Rememorar los tiempos en los que todos parecían mejores, en los que eras un caballero y un aventurero… Era preparado para luchar a todos. Me dijo sobre sus desafíos, sus sufrimientos, que al principio fue preparado para amar a todo el mundo. El mundo no te comprendía, y tú supiste odiar. Pensabas que eras mejor; ellos te catalogaban peor. Aprendiste la envidia. Te convirtiste en un tullido moral.
Kevin Ogunniyi
An Epitaph for the Damned
virtues of the illustrious Judge; he sat apart from everyone else in his school’s mess and ignored all those who spoke to him, certain in his superiority because he had convinced himself that all of the others were flaunting with words and unsubtle gestures their own superiority; he often was the first to recognize the problems in this attempt at a mathematical proof and that aspect of the strategy of Napoleon I to crush the Russian General Kutuzov in the War of 1812. Tomas was thin where Antonio was wiry, Tomas’s eyes never seemed to smile when his mouth did, and Tomas’s hands were so white and aristocratic that Antonio had once feared that his friend would be indicted for seditious plots and executed on his hands’ account alone. Aristocratic hands was the refrain. Antonio knew by intuition that there could be no aristocratic or plebeian hands, for there were no aristocrats or plebeians, and the derivative of a thing must have an integral in that very thing. Antonio had once read about the “calculus of history,” but the phrase seemed to him an absurdity. He knew in his heart that such a thing could not exist, just as aristocrats and plebeians could not exist in this place, but he could not express the reasoning for either conclusion, and he resigned himself to repeating, “That’s just how it is” and tugging the collar of his purple jumpsuit. When Antonio awoke, he saw what he imagined to be the Archangel Gabriel. He had not read the Bible, for the same reason that he did not accept the phrase “Calculus of History”: his exuberant consciousness of freedom and inviolable faith in that freedom. As such, he knew not the monstrous, indescribable forms of the Seraphim, and he still imagined all angels as men with extraordinary and womanish beauty clothed in golden lights, silver helmets, and eagle’s feathers. The presence of the angel said to him, “You are an apostate. You deal in sophistries and false dreams, the apparitions to be found beyond the ivory gate of Pluto’s kingdom. I am. I am more than sophistry, and your dreams are little more than the desperate throes of a dying man. You think, you speak, you dream, but you are not. You are the fool who preaches freedom and vivacity when you are little more than a corpse yourself. Why do you seek problems and complexities? ‘Hitch together, hitch together,’ I have heard it said, though a more appropriate phrase would be ‘band together…’” Antonio did not hear these words, but the airy and evocative sentiment behind them roused him from his stupor. He had the impression that he had missed something important, and he wished that whoever or whatever was interfering with his vision would leave him be. The angel’s garb resolved itself into a jumpsuit, the crown became a bed of hair, and the foggy film that obscured his vision vanished, and there was only Tomas. Tomas gave Antonio one of his unsmiling smiles and said, “I spoke with Andrei. He told me about your problem. Why did you not tell us? Did you think that we are sirens, waiting for Ulysses to come around so that we can lull him into the sea? Did you see within us Scylla and Charybdis, those repetitious monsters cursed to impel and expel for all time? Think you that we can draw the Leviathan out of the sea with a fishhook? Defeat pious Aeneas with Cupid’s arrows? Words, words, words—I fear that I am boring you. You say that I should be more self-indulgent, and though I am indulging others, I am indulging myself, and when I sup upon the Classics, I sup also upon myself. “I see that I am boring you. Have you suffered this gross indignity for your entire life?” Antonio said that he had. “Well, I have read of ‘totalitarian states’ and their inflictions of violence upon man and language. If I knew better, I would say that we live in one. The stomach empties, the head fills with air, and behold!—one becomes the Madman of Sevilla. Things cannot be
“My jumpsuit does not disallow me from anything; yon cloudy sky does not disallow the sun from rising tomorrow.” “A poet, and a pedant too? You are set to surpass me, mi querido.” “What will you do? His Beneficence the Judge has seen it fit not to add a purple light to the streetlights. Would you preempt or defy his Eminence?” Antonio did not like the Benevolent Judge, and Antonio had convinced himself that calling Him “His Beneficence” instead would reveal to everyone that His legal power had been a conditional grant from the people—that He should be grateful, or beneficent, rather than thinking that He had risen to power because of His endless stocks of moral and intellectual virtue. Tomas sat on Antonio’s couch and winced. Did this couch have teeth? He stood, fetched a watermelon from a cupboard in Antonio’s kitchen, cut it with magnificent aplomb into pieces that he could swallow, returned to the couch and began to eat. He had not eaten a watermelon in his life that he could remember with pleasure, but this one he liked very much. It smacked of rustic beauty. He thought of a young woman with galoshes covering her bare feet, a smile as sweet as cherries, and a white dress light and fitted well enough that she could glide like a fairy without having to worry about tripping on the dress or catching it on a door’s handle. When he remembered himself, he catalogued the instances in which he had read of such simple delight: Virgil in his Fourth Eclogue imagined that Octavian Caesar would bring about a time of plenty and splendor; Ben Jonson had the venerable country estate Penshurst; Ariosto, too many beguiling mystical pleasure palaces to count; Tolstoy, the paradisiacal homes of Nikolai Rostov’s uncle and Konstantin Levin; the Thousand and One Nights was a parade of extraordinary pleasures, rustic and cultivated… Had Antonio laced the fruit with hashish? Tomas did not know why he had imagined such foolishness, and he told himself that he loathed this sudden digressiveness.
an epitaph for the damned.docx
“But fitting. In truth, the greater the power of the aristocrat, the less his freedom. He is subject to numberless constraints of the external world, the pressures of space, time, and the need to have the appearance of a coherent casuistry. What did Prince Genji gain from all his power except the need to satisfy his longings in secrecy and one of the most extraordinary courts of flatterers, sycophants, rogues, hypocrites, wastrels, bad poets, and scurrilous moralists ever seen in fiction? No, sir, aristocrats are terribly unfree, because the public gaze is upon them. It’s the same as you being unable to cross the street. You are fortunate, in truth—what if it had been not the color of your jumpsuit but the color of your skin that disallowed your crossing… I see that I am witless and boring you, but you brought this torture on yourself.”
Kevin Ogunniyi
so easy though. I must fight, complain, suffer, become trapped in the moment, allow myself to be deceived and cheated, deceive and cheat others, read Tocqueville and, like a tragic hero, see nothing of myself in his depiction of the democratic man. I must delay. Why? Because that is what people do in totalitarian states. When one is an ironist, he can speak of things with levity that would be weighed down with the most ponderous and miserable words in other contexts. I don’t need to be Tacitus, deploring the atrocities of Tiberius and Nero and the seemingly endless potential for degradation and injustice of the Roman Empire, the moral and martial ruin that oily Augustus Caesar brought to Rome; I need not be Amos or Hosea, spewing invectives and muttering honeyed absurdities in the stopped-up ears of the Israelites… The worms are going at it”— Antonio said, “You told me that purple is often the color of royals. I think it is contemptible and vile.”
At least forty-five minutes after he had started eating the watermelon, he turned to Antonio and shook his head. Tomas replied, “I do not know. Festina lente, and ‘Man proposes, God disposes,’ and all that. Fixing the light would make for an absurd spectacle. You have been patient for many years, not suffering any of your friends to know of this ignominy. Now any attempt to help you would stand out as a fat civilian holding a scepter and wearing a silk diadem would have stood out at Actium…” Tomas did not continue. Antonio’s gaze seemed (in Tomas’s view) to say, “You know what has happened to me. Do not disgrace Andrei by making a fool of us. If you will help me, tell me so, and we will sup and laugh together; if you will not help me, do not mock me.” Tomas sighed. The two men looked at each other’s eyes, and something, an understanding and camaraderie, passed between them. No doubt remained that Tomas would do as he said. The silence was mellifluous. Antonio was always musical, not an incongruous and disjunctive figure like Tomas. Though he had often heard people say that nothing would come of nothing, it was the nothingness and emptiness of the moment that wafted him into the immeasurable pleasures of an Elysium, the world of the Platonic lover, of the Aristotelian Eudaemon, of the Christian fool. He saw the vitality of all things; all that had been dead, waxen, yellow, and rigid for Antonio was now alive, fluid, white, elegant… It was as if he had witnessed his own funeral and interment and now had awakened and seen the reanimation of his corpse at a distance…
Kevin Ogunniyi
an epitaph for the damned.docx
Editors-in-Chief Maya Binyam Margaret Shultz Managing Editor Jake Orbison Arts Editors Katherine Adams Andrew Wagner Designer Lian Fumerton-Liu Literary Editors Eve Houghton Oliver Preston Events Coordinators Caroline Sydney Pamela Weidman Publicity Coordinators Malini Gandhi Molly Williams Publisher Mary Mussman Staff Griffin Brown Jon Cai Natalie Collins Tom Cusano Dan Freidman Caroline Kanner Ivy Sanders-Schneider Griffin Shoglow-Rubenstein Francis Bergen Prize judged by Verlyn Klinkenborg. Type set in Pirata One and Akzidenz Grotesk. Printed by Yale Printing and Publishing Services, New Haven, CT. Bound by The W.G Fry Corporation & Kamket Company Expo Binder, Inc.