Avant Magazine Fall 2010 by Avant

Avant

a literary magazine

Volume 53 Issue 1 Fall 2010

A V A N T

Avant is published biannually by the undergraduate students of Rowan University and exclusively features undergraduate work. Meetings are held every Thursday at 5 p.m. in the Publicatio Suite in room 220 of the Mark M. Chamberlain Student Center. Submissions are reviewed anonymously and voted upon during weekly meetings. To be considered for publication, students should submit their poetry, short stories, creative nonfiction, photography, or scanned artwork to avantzine@gmail.com as an attachment, along with the title of the work and contact information. Avant is printed by Royalty Press in Westville, New Jersey. All material is copyrighted, Avant 2010.

Table of Contents

Writings Elcy- Joseph McGee ........................................................................................... 6 The Drunken King of East Philadelphia- Justin Clark .................................. 7 Playing with Fire- Jaclyn Ix ............................................................................. 8 Banana No No- Kevin Soojian ......................................................................... 9 Les mouches dans mon cerbeau- Alex Grover ............................................. 10 Night Escape- Ben Sillyman ........................................................................... 12 Stubbed Toe- Rebecca Romeo ........................................................................ 13 Anxiety- Antoine Jones ................................................................................... 14 from behind the eyes- Justin Uscenski .......................................................... 15 Paper Galaxies- Matt Riley ............................................................................ 16 Happy Holidays-Markirah Shaw .................................................................. 18 Snapple Real Fact #883: Butterflies Taste with Their Hing Legs- Kevin Soojian .... 19 Grandpa Tommy- Jorie Rao ............................................................................ 20 The Grove- Joseph McGee .............................................................................. 21 The Missing Mechanic- Julianna Lopez ........................................................ 23 Russian Winter- Markirah Shaw ................................................................... 24 Your Thesaurus- Alexandra Voglesong ........................................................ 25 Before I Left- Amanda Abel ............................................................................ 26 A Woven Tale- Dan Attamante ....................................................................... 27 Saturday Morning- Rebecca Romeo ............................................................. 28 Third Trimester- Cara Rothenberg ................................................................ 29 Learning to Love Yourself (The Anatomy of an Ex Girlfriend)- Justin Clark ........... 35 String Theory- Alex Grover ............................................................................ 36 The Breakfast Table- Ryan Brophy ................................................................ 37 Manifest Destiny- Dan Attamante ................................................................ 38 So Far Away- Joseph McGee .......................................................................... 39 Twisted- Markirah Shaw ................................................................................ 41 Toro- Ashley Stott ............................................................................................ 43 The Illegitimate Child- Jessica Winter .......................................................... 44 Remember- Joseph McGee ............................................................................. 46 the victim, the hypochondriac- Stephanie Kohler ...................................... 47 Not Nuts- Kevin Soojian ................................................................................. 49 Saturday Night Special- Casey Otto ............................................................. 50 One More Night- Gabe Arnold ...................................................................... 53 Tadpole- Lauren Wills ..................................................................................... 57 Prime- Lauren Cymerman ............................................................................. 58 Internal Melody- Lauren Rodriguez ............................................................. 59 Troubador- Amanda Abel ............................................................................... 60 Broken- Markirah Shaw .................................................................................. 61 Fall Ball- George Duffield .............................................................................. 63

Table of Contents Writings

Beyond the Autumn Revelries- Frank Martini ............................................ 64 Spanish Fire- Justin Uscenski ......................................................................... 65 The Library- Rebecca Romeo ......................................................................... 66 High Off Drugs- Greg Silber ........................................................................... 70 Out of Sight- Ryan Brophy ............................................................................. 71 As Stiff as Dead Branches- Samuel Fine ....................................................... 72 Tears of the Sun- Frank Martini ..................................................................... 74 Isaac- Ashley Stott ........................................................................................... 73 Real Love- Froebel Amarillas ......................................................................... 75

Table of Contents Art

Love me- Lauren Karstens ............................................. COVER

Submerged Time- Kathleen Duffy .................................................................... 5 Lighthouse 1972- Cameron Baker .................................................................... 8 Paranoia of the Nauseous Sociologist- Lauren Karstens .......................... 10 You can’t teach a good fish to dance- Cameron Baker ................................ 12 Peace and Clarity- Sabrina LoBue ................................................................ 13 Another World- Joanna Drzaszcz .................................................................. 15 Stracciatella Gelato- Kathleen Duffy ........................................................... 19 Identical Rooftops- Kathleen Duffy ............................................................. 20 Paradiso- Kathleen Duffy .............................................................................. 22 Tunnel- Andrew Spehalski ............................................................................. 26 My Frame of Mind- Joanna Drzaszcz ............................................................ 36 Fragility- Dominique Klimek ........................................................................ 38 For Miles- Joanna Drzaszcz ............................................................................ 40 Electric Pinwheel- Amanda Abel .................................................................. 42 Vacancy- Joanna Drzaszcz.............................................................................. 42 Kills- Lauren Karstens .................................................................................... 42 Sink or Skim- Kelsey Lewis ............................................................................ 43 Need- Lauren Karstens .................................................................................... 45 Flowers- Steven Burns .................................................................................... 46 New Hope- Steven Burns ................................................................................ 48 Face- Kevin Soojian ......................................................................................... 49 Battle of Antietam- Andrew Spehalski ........................................................ 52 Quand Je Trouve Le Futur- Lauren Karstens ................................................ 57 A Beach Tree- Samantha Sullivan .................................................................. 58 Solitude Unwanted- Joanna Drzaszcz .......................................................... 60 Abandoned- Natalie Jengo .............................................................................. 62 Snow in May- Joanna Drzaszcz ..................................................................... 63 Light in Epcot’s Morocco- Samantha Sullivan ............................................ 64 that wasnt very polite .................................................................................... 69 Take Heart- Lauren Ward ............................................................................... 74 Untitled Chalk Pastel- Lauren Wederich ..................................................... 76 Kentucky- Joanna Drzaszcz ........................................................................... 77

Elcy

Joseph McGee

I know this woman with vines in her hair and leaf-spewing stars that orbit her pale face. Well, not “know” her, just know of her ... seen her. Seen her stretching up to snatch the sun and moon and smash them into one dark, radiant orb; lips pressed - eyes inward to bathe the world below in lunar rays of moon glow. It’s true. She’s that strong and tall and naked rooted to the tallest mountain. I think her name is Elcy. or maybe her tribe or maybe just the moment when her tendrils of blue hair whipped the four winds across the earth trailing streaks of reddish-orange sea-green and yellow-purple rivers of rain captured on their coffee-cave wall in oils and simple strokes. I know you’ve seen her. This glorious Diva This Aphrodite This Elcy ... with vines in her hair.

The Drunken King of East Philadelphia Justin Clark

You gaze upon your kingdom: your mountains of brick, your rivers of light and metal and the thousands of subjects at your feet. Your stomach is full of exotic foods and fine wine as you think to yourself, “It is good to be king.” Like a tight rope, you walk the castle walls, stone by stone, peering out over your land. This village flows below you and from atop your shaky watchtower you mumble declarations of the future like some kind of marginal prophet. As your court comes to join their king, concerned are the looks on their faces. Your beautiful queen steps through the crowd and calls out to you… “JIMMY! GET THE FUCK OFF THE FIRE ESCAPE, YOU DRUNK BASTARD! YOU’RE GONNA KILL YOURSELF!” …this is no way to talk to a king.

Playing with Fire Jaclyn Ix

A flame ablaze, resolute, burning with assertion. A wax foundation beneath. Then, a magnetic intrusion of a subtle breeze, meandering through a window ajar. The devilish draft smiles, caressing the shrinking glow. A once sure flame sent dancing, falling, frantically shifting; vulnerable, struggling, and defeated. Smoke in only an instant.Â

Banana No No Kevin Soojian

My fingers are bananas Peeling, mushy, and bruised Why I put my hand in that blender I havenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t got a clue.

Les mouches dans mon cerveau Alex Grover

(Ring ring ring) You answer. Hello? it’s Archie pick up the damned phone I already did— not now Moose not now don’t give up on me now I swear I won’t Archie, I swear. damn you got a smoke it’s really hot in here the buzzing the buzzing I ain’t got a smoke, Arch, we’re on the phone. damn the phone need a smoke smoke smoke (Ring ring ring) Hello? who’s there Moose is that you It’s me, Arch— you gotta help me Moose you gotta get them off me off me off off off damn phone damn phone (Ring) You answer. Archie? Moose (Ring ring) Archie— No answer. (Leave a message) Archie, pick up the phone, Archie. Moose I need help the buzzing buzz buzz buzz— What—

Les mouches dans mon cerbeau they’re onto me Moose you gotta let me have your booze and cigs and apartment room I need a place to stay and things to do shades for the windows and black sunglasses Archie, what’s wrong? Moose it’s them (Ring ring ring) Archie— Moose you gotta help me Moose I don’t know what to do, Arch— listen (listen listen) And you hear a gunshot and some buzzing and You hang up.

Night Escape Ben Sillyman

Night, oh tired day. You wake when I asleep. Must we go on like this and never meet?

Stubbed Toe

Rebecca Romeo

Paranoia saunters down the hall, wearing tight jeans and a loose belt, tracing each sweaty footprint in the shag carpet with a stubbed, purple toe.Â

Anxiety

Antione Jones

Twirling skirts in my chest brushing against my ribs as the dancers kick and writhe to the increasing tempo of my heart elbows, knees, feet, and hands dig into my lungs and kidneys while the ballroom boomers bang through my body and up my throat whimpers announce their birth through my lips as dizzying blurs of color that make my eyes quiver and leak the tightening of my throat traps malicious dancers in my thudding chest working to a frenzied pace and the assault continues until I blow them away with calming breaths or pass out from the revelry

from behind the eyes Justin Uscenski

I love those empty moments that hold us open and exposed for just a split second after a long conversation saying everything and nothing and no time has passed when we realize the dinerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s closing. I canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t describe it and neither can you so we donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t both knowing it was something quite special and yet rather ordinary.

Paper Galaxies Matt Riley

As I sit cross legged on the floor I think, “it’s like space.” While the blue light of 5:00 A.M. filters through the window bruising the white walls with color and painting me in alien shades of grey, I sit in my sweat pants and think and sweat. The night outside is fading, the moon is low and the sun will be rising soon; the stars are all wrapped up behind the soft cotton curtain of the coming day, like christmas ornaments, put away waiting for next year. Meanwhile, my room is full of them, the stars. Also suns and moons; the pattern of my blue-white bedsheets my pillow cases – the mural on the wall. They glow in the dark – man made imitations of the real thing. I continue to sit there until dawn: a man shaped grey shadow at the center of a small paper galaxy, swirling white dots of softly reflected light. What does it take to fill the void of space? Hours of work and a broken three hole puncher Hours, not days. Also, the lack of a trash can helps.

Paper Galaxies As the light grows stronger in the early hours, I switch on the fan, still sitting, and the constellations shift and spin tumbling across the dark carpet, smashing into my crossed legs, getting caught in the folds of my oversized champions. I fall asleep on the floor in the full light of day, shifting in my sleep, so that when I come awake, slouched over and on my side, mouth open wide with a small puddle of drool soaking the small line of paper punches, the orion’s belt below my nose – I look rather like a new constellation: the chalk outline of a dead man, set up in the stars. I rise and stumble down the hall towards the bathroom, to shake this distrubing likeness. As I go, I hit the walls heavy with my weight and rebound, drunk, a human comet wobbling through the dim corridor of the unlit hall thinking “I badly need a shave.” As I go, the small bits of paper tumble from me, shaken loose from my clothing. As I go, I leave new paper galaxies in my wake…

Happy Holidays Markirah Shaw

The place at the end of Colby Street looks like a little gingerbread house. Fresh snow sparkles on the rooftop and on the front lawn like vanilla icing. Strings of red and green lights wink at neighbors from the windows and doors, looking like gumdrops begging to be plucked and popped into your mouth. The plastic Frosty and Santa flash their twinkling smiles at weary travelers, their upraised arms beckoning them to follow the driveway lined on both sides with three-foot-tall candy canes up to the wreath hanging on the front door. This is where the Stern family lives. Father Joseph, the priest of the local church, and his good wife Jody, the Sunday school teacher, raise their lovely children here in this house. Their oldest child, Jenna, sings in the church choir and plays her violin at the old folksâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; home. The second child, Jacob, plays quarterback on the Community Christian Youth Team and volunteers at the local food bank. The Sterns have gathered in the living room this Christmas evening. The children sit up straight on the plastic covered couch, Jenna in her long green dress with the high neckline to hide the tattoo she got on her left breast the day before, her legs crossed primly at the ankles, Jacob in a freshly pressed red button down shirt and green tie, his hands folded on his lap to hide the proof of the dirty magazine under his bed. Both their eyes are glazed with boredom. Jody is standing behind her husband who is seated in the big recliner chair at the head of the room, her long delicate hand resting lightly on his shoulder. Her hair, as usual, is pulled back so tight her hairline is receding. A layer of powder covers her left eye and the hand marks around her neck. A small smile quivers on her painted lips. A well-worn Bible is open on Josephâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s lap. His eyes are blazing and his lips are quivering with excitement and the fervor of the Holy Spirit he imagines is coursing through his veins. Josephâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s new suit cracks and pops as he throws his hands up to the sky and shrieks out his love for the Lord.

Snapple Real Fact #883: Butterflies Taste with Their Hind Legs Kevin Soojian

A symmetrical fly lands on my peach tea drink. Its hind legs twitch, and it makes me think. If I could taste the streets while I walk, I could pick up flavors from children’s chalk, Engage in gum glumped all around, Savor scraps of spiced mocha coffee grounds, Take a wallop of weeds that would be chopped, Or flavor the phlegm of a sickened kid’s snot. If I could taste the world with my two feet, The tang of fallen tears would tell me why we weep, The red relish of revenge would be so sweet, And dreams would turn sour as we kick in our sleep. Oh, and it’d be free sample day, every day.

Grandpa Tommy Jorie Rao

Grey hair but he loves riding his bike 20 miles down Central Ave or walking the dog, in those nice white New Balances. He still sits on a curb eating ice cream out of a waffle cone, licking the mess off his wrinkled hands. No napkin needed, that’s why we wear pants, or so he says. He still laughs wildly at SNL skits on Comedy Central. He says comedy was different in my day, but I can dig this stuff too. With his head tilted back slightly and a crooked smile on his aged face I see him, the young boy staring at me from behind my Grandpa Tommy’s eyes. “Did your motha ever call you Sunny, cuz you ain’t too bright?” He asks me this every time I see him; my answer remains the same. “Nope, what about you old man?” He laughs at this exchange, even though it has happened a hundred times before. The skip in his step and the vibrancy in his eyes make me wonder. Will we all have a little kid hiding behind our eyes, When we become old, grey and cranky?

The Grove (a sestina) Joseph McGee

An archaic wall, encrusted in vibrant moss, tumbles down the embankment and into the creek. Age and erosion push each stone into the crawling roots of the arthritic oak. A mushroom breathes deeply of the saturated earth in the hidden forest Grove. By chance I wandered into this Grove and laid my dreaming head upon the bed of moss. I raked my nails through the worm-rich earth and dipped my toes in the tiny whirlpools of the creek. Scattered rays of sun broke the canopy of the oak to settle upon silent, splintered stones. These solemn stones stand proud and vigilant in the primordial Grove. The twisted, gnarled oak, with his beard of verdant fern-moss, listens to the enchantment of the shallow creek cutting an entropic path through the ageless earth. Caked under my nails is that black earth; that rich soil swallowing the stones and cascading into the creek. I shall never leave this Grove, but rather sprawl out upon the bed of moss and listen to the tales whispered by the oak. Eons old and sagacious is this oak, whose roots rend the earth. Upon his wrinkled, knotted bark, crawls moss. He captivates the court of stones

The Grove and commands the Grove sends his wisdom out on floating leaves along the creek. Over rotting logs and unearthed relics runs the creek, feeding the tentacles of the enormous oak. It eats its way into the bank of the Grove. Exposed now, the long buried and slumbering earth embraces blocks of forgotten stone, untouched by man or moss. My muse awaits me on this moss. Ideas, like fish, ply the creek. I will etch these on the smoothest stones and share them with the oak. I must breathe in this earth and the enchantment of the Grove.

The Missing Mechanic Julianna Lopez

It was a lazy summer day. The kind where the dust is too content to move through the stagnate air. Sunlight streamed through the slats of the blinds. The kitten, attune to the lethargic mood, curled up in a patch of sun-soaked floor for an afternoon nap. It was quiet and still outside. It was equally silent inside the house. A young woman leisurely moved about the house with her bare feet padding against the cool hardwood floor, her white linen dress swishing around her legs. She carried the last of the three loads of laundry up to her room. She felt herself relax as she settled into a rhythm: pick, fold, and sort. Pick, fold, and sort. The house was breathing, moving in tandem with her. As she finished the first load and moved on to the second, a clatter of metal suddenly shattered the silence down the hall in the bathroom. The kitten lifted her head, her ears twitched as the noise reached her causing the fur on her back to mohawk. The clanking grew more agitated. The kitten huffed a sigh of annoyance, repositioned herself, and fell back asleep. The young woman rolled her eyes. She grinned down at her companion and smoothed her still ruffled fur. “I’m sorry. He must be having trouble finding the tools he needs. That bathroom is a lot to take on.” She went back to the laundry. Every now and again, more tools would clatter and heavy footsteps would pace the floor. She finished with the laundry and decided to check on his progress. As she neared the bathroom, the clang of metal against metal grew louder as did the thud of his boots against the tile. She leaned against the doorjamb taking in the scene. “How’s it going, Pappy?” There was no answer. There was never an answer. She looked around the empty room with a sad smile. No tools, no mechanic, nothing. Her grandfather never got to complete his task on his last visit, but it was comforting to know he would keep working to finish.

Russian Winter Markirah Shaw

Â A frigid gust of wind knifes the little peasant boy, stealing away his breath as he shelters from the snow that forms a perpetual blanket over the ravaged Motherland. As he cowers he thinks large thoughts for such a tiny creature, he thinks of the hunger clawing at his stomach and wonders if Baby Sister felt the same before her tiny fingers and toes turned blue from the cruel wind that was now eating at him, insatiable, evil wind. He thinks of the distant crack of a smoking rifle and imagines he hears the rush of air of Father falling, falling, dead before he even hits the ground and is immediately covered by winterâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s soft tears. The little boy thinks of the long dark days spent under this fallen roof and of the even longer, darker nights during which he can only close his eyes, but never sleep, no, never sleeping. There are things that kill in the night, monsters with rifles that CRACK in the dark, snatching Motherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s breath just as quickly as the wind. A single tear slides down his freckled cheek and freezes mid journey as the peasant boy thinks there is no God.

Your Thesaurus

Alexandra Voglesong

“Whimsical,” I said, filling in your blank. “Exactly! Good word.” We were on the drive home our hair still wet listening to that album the one we both knew every note of already although we did not learn it together and had not rehearsed we played your car as an instrument. Tapping, strumming, plucking drum interludes, guitar chords, and bass lines on the seats, the wheel, the armrest the ceiling, the dash, the floor. Singing along the words that the wind whipped out the open window and left lingering in the artificially lit streets behind us. We hoisted up our feet as your car bounced over the train tracks both our faces scrunched in a silent, giddy wish. “I always do that! You do it too?” “Not in a long time, but listening to this album makes me feel...”

Before I Left

Amanda Abel

Your forbidden tobacco breath lingered in the tight squeeze of air between us. Your grizzly man-whiskers brushed my cheek as you planted the first little peck. As tempting as it was, I swayed for a while. But in that moment, I understood that I was probably just your rebound. And in that moment, you were unfortunately, just my springboard.

A Woven Tale

Dan Attamante

The room was filled from floor to ceiling with her knit pieces – throw pillows, tapestries, mittens, all done with calculated precision and perfect symmetry. She was there, in the center of the room, amongst the sewn pillows on her armchair, knitting, when she noticed the hair. It was a small hair sitting in her left arm but it was two shades darker than any other hair that had taken root there. She stared at the hair for a moment before she picked up her tweezers and grabbed it between its steel pincers. She tugged at it and the hair grew a few centimeters. She pulled again and the hair grew again. It was now long enough for her to grab between her fingers and tug. As she tugged the hair further and further, she wrapped it around her right index finger and twirled it as it began to flow as if from some unseen reservoir in her arm. “Oh my, this is a very fine silk,” she stated as her finger began to cocoon under the thread. “I’ll be able to make socks for my entire family.” The thread continued to flow. “Now mittens!” The thread continued to grow. “Maybe scarves!” The thread now covered her entire hand. She became ecstatic at the amount of fine thread that was coming out of her arm. “If this isn’t the softest thread I have ever felt, then I don’t know what is; and in such quantity! It makes me feel lightheaded just thinking about it. Why, I’ll be able to make my entire family sweaters and caps for the winna seezin whe tings ge coo so ea doug ge si…” Her voice trailed off as her lips began to change color before disappearing completely. She was already missing both of her legs and the top of her head and now her entire face vanished as the thread continued to unwind down her chest; her right arm continuing to twirl the fine thread from her left. Twirling and twirling her hands were, the silken virus spreading down her two remaining appendages. The elbows became ends, then forearms, then the fingers began to shrink from the other end. The remaining inches of skin quickly disappeared into the smooth, silky vortex sitting on the chair; the finest thread anyone had ever felt.

Saturday Morning Rebecca Romeo

His place smells of a novelty shop. The kind that sells marijuana leaf belt buckles and posters of Bob Marley that glow under black lights− Cheap, quickly manufactured plastic mixed with the dead scent of an incense, long burned out. When I leave in the morning, while he is still sleeping, I smell of his place and I can’t take myself seriously. But before I go, I always wash the dishes— none of them are ever mine. Sometimes there are beer cans mixed in with the ketchup-stained Corelle plates and half empty glasses of soda. I just throw the beer cans in the trash. They don’t recycle here. On the long walk back to campus, past crumpled fast food bags and broken beer bottles, I always avoid looking at other people. My hair is usually tangled around a hair tie at the nape of my neck and sometimes my shirt is inside out. I never turn the light on when I get dressed. I get back to our apartment, after my walk through the sculpture gardens and past the library, and I brush my teeth. Then I carefully nudge you to move over and as I climb into bed you wrap your arm around me, and tell me how great I smell.

Third Trimester Cara Rothenberg

Keith reached across the table to touch my hand, a move he had been planning to make since the waiter brought us our artichoke dip. His hands were soft, leathery even. And so clean. Usually guys with abnormally clean hands send me running for the hills. If you find the need to cleanse your hands that much you must be hiding something. Either you’re a serial killer or collect porcelain dolls or eat road kill. Something. But his hands didn’t bother me. Maybe because it felt nice to have somebody holding my hands, wanting to hold my hands. Unless you count my half brother Jeremy, whose hand I practically broke when acting out what labor would actually be like in my birthing classes. “You really look pretty tonight,” he said as he brushed a strand of hair away from my face. This guy was text book, with the grazing of hand, the compliment that leaves a girl feeling beautiful instead of like a piece of meat, the stroke of the hair. It was cheesy. But I was seven and a half months pregnant, I couldn’t see my own feet, and a decent looking man was telling me that I was pretty. I’d take cheesy. “Nah, you’re just all liquored up. The wine’s effecting your perception of reality,” I said pointing to his half empty glass of Pinot. Normally on a date, I would have been four Coronas inand about an hour away from tossing my bra over a chair back in an apartment that, sooner that I would like to admit, would become a distant memory. He laughed. “Seriously, you look great,” he said as he twirled his spaghetti with his fork. I smiled and checked my reflection in my spoon. My eyeliner had already made its way to the corner of my eyes, forming a sort of substance that can only be described as black gooey gunk. Which of course, was my intention when I spent ten minutes carefully penciling my bottom eyelids. I quickly wiped my eyes with my index finger and checked myself out in the spoon again, in a swift and quick motion that he didn’t seem to notice. Crisis averted. “So, you’ve really never seen The Wizard of Oz? Did you have a childhood?” he asked as went to polish off his last few drops of wine. He was a sly one, this clean handed conversationalist, bring

Third Trimester ing up details from our previous date so that I would go home and tell my friends that he was one of those guys that really listens instead of just nodding along while actually wondering what color my bra is. I laughed and acted unimpressed with his attention to detail. “I don’t know, I tried watching it but those munchkins really freak me out. They’re just so small and so happy. It’s too much,” I said. I was startled by his sudden uproar of laughter, but it was nice. His smile was big and inviting. You could tell he saved his laughs for when he truly found something funny, and the fact that one of them had been reserved for me warmed my insides in the same way that Hallmark commercials and fresh baked cookies do. “I must say, you are quite easy to please,” I told him as I poked around at my salad. “Here you are out on a second date with a convex woman who, and pardon me for being too forward, but who you know you won’t be able to sleep with for at least a few months and yet you seem to be having a perfectly good time. Unless of course, you’re just a magnificent actor in which case, bravo.” I lightly clapped my hands together, waiting to see if he’d be completely repulsed by my candor. Keith tossed his napkin down on his plate and put his hand to his mouth. I waited for him to say that we should probably get the check, or that he thought that even though I was pregnant he was under the impression that oral sex was still on the table, or that he had a thing for screwing very pregnant women. But he just laughed another one of his infectious laughs and reached across the table for my hands again. “You are a real piece of work, Jeanine,” he said stroking his thumb against my palm. “The good kind.” I stopped and wondered if that was a line from an unsuccessful romantic comedy I’d seen. Maybe. It was probably with Drew Barrymore. What isn’t that bitch in? “Thanks, I guess,” I said as I maneuvered a cucumber into my mouth. I studied him as he looked at me, then looked down at his spaghetti, then back up at me. His face was, well, there isn’t really a way to describe his face. It was ordinary. Brown eyes, relatively thick eyebrows, thin lips. His shoulders were broad and his arms

Third Trimester were toned, but that could have been directly proportional to the tightness of his shirt. I wasn’t sure, and I didn’t investigate any further. I knew I was bound to find something I didn’t like. That’s just how it works. “Just so you know,” he started to say, “I hardly notice that you’re ‘convex’ as you so eloquently put it. I knew you were pregnant when Lilly set us up. Didn’t bother me then, doesn’t bother me now.” His voice never wavered, he never stuttered or hesitated, which made it hard for me to think he was lying. “If you say so, chief,” was all I could muster as I pretended to concentrate on equally distributing the juice from the lemon I had squeezed into my water, when actually I’d been wondering why for the past fifteen years of my life had I been drawn to guys whose main goal was seeing if they could get me to drink enough sangria so that I’d allow them to videotape us doing it on the kitchen table when there were actually guys out there who appreciated me, who found my cynicism endearing, who were attracted to the idea of a woman having opinions and a college degree. No, I couldn’t have figured that out sooner. I had to get knocked up in order to see the light. “What are you smiling at?” he asked me. “Do I have something in my teeth? Something on my face?” I hadn’t noticed that I had been creepily smiling at him for an inappropriate amount of time without explanation. “No, no it’s not that,” I assured him. “You’re just a nice guy, that’s all.” He smiled. “That surprise you?” I could see the relief settle in his body, his shoulders seemed to loosen up and his hands were no longer at his face checking to see if any marinara sauce had overstayed its welcome on his chin. “Kind of,” I said, hoping my response wouldn’t offend him. “Well, thank you,” he said. “I appreciate your honesty.” Usually when people say that they don’t mean it. Just like when people say, “I don’t mean any disrespect.” Chances are they do mean disrespect, and by saying that it only makes their “unintended” disrespectfulness more obnoxious. But he meant it. I could just tell. “I’ve got to run to the bathroom,” I told him as I gathered my purse. He rushed to my side of the table to help me up out of my

Third Trimester chair. He held my hand as I wiggled my way out , making sounds that only a constipated old man would make as I got up on my feet. “Does this turn you on?” I asked him jokingly as I flipped back my hair like I was on a shampoo commercial. He laughed again, and I couldn’t help but smile the entire way to the bathroom. There was a line of about four other women waiting to use the bathroom. Figures. Women and their bladders, why is it that the men’s restroom is always a ghost town? I stood waiting, hoping that someone would allow the pregnant lady to cut them in line. No such luck. Selfish btches. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a woman washing her hands at the sink, except she wasn’t really, she was pretending to lather her hands with soap as she stared intently at my stomach. She was a few years older than me, probably around thirty five. She was attractive in a subtle kind of way. Not a lot of make up, slim figure, curly brown hair. Her wardrobe could have used some work. She wore a flower printed dress with a box shaped neckline that made her look flat and matronly. But then again, who was I to talk? I was wearing maternity pants that went up to my boobs. My eyes accidentally met hers. She dried her hands with a paper towel and walked over toward me. “I’m sorry, I’m being so rude! I’m sorry I keep staring at you, you just have that pregnant lady glow!” Great. She was one of those women. You know, the women that think being pregnant is beautiful and magical and record every second of how they’re feeling in their pregnancy journals. “I wouldn’t say it’s a glow, more of a mixture of sweat and inexperience,” I told her as I flashed her a toothy grin. She laughed. “You’re gonna be fine! I just had my third in November. It’s definitely an emotional roller coaster, but it’s so worth it.” Her answers seemed to be recited, like she was being interviewed or something. You could tell she was a good mom though. She had a bracelet that was clearly made by one of her children around her wrist. There was no color scheme and it looked cheap and tacky, but she was clearly passed the phase where she cared about what people thought. I smiled at her again, sensing that this was the part of the conversation where I was supposed to pretend to want to know everything about her children. But I just kept smiling, hoping that the line

Third Trimester would move fast enough for our conversation to end. “Do you know what you’re having?” the woman asked me as she pointed to my stomach. The stupid line didn’t move a fucking inch. “Yes, it’s a boy,” I told her as I lightly patted my stomach. I always saw pregnant women do that, pat their stomachs with a mixed sense of pride and uncertainty. “Oh, that’s so exciting! I’ve got two girls and a boy, Matthew, he’s the oldest. You’re in for a real treat, little boys are so darling. I think the bond between a mother and son is one of the most beautiful things on this Earth. And your husband is going to love having another male around the house to throw the ball around with. So everybody wins!” Normally I would have been angry at this woman’s ignorance, that she automatically assumed that I was married. This was the twenty first century, tons of women had children without the support of a man. But this time I didn’t care. I didn’t even think about it. All I thought about was my future son growing up without a father. I could hear all the questions he’d ask me that I wouldn’t be able to answer, I could see the look on his face when I finally did have the courage to tell him that his father wanted nothing to do with him, nothing to do with us. And then, just for a brief moment, I realized that not all hope was lost. What if things went somewhere with Keith? What if everything worked out, and my son would have a father? He’d have someone to take him to baseball games, someone to call him endearing yet masculine names like “son” and “big guy,” someone to give him his first condoms and explain the dangers of getting a girl pregnant and chlamydia. There was a chance that everything could turn out all right. I looked down at my stomach, and then, as if I were looking into a mystical crystal ball, I saw something else. I saw everything that could go wrong. I saw Keith and I dating for a while, just long enough for my son to get attached to him, and then have him say he’s not ready to be a father, how it isn’t fair that all this pressure is being put on him, how it isn’t even his kid. I saw him taking off in the middle of the night, not even saying goodbye to my son, who is old enough to realize that he’s been abandoned but too young to understand why. And it was right there, in the middle of the women’s restroom in Sorrentino’s Cafe that I swore to myself I couldn’t

Third Trimester do that to my son. I couldn’t take the risk of letting him know what it feels like to be left by someone you love. Sure, he wouldn’t have a father, but he’d always have me. I wouldn’t go anywhere. I’d be the only constant in his life. I’d never let him know what it feels like to be let down. I pushed my way out of the line and through the door of the women’s room, leaving the woman I was in the middle of a conversation with feeling confused and hopefully, a little guilty for making such an assumption. I saw Keith, tapping his fingers on the table, anxiously waiting for me to come back. There was what appeared to be a piece chocolate cake in the middle of the table, topped with a dollop of whipped cream and a marachino cherry. And as much as I wanted to go back to that table and enjoy a dessert and pleasant conversation with a kind and decent man, I couldn’t. There was too much at stake. So I made a quick exit for the door, keeping my eyes on my car in the parking lot and being careful not to be noticed. I made it to my car without Keith seeing me. But before I got in I couldn’t help but glance back into the restaurant. He sat there, still waiting for me, growing more and more weary of the fact that I’d been gone for almost fifteen minutes. He got the attention of a waitress, whispered something in her ear, and the waitress headed for the restroom. She’d go in, call my name a few times, check every stall just to be sure, then return to the table and break the news to Keith. I couldn’t stay for that. So I put my keys in the ignition, swallowed the lump of potential regret in the back of my throat, and drove away.

Learning to Love Yourself Justin Clark

You should love your lips. Were it not for your lips you would most likely choke on the accumulation of irrational thoughts and baseless accusations that would no longer be able to come flying out of your mouth at inopportune moments. You should love your ears. Without your ears you would not have the uncanny ability to hear exactly what you want, regardless of what I actually say. You should love your hands. You’re hands are what make you able to hold so tightly the grudges you’ve kept from past arguments, so astutely reminding me that I was decidedly wrong each and every time. You should love your charming smile. Were it not for that shiteating grin I would have no indication that you and you’re cackling collective of friends have made your way through numerous boxes of wine, thus leaving me completely unprepared for the Hell that proceeds. You should love your knees. Should you be able to keep them together for a long enough period of time you will notice their beautiful symmetry and the adorable way they buckle under the fear of having to grow up and get a job. You should love your body, especially your vagina, because it creates the one opportunity where someone may feel even a vague sense of enthusiasm about filling a void in your miserable life.

String Theory Alex Grover

In a silk womb is the mystery of seven-thousand voices spewing myriad streams of lifeforce, springing into that omega winter storm of worm’s-tongue and grubfrost; we descend into a greater depth to find the silk, silver silk, snowy silk, laden in tribes of glimmering warriors hailing to the world beyond: “We are here—spin the web. Press on, leverage—make the universe.”

The Breakfast Table Ryan Brophy

After brewing his coffee, my father leans over the paper and reads intently with both hands planted on the table. He keeps his bare feet squared on the rug and his lottery ticket lined up with the winning numbers from the night before, slowly gliding a finger down the page to see if any of his picks could save him from putting on his tie and grabbing the travel mug. He says you can’t win them all and kneels to put on the socks and shoes that always trip me, make me stumble, make me splash water from my cup and milk from my cereal bowl. I know I’ll just step over my spill, ignoring what I should clean until it’s too late and time to go, when dad has left, my oats have grown soggy and I’m staring into freckled milk that was once so bright and promising before I ate up all the marshmallows.

Manifest Destiny Dan Attamante

I found a delicate flower on the underside of a tree and admired it’s small creases, it’s centered stigma dark like a black hole to another world a threshold most wouldn’t dare transverse. Well I want to go there, I want to explore, I want to name new territory. I want to claim that ass.

So Far Away

Joseph McGee

It seemed so far away. lurking, looming yet never within reach. It seemed so far away, the day that Jack might leave us. So far away. Until the week he held on (his last stand) for his mother’s desperate flight across country. To home. To him, her dying angel. A week of morphine saturated, sofa sprawling, and surmounting disease. Jaundiced skin and his eyes like lemons. He choked up purple blood clots Scarlet droplets on his pallid chin; a child’s chin that had seen only seven winters. How tiny the world becomes when you cradle a dying boy. Smooth back his hair. Sing the songs he’d heard you sing a million times before.

So Far Away Wipe away his blood and the tears, you try to stifle. Smile, while he dies. So he feels safe. So you don’t crumble or collapse under the grief. It seemed so far away. lurking, looming until it happened, and “so far away” was happening today.

Twisted

Markirah Shaw

He gently strokes her silky skin Rolling hills of alabaster We are all living in sin Her addled brain spins A sob he mistakes as pleasure as he gently strokes her silky skin Glossy succubus on the beach grins Pumping, pumping, harder, faster We are all living in sin. He cuts her up and puts her in a tub of bleach. God the smell after he gently strokes their silky skin! He smiles and invites her in How musical her nervous laughter She doesn’t know we live in sin. He smiles as he thinks again of this thrilling new adventure Now he gently strokes her skin And shows her how he lives in sin.

Toro

Ashley Stott

I remembered a turquoise fan for la corrida de toros but I forgot the heat when the first fated bull came charging fiercely out of the side gate. The spears of the picadores weakened him with jabs and the banderilleros decorated him with colored rods: red and yellow for EspaĂąa, green and white for AndalucĂa. I sat on the wooden bench next to two guapos in suit jackets; neither of them had a drop of sweat on their brazen foreheads. They were posed upon portable cushions sold for five euro each. They shared their gourmet sandwiches and their Rioja wine with me and explained each stage of the fight to my broken Spanish ear. They gave me white crepe paper to wave each time a bull was finished. Six breathing bulls never left the circular ceremony that evening but chants of olĂŠ rose up to hail the stooping sun. Afterward I took a picture of La Plaza de Toros aglow against the faded sky. I ate tapas of fried eggs and chorizos and drank tinto de verano. Still I could not forget how the third bull, after being teased by the matador slowly lowered himself to the ground bowed his head in surrender and waited for the ending strike.

The Illegitimate Child Jessica Winter

She rolls over in her twin size bed, cringing into herself and hugging the covers close to her chest. Abruptly, she forces open her eyes and lets out a breath that she seems to have been holding in the entire night. Her pupils grow smaller as she looks towards her window, sunlight falling into the room and nearly touching the bed. They’re back again, she thinks as she fumbles out of bed and walks towards her full length mirror. The night terrors had been gone for almost two months. Oh, how Tricia had come to love those days-- the days when she didn’t fear her own bed, when the terrors that shook her in the hours of darkness were gone. No more waking up unexpectedly in the middle of the night, her body drenched in cold sweat. No more blood-shot eyes and the fear of going to sleep. But that’s all gone now… again. She is about to pull up her shirt when she hears plates and forks clattering downstairs. Her eyes avert in the direction of the stairs. In a panic, she rushes to the window and pulls aside her hot pink curtains. His red truck is there, parked in the space practically like it owns the place. Junk sits in the truck bed: gasoline, boxes falling apart from the rain, and rope. She squints her crystal blue eyes. “Why did he bring over a bag of his clothes?” she asks out loud, a strain in her voice. Her brother rolls over in his bed, and she covers her mouth out of instinct. She tip-toes across the room and pulls the covers up to his neck, gently tucking the excess under his body. She can hear them laughing it up downstairs. She can picture her mother sitting at the kitchen table, cigarette in hand with her head thrown back in laughter, her blonde waves spilling over her shoulders. And Ray, with his fist on the table, eyes glued to her mother, coughing short grunts of laughter. She walks back over to the mirror and looks at herself, at her lifeless eyes and poufy hair. Her eyes travel downward, running across her swollen chest and continuing to her belly button, poking out ever so subtly. Her eyes linger on her belly. Then, she lifts her white tanktop up so it sits just under her bust line and turns to the side. There, on her ribs, is that yellowish-brown bruise. She touches it with her finger and winces at the pain, but it’s not as bad as last week.

The Illegitimate Child “Tricia!” her mother yells, appearing in the doorjamb. “Pull your shirt down; you’re too fat now to show off your stomach.” She yanks at her shirt in disbelief and crosses her arms over her belly defensively. “Why don’t you go out with Mikey? My boyfriend and I would like some alone time.” With that, she grabs Ray’s hand and leads him towards the bedroom. “Don’t be back too late,” Ray adds, his eyebrow cocked. “Maybe we can watch a movie together when you get back.”

Remember

Joseph McGee

Old Korean woman, You are memories of a time when I walked in a distant world which flashes by in a fleeting, sensory stimulation like mental dragonflies carrying the past on their backs; cradled between tissue paper wings. Unexpected, unprovoked, unforeseen You arrive to wax reminiscent and wane with twilight eyes. A song, a scent, a smile on an ancient face A million lines crease the surface of sun-baked skin; old leather, and a toothless smile that ends in the fathoms of the two black marbles from which you watch the world, and the dragonflies that connect our paths if even for a moment.

the victim, the hypochondriac Stephanie Kohler

i’m swimming, i’m standing, i’m treading water everywhere. i wait under jersey streetlights, as they flicker. i walk away, and they burn brightly, confident in their functions. we triumph together. this is normal. the cursor point blinking at me is normal, as it waits for me to [insert here] some words. no, not today. not today, i say. in a time i only know in dreams, i ran on summer nights under jersey streetlights, and they only flickered when i strode beneath their souls. never did i think this to be normal. in routines i can’t repeat, i wrote poems in the shower. morning verses splashed with clean water, verses i wrote on steamy mirrors that would return the next and the next for my personal pleasure, as signals of bliss and full everydays.

the victim, the hypochondriac i don’t remember what i said the night before, i don’t remember the arms in which i sleep, but i swim, i stand, i tread water as any person would or could. i’m normal, i say to you today. i thought it normal, until i felt myself drowning without water. i once thought it normal that nothing asked of me to breathe.

Not Nuts

Kevin Soojian

They say I’m a nut collecting squirrels for the winter and I say they are right as I scale giant splinters searching for those bushy tailed beasts so small and so alive they’ll certainly help me stay warm and survive. You see I intend to wear them Like a comfy coat Or a soft scarf Caressing my throat. I had to have a few cause I can’t afford the mink this was no act of insanity it was only instinct.

Saturday Night Special Casey Otto

Ethan and I used to take Rorschach tests just to fuck with the psychiatrists. “What do you see?” asked Dr. Cirello, green eyes blazing behind her glasses. She held up the first card and for a moment I was distracted by the chunky rings on her slender fingers. “Adel?” “Right,” I said, clearing my head and peering into the inkblot. “What do you see?” she repeated. What I saw was a bat but what I said was— “A skull.” Dr. Cirello jotted something down in her notebook with a red pen. “What kind of skull?” “Cattle,” I answered. “Like the kind you’d see as some redneck’s mantelpiece.” She continued to write, nodding along with my words. Shuffling through her briefcase she retrieved another small card and slid it across the table. “And this one?” An elephant. “A scythe,” I breathed, pointing to the sickle of ink my brain identified as tusks. The doctor’s blonde head bobbed away as she scribbled. Finally, the last card, this one plagued by crimson blotches as well as black. Easy. “A murder,” I whispered, desperate to sound disturbed by my own answers. And then, stifling a laugh, “What does it mean, Doctor?” I drowned the desire to smile, knowing that Ethan was in the opposite room doing the same thing. Eyes glued to her papers she said, “We’ll discuss that at our next meeting, Adel. Thursday at five?” I nodded, knowing I’d probably never see this woman again as long as I lived. Ethan was sitting in the waiting room reading a magazine upside down, the receptionist watching him with growing curiosity. She clutched at a silver cross around her neck. Ethan grinned hugely as I walked out, the white teeth nearly splitting his head in half, and threw his arm around my shoulders as we trudged into the streets, bristling as a cold wind threatened to rip through our clothes.

Saturday Night Special “So,” I said, tossing a few dollars in change to a bum warming himself on an air vent, “what did you see?” (“May fortune smile upon your souls,” the old man called after us.) “I started off easy,” he said, pulling at a lock of brown hair. “First I saw a dragon. After that, 9/11.” “And the one with the red spots?” He laughed, music spilling from his lips. “Losing my virginity.” I laughed with him, sidestepping a few cracks in the sidewalk. We walked shoulder to shoulder, slow despite the cold, Ethan’s natural warmth radiating like a space heater in the dead of winter. Save for us, the streets were empty. Snow clung to naked trees in the dying light, the white powder disturbed only by the lithe little feet of hungry cardinals. There was something I loved about Ethan. Something about his creative answers and the fact that he’d come all the way to the bad part of town with me just so we could get a few giggles teasing the psychiatrist that was sometimes known to accept drugs instead of cash for her services. We weren’t dating, and we weren’t lovers, but in a way Ethan loved me too. I just never knew it until he died that night. We rounded the corner and smacked into the barrel of a six shooter. “Don’t either of you move,” said the man holding it, his voice liquid smooth, like he’d done this a hundred times before. Our assailant was dressed in black, his face obscured by a werewolf Halloween mask, and he slipped from the neighboring alley like a shadow. I trembled, feeling the hungry revolver’s muzzle rock back and forth between Ethan and myself. Ethan was calm; his expression unreadable, blue eyes like slabs of ice gleaming from his face. “Are you going to kill us?” He asked, still cool. I had to bite my lip to keep from crying. The gun swung to and fro like a deadly pendulum and the muffled mirth that escaped from the werewolf’s snarling maw told me that he was. Sweat pooled in my extremities. “Only one of you,” growled the wolf-man, the hard on in his pants bulging at the zipper. “Tell me—who will it be?”

Saturday Night Special Ethan never hesitated. “Get out of here, Adel.” I dropped my frozen stance to protest, briefly forgetting the gleaming revolver until its silver muzzle made contact with my temple. Whimpering in pain, beads of blood welling around my hairline, I backed away and watched as our attacker placed the barrel of the gun against Ethan’s white forehead. “Get along now, girlie,” he rumbled. “You don’t want to see this.” Ethan’s eyes sought mine in the darkness. “You’ll be okay, Adel.” “No, I won’t.” Tears stung my eyes. “Ethan, please.” The gun turned its gaping mouth towards me and I yelped, fleeing the alley and abandoning Ethan forever. But before I sprinted down the streets, waving my arms and screaming until my throat would take no more, I heard the wolf-man ask Ethan a question. “What do you see?” And from my mind’s eye I watched Ethan’s face split in that ear to ear smile, gaze glued to the weapon on his forehead, and he said, “An empty cylinder.” From the alley, a gunshot roared.

One More Night Gabe Arnold

It’s 11:37. The intro stops and Jay Leno comes out on stage, shaking hands with the audience. He ignores the fat guy on his left and goes straight for the curvy blond. It’s 11:38. My cell phone is ringing. It’s 11:39. Jay Leno starts his monologue and I pick up the phone on the sixth ring: a blocked number. Probably some kid making prank calls. I answer anyway. “Zach? You there?” It’s Jenna. I stop breathing and Leno flounders for a recovery. “Zach, it’s you right? C’mon, say something.” I swallow spit, take a breath. “I’m here Jen.” I hear a heavy hiss of static and place it as a low heavy sigh on her end. I feel cold sweat on my forehead. She cuts in. “Wow, can’t believe I actually found you.” Leno adjusts his tie and pretends to care. “Me neither.” I didn’t want her to. “Um…so aren’t you gonna ask why I called?” “After two years?”

One More Night Two years speaking, three in person. My voice is a viper. She hesitates. “...Yeah.” The line goes quiet. Leno strikes it big with a president Bush joke. If I hang up she’ll just call again. I rub my bloodshot eyes and glance at the snow coming down outside. She won’t talk till I do. “Fine, I’ll bite. Why’d you call?” “I left Harry. We’re getting divorced.” Jay rides the laughs of the joke right into a killer about Republicans. I roll my eyes and rest my shoulders against the headboard. How many times has she done this now? “Did you hear me Zach?” “Yeah, I did. And honestly Jen, I don’t have time for this. I’ve got a flight to LA in the morning and-” “I walked out two days ago. I don’t think there’s any hope this time.” I pull the phone away and groan. As if I’m not even there, same as before. I should hang up. I should go to sleep. I was never smart enough for that. “Great, wonderful. Why call me then? I thought you wanted it this way.” Why does my heart hurt? Silence on the line but I know she’s there, probably biting her nails. She didn’t think she’d get this far. “I don’t know. I just...I guess I needed somebody who already knew me.”

One More Night It’s 11:45. Jay’s finishing up his opening. It was kind of short tonight. I slide my feet off the edge of the bed and lean on my knees, running clammy fingers through my hair. My flight leaves in ten hours. I can humor her long enough to shut her up and still get decent sleep. I swallow more spit. “All right Kid, all right. What do you want to talk about?” “Actually, I was hoping we could meet in person.” It’s a line drive down the left field line. My hand stops on the back of my neck. What the hell is she talking about? She’s all the way across the River. “Meet you, what? Jen it’s nearly midnight and you’re in Jersey, how are we going to meet?” “I’m in your hotel.” My pupils explode. Suddenly the TV sounds tiny, far away. I stand up and pace the length of the room, ending up in front of the vanity mirror. I can see my knuckles in the reflection, snow white and bloodless. This isn’t making sense. “My hotel? You’re here, in this hotel?” “Actually…” There’s a soft knock at the door. My chest is stuck in a vice; I know what’s coming next. “I’m outside your room. Can I come in?” ----------------------------------------------

One More Night It’s 7:22 and her gentle breath is warm on my chest. Black curls waterfall down my arm and her soft sighs tell me she’s fast asleep. I lie awake, watching the ceiling fan make tight circles in the air. Lines of dirty gold pierce the crack in the blinds, lighting up her pale skin. She’s beautiful. My flight leaves at 10:00. If I leave now I can still make it through security on time. If I stay I might spend the rest of my life with her. It’s 10:27 and my flight is taxiing to the runway. This time it was easy to leave, especially when my bags were packed by the door. She was asleep when I left; she was always a heavy sleeper. Probably awake now, if the cleaning ladies didn’t get there first. Wondering where I am. She’ll realize it in the next minute. She might cry but I doubt it, because she’s a lot like me. And I didn’t cry when she did it to me. The stewardesses pantomime putting oxygen masks on and the pilot warns the passengers to turn off their electronic devices. I reach into my pants pocket and pull out my cell phone. I reach into my coat pocket and bring out Jenna’s phone. Resting both on either knee, I open up the contact lists and highlight her name on mine and my name on hers. With a press of a button, I erase us both from each others’ lives. I rest my head against the glass, watching the snow die and fade. I’ll mail the phone back to her. Eventually.

Tadpole

Lauren Willis

Now you would be one. Now you would be five. Now you are only numbers and earth, little red tadpole, your spine still soft. You were a slippery sort of thing, a midnight swimmer in a warm ocean. But then you changed your mind. You swallowed yourself whole. Planned, named, loved. Oh, tenuous little tadpole. Flat stomach. Fetal position in the bathroom. Bloody fingers. Dark circles under her eyes. Thereâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s no Hallmark card for this. I found out two weeks later. You let us go. Mom retrieved the spade from the dusty cavern of the garage, and silently returned you to the womb of the earth, little gills drinking in the dirt.

Prime

Lauren Cymerman

Tapping the brush on the edge of the jar, Playfully nearing the white Of the canvas, she listens to distant guitar, As it echoes and softens her plight. Humming, she cushions the blow of her world, Gingerly calming her heart As she splatters the colors, in figures and swirls, She is salvaged from falling apart. Medleys of meter and rhythm and rhyme, Balance her haphazard strokes As the paint comes alive, she awakens in time To recover the woman he broke.

Internal Melody Author

Covertly I covet thee Disguising my dignity Oblige thy audacity within me Betrayal bygone Auspiciously austere to the eye of a passerby A veil don upon my pining eyes Wistful woe is me, Thou rid me of my misery Encompassing a longing lust Closeted by the arousal of forbidden unjust Seeking thrill in surreptitious lechery Intoxication result of elation laid upon thee Allowing our hunger to pine at the mercy of a revolving axis of the hands fastened upon another’s watch An existence neither of thy hath heed. Panting moans deafen undertones of conspicuous asides Lurking gatherers of the night Two figures descried A courtesan subjected to the enticement of the night Only to awake in the melancholy dawn Solitarily a stalker of sins forlorned. Of only one true beauty time will tell Welcoming of thee beloveds spell Falling victim of poisonous defeat Forbearance may I plight thee my loyalty. Give in to thee As if you would rather lend your soul to burn in eternity Vein in spite of thou heart’s delight Divulge your sins Repent thy path adorned by inamorato’s days of yore Par amour thou beseech in me. Vanished vastly in front of me Yet blinding me of memory A reprised remedy, thy owns internal melody.

Troubadour

Amanda Abel

lost something important but heâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll just pick up something else along the way

Broken

Markirah Shaw

He climbed up to the highest rung of the old wooden ladder, the roll of duct tape sticking out of his back pocket flashing in the sun. Last night’s thunderstorm had pummeled the rickety little house and it was a miracle that it was still standing, but he was too mad to consider this. Not only did he have to do housework on his day off, but he had to face his fear of heights to do what his wife could be doing. But she had refused to go up, claiming that he had sprained her ankle when he pushed her down the stairs this morning. He had screamed at her, she was faking, he hadn’t pushed her down that many steps, just the last four or five. But she insisted that she couldn’t go up. Her stubborn refusal shocked him, it was completely against her nature but he quickly regained his composure and slapped her hard across the face. Her lip had burst open and spilled forth what was now drying on his white knuckles. She watched him tear pieces of tape off with his yellow teeth and thought about how he had changed. Before, he had seemed to live for what she wanted and needed. He bought her flowers and candies and got on well with her family and friends. But on their wedding night, he had thrown her into the back of a car and drove to this old cabin in the woods. She remembered how his fingers dug into her skin as he pulled her out of the car, flipped her over his broad shoulder and carried her up to the bedroom where he tied her to the bed with barbed wire. She remembered how he had chased her mother away with a shotgun when she had come to visit her new son-in-law. She thought about him coming home from work smelling of cigarettes and alcohol and bellowing for a meal that was never good enough to him. She thought of all the years stained with her spilled blood. And she thought of how old this wooden ladder was and how very high up he was standing on it. They were in the middle of the woods where no one could hear him scream as she let go of the ladder, stepped back, and watched him fall in slow motion towards the earth. She imagined him reaching out to her, his eyes begging her to save him from a painful death. Because he wouldn’t die on impact, the ground was too soft from last night’s sorm. He would

Broken break just like the old wooden ladder would break and she would watch him twitch and bleed before finally accepting his fiery eternity. Her heart skittered as he slapped the final piece of tape on the gutter and stuck the roll back into his pocket. It was now or never.

Fall Ball

George Duffield

Fall shouts cheers, night lights replace setting sun. Opposing colors: green lost and red won. Brown pigskin falls with leaves.

Beyond the Autumnal Reveries Frank Martini

Fading away in the arms of a desolate wind, I find myself lost within the deep autumnal reveries. Under the spell of the quiet, decaying woods; A trance, illuminated by gloomy sun. My heart silently mourns this life, these thoughts; Absorbed in wonder of the dying colors. The lonesome sun spills warmth among the leaves, Burning visions through the pensive afternoon haze. Summer was once here I am now alone to dream my life away. A storm breeds in the distant hills; The cold winters stir just over the horizon...

Spanish Fire

Justin Uscenski

The flames dance across wood; they enchant with wide hips that reach to slender feet, animating the air in a frenzied flamenco. They come to a still – gasping lungs echo, each breath a short prayer to the reverent walls, wooden gods that tell tales of passion and fury. Inhale, eyes lock and again the pace quickens hearts race and hands fly the guitar raps romantic lights flickering in the eyes of each soul entranced by the burning. Shoes ratatat as the castanets click; tears and sweat mix but do not last long in the heat. The tempo increases flames leap and arms twirl it stops and the moment is ash.

The Library

Rebecca Romeo

The past few days have been rather cold; but today it was unseasonably warm and they hadn’t turned off the heat in the library. I sat in one of the oversized, brisbone-patterned arm chairs near the windows. A pair of dragonflies flew past me, just outside the glass. They glided and twirled around one another, never parting. I looked back down at my book and forgot about the dragonflies. In the distance, heels clicked and clacked on the linoleum floor. The sound grew louder with each step. I tore my eyes from the book now lying limp in my lap and saw a young woman waiting cross-armed at the circulation desk. She wore a short, vermillioncolored dress with gray tights stretching up her long legs. I gazed at her a while, tracing the waves of long, auburn tresses down her back. I loved her. Impatiently, she rang the desk bell with a smooth tap of her hand. When no one responded, she rang the bell again. “Excuse me?” A librarian wearing too much makeup and a pair of reading glasses around her neck appeared at the counter. “Can I help you?” “Yes, I was just wondering where I can find Lolita? I think it’s by something Nabokov?” The girl twirled and twisted locks of her hair in and out of her fingers while stumbling over each syllable of the Russian writer’s name, mispronouncing it terribly. I was sure she could hear my thumping heart that seemed to echo through the vacant halls of the library. I loved her most in that moment. Lying on my lap was Lolita, almost completed. I quickly covered the book with my navy pea coat and looked back out the window, seeing only blank space. I drew in deep, slow breaths and felt the wool of my pea coat dampen between my fists. The librarian typed away at the computer on the desk. “It should be on the third floor; I’ll write down the call number for you.” She took a piece of small, white paper from a plastic holder next to the computer. “Thanks so much,” the young woman said and took the paper from the librarian.

The Library

“Oh, you’re welcome.” The librarian left us. The woman walked past me, towards the elevator. I panicked. When she turned the corner, I stood and gathered my books and pencils, clumsily dropping a few dimes and a paper clip, and quickly followed her. I peeked around the corner and saw her leaning against the wall next to the elevator, her eyes scanning a flyer on the opposing wall. I took a step closer, carefully calculating what to say; to start with the generic, yet neutral, hello? Or something more clever, perhaps a comment on the flyer she was studying so diligently? Or maybe compliment her? Tell her I loved her? I contemplated each option, finally settling on commenting on the absurdity of the auctioning off of fraternity brothers to females to raise money for sickle-cell anemia, as detailed on the flyer. Just as I was turning the corner, the elevator arrived and she stepped on, the doors closing behind her. I groaned and instead, headed towards the stairs, rushing to make sure I got to the third floor before she did. The stairwell was silent other than the thump of my foot on each step. The stairs went on for miles and when I finally reached the third floor, I was out of breath and light-headed. The bookshelves were just feet away when the elevator made a bing sound and the doors opened. Her eyes met mine and I held my breath. She looked through me with shocking, hazel eyes and went towards the bookshelves. A smell of sweet vanilla filled my nostrils as she walked by and I nearly lost my balance. I continued to follow her, while reading the labels on the shelves, even though I knew right where the book should be. The woman turned down an aisle. I turned just a few rowas away from her and watched her through the books. First, she stood on her toes, trying to read the call numbers of each book. She was looking on the wrong shelf and didn’t notice for a few minutes. She continued down the shelf until she had to kneel on the maroon carpet to read the numbers. When she finally got to the place where Lolita should be, I heard her sigh and saw her look at the top shelf of the proceeding bookcase. Again, she sighed beautifully and I felt wretched. She turned around and studied the call numbers of the opposing shelf. I studied the shelf in front of me. A Study of T.S. Eliot’s The Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock and Other Poems sat beside olive and burgundy colored, leather bound books with no titles on their bindings. I looked back up in the direction

The Library of the woman and she was no longer there. I felt a sense of alarm travel through my body and I frantically looked around. I froze. She was standing right next to me. How could I not have heard her coming? I silently cursed the carpet beneath our feet and tried with all I had to calm myself. I didn’t risk looking at her, and stepped back. She passed in front of me and I got another whiff of her enamoring scent. I needed to be with her. I continued to eye the shelf in front of me, as if searching for the most important book in the world. Her back to me, she walked down the aisle and turned, stopping only once in the section titled “Shakespeare” and smiled at the books before her. How great would it be to have her beam with such admiration and longing for me? She gracefully fingered the books and continued away from me. I lost sight of her and sighed. Walking down each aisle, I searched for her through the bookshelves. Each time I turned a corner, I held my breath. I heard the elevator bing in the distance. Hastily, I walked towards it, praying she would still be there. I reached the elevator to see the metal doors close between the beautiful girl and I. Reflecting back at me was a rosy-cheeked fool, who looked as though he had not shaven in days, though I had shaved this morning. My eyes were tired with desperation and I looked pathetic. I pushed the button for the elevator and the doors opened automatically. The woman was standing there. “Hello,” she said. The world shifted beneath our feet. She smiled and apple-like cheekbones formed on her freckled face and she was beautiful. I swallowed deeply and the door started to close. She reached for the button and held the door for me. I tried to take a step but my feet were stuck to the ground. The smile disappeared from her face and she looked perplexed. How could she not realize I didn’t deserve to look at her with such an aching in my chest let alone share a four by seven space with her? “Are you getting on?” She asked with an inquisitive look upon her face. “Uh, uh,” I was a stammering fool, “um, yes.” “Alright then.” She continued to hold the door and I finally stepped in. The doors closed behind me and we were alone. She stared at the

The Library small metal buttons next to the floor numbers and then glanced back at me. “What floor do you need?” She asked, still looking puzzled. In a panic, I bellowed, “um, fourth, please.” We stood alone in the elevator and I tried to keep calm. I wanted so badly to scream out to her that I loved her and wanted to spend forever with her. Would she understand? My careful composure was deteriorating and I could feel her wishing the time to pass. I stared at the tiles beneath our feet and I shuddered with each bizarre thought; do I dare tell her? Do I dare? I looked at her reflection. She was looking down at her boots, My chance to speak to her was slipping away as the elevator descended. I had to speak. This could not be our ending. The elevator stopped and she left me.

High Off Drugs Greg Silber

I didn’t take my Concertatm today. I have Attention Deficit Disorder. I didn’t take my Fluoexetinetm (a generic form of Prozactm) either. I have DEPRESSION But right now I don’t feel depressed, I’m just high off drugs. I have insatiable hunger. I’m lethargic. My head aches, I’m nauseous, And everything is fucking hilarious, Such as the word “poop”, For example. Don’t ask me why, I’m just high off drugs. My mouth is dry I’m thirsty, But it’s not worth the effort To get up and put the ice in and refill the ice try and clean up the water I’ll spill from the sink off the floor and refill the pitcher with more water and then later I’ll have to go to the bathroom which will just mean getting up again… I haven’t done anything productive all day, Nor have I made any plans— Not even of killing myself.

Out of Sight

Ryan Brophy

If it weren’t for the neighbors, I wouldn’t have gone for this lap. On their porch, they stare and watch and wait and frown at my impressive sweat with their eyes squinted and their cigarettes held motionless over rocking chair ash trays. I pretend I know what I’m doing and send each foot to the pavement with concentrated effort. Intensely focused on the trees ahead, each shot my arms take is a nod my head follows and I force out prolonged air to make sure I still have it in me. After a few more paces, it’s safe to let my shoulders descend and drop whatever acts of professionalism I had performed. The grass looks warm and I’m close enough to meet it, close enough that I trust my hunched shape is something that will stay a secret between us. But I don’t dwell for long. Because to stop is to admit defeat and to turn around walking is to prove the neighbors right. So I ease back on my heels and recover my jog, casting sight on the distance and shuffling my feet to familiar, escaping sounds of the block’s first half mile.

As Stiff as Dead Branches Samuel Fine

As stiff as dead branches, all wrapped up in my arms. Return the one to me who I once held so close. Bite your neck so that you, melting just like ice cubes, flow right all over me. Holding each other’s breath up on each different bed made from the simple thoughts that we used to choose from, those days so long ago we knew the ways to tell right was right when it’s wrong. You led me around to the side of the house, “That’s where she, wild, sleeps,” I heard, “Don’t you forget it. You’ll need this someday.” Now I am standing here, this close to those fingers so soft that they shock me each time that they reach out and grope into my soul. So now let me share with you each of my own small secrets. Stay here right next to me, cut your tongue loose on me, show me the beauty in what pain has done for you. Now reward me with eyes such a crystalline blue, a laugh so nervous I hear each chord in your soul.

Isaac

Ashley Stott

You wore those familiar white-rimmed sunglasses as we walked toward the church to practice our duet for the wedding. Before I thought that those sunglasses did not suit your face but now I do not notice them as much. What I really used to notice was your crooked and uneven teeth, but today when you smiled it made me smile too. We sat down to practice on the corner of the platform behind the pulpit and you began to tune your cello. There was something especially compelling about it as you warmed up with a few measures from Vivaldiâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Spring. I could have fallen asleep to the sound of the bow as you wielded it back and forth across the taut strings with your well-practiced fingers. When I started to play the piano, my fingers fumbled over a few notes, but you did not seem to notice. You joined in with me a measure later. We played music together; we created something beautiful together. I held broad inverted chords while you graced triplets with a steady count. After we finished our concerto, you brushed the back of your right hand across your forehead, still holding the bow, and I saw you in a new light of handsome. As the dust floated in the sunshine that streamed through the sanctuary windows, I knew that something warm was trickling forth in me. It made me smile. When we finished practicing, you set your cello on a stand in the corner, and we walked back up the aisle together. I talked up to you about the wedding and you smiled down in confirmed excitement. We said an eye-squinting goodbye on the sidewalk in the sunlight. As I pulled out of the parking lot in my car, I saw you through my rearview mirror on your motorcycle with your black helmet strongly contrasted by your white sunglasses, so unlike my feelings. You followed behind me until I turned left and I watched you powerfully sway down the road. I think you are growing on me.

Tears of the Sun Frank Martini

Wheels of bronze turn upon endless fields, Complimenting the surface; unrisen in time. A work of human tragedy. The laborer’s vision Damaged, broken, imperfect. Lost from intent, fashioned from bones As sun drips down upon dreary days. A stain upon a distant memory; Forever reminiscing of summer’s end. Gears lay upon earth, Earth melts upon gears. Reason disintegrates to nothing Under sun’s dreadful tears.

Real Love

Froebel Amarillas

I. She sweats me in her embrace—a sweater tight-zipped in summer on a clear day (too dim so she lights a flashlight to chase shadows). Her face puppy-dogs and I agree with her on something I don’t care about (but I “ok” with a perfunctory pet name for same-page emphasis). During we-time in the park I shuffle for her pleasure (I teddy bear, I unicorn, I rainbow and I butterfly), an emotional contortionist or maybe a Tetris piece phantoming the bottom line (it vanishes with pride). II. Alcohol wipe to a paper cut. III. She apples from my fingertips, Overripe; I human in a hanging noose, I kitty on the sill. She oceans my cheek with kisses, A froth of seaweed rot; I cockroach in the deluge, I puppy in the sun. She enamels me with love. I fingernail my teeth. I assassin to her window, I monoxide through the air vent, I shadow in the corner, I statue at the bed.

Real Love She offers a kiss and I nip her bottom lip and I sneer as blood capillaries down her chin. D. We elbow in the street and meet eyes, Anonymous in the flickering light.

Editorial Staff Cara Rothenberg ......................................... Editor in Chief Ryan Brophy .................................................. Senior Editor Rebecca Romeo .................................................... Secretary Lauren Wainwright ..................................... Layout Editor Tom Richards ....................................................... Treasurer Ronald Block ............................................. Faculty Adviser Caitlin Conroy ................................... SGA Representative

General Staff

Alex Grover, Alexandra Voglesong, Amanda Abel, Andrew Rosenfeld, Antoine Jones, Ashley Stott, Caitlin Nascher, Dan Attamante, Dan Croop, Frank Martini, Gabrielle Ostapovich, Greg Silber, Jayne Dzuback, Jorie Rao, Justin Clark, Justin Uscenski, Kat Masterson, Kevin Soojian, Lauren Ward, Lauren Wills, Matt Riley, Sam Fine

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