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Fortnight Literary Press
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Inside/Outside Florentine Figure Study Cactusland Rising (The Sun, Dale Chihuly) in which i consider myself Gratitude for Softness On the Importance of Community Gardens Boundaries Small Men When Cultivation is Not an Option, We Paint Reaching Upward
by Haley Winkle by Anna Vanderberg by Anna Vanderberg by Haley Winkle by Haley Winkle by Haley Winkle by Haley Winkle
Editors-in-Chiefs
Anna Horton & Lars Johnson
Copyeditor
Haley Winkle
Layout Editor
Christina Hu
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by Haley Winkle by Christina Hu by Haley Winkle by Haley Winkle
fortnightlitpress.wordpress.com | Brought to you by the Undergraduate English Association 1
Florentine Figure Study, by Anna Vanderberg 2
Cactusland, by Anna Vanderberg 3
Rising (The Sun, Dale Chihuly), by Haley Winkle 4
By Haley Winkle
in which i consider myself
it’s too soon for strawberry crowns collecting like a mini jungle hiding white fruit flesh. even they’re not ready for us yet. not fully awake yet. why are there seasons? to rest until sweet? is my season the daytime, after hours of sleep does my crown of green leaves sprout from my bright red body and does a bite make someone forget that frozen winter nights ever even happened? best enjoyed in sunshine, though I’m still reconciling that one with seeds in my teeth below cloudy snow.
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Gratitude for Softness, by Haley Winkle 6
On the Importance of Community Gardens, by Haley Winkle 7
Boundaries, by Haley Winkle 8
By Christina Hu
Small Men
First, they send a storm of paper. Crisp, printed words on shiny pamphlets falling like something she’s only heard about in tall tales, like snow, piling high in the streets for little toddlers and growing children and married men and women and old in-laws alike to toss about in wonderment. It melts too, with the rain and mud, and it’s all the more wonderful for that. Her little sister laughs every time they see it, in wonderment.
It’s the first time she’s seen so much white.
Then, they send word. Through the villages, though the radio she listens to sometimes when the children of the landlord she serves want to listen, too. “They’re coming,” she hears them say, one of the few things she understands. “Liberation,” they say, “we bring democracy,” and she’s almost caught trying to figure out what it all means. She’s not supposed to ask too many questions. She’s not supposed to, but she wants to understand.
“Prosperity,” they promise, sometimes. “Modernity.” Always, “liberation.”
It’s what they say, and it’s what the other side says as well. She never does find out what “liberation” means, exactly. Maybe, “we’re right,” or “join us,” or, probably, “we can do what we want.” Then, they come. Strange-looking men, in strange clothes with too many colors and shiny colors, trampling through the forests with what look like guns. Black, muddy things that look like guns and shoot bullets, but don’t work like any guns she’s ever seen. They’re bigger and faster, too. Metal edifices tear through the forests and send the old people running from well-worn memories. They’d come like that before, in the last war. When the men come closer, she can see that they have red faces, 9
like paper puppets. And the men keep coming. The men yell at her, sometimes, in-between yelling at everybody else. They yell words nobody understands, repeating themselves often. They’re looking for something, she knows that much. They come into her home, but they don’t stay. These men live in a city of cloth that doesn’t get wet outside the village. Some nights, they wake up shouting and shooting and there’s the smell of something burning in the air. In the morning, they bury their dead and cut up the bodies of other people. She thinks it was the other side. She thinks they’re looking for the other side. The other side, she knows something about. It’s her neighbours to the north and the landlord’s youngest son, although his father doesn’t know and wouldn’t approve. The other side promises the same “liberation” and “freedom” and other words she doesn’t understand, but in a language she does. They start to burn down the forest, one day. The farmers start grumbling — wondering how anyone could get wood to cook with without trees nearby — and celebrating — wondering how much more rice could be planted — in turns. They yell at her more. They yell at everybody else more. She just covers her little sister’s ears as she lets them in to search again and again and again, wherever they want, whenever they want. They’re cornered, somehow, she thinks, because they start shooting at everyone who gets a little too close. She doesn’t think much when they stop shooting at everyone else. It was a change for the better, after all. Maybe they were leaving, soon. Maybe they had won or maybe they had lost. Maybe they weren’t cornered by an immaterial enemy anymore. It’s harder trying to get her little sister to sleep. Everyone keeps waking up with nightmares nowadays. 10
The radio still blasts the same thing as ever, pompously promising the same “they’re coming” and “liberation” and “defense” as always. The radio says something, about a strange name they call her capital city. She can’t hear very much anymore; the landlord’s decided that she needed to work more in the kitchen, now that it’s almost New Year’s. Something happens after New Year’s, somewhere far away. More of them come. Some of them leave. More of them come. Some of them leave. More of them come. More of them come. More of them come.
They start shooting again.
They yell at her neighbours in the middle of the night. They yell at a lot of her neighbours that night. She starts to cut some fruit for her sister, a little luxury to comfort her. They probably won’t stop yelling until morning, anyway. They barge through her home. She doesn’t notice above the noise. Doesn’t notice until she hears her sister crying, doesn’t notice until she… ...hears… ...them… ...like the monsoon on her roof, in May, when it first starts to rain, before she gets used to it. Before she gets used to the sound. Before she forgets to pay attention. Like the clattering of bells. Like drums. Like… like… ...please, no… 11
...like her little sister described yesterday, as the two peeled fruit in the landlord’s house, gorging themselves on rind…
...like guns. Only, it wasn’t “like guns.”
She can barely hear herself run. She must be loud, her heart hammering in her ears and her feet pounding against the ground and knocking over a pail as she runs.
They don’t hear her at all.
The knife is still in her hand. She had finally saved up enough to buy a smaller knife, something pointy, something easier to use than the cleaver, so she could teach her sister to cut and cook alongside her.
They don’t hear her at all.
She sees red, so much red, and chunks she almost recognizes, punctured by holes. Interrupted. The men are clean, she thinks, in puzzlement. They’re clean, and they did this.
They don’t hear her at all.
They turn to leave. One man stays behind, yelling a few words, the others laughing.
He doesn’t hear her at all. (Continued on fortnightlitpress.wordpress.com)
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When Cultivation is Not an Option, We Paint, by Haley Winkle 13
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