The Staff Issue VIII.iv
Fortnight literary press
fortnight literary press issue viii.iii
CONTENTS Cover 2 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 14 16 17
Detoxify Masculinity.............................................................................. Anatomy................................................................................................... Silent Crow Executioner............................................................................................... Heaven...................................................................................................... What’s in a Home.................................................................................... Eyes If These Walls Could Talk....................................................................... The Runaways (a sonnet)........................................................................ May 12th Spork Telling Secrets........................................................................................... Unreasonable or Honourable: Sigmund Drawing Odin’s Sword under John Locke’s Modern Ethics and William Morris’ Ethics of Honour (excerpt)...................................................................................................
Danielle Colburn Anna Horton Meghan Brody Zoya Gurm Nikola Jaksic Samantha Stoddart William Hearn Mia Licciardi Skylar Chen
Editors Danielle Colburn, Sarah Dougherty Design Editor Giuliana Eggleston Copy Editors Daniel Evans, Meghan Brody, Skylar Chen Communications Ashley Zhang Social Media Derek Gan Editorial Staff Ashley Zhang, Daniel Evans, Derek Gan, Giuliana Eggleston, Josh Flink, Meghan Brody, Mia Licciardi, Michelle Hoban, Natalie Steers, Shannon Maag, Skylar Chen, Will Hearn, Zoya Gurm
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Anatomy Anna Horton We spoke during those days when I was still too proud to admit my fingers ached, the permanent notch of a pencil hollowed into my fingertips. The studio was itself was small, unimpressive. I’d discovered it by chance. A group of graduate students had formed a semi-professional club for extra practice and chosen it for the low rent, deciding that having their own space meant more than using one of the university drawing rooms. As an underclassman, I was as good as invisible, but that didn’t bother me. Chalky lighting, folding chairs, rough-cut tables salvaged from some warehouse. It was like being in Michelangelo’s storeroom—an artists’ fight club heady with the awareness that tracing the human body could be a volatile act. I’d been wondering about her for a long time, about all of the models—how they could sit there, vacant and bare for hours at a time. She was a newer student and not even in the art program, I learned, but our session hours worked well between waitressing shifts. She was a frail eighteen-year-old with trailing blonde hair and small, cup-like breasts. Her name was Margery. I approached her during a short break between Monday evening sketching sessions, absently massaging the knots out of my sore fingers. I told her I admired her for what she did, how impossible it would be for me to imagine the courage it took to stand naked in front of so many people. She shrugged, the collar of the academy sweatshirt she’d thrown on during break baring one shoulder, and asked for my name. “It’s Jeremy,” I told her. “How long have you been at Tufts?” she asked. A Russian accent lent her weak-tea voice enough body to settle in the room like fallen leaves. “First semester. Is it that obvious?” “The artists rarely speak to models. And you are very red.” This observation, of course, reddened me further. “Ah.” “So. You think I am courageous. Why? I am not forced to do this. Perhaps it is the money.” Her smile widened, gibbous. “Or perhaps I am a slut without shame. You admire this?” “Um...no.” I laughed weakly. “I didn’t mean it that way.”
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“What did you mean?” “I guess I...I don’t know. It seems noble. Like giving your body to science.” “Would anyone in this room need to see my ass to know how to draw one?” I admitted that was unlikely. “Then I am unnecessary. Why not use a girlfriend? A sister? A mother? Would not this be more comfortable?” I winced. “Hell, no.” “Why?” “It’s different. There’s a connection. Relation. It’s hard to explain. I wouldn’t be able to see them the same way, and having others draw them would be...” I broke off, frustrated. “Look, you’re a professional, right? I’m simply admiring your professionalism. You’re good at what you do.” Margery’s eyes glowed, impossibly dangerous for a half-naked woman. “And what is it I do, Jeremy?” “You model. You’re an inspiration.” “I am no one,” she corrected. “Yes, I am a professional. Professional breasts. Professional collarbone. The curls between my legs are professional curls. I am hired for these things, but it is my ability to be these things and not someone you know – that, Jeremy, is my profession.” My mouth had gone dry. “Then why do you do it?” “Because for three hours on Monday night I become a definition. When you look at me, you see woman.” She held my eyes, gaging my reaction like an artist preparing for a figure sketch. “Do you still find this admirable?” I stared, words struggling in my throat. “You know I didn’t mean to –” A voice from the back of the room interrupted me, declaring the end of the break and suggesting the next five-minute pose. “I am sorry, Jeremy.” Margery rolled the shirt up her chest, slid her arms from the sleeves. “It is not holy, a body. Now that you know, it will be difficult. It is much harder to draw a human being than a god.” She pulled the collar over her head, making no attempt to smooth the tangle it made of her hair as she walked slowly to the front of the room, and stepped up onto the raised wooden
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platform, spread with a blanket and pillows. She reclined, as suggested – left breast pressed against the wood, her bosom swollen by gravity. I retreated to my desk behind the hiss of pencils. My notebook was already crowded with pieces of her – the curve of a shoulder, the web of a bent knee. Pieces. As I watched, they festered, bloated and disproportionate, like severed limbs.
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Silent Crow Anna Horton That night, the sky had teeth and I admired its grin, pondering how though we all have questions there’s a measure of madness to be learned from the fury of stars demanding, all why we think we’re brave oh we such small, white amateurs who stand on an edge and crow as if heaven would give us wings simply because we’ve imagined ourselves angels
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Executioner Meghan Brody Before his first time, he drinks for “courage” and to avoid the thought: He is going to kill someone. They call him the “one who lives on” and do not give him a seat at the tavern. (drink outside take our axe don’t come in) He drinks outside sometimes breaks the glass does not go in. He has dead children that still eat is married but she’s stolen from above exists in martyrdom without the kind afterthoughts polishes noble shoes after each swing is the “one who lives on” He does not go in.
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Heaven Zoya Gurm have you felt as blue as this ocean? wide? “you’re an angel,” the waves told the shore as they retreated. they had come so smooth up the coast. how desperate had she been to let them level the gentle dents of footprints, the sand regretted in her angel mind. fickle and strawberry hearted, she begs the question. who fell in love with an island? an island?
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What’s in a Home Nikola Jaksic I sit where one came before me, What praiseworthy deeds have I done, To be worthy of my place among his memory, I’ve not filled the house with sounds of song, Nor wrought a great gift for my place, I’ve brought only a hope of love, And of fellowship for this place. O where now the flower of his youth? The love he felt for his chosen family? Gone, perhaps forgotten, As his picture casting a shadow on the hall, Or the flowers of his memory, standing still, The only ones who keep his final song at bay.
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Eyes Nikola Jaksic Eyes are windows into the soul At least, that’s what I’ve always heard, My God, was that ever true with you, Through choppy bangs and happy sights, I fell in love with those eyes. We walked through museums and parks, And always took the scenic route. I saw my life played out in hazel, A home I didn’t know I needed. Must’ve been why I let you hurt me, Knowing each time wouldn’t be the last. And now, telling you through tears that I’m walking away, Feels like I’m speaking into a goddamn grave.
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If These Walls Could Talk Samantha Stoddart If These Walls Could Talk: If these walls could talk, what would they say? Would they tell you my deepest secrets? Would they make me feel ashamed? If these walls could talk, would I constantly live in fear? Would I spew lies, act differently Or change the story they were meant to hear? If these walls could talk, what would you think of me? Would I turn from complex to simple? Smart to dumb? Laid back to anal? Would they show you my pain, or make you believe I was numb? If these walls could talk, would they even mutter a word? Or would they hold my life delicately within their concrete walls Keeping quietly all that they’ve seen and heard? If these walls could talk, I believe it would bring me strength They would reveal the true nature of my being A thing that we, as humans, keep at arm’s length. But these walls cannot talk. They cannot tell you where I’ve been They cannot reassure you of who I am For when it comes to judging someone else, you must trust in what they show you And believe that even if their walls could talk, they would prove that they are not a sham.
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The Runaways (a sonnet) William Hearn The streetlights penetrate the foggy haze In their glow, I am able to see you You are dressed in yellow; a dark maize We move in the night, my feelings askew I look into your eyes and sense passion The rain begins to fall upon our heads Your breath moving in a hurried fashion I yearn for home and I yearn for our beds Into the hostile night, we press on You turn and say there is no looking back We will have successfully fled come dawn The memories of our pasts fade to black To run away is something we must do Because I will forever adore you.
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May 12th William Hearn Have you ever experienced one of those days where you wake up and the sun is shining and you’re having a great day and then before you know it dark, dense clouds threateningly roll in and a clap of encroaching thunder is heard in the distance and simultaneously everything in your life seems to go wrong? It all happens in that one moment; you are cheery and smiley, then the sky turns dark and that smile turns immediately into a frown as a bolt of lightning dashes across the sky. This is happening to me right now. And for lack of a better term, it outright sucks. The rain is falling slowly. It runs down the window panes like the tears upon a saddened face. I can’t tell if my life went upside down because of the weather or if the weather is coincidently supplementing my emotions. Either way, I still feel hollow on the inside. Nothing can change the fact that she will never love me. She loves somebody else. All I can do now is what I’ve been doing for the past two and a half years: sit back and watch from afar this relationship between her and this somebody else develop. It will probably take the same course that all of her other relationships take. She will fall in love with him and all of his courtship, chivalry, and romantic gestures. That will last about two months. Then she will realize that he isn’t who he was two months ago, because all of that romanticism was just a show. She’ll call him “fake” and make known the fact that he is “two-faced” and had used her. He will retort by calling her a “bitch” and will bid her goodbye by telling her that “you were a waste of my time and I’m glad you are out of my life.” Then she will walk back to her apartment, slam the door shut, and cry. The tears will flow incessantly, just as the rain is down my windowpane. She will hunker down on her sofa with a pint of Ben and Jerry’s and a spoon and will turn on The Notebook. After finishing the movie with an empty ice cream container next to her, she will regain her confidence as she realizes that despite what her ex told her, she is not in fact a worthless piece of shit. With a new-found swagger, she will strut to her bed and endure a goodnight’s sleep. Tomorrow, the endless cycle that is her love life will start all over again. At the end of each cycle there is a part where I muster up some courage and try to introduce myself as a boy that is worth her time. We will go on a couple dates; bowling, the
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movies, dinner. But after about a week, after a week of treating her how she ought to be treated, she finds that somebody else. She finds that person that isn’t me and the whole thing starts all over again. Once again, I am forced to take the back seat as someone who, albeit, is just as handsome and chivalrous (for now) as myself, takes the wheel. And this brings us back to where I am now. It’s May 12th and it’s raining.
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Spork William Hearn The combination of a fork And a spoon is simplistic But‌ A spork cannot speak Nor breathe Nor seethe with anger and emotion A spork cannot be born nor buried Nor mourned A spork cannot inquire Nor learn Nor burn for knowledge But‌ A simplistic spork can bridge the gap Between our burning hunger And our impromptu meal that requires Both spoon and fork In which said meal is the fruit of life And powers our souls In which we will be buried and mourned without
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In this sense, a simplistic spork Is a savior of all utilitarian mankind And this humble spork simplistically says, “You’re welcome.”
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Telling Secrets Mia Licciardi Hush. Unsure secret shushing Rush to share in clashing whispers Flush with power, but Stumbling, Stop yourself shelling out stories, And suddenly watching Your words.
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Unreasonable or Honourable: Sigmund Drawing Odin’s Sword under John Locke’s Modern Ethics and William Morris’ Ethics of Honour (excerpt) Skylar Chen William Morris, a nineteenth century English poet, retells the stories of the Volsungs in his epic poem, The Story of Sigurd the Volsung and the Fall of the Niblungs. Book I of the poem describes the life of Sigmund, a son of King Volsung. A major event of Sigmund’s life is his revenge on Siggeir the Gothland King, who murders Sigmund’s father and brothers out of envy and anger towards Sigmund. The murder of the Volsungs and Sigmund’s revenge all have their roots in Sigmund’s refusal to sell Odin’s sword to Siggeir on his wedding feast. Had Sigmund not declined King Siggeir, he would not have caused the conflict with the Goths and suffered from the pain of losing his kins. According to the modern ethics illustrated in John Locke’s Of Civil Government, although Sigmund is the legal owner of Odin’s sword, he should voluntarily give up the sword for the better enjoyment of the rest of his property. Sigmund’s decision of keeping the sword does not comply with the modern ethics because the modern ethics overlook the value of honour. Given that the Norse society sees earning glory and being remembered for honourable deeds as a person’s worth, Sigmund’s embracing his chequered yet glorious fate is not only ethical but also honourable. The blood feud between the Volsungs and Siggeir the Goth-king begins at Siggeir and Signy’s wedding when Sigmund, the eldest son of King Volsung, draws out the fateful sword Odin has speared into Branstock, the oak tree growing in the centre of the Volsungs’ palace. King Siggeir of the Goths wishes to form an alliance with the Volsungs and asks to marry King Volsung’s daughter, Signy, “the crown of womanhood.” (Morris 3) On their wedding feast, Odin appears in disguise. He smites a sword into the Branstock tree and implies that whoever plucks the sword may go to “the shining house of heaven”, Valhalla (Morris 7). King Siggeir tries to pluck the sword first, but he fails. Then all the people attending the feast, including King Volsung, try to draw the sword, but none of them succeeds. Finally, Sigmund pulls out the
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sword, and he immediately has the ominous premonition that he “shall bide here lonely amid the Volsung home [and be] its glory and sole avenger.” (Morris 10) Sigmund foresees that having the sword will provoke disaster on the Volsungs but also earn the Volsungs glory. Despite the coming fate full of struggles, Sigmund refuses to give the sword to King Siggeir and scorns Siggeir for expecting him to “sell [his] honour.” (Morris 11) Sigmund’s action causes Siggeir’s murder of the Volsungs and becomes the curtain-raiser of his glorious revenge. Given that Sigmund anticipates the coming bloodshed right after drawing out Odin’s sword, it is possible for him to avoid such consequences by giving up the sword. Sigmund’s decision harms the security of his property and therefore does not agree with the moral rules analyzed in John Locke’s Of Civil Government. According to the modern ethics John Locke explains in Of Civil Government, Sigmund possesses Odin’s sword legally. Sigmund owns the sword because he meets Odin’s requirement of gaining the sword, and Odin’s way of appropriating the sword is legal to the people present by common consent. After Odin says that the sword will be given to whoever “pluck it from the oakwood”, all men witnessing sit “moveless”, and “none [casts Odin] a question.” (Morris 7) That no one proposes objections implies that everyone agrees on the requirement of getting the sword. The crowd at the wedding feast is composed by people from two societies, one ruled by King Volsung, the other ruled by King Siggeir. Both societies should be considered as “one body politic, wherein the majority have a right to act and conclude the rest.” (Locke 270) Thus, even if there were anyone disagreeing with the arrangement, his voice would be concluded by the majority, who agreed. Furthermore, after King Volsung encourages everyone to “stand forth” to pull the sword, King Siggeir requests to try pulling the sword “the first of all men”, which suggests that Siggeir, too, accepts the agreement on how to gain the sword (Morris 7). The majority and the key figures from the two societies, King Volsung and King Siggeir, all mutually agree on the way to appropriate Odin’s sword; thus, this arrangement becomes “an established, settled, known law, received and allowed by common consent.” (Locke 295) All the individuals present at the wedding must obey the law because they belong to a society. When joining their societies, they have given up the power of “doing whatsoever [they] thought for the preservation of [themselves]” and committed to “laws made by the society.” (Locke 298) Finally, Sigmund is the only person who meets the requirement of pulling out the sword because he performs the deed the last and succeeds. Thus, Sigmund
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legally owns the sword.
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