The Ab

Say that this storm will soon cease, and the oars we use to paddle back to the shore for shelter are just our words, reaching out across the abyss. Say that those words will one day become more than whispers, that speaking is not just for saying ‘sorry.’ Say that all this waiting and weathering and whining wasn’t for nothing. Say that you will hold me through the night. Say that I am a spoon and you will be my bowl, I will only ever hold a fraction of your sorrows. Say that when sleep creeps up the stairs like a cat with great yellow eyes, we will surrender and reach out to stroke its humble head, listen to its sweet rumbling Purr, say that when love comes barreling at us like a pothole, we will hold on to the handlebars as best we can. Say that you will let me stay and write poetry for you in exchange for a soft pillow and an empty journal. Say that you will let me stay, even in the cupboard underneath the sink, or the nook above the washing machine, I really am quite small. Say that I can steal clothes that you used to wear in the nineties and you won’t get mad. Say that we will turn our struggles into strength, our wounds into wisdom. Say that the glow-in-the-dark stars you pasted on the ceiling can light the glow-in-the-dark stories that I write, say that we are radioactive stardust decaying at a rate so fast it seems like we are standing still, silent, unable to indulge in anything but the quiet gentle gravitational tug between a mother and a daughter, the pull that says there is no love softer than this.

Title of Piece author

Ballet Class versus a Ten-year-old Girl

A Personal Narrative by Ava Josef see the girls around me succeed at the splits, contorting their bodies like it is as easy as breathing.

Firstpara text Iadjust my coral leotard as I step into the pristine room with spotless mirrors on all the surrounding walls. The instructor, Miss Stephanie, with a too-tight bun and tootight smile motions us into the room.

“Welcome in, girls! Find your spot on the floor and begin stretching,” her soft voice echoes across the beige room.

I run over to my friend, Hayley, and immediately see Miss Stephanie’s smile get tighter and hear her voice become stern.

“Walk, girls, be graceful, please.”

I slow my excited jog to a poised walk as I join Hayley for our warm-up stretches.

“Hi!!!”

“Hi, Ava!”

She whispers in the tone of a yell. I simply yell. The ballet teacher glares at me. I adjust my voice to fit the tone of the room.

“How are you?”

“I’m good. I have three more classes after this one,” she replies, a happy smile on her face.

“Oh my God, I cannot even imagine! I feel so tired and bored already.”

“I don’t mind! I love to dance.”

“Yeah! No, for sure. Totally! Me too!” I insist. I lie. Plain and simple.

We begin to stretch, and I feel my muscles constrict and pull. I extend my legs in an attempt to do the splits, and the floor seems miles away. I look in the mirror and

Miss Stephanie, disguising herself as a pleasant woman, walks around the room and “oohs” and “aahs” at all the other girls.

“Beautiful développe, Sofia.”

“Great extension, Mia!”

“Lovely work, Hayley.”

Until she gets to me. My brows furrow in concentration and my legs tremble. She cringes at the first sight of my sad attempt.

“Honey, try to extend your legs a little farther and reach.”

“I’m trying, Miss Stephanie,” I groan.

“You should probably practice this some more at home, yeah? I mean, look at all the other girls. Discipline is the key to ballet.”

“Yeah! No, for sure. I will totally work on that.”

I lie. Plain and simple.

As a fourth grader, I dread my time at C-Unit Studio throughout the whole day. C-Unit is a small studio tucked into the heart of Bethesda behind Trader Joe’s and Target off Wisconsin Avenue. The studio requires every student to take ballet classes before jazz, and I find myself regretting having my mom sign me up for any classes in the first place.

We step to the barre. Mirrors once again surround me and highlight my every insecurity. Familiar yet unknown classical music plays throughout the room as I look around to match my sporadic movements to the seemingly effortless dancing of the other ten-year-olds.

“Plie, stretch, plie, stretch.” Miss Stephanie’s voice drones on as I grimace in my attempts to be as graceful as the other girls.

“Don’t forget to smile,” she adds.

The other girls smile softly, highlighting their rosy cheeks or dimples. I smile, only highlighting my protruding, metal braces and the wide gap between my two front teeth.

She walks over to me again with a calm yet stern look in her eye.

“Careful, Ava, don’t forget to suck in your stomach.”

“Of course, sorry.” I grimace at myself in the leotard and glare at the hands of the clock, wishing them to move faster.

Earlier today, my mom picked me up to arrive on time for the class that promptly started at 2:30 p.m. Our weekly car ride through Kensington into Bethesda consists of me changing from my teal leggings and sparkly shirt from Justice into scratchy tights and a coral leotard. I attempt to turn my frizzy, tangled ponytail into a perfectly sculpted bun. My arms ache as I try to comb each loose strand and twirl it up neatly. I feel clumps on the back of my head and see various strands resisting the tamed position I force my thick brown hair into.

“How was your day today?” my mom asks as her afternoon of schlepping her children begins.

“Oh, you know, it was good! I just don’t feel great right now .…” I try to make my voice sound shaky to further illustrate the point of my ailments.

“Maybe dance will make you feel better. I brought you a snack!”

“Thanks! I just don’t know if I feel up for the class today. I’m really tired and my stomach hurts.”

She doesn’t buy my act. I add in a cough and hold my stomach to try to win her over.

“Ok, why don’t you go to dance class, and then after, you can rest. If you start to feel really sick, you can call me on your phone during a break. I spend a lot of time and money on these classes for you.”

“Yeah, no, for sure. Dance will certainly make me feel better.”

I lie. Plain and simple.

I feel guilty about trying to get out of something my mom pays so much for. Each year, I dread dance class, but when the recital arrives, I do feel exhilarated performing on stage, even though the choreographers always place me in the last row at the back. And every year, I convince myself that next year will be better. I have yet to prove myself correct.

My mom’s response was not what I wanted. I hoped she would smile at me, turn the car around, and let us stop at Panera on the way home.

I removed my hands from my stomach, which has now begun to actually hurt with nerves. I decided to just suck it up for the next hour and a half, and I watched the buildings pass by us. I became jealous of the people walking to their next destination. They were not on their way to ballet class, so their lives must be significantly better than mine.

Now, during class, the piano’s mellowed melody drones on as we move from the barre to learning a routine. I mistakenly take another look in the mirror, seeing my unfortunate attempt at a bun and my even more unfortunate attempt at extending my leg in an arabesque (which should be French for “unnatural”).

Finally, the hands on the clock reluctantly move from three to four, and from fifty-nine to zero. My breath releases, and I feel my muscles relax. My hands fall at my sides, and my heels touch the floor. My arched back becomes slouched again, and I can hardly contain my excitement.

“All right, girls, it’s time to go. Thank you for all of your hard work today,” Miss Stephanie says as she turns off the music.

I sprint out the door like an animal released from its cage. I rip out my bun and let my imperfect, tangled hair fall onto my shoulders. I change out of my dull leotard into my sparkly, neon outfit, and I feel like myself again.

After the dreadful part of the day, the best part waits for me outside the studio. My dad, still in his clothes from work, holds his briefcase and my favorite pretzel roll from Trader Joe’s. I run up to him, wrap my arms around his waist, and smile, wide gap, metal braces, and all.

“How was your day today, sweetheart?”

“Much better now,” I say. I don’t have to lie this time.

Didden | Bunnies, earthenware

Sturgeon Moon: An Excerpt

Mary Loreto and Ash Srinivas

(Scene: A lake house in Glover, Vermont; CHARACTERS: LOUISE MARLOWE

ELLIS, seventeen, and BRIANNA JODIE ROSAND, MARLOWE’s ex-girlfriend)

(Lights change. It’s now three-thirty in the afternoon.)

MARLOWE: In some way, I guess, I was expecting something like this to happen. It didn’t make sense to me that I was born in between all these major world events, if that makes sense? And, I guess I was waiting for something tragic — or, or life-changing, or, I don’t know, significant to happen to me, too. Tragedy makes people interesting. It gives them something to talk about.

BRIA: But we won’t be able to talk about this. At least not after it’s over.

MARLOWE: Well, we’re talking about it now. It’s hard for me to grasp the “after” concept. I don’t really know how to talk … think … about it.

(beat)

I guess what I’m trying to say is that it felt before that we, like humanity we, was just droning on lazily waiting for some big change. And I was stuck in that time in-between. Just expected to live and die without anything really happening to me, and that would’ve been it.

BRIA: I get that.

MARLOWE: Can I ask you something? I know we just did this, but there’s another

BRIA : Now’s the time.

MARLOWE: Did you love me?

BRIA: Of course I did.

MARLOWE: (after a pause) What did it feel like?

BRIA: To love?

MARLOWE: To love me.

BRIA: It felt like — like. Like this. (BRIA gestures around)

MARLOWE: What do you mean?

BRIA: Like the world was f*@#ing falling around me. Like everything could’ve ended at any moment. And you just had to accept it. There’s nothing to do but to accept it. It did end. But I still loved you.

MARLOWE: I didn’t think you did.

BRIA: I did. And I’m sorry.

MARLOWE: (gently, looking at the sky, then at BRIA) I forgive you.

(pause)

Are you going to ask me the same question? How it felt to love you?

BRIA: No. I think I already know. (It’s four. Lights shift.)

MARLOWE: Holy shit, is that it? Is that it, right there?

BRIA: That’s it. That’s, it’s, it’s so —

MARLOWE: Pretty.

BRIA: (looking at MARLOWE) Beautiful.

MARLOWE: Yeah. They lock eyes.

BRIA rests her head on MARLOWE’s shoulder. The world falls around them.

(FADE TO BLACK)

A Personal Narrative by Callie

Sava

It’sa typical afternoon with muffled music echoing through my house. My dad is upstairs in his studio, one of the biggest rooms in the house. He’s cranked the stereo’s volume knob all the way to the right, so my mom has shut the three doors nearest the studio so the rest of us can hear ourselves think. I’m sitting at the kitchen island doing homework when I notice a particularly vulgar Doja Cat song playing from upstairs. I start toward the studio to tease my dad for his song choice, but by the time I get up the stairs, the song has ended and the stereo is playing the next one in the queue, which, naturally, is Beethoven’s Clarinet Concerto. Dad is seated in front of his desktop computer, which has two separate monitors. The left is lit tered with half a dozen work emails and a PowerPoint for an upcoming trauma surgery conference. But he’s looking at the screen on the right, where he’s pulled up a leather work tutorial on YouTube. A few feet of leather spill out of his lap and onto the floor as he uses surgical stitches to bind together two panels that will become a duffel bag. Next to his chair, a painting is drying. It’s a portrait of my grandma, one to add to the collection of family paintings that starkly contrasts with his portfolio of medical ones. Brains, hands, and a periodic table, all collaged with cut outs from surgical textbooks, decorate much of our house.

“Why don’t you bring those paintings to your office?” I ask.

“People at work can’t know I paint,” he replies. “Sur geons aren’t supposed to have hobbies.”

After gulping down my last bite of cereal, I place my their respective drawers. I retrieve my mom’s multicolor Asics from the mudroom because I refuse to expose my own white tennis shoes to a day of yard work. I’m officially in chore uniform, as is my dad.

Dad’s closet is diverse, allowing him to dress for multiple personas in a single day. My brother and I have assigned each clothing style a personality.

Chore Dad’s t-shirt and shorts are caked in mud, and he’s probably bleeding in at least one spot from a run-in with the power saw. You duck into another room when you hear him coming because he’s about to ask you to weed the pool deck. Work Dad wears a button-up, slacks, and dress shoes. He will shush you and shoo you away because he’s on the phone. Casual Dad is smiling in jeans and a sweater, off to a dinner party. He revels in picking the perfect coat for the occasion, and asks for your approval of his outfit. Cigar Dad sits on the porch in his father’s red and black checkered jacket reserved for these kinds of nights. You peek your head out to say good night and hesitate to walk closer because the coat reeks of tobacco. But you end up sitting down next to him anyway, just when you really should be getting to bed, because Cigar Dad will always draw you in with another profound conversation.

This morning, though, charming Cigar Dad is nowhere to be found as Chore Dad takes center stage. He shows me how to pump the Roundup container to build up the necessary pressure to spray plants a few feet away. I seize my trusty bucket of herbicide and disappear into the backyard while my dad remains at the side of the road. I always prefer working in the backyard because then I don’t have to interact with any neighbors. I want my privacy.

I pump the Roundup, spray the flower beds, carry the container up the deck stairs, fill it with more herbicide and water, lug the fresh mixture down the stairs, and repeat. As the chemical stench surrounds me and the (potentially toxic?) solution splashes against my legs, I couldn’t be more at peace. I find an odd serenity in doing this type of job. The weather is perfect and the neighborhood peaceful. I always dread outdoor chores, but once I get started each weekend, I have the same epiphany: manual labor beats doing homework.

When I finish up in the back, I return to the driveway to quickly spray the front yard. I’ve started on the first section when I notice two neighbors approaching on our side of the road. They’re the parents of a boy in my grade from my old school. This mortifies me. God forbid they tell their son that they saw me doing chores in this embarrassing outfit. I dart into the garage, pretending to be looking for a pair of gloves. But as I watch my dad cheerfully stand up and greet them, I realize I should be proud to be caught working hard on what could be a lazy Sunday morning. I step back into view and wave as they pass our house.

Once they’ve walked further up the road, my dad turns to me.

“There sure are a lot of people out and about this morning,” he declares.

“Like who else?” I ask.

“I talked to Mrs. White from across the street. She asked what company I work for.”

“What do you mean? Like, what hospital you work at?”

“No, like she thought I was a hired gardener.”

“Oh. That’s so awkward.”

“Yeah, for her. I honestly felt bad for her; she was so embarrassed when she realized I’m the guy who’s had her over for dinner and picked her kids up from camp.” Of course, my dad isn’t embarrassed at all. He’s proud to be so industrious. After all, his motto when it comes to landscaping is, “Why would I hire someone to do something I can do myself?”

On that note, I ask him, “So, might you clean up the mess you left in the kitchen?” He chuckles. “Nah, the cleaners will do that tomorrow.”

Thunder shook the house and lightning flashed across the sky. It was my favorite weather to enjoy from a comfortable distance. My mom, brother, and I were snuggled in a corner playing board games when we noticed my dad starting to unlock the back door. “Where are you going?” we asked.

“Outside,” he replied nonchalantly. He opened the door to the back deck and strode towards the long wooden table. In a matter of seconds, he was stretched across the table, laying on his back, gazing up at the ominous sky. I darted to the door.

“What are you doing?” I screamed over the roar of the rain.

“Enjoying nature!” He called back.

“No! You’re gonna get struck by lightning!” I yelled. I didn’t under stand why he was doing something so dangerous. He was a safety freak. My brother and I spent our childhood gaping at our next-door neighbor’s trampoline, which we were never allowed on. At age eight, I had to research the U.S. Department of Transpor tation’s height guidelines for child booster seats to convince my dad I could ride in a car without one. I credit him with my persistent, ingrained fear of ice skating without a helmet. His approach toward safety was rooted in his job. He’d seen too many accidents.

Yet his caution was selective, following a pattern I could never predict. One time at a playdate, my friend’s mom mused at how I spent a solid thirty seconds washing my hands. “Looks like your doctor dad taught you how to wash your hands!” she said. Little did she know my dad encouraged me to wash them for a fraction of that time because “the world is feces, get used to it.” Another bolt of lightning split the sky. “Dad, please! Please come back in!” At this point, I was crying, terrified that my dad was about to die. My anxiety only fueled him, as he relished a chance to make me conquer my fears. After all, this was the guy who had once appeared outside my bedroom bleeding out of his head like a scene from a horror movie and made me treat the wound so I would learn

“I’m fine, I promise!” he shouted. He continued to lie on the table for another minute, sitting up only when he decided he’d gotten his nature fix. He walked over to the door where I waited nervously, and he explained how he could measure the distance of the lightning by counting the seconds between it and the sound of thunder. He reached for my hand and I stepped outside, wiping a tear from my cheek. I didn’t mind getting wet; I loved the rain.

and i follow (clara)

settled in the more delicate branches of the winter-dulled maple tree outside my bedroom window is the pair of us at eleven you are velcro water sandals, even this season royal purple, stiff headbands that would soothe the childhood migraines that you didn’t think i believed in, you are the calluses you’d collect like dimes after lunch, you are raspberry leaf tea from the cabinet over your stove, the smell of honeysuckle syrup, back when we weren’t afraid of bugs and dirt and fertilizer spray and you are the feeling of stumbling behind in snow you are school bus green leather, thin as magazine paper back when we both thought we’d be fashion designers before you decided engineer and i decided something stable we would handpick our futures like grapefruits at the grocery store we shared half a mile down our street to pick between writer or scientist or teacher was the same as choosing green tint or orange or red ripe or rotting on the inside, we couldn’t tell you always seemed to choose right, though, tapping your bit-down nails on the grapefruit’s sturdy skin so i’d follow you slice the fruit open along its width with the big knife and add honey where you instructed tease out sections and watch you pull apart your sticky, juice-stained fingers so that you’d have more freedom to speak with your hands to call us sisters and remain unashamed you are the small promise as i hold the carabiner attached to the bottom cuff of your puffer jacket that you will guide me higher than i’ve ever been splinters and scabs are the ribbons of achievement you fasten to my shirt i feel the safety pin’s fine wire on my chest and the cool wind searching for us underneath the peeling soles of my shoes you pull yourself up and i follow

Mary Loreto

No Monsoon

A Peresonal Narrative by Ash Srinivas

FACT: I like rain.

OPINION: Monsoon is the best season.

FACT: There is no monsoon in Maryland.

OPINION: I wish there was.

The monsoon lasts from June to September — because in Mumbai, instead of winter, there is summer. And instead of spring, there is summer. Instead of autumn, there is summer, and instead of summer, there is monsoon.

about it like perpetual dampness sticking to your back, like you submerged yourself into a day-old, lukewarm bath.

FACT: Pollution clouds monsoon raindrops, making them grey, brown, and somewhat unclean. But to me, they’re clean enough.

FACT: As a kid, I used to play in the monsoon rains.

FACT: I’d kill to do it again. I used to take drama classes at the small rec center near my little kindergarten — but there’s only so much “drama” you can teach a sixyear-old. Instead, we played games: four corners,

And when there is monsoon, there is rain.

The rains in Mumbai disappoint the tourists (not that many tourists land in India desperate to see the world’s most underwhelming metropolis). To the residents of my hometown, the rains were less disappointing and more annoying — think freeze dance, bandaid, and tag.

FACT: The sun tended to set at five. And during the Junes and Julys and Augusts I spent inside the small children’s rec center, it rained.

FACT: The floods rarely get bad in the city. (SECRET: I like it when they do.)

I remember one warm, wet monsoon night when my nanny came to pick me up from my little drama class, rain thundering on the roof like a horse ridden by gravity. Our drama classroom didn’t have windows, so I had no idea how bad it looked or how high the water had risen.

Twenty-one with dark hair, Rosie stood at five foot two with the golden proportions of twenty percent legs, thirty percent eyelashes, and fifty percent vocal capa that pools underneath. It felt like I was standing atop a dock. The flood had reached its peak.

Rosie had one arm loosely on my shoulder, and the other shielding her eyes as she squinted through the rain to find the car. I shrugged her off quickly and made a break down the stairs for the water.

Stomping into the mud, I laughed gleefully. I wanted to play, and play, and play. I readied myself to trudge through the polluted water, wetting my shorts had to be cold.

She stuck her phone in her back pocket and called me forward.

The wooden planks of the little porch creaked under my weight, and through the cracks, I could see the water

OPINION: I definitely like water more than other cancers.

FACT: I don’t actually believe in zodiac signs.

OPINION: People believe the things they want to.

Having been in the body of a stubborn child, anyone can imagine my anger as Rosie yanked me from the water and dangled me in the air like a boneless ragdoll.

FACT: Children are surprisingly durable. She pulled me all the way up and held me above the water. I looked at her questioningly, kicking so my crocs would cause ripples on the surface. Her mouth moved as her wet hair slapped around her face, the rain making it too difficult for me to make out her words. My indignation turned to rage as she carried me over the water instead of allowing me to walk in it. To me, the water was a gift from Lord Krishna, and with the fun he had sent me, I could live in a child’s fantasy and pretend to part the water like gods part the seas.

OPINION: Children are bratty.

FACT: I was a brat.

I screamed and kicked in her hold, her bruising grip not relenting as she half-walked and half-dragged herself to the parking lot where the water had risen to completely submerge the wheels of our car. She wrangled and threw me into the backseat before leaning against the car door to catch her breath.

Why can’t I play? The rain poured harder as I kicked off my soppy sandals.

It’s dirty, Akshu.

FACT: Polluted water carries questionable diseases and a few parasites.

INTERNAL MONOLOGUE: Well, no shit, genius.

QUESTION: What happened to bodily autonomy?

OPINION: You probably shouldn’t have bodily autonomy at age six.

GUESS: If I had autonomy at age six, I probably would have attempted surgery to become a very certain large cat whose name starts with S and ends with imba

TRIVIA: Who likes water?

ANSWER: Big cats.

OPINION: Children are bratty.

FACT: If I had known any good curse words, I would have dropped them on her at that moment. I didn’t curse; however, I used her moment of rest to my advantage and slid from the seat back into the flood like it were a pool, squealing in delight as I dragged my legs around under the water.

FACT: Rosie was not happy.

FACT: I did not care.

OPINION: I would not blame her now if she tried to drown me in that flood.

OPINION: Maybe it’s a good thing she didn’t.

FACT: Now, when it rains and I decide to go spin underneath the falling water, I think back to that moment in the Mumbai floods and wonder when I will get another heart-shaping moment like that. When I will get another moment where the warmness of the rain can soften my soul and mold it into a singular raindrop.

FACT: The rain is clear and cool in Bethesda.

OPINION: It’s not the same.

I love standing soaked under rainfall. I love spinning and laughing while my socks get unsalvageably wet and my jeans become difficult to peel off, leaving my thighs an angry red. I love recalling that moment so, so far back in time, craving that weightless, grounding, content, wet, watery feeling.

FACT: There is no monsoon in Maryland.

OPINION: I wish there was.