Echoes Fall 2010

( )

echoes

( )

echoes

Winter 2010-2011

Staff Editors-­‐in-­‐Chief Caroline

Blehart

&

Kari

Putterman

Layout

Editor

Head

Copy

Editor

Assistant

Layout

Editors

Copy

Editors

Kate

Welsh

Phoebe

Brosnan Lauren

Harvey

Elizabeth

Keene

Elizabeth

Keene

Abigail

Arnold Cecille

de

Laurentis Carly

Silver Tara

Sonin Angela

Wang

Managing

Editor

Publicity

Directors

Treasurer

Abigail

Arnold

Rachel

Howard Tara

Sonin

Sponsored

in

part

by

the

Arts

Initiative

at

Columbia

University.

This

funding

is

made

possible

through

a

generous

gift

from

the

Gatsby

Charitable

Foundation.

Echoes

is

a

general

literary

magazine

that

fosters

the

free

expression

of

the

Barnard

College

and

Columbia

University

communities

through

poetry,

prose

and

artwork.

Table of Contents Writing Anne

Brink,

Brighton

Beach Joanna

Barnett,

I

Am

Never

Jealous Nicollette

Barsamian,

Glose

on

Lorca’s

“Dawn” Tara

Sonin,

Towards

Thee

I

Roll Abigail

Arnold,

Nights

at

Kilroy’s Joyce

Ng,

Brutal

Little

Text Andrew

Hamilton,

Akrasia

Forest Chelsea

McGettigan,

Leer

Bolaño

in

Translation

(inglés) Chelsea

McGettigan,

To

read

Bolaño

en

traducción

(Spanish) Nico

Gurian,

Crossover Mikhaela

Mahoney,

The

Argument Tara

Sonin,

They

Took

Dinah

From

the

House

of

Shechem

Sam

Johnson,

Untitled Kate

Welsh,

Between

Dinner

and

the

Show Katie

McNeirney,

Allegory Rebecca

Gray,

to

saw

a

thought

and

take

Art Barrie

Sterling,

Untitled Barrie

Sterling,

Untitled Allyza

Lustig,

Jujuy,

Argentina Barrie

Sterling,

Untitled Shaowei

Wang,

Cold

Radiance Allyza

Lustig,

Mandril Cover

Art:

Barrie

Sterling,

Untitled

1 3 4 5 7 12 13 16 17 18 19 29 31 34 35 37 2 6 15 28 33 36

Brighton Beach

by Anne Brink I

have

memories ǯ ƪ eyes

up

and

hands

open

to

the

sky to

see

the

world

in

a

picture

frame, hungry

for

light.

Night’s

dreams

worn

black

and

smooth, cloaks

obscuring

us

in

shadow ơ tears

of

gold

and

orange as

we

waited

for

the

future

to

come.

Above

the

beach

we

saw

the

lift-­‐bridge

rise over

the

deepest

part

of

the

bay and

touch

the

hills where

my

mother

still,

sat arms

folded

around

her

sides.

We

will

be

back

she

said.

We

can

pack

the

future

in

a

box

and

eat

it

for

lunch

tomorrow if

you

want

with

tears

and

gold

and

light weighing

heavy

in

our

pockets still

hungry

for

the

future.

1

Caroline Framed

by Barrie Sterling

make page numbers pt.1 smaller and in same font/shade as echoes logo

2

I Am Never Jealous

by Joanna Barnett ơ Smothered

scientists

in

sulfur and

got

a

museum

erected

to

her

fury With

nonstop

footage

of

her

temper Showing

every

hiker That

she

can

drop

them

Ƥ Faster

than

June

can Rita

got

there

three

weeks

too

late Anything

Louis

had

was

waterlogged His

bulldog

lying

slack-­‐jawed

outside

Versailles Martyred

and

Canonized

on

the

AstroTurf But

she

rammed

Sam So

someone

might

remember Ƥ

3

Glose on Lorca’s “Dawn”

by Nicolette Barsamian

Those

who

go

out

early

know

in

their

bones there

will

be

no

paradise

or

loves

that

bloom

and

die: they

know

they

will

be

mired

in

numbers

and

laws, in

mindless

games,

in

fruitless

labors.

-­‐

Frederico

Garcia

Lorca,

“Dawn”

Yellow

as

yellow’s

thistle, red

rearranges

the

roar

in

your

eyes.

New

York

(Nueva

York)

awakes

and

rolls yellow,

red,

orange

from

the

skies as

the

whispering

mires

of

black

billow

their

way

back to

recapture

the

bits

of

the

night.

(Those

who

go

out

early

know

in

their

bones) Lost

connections

on

the

subway

platform, girls

gone

from

green

to

grey.

The

mud

splatters

your

white

Sambas, your

Venti

Iced

Mochaccino

now

lives

in

the

drain.

The

promise

of

pulchritude

still

festers, ȮɡɄ ȵɦɖɏɋǤ (There

will

be

no

paradise

or

loves

that

bloom

and

die) ǯ ƥ Ǣ “Do

Not

Block

the

Box!”

blasts

and

blows

as

you

sigh. ͊͞Ǥ͜͞ ǡ Ƥ ơ

transportals 1,2,3

approaching

Penn

Station,

4,5,6

has

arrived

at

Canal

Street $11.26:

daily

pack

of

heart

attack,

$9.95:

wholesome

panini.

Scarlet

Louboutin

pumps

can’t

pull

out

of

Big

Red

Juicy

(gum)

stuck

to

the

street.

(They

know

they

will

be

mired

in

numbers

and

laws)

There

are

some

sanctimonious

souls

who

still

hope, ǡ ǡ ơ ǣ These

Streets

Will

Make

You

Feel

Brand

New/

Big

Lights

Will

Inspire

You I

Want

to

Wake

Up

in

a

City

That

Doesn’t

Sleep

/

If

I

Can

Make

It

There, I’ll

Make

it

Anywhere,

New

York,

New

York,

New

York ǯ Ǣ ǣ It’s

a

hard

knock

life. (in

mindless

games,

in

fruitless

labors)

4

Towards Thee I Roll

by Tara Sonin Come

hell

or

high

water,

Ahab

is

in

the

distance.

Our

odyssey

rests

on

a

chewed-­‐up

leg: His,

chump

change

for

whales–Mine,

I

tried

to

barter

for

love.

On

shore,

he

is

waving

a

prosthetic

he

built, cut

from

the

marbled

body

of

a

catalpa

tree

infested

with

worms

in

the

backyard

of

my

hallucinatory

childhood

home.

There

must

have

been

millions

of

them: worms

weeping

from

the

carcass

of

the

rotted

limb,

splinter-­‐

ridden,

in

Ahab’s

anchored

hand

Ƥ ǡ Ƥ Ǥ He

picks

it

up.

I

have

seen

that

look

before: How

many

worms

for

a

whale?

A

round,

white

sun

holds

his

gaze

before

disappearing

into

ocean

thunder.

I

can

see

how

far

those

ripples

descend

and

question

turning

back:

for

unlike

my

love,

I

am

unprepared

to

lose

limbs

by

chasing

worms Just

when

I

think

he

is

lost,

crisscrossed

in

time, buried

underneath

a

foamy

break, He

looks

up!

I

am

caught

at

last.

Towards

thee

I

roll,

he

growls—zealot,

with

an

obvious

intent—

Stuck,

teetering

in

the

wooden

boat,

I

am

thinking: Is

there

something

wrong

with

me?

Ƥ Ǥ Ǥ Still,

I

keep

reaching

into

the

deep.

Following.

When

I

reach

the

shore— not

a

whale

or

a

worm,

but

a

tangible

being—

my

feet

touch

dry

land,

I

am

gripped

by

sandpaper

hands,

and

I

wonder

if

he

will

ever

understand

me

Or

if

we

will

forever

be

slaves

to

phantoms.

5

by Barrie Sterling

6

Nights At KilroyтАЩs

by Abigail Arnold

┬Ц ┬З┬О┬З┬Ш┬З┬Р ┬С╟п┬Е┬О┬С┬Е┬Н╟б ┬Г┬Х┬К┬Г ┬Л┬О┬Ф┬С┬Ы ┬Д┬З┬Й┬Г┬Р ┬Х┬С┬Ф┬Ц┬Л┬Р┬Й ┬Ц┬К┬З ┬Е┬С╞б┬З┬З ┬Е┬Ч┬Т┬Х by

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┬атАитАйShe

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┬атАитАйones

┬атАитАйon

┬атАитАйthe

┬атАитАйtop

┬атАитАйshelf

┬атАитАйand

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┬атАитАйup

┬атАитАй the

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┬атАитАйin

┬атАитАйthe

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┬атАитАйones

┬атАитАйwere

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┬атАитАйgetting

┬атАитАйtoo

┬атАитАй chipped

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┬атАитАйcustomers,

┬атАитАйso

┬атАитАйshe

┬атАитАйput

┬атАитАйthem

┬атАитАйaside

┬атАитАйto

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┬атАитАйapartment.

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┬атАитАйalways

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┬атАитАйeleven,

┬атАитАйa

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┬атАитАй time

┬атАитАйat

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┬атАитАйDiner.

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┬атАитАйmade

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┬атАитАйeasier

┬атАитАйto

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┬атАитАйeverything

┬атАитАйunder

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┬атАитАйand

┬атАитАй(she

┬атАитАйsaw

┬атАитАйit

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┬атАитАйnow)

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┬атАитАйclueless.

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┬атАитАйdishes,

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┬атАитАйin

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┬атАитАйsheтАЩd

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┬атАитАйsupposed

┬атАитАйthat

┬атАитАйshe

┬атАитАйtended

┬атАитАйto

┬атАитАйovercompensate

┬атАитАйa

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┬атАитАйthings

┬атАитАйof

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┬атАитАйsort

┬атАитАйhappening

┬атАитАйagain.

┬атАитАй

┬атАитАй

┬атАитАй Sasha

┬атАитАйusually

┬атАитАйhad

┬атАитАйeverything

┬атАитАйin

┬атАитАйorder

┬атАитАйby

┬атАитАйmidnight,

┬атАитАйwhen

┬атАитАй she

┬атАитАйswitched

┬атАитАйshifts

┬атАитАйwith

┬атАитАйher

┬атАитАйdaughter

┬атАитАйAnna.

┬атАитАйIf

┬атАитАйSasha

┬атАитАйhad

┬атАитАйhad

┬атАитАйher

┬атАитАй ┬Щ┬Г┬Ы╟б ┬Х┬К┬З ┬Щ┬С┬Ч┬О┬Ж ┬К┬Г┬Ш┬З ┬К┬Л┬Ф┬З┬Ж ┬Х┬С┬П┬З┬С┬Р┬З ┬З┬О┬Х┬З ┬Г┬И┬Ц┬З┬Ф ┬Р┬Р┬Г ╞д┬Р┬Л┬Х┬К┬З┬Ж ┬Е┬С┬О┬О┬З┬Й┬З╟д She

┬атАитАйhad

┬атАитАйwanted

┬атАитАйAnna

┬атАитАйto

┬атАитАйget

┬атАитАйa

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┬атАитАйworthy

┬атАитАйof

┬атАитАйher

┬атАитАйgood

┬атАитАйeducation,

┬атАитАйbut

┬атАитАй Anna

┬атАитАйhad

┬атАитАйinsisted

┬атАитАйthat

┬атАитАйSasha

┬атАитАйneeded

┬атАитАйher.

┬атАитАйтАЬIтАЩll

┬атАитАйhave

┬атАитАйa

┬атАитАйchance

┬атАитАйsome

┬атАитАй other

┬атАитАйtime,тАЭ

┬атАитАйshe

┬атАитАйhad

┬атАитАйsaid,

┬атАитАйtossing

┬атАитАйher

┬атАитАйhead

┬атАитАйand

┬атАитАйreaching

┬атАитАйover

┬атАитАйSasha

┬атАитАй to

┬атАитАйgrab

┬атАитАйa

┬атАитАйslice

┬атАитАйof

┬атАитАйwarm

┬атАитАйchocolate

┬атАитАйcake

┬атАитАй├а

┬атАитАйla

┬атАитАйmode.

┬атАитАйEven

┬атАитАйthough

┬атАитАйshe

┬атАитАй didnтАЩt

┬атАитАйwant

┬атАитАйto

┬атАитАйtie

┬атАитАйAnna

┬атАитАйdown,

┬атАитАйSasha

┬атАитАйwas

┬атАитАйglad

┬атАитАйto

┬атАитАйhave

┬атАитАйher

┬атАитАйthere.

┬атАитАйThe

┬атАитАй customers

┬атАитАйliked

┬атАитАйAnna,

┬атАитАйwith

┬атАитАйher

┬атАитАйfrequent

┬атАитАйsmiles

┬атАитАйand

┬атАитАйjokes.

┬атАитАйAn

┬атАитАйelder-┬нтАР ly

┬атАитАйcustomer

┬атАитАйhad

┬атАитАйonce

┬атАитАйtold

┬атАитАйSasha

┬атАитАйthat

┬атАитАйAnna

┬атАитАйmade

┬атАитАйthe

┬атАитАйdays

┬атАитАйbrighter,

┬атАитАй which

┬атАитАйSasha

┬атАитАйhad

┬атАитАйthought

┬атАитАйan

┬атАитАйexcellent

┬атАитАйway

┬атАитАйof

┬атАитАйputting

┬атАитАйit.

┬атАитАйBesides,

┬атАитАйthe

┬атАитАй diner

┬атАитАйwouldnтАЩt

┬атАитАйhave

┬атАитАйbeen

┬атАитАйa

┬атАитАйfamily

┬атАитАйconcern

┬атАитАйif

┬атАитАйSasha

┬атАитАйhad

┬атАитАйbeen

┬атАитАйthere

┬атАитАй alone,

┬атАитАйwith

┬атАитАйAnna

┬атАитАйgone

┬атАитАйand

┬атАитАйSam,

┬атАитАйSashaтАЩs

┬атАитАйhusband,

┬атАитАйdead

┬атАитАйfor

┬атАитАйthe

┬атАитАйpast

┬атАитАй ten

┬атАитАйyears.

┬атАитАй

┬атАитАй On

┬атАитАйthis

┬атАитАйnight,

┬атАитАйthe

┬атАитАйusual

┬атАитАйcustomers

┬атАитАйwere

┬атАитАйthere.

┬атАитАйAt

┬атАитАйa

┬атАитАйtable

┬атАитАйin

┬атАитАй the

┬атАитАйfront

┬атАитАйsat

┬атАитАйJohn

┬атАитАйBuchanan,

┬атАитАйthe

┬атАитАйpoliceman,

┬атАитАйwho

┬атАитАйalways

┬атАитАйdrank

┬атАитАйat

┬атАитАй ┬О┬З┬Г┬Х┬Ц ┬Ц┬К┬Ф┬З┬З ┬Е┬Ч┬Т┬Х ┬С┬И ┬Е┬С╞б┬З┬З ┬Г┬Р┬Ж ┬Г┬Ц┬З ┬Г ┬Ш┬З┬Ф┬Ы ┬Ц┬К┬Л┬Р ┬Х┬О┬Л┬Е┬З ┬С┬И ┬Г┬Т┬Т┬О┬З ┬Т┬Л┬З╟д ┬С┬К┬Р ┬О┬Л┬Н┬З┬Ж ┬Ц┬С ┬Г┬Ф┬Ф┬Г┬Р┬Й┬З ┬Ц┬К┬З ┬Е┬С╞б┬З┬З ┬Е┬Ч┬Т┬Х ┬Л┬Р ┬Т┬Ы┬Ф┬Г┬П┬Л┬Ж┬Х╟б ┬Щ┬К┬Л┬Е┬К ┬Д┬С┬Ц┬К ┬Ц┬З┬Ф┬Ф┬Л╞д┬З┬Ж

7

and

fascinated

Sasha.

She

watched

him

narrowly,

admiring

the

perfect

way

he

balanced

them,

noting

the

precise

movements

of

his

large

hands,

and

praying

to

God

that

he

wouldn’t

make

a

false

move.

Across

from

John

sat

Loretta

Martin,

who

was

frankly

Sasha’s

least

favorite

customer.

She

had

once

slapped

Ted

Stevens,

a

hospital

clown

who

left

generous

tips,

and

he

hadn’t

come

to

the

diner

since.

Loretta

herself

never

tipped,

and

she

sat

there

for

several

hours

nursing

the

same

tiny

cup

of

tea.

It

was

contrary

to

the

spirit

of

being

a

regular

customer.

“Hey,

Sasha,”

said

John.

“I’ve

got

to

be

going

now.

See

you

later,

beautiful.”

He

waved

to

the

two

women.

Sasha

gave

John

a

half

smile

and

vigorously

scrubbed

a

plate

with

a

stubborn

stain

as

he

set

out

into

the

rainy

night.

“You

going

to

head

out

too,

Loretta?”

Sasha

asked

hopefully.

“Oh,

I

don’t

think

so,”

said

Loretta,

dumping

about

half

the

sugar

bowl

into

her

cup.

Sasha

made

a

mental

note

to

buy

more

sugar.

Loretta

stirred

the

sugar

into

the

tea

with

one

skinny

hand,

twisting

an

unnaturally

bright

red

curl

with

the

other.

“That

John

sure

is

good

looking,

isn’t

he?”

“I

suppose,”

Sasha

replied

vaguely.

Just

then,

Anna

burst

in

from

their

apartment.

She

plopped

herself

down

on

an

empty

stool

at

the

counter,

swept

her

brown

hair

ǡ Ǥ Ƥ Ǣ ǯ ǡdz Ǥ Dz ǡ Ǥ Hi,

Loretta.”

“Oh,

dear,”

said

Sasha.

“Maybe

we

ought

to

just

take

it

down

and

store

it

in

the

closet.

After

all,

your

father

was

the

one

who

bought

it,

not

me.”

“No,

I

like

it.

How

many

people

can

say

that

they

have

a

moose

head

in

their

living

room?”

said

Anna.

“How’s

business

to-­‐ night?”

“As

usual.

Families,

regulars.”

“Well,

I’ll

stay

here

and

serve

the

late

night

creeps.

You

can

ơ ǡdz ơ Ǥ

“I’ll

be

leaving

too,”

said

Loretta.

She

rose

from

her

table,

8

tossed

some

bills

and

change

on

the

counter,

and

sauntered

out

the

ơ Ǥ counting

the

money.

“No

tip!

Again!”

said

Anna.

“What

a

bitch.”

Sasha

sighed.

“I’m

really

tired

of

her.”

“You

should

be,”

said

Anna.

“She

never

tips.

She

drove

away

our

best

customer.

I

think

she

only

comes

in

here

to

look

at

John.”

“Oh,

do

you

think

that?”

Sasha

asked.

Avoiding

Anna’s

eyes,

she

went

back

to

scrubbing

at

the

plate,

even

though

her

hands

felt

raw.

She

wondered

what

had

caused

the

stain.

“Everything

okay?”

Anna

asked.

Sasha

nodded.

“You

don’t

sound

okay,

so

I’m

just

asking.”

“It

was

a

tiring

day,

that’s

all,”

said

Sasha.

“Don’t

worry

about

Ǥdz ǡ ǡ ơǤ wondered

if

she

should

keep

it

in

the

diner—the

customers

prob-­‐ ably

wouldn’t

notice.

No,

she

couldn’t

stand

it,

she

decided,

putting

it

with

the

cracked

cups.

“I’m

going

upstairs.”

“Love

you,

Mom,”

said

Anna,

giving

her

a

quick

hug.

“I

love

you

too.”

Working

quickly

that

Saturday

evening,

Sasha

plated

slices

of

apple

pie.

The

customers

always

said

that

Kilroy’s

apple

pie

smelled

delicious,

but

Sasha

had

gotten

used

to

the

smell

in

the

past

twenty-­‐seven

years.

“I’ve

got

a

new

cake

with

cherries,”

Anna

shouted

from

the

kitchen.

She

pushed

the

swinging

door

open

with

her

elbow

and

brought

a

cake

over

to

Sasha.

“Fred

says

for

you

to

try

it,

Mom,

because

he’s

sure

you’ll

like

it

and

that

you’ll

put

it

on

the

menu

and

that

we’ll

make

a

million

dollars.”

“Well,

I’ll

try

it

later,”

said

Sasha.

“Just

put

it

on

the

counter

Ǥdz Ǣ Ƥ employee

who

had

been

at

Kilroy’s

almost

as

long

as

she

had.

On

the

other

hand,

he

was

given

to

outlandish

new

cake

ideas

at

inoppor-­‐ tune

times.

The

time

for

cake

tasting

was

on

a

quiet

weeknight,

not

during

the

Saturday

dinner

rush.

9

“I’ll

try

it

now

if

you

won’t,”

said

Anna,

seizing

a

fork

from

a

pile

of

dirty

dishes

and

giving

it

a

quick

rinse.

Sasha

suppressed

a

shudder.

“Otherwise

it

won’t

be

warm.”

She

speared

a

forkful

of

the

cake,

which

looked

to

be

mostly

chocolate,

and

put

it

in

her

mouth.

“It

tastes

okay.

The

texture

is

gross,

though.

Maybe

if

he

mashed

up

the

cherries…

You

need

anything?”

“Finish

the

slice,

Anna.

Don’t

just

leave

it

on

the

counter,”

Ǥ Dz ơ Ǥdz

Dz Ƥ ǡdz Ǥ Dz ǡ Ǥ Ǥ There

are

these

little

hard

things

in

the

cake.

That’s

gross.”

She

took

a

last

bite

and

headed

over

to

the

sink.

“I’ll

wash

these

dishes

before

I

go.

I

would

not

recommend

that

cake.”

“Thanks,”

said

Sasha.

“So

you

wouldn’t

put

it

at

the

top

of

the

cake

scale?”

“I

wouldn’t

even

put

it

in

the

middle

of

the

cake

scale,”

said

Anna.

“It’s

down

there

with

that

custard

cake.”

Sasha

groaned

and

laughed,

remembering

one

of

Fred’s

attempts

gone

awry.

“Why

can’t

Fred

make

me

another

cake

with

sprinkles?

Just

because

I’m

not

six

anymore

doesn’t

mean

that

I

don’t

still

like

sprinkles.”

“I’m

sure

that

he

would

make

you

one

if

we

asked,”

said

Sasha.

“Look

out

for

one

on

your

next

birthday,

perhaps.”

Anna

smiled,

placing

the

dishes

neatly

on

the

shelves.

“You’re

the

best,

Mom,”

she

said.

“See

you

later.”

She

headed

up-­‐ stairs.

At

eleven

that

night,

Sasha

did

her

usual

tidying

up,

waiting

for

Anna

to

come

down

and

take

over.

The

diner

was

almost

desert-­‐ ed.

Loretta

hadn’t

come

in

that

evening

at

all—not

that

Sasha

could

say

she

missed

her.

John

was

there,

though,

stacking

cups

as

usual.

He

looked

up

and

smiled

at

her.

His

teeth

were

really

very

nice.

“Any

exciting

diner

stories

today?”

he

asked,

pulling

his

chair

closer

to

the

counter.

“Fred

made

a

new

cake,”

said

Sasha.

“I

haven’t

tried

it

yet,

though.

I

suppose

I

should

get

to

that

now.”

She

went

to

retrieve

the

cake

from

the

back

counter.

Tasting

a

small

sliver,

she

found

herself

agreeing

with

Anna’s

opinion.

The

cake

tasted

delicious,

but

it

was

10

uneven

and

lumpy.

Not

Fred’s

best.

Ǣ Ǥ Dz don’t

look

like

you’re

enjoying

it,”

he

said.

“Give

me

a

piece?”

He

held

out

his

plate

with

an

appealing

look.

“I

don’t

promise

much,”

Sasha

said,

cutting

him

a

slice,

“but

you’re

welcome

to

it.”

“If

it’s

bad,

you

can

give

it

to

me

for

free,”

said

John.

“It’s

on

the

house

in

any

case,”

said

Sasha.

“It’s

not

on

the

menu

yet.

I

don’t

feel

I

can

charge.”

“Oh,

it’s

not

bad

at

all,”

John

declared.

He

was

quite

a

neat

ǡ ǡ ơ Ǥ Dz I

can’t

pay?”

“Don’t

even

think

about

it.”

Sasha

tried

to

giggle.

She

wondered

if

it

sounded

as

forced

as

it

felt.

“I’ll

have

to

return

the

favor,

in

that

case,”

he

said.

“I’ve

got

ơ ǡ Ǥ ǯ ơ Ǥdz into

his

wallet

for

some

bills,

which

he

then

handed

to

her.

Sasha

gave

him

a

quick

smile

as

she

took

the

money

and

gave

him

back

his

change.

“See

you

soon,

Sash.”

With

a

mock

bow,

he

headed

out

the

door.

ƪ ǡ Ƥ -­‐ ished

tidying

up.

John

Buchanan

was

a

man

who

knew

how

to

do

things.

The

incident

was

still

on

her

mind

as

she

said

goodnight

to

Anna

and

headed

for

her

bedroom,

giving

a

quick

glance

at

the

old

moose

head

that

Sam

had

purchased

for

their

living

room

ǯ Ƥ Ǥ ǡ properly,

not

that

that

could

be

counted

on.

Sasha

wondered

if

men

who

knew

how

to

do

things

could

be

counted

on.

Silly,

incompetent

men—well,

if

they

could

get

themselves

together

enough

to

make

a

gesture,

they

probably

meant

it.

Men

who

knew

how

to

do

things

Ǥ ơ bow,

to

call

someone

“beautiful.”

They

could

do

these

things

just

to

brighten

up

someone’s

day.

They

could

smile

at

anyone,

be

it

her

or

a

customer

like

Loretta.

She

thought

about

John

Buchanan’s

hands

as

he

stacked

cups

and

handed

her

money,

large

but

precise.

11

Akrasia Forest

by Andrew Hamilton Our

hearts

do

in

dark

forests

dwell.

Each

feeling,

choosing,

kernel

core

lives

in

a

roughly-­‐tangled

dell,

a

wilderness

of

soul

and

spore.

Each

forest

lives,

each

forest

grows,

unfurls

through

time

our

destinies.

Alive

with

buzzing

thoughts,

each

glows,

cohesive-­‐seeming

unities.

But

any

object

so

complex

Ǣ a

thorny

mess

to

reason

vex,

Ƥ Ǥ With

verdure

dampened

by

moon

light

Ǣ in

each

remaining

numbered

night,

they

grow

one

more

decision

tree.

These

trees

form

shady

woodlands

vast

entranced

in

thought,

alone,

intent.

These

tortured

trunks

of

choices

past

are

‘twixt

diverse

desires

rent.

As

fresh

arrives

each

new

day’s

dawn,

the

battered

trunks

still

stand

up

stout

but

noxious,

oozing,

bleed

upon

the

softly-­‐creeping

moss

of

doubt.

Within

each

grove

and

ancient

glade,

discordant

mobs

of

passions

brash

contest

control

of

choices

made,

as

grim

‘mid

stand

and

copse

they

clash.

Through

dim

dendritic

alleys

fast

en

route

to

rotting

battle-­‐lines

12

good job here.

Barrie (Sterling) says she likes it.

I agree

these

ragged

feelings

hurry

past

and

hack

aside

regretful

vines.

Then

donning

wistful

root

and

bark,

these

rank

and

frenzied

fungal

hordes

all

straining,

struggle

in

the

dark

‘round

primal

wild

unthinking

lords.

Oh,

if

these

crews

could

but

agree

what’s

best

for

us,

and

when,

and

why,

ǯ ǯ Ǣ Ƥ Ǥ In

great

and

moldy

agonies,

our

hearts

all

tremble,

moan

and

roar,

wishing

combatants

to

appease,

surcease

demanding

of

this

war.

Oh

we

would

dearly

pay

to

rest

ƪ Ǥ Each

urge

not

shouting

it

knows

best,

but

to

all

others

like

a

friend.

For

what

on

one

more

foully

grates

than

stings

and

scorns

of

civil

war?

That

bloody

feud

among

the

states

of

mind

that,

though

they

fealty

swore

to

common

ends

and

calm

debates

now

campaign

savage

with

full

bore.

Yet

our

poor

hearts

cannot

surmise how

deaf

the

woods

are

to

our

plea.

With

war

they

cannot

break

their

ties,

for

but

constituent

havoc

free, and

strife

to

give

our

passions

rise,

we

would

unconscious,

heartless

be.

For

without

writhing

contrast

bright— systemic

constituted

brawl

–

Ƥ Ȃ

we

would

not

be

alive

at

all.

13

Brutal Little Text

by Joyce Ng Standing

in

the

shallow

end

blowing

bubbles Half-­‐drowning

in

the

deep

end ơ My

body

knows

it’s

safe

to

bleed

here Nothing

is

sacred. Ƥ Ǥ Punctuating

self-­‐presentation, Ƥ ơ Filters

language. Ƥ Ǥ

14

“Jujuy, Argentina�

by Allyza Lustig please just make sure we send this (entire thing) in CMYK (for all color pages) and not RGB. You're the Best!

15

Nice job! good ~ action

Leer Bolaño in Translation (inglés)

by Chelsea McGettigan To

read

this

hombre

adecuado I

need

a

lifetime

of

engaño And

an

eternidad

of

romance To

dissect

his

canto

soberano.

A

detective

on

the

prowl,

él

no

sabe

quién

le

sigue And

his

poets,

poetas

son,

pero

también

son

detectives.

Se

acuesta

with

a

goddess

dressed

in

ropa

de

anciana y

si

Platón

lo

desease ǯ ƪ Ǥ Yes,

he’s

an

hombre

desconocido.

And

his

work

no

terminaba.

Ƥ Y

esto

no

lo

esperaba.

Whose

language

is

this

between

two

lands? ¿Quién

duerme

entre

mis

párpados

delincuentes?

I

know

the

poet

needs

a

subject: He

roots

the

reader

in

his

hands.

16

To read Bolaño en traducción (Spanish)

by Chelsea McGettigan nice page flip.

Works well with languages.

Para

leer

a

este

adecuate

man Necesito

toda

una

vida

de

deception Y

una

eternity

de

romance Para

diseccionar

su

soverign

song.

Un

detective

andante,

he

doesn’t

know

he’s

the

objective Y

sus

poetas,

poets

they

are,

but

they’re

also

detectives.

He

goes

to

bed

con

una

diosa

en

ancient

dress and

if

Plato

wantedǡ ± À ƪ Ǥ Si,

es

un

unknown

man.

Y

su

trabajo,

never-­‐ending.

Pero

me

veo

descuidada And

that’s

not

what

I

expected. ¿Quién

domina

este

idioma

entre

países?

Who

sleeps

between

my

delinquent

eyelids?

El

poeta

necesita

el

sujeto Y

al

lector

le

da

raíces.

17

Crossover

by Nico Gurian Someone

is

sweating.

His

tattered

blue

uniform

grounds

him

to

the

dirt

of

a

foreign

land.

And

they

shall

beat

their

swords

into

plowshares and

their

spears

into

pruning

hooks.

He

is

a

father.

Ǣ Ǥ He

is

a

caretaker,

away,

stuck

on

a

rubble-­‐ridden

road. Ǣ There

is

none

to

take

her

by

the

hand

among

all

the

sons

she

has

brought

up.

This

is

an

orphaned

land. ǡ ǡ Ƥ ǡ -­‐ nounced

burden.

The

burn

sears

strong.

But

he

was

wounded

for

our

transgressions, he

was

bruised

for

our

iniquities.

On

the

horizon,

the

blurred

lines

of

dust

and

rock

are outlined

by

blackened

blood.

This

is

his

work.

18

The Argument

by Mikhaela Mahoney The

scene

begins

in

blackness.

A

single

violin

is

heard

playing

something

beautiful

and

slow.

A

second

violin

joins.

The

lights

come

up

on

a

child’s

bedroom.

The

room

is

neat,

but

certainly

lived

in.

There

are

stacks

of

books

on

an

Up

Left

desk

and

be-­‐ side

his

bed,

which

is

left

of

center.

There

are

framed

photos,

a

few

travel

posters

with

mountains

on

them,

pictures

of

concert

halls,

music

sheets,

and

the

covers

of

the

Harry

Potter

books

(or

something

analogous)

tacked

up

on

the

walls.

The

windows

are

all

closed

and

locked.

In

the

room,

a

man

and

a

child

are

playing

the

violin.

The

child

(Nathaniel)

is

about

11,

and

sitting

on

the

bed.

He

is

very

small

and

gangly

and

ill-­‐looking.

He

has

a

severe

Ƥ Ǥ ȋ Ȍ bed,

tall,

handsome,

brown

hair,

dressed

simply

but

well.

As

he

plays,

his

music

calms

him

and

a

quiet

energy

spreads

through

him.

They

continue

to

play.

It’s

dusk.

Brian

enters.

They

don’t

acknowledge

him.

BRIAN Okay,

buddy.

Mom’s

waiting

out

in

the

car.

SEAN We’ve

still

got

another

20

minutes.

BRIAN (Ignoring

Sean,

he

speaks

to

Nathaniel)

You

can

make

it

up

to-­‐ morrow,

alright?

You’re

going

to

be

late,

Nathaniel,

and

I

don’t

want

you

to

have

to

wait

in

the

waiting

room

too

long.

NATHANIEL (To

Sean)

I

like

the

waiting

room!

It’s

better

than

the

doctor’s

and

I

get

to

read

all

sorts

of

magazines

we

don’t

get

at

home.

ȋ ơ Ȍ

There’s

one

just

for

kids

that

I’m

going

to

write

a

letter

to,

I

think.

19

Thanks,

Sean!

Make

something

good

for

dinner!

(He

exits,

leaves

the

violin

on

his

bed

without

putting

it

away.)

BRIAN Maybe

I’m

wrong,

but

I

thought

the

whole

point

of

you

teach-­‐ ing

him

was

that

we

wouldn’t

have

to

worry

about

scheduling.

(Not

bitterly)

Or

pay.

SEAN

BRIAN ƪ Ǥ and

we

never

know

in

advance.

SEAN And

god

knows

no

other

violin

teacher

would

ever

understand

that.

BRIAN He

likes—we

all

like—it’s

important

for

you

to

be

around.

For

you

to

know

him.

He

loves

having

you

around.

I’m

not

going

anywhere,

Bri. Okay.

SEAN BRIAN

SEAN I’m

just

giving

you

a

hard

time.

It

always

just…jars

me

a

little

when

I

stop

playing.

Like…I

don’t

know.

Like

nothing

appropri-­‐ ate

to

say

in

a

kid’s

room.

Thanks

for

that

image.

BRIAN

20

SEAN It’s

true,

though!

There’s

nothing

else

like

it!

Ask

Nat

about

it

sometime.

He’ll

have

the

words

for

it.

He’s

very

good,

isn’t

he?

BRIAN

SEAN All

bullshit

aside?

Yeah,

he’s

very

good.

Better

than

any

of

my

other

students,

probably.

Better

than

you

were.

BRIAN SEAN

By

far.

(Pause) At

his

age.

(Pause) He

could

really

go

places/

you

know.

Could

have

gone/places.

What?

BRIAN SEAN

BRIAN Give

me

a

break,

Sean.

It’s

lucky

that

you’re

around

to

teach

ơǡ ǡ ǯ it

when— SEAN No

real

need

for

it.

You’re

unbelievable.

BRIAN When

he’ll

be

too

weak

for

it,

really.

21

SEAN I

read

that

kids

with

CF

are

supposed

to

exercise

a

little,

Brian.

Play

tag,

I

don’t

know.

Sit

up

straight./

Breath

deeply.

Play

the

violin.

BRIAN

SEAN Yeah,

play

the

violin.

It’s

good

for

him.

BRIAN It’s

good

for

you,

you

mean.

It’s

pretty

good

to

you,

by

the

looks

of

it.

SEAN (Slowly,

level)

Listen,

Brian,

I’m

not

here

to

reenter

into

any

of

our…shit.

But

I

am

here.

I

could

be

in

New

York/

on

a

solo

Ǣ ǯ ǯ Ǣ with

your

son.

Because

I

like

him,

and

I

like

playing

with

him,

and

I

love

him,

Brian.

BRIAN So

go

to

New

York,

Sean,

go

back

there.

Go

get

paid

scads

of

money

from

old

women

in

fur

coats

for

playing

their

favorite— And

while

you’re

at

it,

ask

if

they’ve

got

any

change

to

spare

for

some

research

foundations,

ask

if

they

can

spare

a

moment

of

your

lovely

concert

to

think

about

more

than

their

own

enter-­‐ tainment,

build

a

hospital,

for

chrissakes.

SEAN I

don’t

want

to

talk

about

this

anymore.

Fine.

BRIAN

22

I

am

happy

I’m

here,

Brian.

I’m

glad.

SEAN BRIAN

SEAN It

really

means

a

lot

to

me.

To

play/with

him.

Jesus

Christ,

I

know.

BRIAN

SEAN (With

weight)

With

him.

To

play

with

him.

(Silence)

He’s

a

pretty

incredible

kid.

(Pause.)

Talented.

BRIAN (Sarcastically)

Wonderful.

Maybe

you

can

take

him

on

tour

with

you,/

then

neither

of

you

would

have

to

be

stuck

with

us.

SEAN He

could

go

on

his

own

tour

one

day,

Brian.

I’m

serious.

(Excit-­‐ edly)

He’s

really

got

something— BRIAN What

aren’t

you

getting

here,

Sean?

He

doesn’t

have

the

“one

day”

that

you

did,

you

know?

His

“one

day”

could

be

literally

just

one,

/

do

you

understand?

SEAN How

can

you

have

given

up

already?

He’s

only

11,

people

are

living

longer

all

the

time

now—I

work

with

somebody

in

the

school

systems

who’s

28,

a

full

time

teacher,

with

a

wife—and

a/

family

who

supports

him.

23

BRIAN A

┬атАитАйkid?

┬атАитАйA

┬атАитАйkid?

┬атАитАйDo

┬атАитАйyou

┬атАитАйknow

┬атАитАйhow

┬атАитАйCF

┬атАитАйis

┬атАитАйpassed,

┬атАитАйSean?

┬атАитАйDo

┬атАитАйyou?

┬атАитАй Have

┬атАитАйyou

┬атАитАйdone

┬атАитАйany

┬атАитАйresearch/

┬атАитАйinto

┬атАитАйthis

┬атАитАйat

┬атАитАйall?

Of

┬атАитАйcourse

┬атАитАйI

┬атАитАйhave.

SEAN

BRIAN Well,

┬атАитАйitтАЩs

┬атАитАйpassed

┬атАитАйhereditarily.

┬атАитАйThere

┬атАитАйare

┬атАитАйa

┬атАитАйlot

┬атАитАйof

┬атАитАйcarriers

┬атАитАйout

┬атАитАй there,

┬атАитАйbut

┬атАитАйit

┬атАитАйdoesnтАЩtтАжmanifest

┬атАитАйitselfтАжunless

┬атАитАйthere

┬атАитАйare

┬атАитАйtwo.

┬атАитАйHus-┬нтАР band

┬атАитАйand

┬атАитАйwife.

┬атАитАйBoth.

SEAN You

┬атАитАйdonтАЩt

┬атАитАйknow/that

┬атАитАйhis

┬атАитАйwife

┬атАитАйwould

┬атАитАйhaveтАФ BRIAN Of

┬атАитАйcourse

┬атАитАйI

┬атАитАйdonтАЩt

┬атАитАйknow!

┬атАитАйDo

┬атАитАйyou

┬атАитАйthink

┬атАитАйwe

┬атАитАйknew?

┬атАитАйDo

┬атАитАйyou

┬атАитАйthink

┬атАитАй this

┬атАитАйwas

┬атАитАйsomething

┬атАитАйwe

┬атАитАйwere

┬атАитАйexcited

┬атАитАйabout?

┬атАитАйтАЬHey,

┬атАитАйRachel,

┬атАитАйyou

┬атАитАй ┬Н┬Р┬С┬Щ ┬Щ┬К┬Г┬Ц ┬Щ┬С┬Ч┬О┬Ж ┬Д┬З ┬И┬Ч┬Р╟л ┬Г┬Ц┬Е┬К┬Л┬Р┬Й ┬Г ┬Е┬К┬Л┬О┬Ж ┬Х┬Ч╞б┬З┬Ф ┬Г┬Р┬Ж ┬Ж┬Л┬З╟и ┬З┬Ц╟п┬Х get

┬атАитАйit

┬атАитАйonтАФletтАЩs

┬атАитАйmake

┬атАитАйa

┬атАитАйbaby!тАЭ

┬атАитАйYou

┬атАитАйthink

┬атАитАйwe

┬атАитАйwanted

┬атАитАйto

┬атАитАйwatch

┬атАитАйev-┬нтАР erything

┬атАитАйweтАЩve

┬атАитАйworked

┬атАитАйfor

┬атАитАйbe

┬атАитАйsucked

┬атАитАйdown

┬атАитАйthe

┬атАитАйantiseptic

┬атАитАйmedi-┬нтАР cal

┬атАитАйdrain

┬атАитАйtrying

┬атАитАйto

┬атАитАйhelp

┬атАитАйhim?

┬атАитАйTo

┬атАитАйkeep

┬атАитАйhim

┬атАитАйalive?

SEAN But

┬атАитАйyou

┬атАитАйare

┬атАитАйkeeping

┬атАитАйhim

┬атАитАйalive!

┬атАитАйHeтАЩs

┬атАитАйfucking

┬атАитАйalive,

┬атАитАйBrian!

┬атАитАйLook

┬атАитАй at

┬атАитАйthis

┬атАитАйplace!

┬атАитАйItтАЩs

┬атАитАйgot

┬атАитАйa

┬атАитАйlittle

┬атАитАйsoul,

┬атАитАйyou

┬атАитАйknow?

┬атАитАйItтАЩs

┬атАитАйnot

┬атАитАйa

┬атАитАйhospital

┬атАитАй room!

┬атАитАй/

┬атАитАйNot

┬атАитАйa

┬атАитАйscience

┬атАитАйlaboratory

┬атАитАйwith

┬атАитАйemergency

┬атАитАйshowers

┬атАитАйor

┬атАитАй anythingтАФ

┬атАитАй BRIAN HeтАЩd

┬атАитАйbe

┬атАитАйsafer

┬атАитАйif

┬атАитАйit

┬атАитАйwere.

┬атАитАй(Pause) And

┬атАитАйthe

┬атАитАйmoneyтАЩs

┬атАитАйgoing

┬атАитАйto

┬атАитАйrun

┬атАитАйout.

┬атАитАйThe

┬атАитАйmoney

┬атАитАйis

┬атАитАйrunning

┬атАитАйout.

┬атАитАй And

┬атАитАйthen

┬атАитАйweтАЩll

┬атАитАйbe

┬атАитАйin

┬атАитАйfor/

┬атАитАйa

┬атАитАйbumpy

┬атАитАйride.

SEAN

A

┬атАитАйtreat.

(Silence.

┬атАитАй

┬атАитАйSean

┬атАитАйbegins

┬атАитАйto

┬атАитАйput

┬атАитАйNathanielтАЩs

┬атАитАйviolin

┬атАитАйback

┬атАитАйin

┬атАитАйits

┬атАитАйcase)

24

ơ ǡ Ǥ (Brian

does

not

respond.)

Brian?

If

you

need

help—

BRIAN

ǯ Ǥ Ǥ ơ Ǥ (He

picks

up

a

fallen

sheet

of

music).

Actually,

fuck

it.

No,

I

don’t

appreci-­‐ ơ ǡ ơ Ǥ ǯ ǡ indulgent…fuckheads

of

the

world,

padding

your

pockets,

lin-­‐ ing

your

underwear

with

silk.

It

would

be

like

accepting

blood

money.

We’re

going

to

do

this

on

our

own.

Without

your

help./

We’re

making

it

out

alive

and

without

you.

SEAN What

I

do

is

important,

Brian!

People

come

up

to

me,/

after

shows,

with

tears

in

their

fucking

eyes,

you

know?

Life

is

utili-­‐ tarian…death

without

something

to

make

it

beautiful!

Some-­‐ thing

to

make

you

WANT

to

open

your

eyes!

BRIAN What

you

do

is

a

waste

of

time

and

a

waste

of

money.

Tell

me,

Sean,

how

much

did

that

conservatory

cost

you,

huh?

We

didn’t

have

that

kind

of

money

then,

and

we

really

could

have

used

it

now,

you

know?

But

I’m

glad

you’re

happy,

I’m

glad

you’re

enjoying

yourself

out

there.

SEAN What’s

the

point

if

you’re

not

enjoying

yourself

when

you

can?

Why

do

we

choose

to

live,

because

it’s

a

choice

you

know,

every

day,

if

not

to

enjoy

ourselves?

And

if

not

enjoying,

then

wres-­‐ tling

with

meaning,

truth,

beauty,

love—these

separate

us

from

ǡ Ƥ ǫ ǯ art

is—it’s

humanity!

And

your

son— BRIAN Do

you

know

what

I

did?

Do

you

want

to

know

what

I

voted

for?

Which

propositions

I

shot

down?

25

Brian,

your

son—

SEAN

BRIAN Yeah,

his

school,

my

son,

my

son’s

school,

is

out

of

money.

And

they

asked

us,

asked

me,

“What

do

we

cut?”

And

I

said,

“Cut

funding

to

the

arts/”

and

give

every

last

dime,

every

last

fucking

penny,

to

science.

SEAN These

programs—this

is

what

I

do!

Teaching

children

to

ex-­‐ press

themselves,

think

creatively,

feel

like

they

have

something

to

contribute

to

the

world,

a

soul

that

matters,/

thoughts

that

matter— BRIAN I’m

a

little

preoccupied

with

bodies

at

the

moment,

Sean.

Bod-­‐ Ƥ Ǥ SEAN Don’t

you

see

what

you’ve

done,

what

you’re

doing—how

can

anyone

solve

problems

without

creating—it’s

art,

Brian,

/it’s

all

art— BRIAN Your

schools

and

your

programs

will

come

back,

once

there’s

the

time

and

money

for

them.

We’re

giving,

everyone

in

this

town

is

giving

every

last

fucking

penny

to

science.

To

hospitals.

To

science

laboratories

and

/white

rats.

SEAN ƪ Ǥ BRIAN We’re

going

to

survive

this.

That’s

how

you

survive.

26

SEAN No

one

ever

said

surviving

and

living

are

the

same.

But

I’m

sure

you’re

thinking

of

cutting

English

programs

next,

so

pay

no

at-­‐ tention

to

that

distinction.

Just

pay

attention

to

yourself.

BRIAN Ǥ ǡ Ƥ one.

You’re

killing

me,

Sean,

/positively

slaying

me.

SEAN Well,

at

least

I’m

not

killing

your

son.

(Silence.)

I’m

going

to

go

make

dinner.

Bread

and

water

sound

good?

As

long

as

we

survive,

right?

(Sean

exits.)

EXCELLENT!

27

“Untitled�

by Barrie Sterling Barrie Sterling would like to change the title of this piece to "Title" Please make sure the change is made in the TOC, too!

Thanks!

28

They Took Dinah From the House of Shechem

by Tara Sonin I.

And

they

left My

father

exists

like

air

in

wind

chimes.

As

a

child

I

would

look

and

thinking

I

saw

Ƥ ǡ mossy

colored

teeth

and

cobwebs

of

hair,

I

saw

myself

instead: Ƥ ǡ and

would

walk

me

to

the

‘better

store’

on

Irving

Place

and

17th

Street,

across

from

the

statue

of

Washington

Irving,

whom

I

was

convinced

looked

just

like

him.

One

day

I

must

have

noticed,

walking

along

that

block,

years

after

the

lollipop

store

had

closed

down:

that’s

not

my

fa-­‐ ther.

That’s

some

other

man.

He

must

have

done

something

special

to

get

an

iron

statue

of

his

face

on

a

street

corner.

People

still

meander

up

to

the

entrance

of

the

Record

Hunter on

5th

Avenue

between

42nd

and

43rd

Streets.

They

pause

before

the

locked

door I

read

that

New

York

Times

article

maybe

twice

a

month.

Ƥ Ǥ He

is

as

he

was

when

they

wrote

it,

watching

him pack

up

his

life

in

boxes

sealed

with

duct

tape encased

in

cigarette

smoke

and

deteriorating

denim.

Watching

a

successful

man

with

a

beautiful

wife

lose

everything.

I

am

not

mentioned

in

the

article

but My

smiling,

bald-­‐headed

face

is

in

every

word Should

I

confess?

I’m

not

sure

if

I

am

what

made

him

want

to

live

29

or

if

I

was

the

distraction

that

caused

this

awful

mistake: my

mother

felt

a

cramp

and

in

his

haste, my

father

signed

an

incorrect

paper

or

checked

the

wrong

tax

bracket.

He

is

the

same

at

70.

We

sit

at

lunch

to

celebrate

his

birthday, and

I

see

doubt

in

burrowing

pleats

across

his

face.

He

is

keening

inside,

still

that

thirteen-­‐year-­‐old

boy

who

knocked

his

head

on

the

glass

mirror

in

Melvin

Blaustein’s

house, who

would

do

anything

to

please

his

father,

the

jukebox

man.

“Some

days

I

didn’t

think

I’d

make

it,”

he

says,

his

lips

curled

like

the

wetted

ends

of

an

envelope.

II.

Where

do

they

take

her? ƪ ǡ ơ Ǧ Dinah

is

left:

tethered

to

the

desert,

Her

ebbing

breath

beneath

the

pooled

waters

of

a

hot

spring ƪ Ǧ ǡ when

all

she

wanted

was

to

be

acknowledged.

I

used

to

have

this

dream

that

while

taking

out

the

garbage, I’d

see

these

strange,

dark

men

clumped

by

the

corner.

Afraid,

I’d

start

to

run

back

to

the

door but

suddenly

I

become

caught

between

entranceways: The

men

on

one

side,

howling–

my

father

on

the

other and

myself,

locked

between

them.

He

is

faceless,

but

I

recognize

him

immediately.

Crying,

begging

for

him

to

let

me

in:

unlock

the

door!

It

is

then

I

see

his

shackles:

chained

to

a

dream,

my

Jacob

just

stands

there,

ơ ǡ I

wake

up

before

Simon

and

Levi

can

drag

me

away: before

the

IRS

or

the

creditors

or

the

shame ruptures

us

any

further.

30

Untitled

by Sam Johnson City

lights

careening

past

a

screen

of

screaming

scenes

between

the

lines

Ƥ ǡ ǡ

to

the

sponging caress

of

the

loveless

test

of

time,

reeling

to

kneel

at

the

peel

of

a

shrill

bell. Ƥ Ǧ Ǧ in

the

kiln

of

my

killin’

with

a

soft-­‐mouth’d

villain, spraying

the

plague

of

rain

and

blame

to

shame

the

cranium’s

Ǣ free-­‐lancin,

dancin

about

silver

spindles

of

rhyme to

imbue

with

symbol

symmetry

that

spherical

time.

In

the

waste-­‐land

skyscraping

hands

abandon

their strands

of

peace for

incredible

grandeur of

light—the

refrain in

the

neon-­‐cold

night

turns

to

kaleidoscopic

fright, lurid

in

the

sea

of

removable

eyes and

loveable

though

lackluster

lives

the

city sleeps,

weeps,

in

the

cry

of

the

wind ƥ ǯ ǡ you

might

let

me

begin.

ǯ ǡ Ǣ

you

have

any

brain

at

all,

you’ll

know

that

nobody’s

sane.

Like

a

clockwork

mind,

I’ve

just

begun

to

unwind, creating

undulating

verse

so

full, meticulous,

blind

to

the

ridiculous,

the

rest

of

us always

seeming

to

get

the

best

of

us

are

wells

of

blasphemous

swells

of

hate—

Ǥ ǯ Ǣ Dz dz ǯ Ǣ sure,

you

can

make

a

foreign

call,

but

it

will

cost

more

than

Ǣ and

to

create

a

state

of

bliss,

what

will

we

miss,

but

our

time?

31

Ȅ Ƥ and

you’ve

discarded

baggage

of

the

simple

morals

you

brought.

Believe

in

death

and

you

die.

Believe

in

life

and

you

lie, between

the

seemly

and

the

seams

of

such

appearances,

cry ƪ and

though

the

sea

is

not

full, wail

to

the

moon

and

spill

your

tide

to

its

contemplative

pull.

Rearrange—rewind,

combine,

repeat,

and

entwine.

The

line Ƥ Ǥ Encircling

radio

waves

heave

upon

leaves

of

newspaper

reels and

eels

of

electric

thought

and

the

crowd

below

is bowing

in

collision

in

toiling

precision,

boiling

emission

of

howling

derision

and noise.

But

in

the

soft

light

of

lamps, away

from

mutinous

amps, a

candle

glows

a

knowing

glow ǡ ƪ Ǥ In

darkening

curtains

of

secrecy,

bending

together to

make

the

black

blanket

sky

close

and

the

seams

knit together, like

the

dilating

black

hole

of

that

wondrous,

curious

jet Ƥ ǡ into

the

stratosphere

of

night

with

cities

gleaming

below, like

little

stars

as

far

as

Mars in

blinking twinkling Inkling— But

Night’s

octopus

ink

is

seeping,

sweeping

the

thinking from

stinking ơ ǡ ǡ like

a

pillow-­‐lined

ceiling, reeling,

Kneeling

and falling to

sleep.

32

“Cold Radiance”

by Shaowei Wang

33

Between Dinner and the Show

by Kate Welsh Hannah’s

just

here

for

the

weekend,

so

we’re

walking

through

Times

Square

like

tourists,

and

I

am trying

to

give

the

illusion that

these

neon

lights

are

old news,

that

I

am

unimpressed by

billboards

bigger

than

buildings, that

I

don’t

notice

how

many

people

we

walk

straight

through.

My

blue

beret

does

nothing

to

cover

my

ears,

to

keep

the

cold

from

biting,

and

Hannah’s ơǡ she’s

from

Chicago,

that

this

cold

is

nothing.

The

red

steps

we

stand on

make

it

easier

to

pretend

it’s

warm—hot

even—so

we

take photos

of

ourselves,

like

everyone ǡ ƪ of

a

dozen

other

cameras

winking at

the

same

time.

We

go

inside

a

theatre to

ask

about

entering

the

ticket

lottery.

The

woman

you

can

barely

hear

behind

the

glass assures

us

it

won’t

be

a

problem to

get

seats.

“The

city,”

she

informs us,

“is

absolutely

desolate this

weekend.”

When

we

walk

outside we

are

spun

around

by

a

group following

a

women

in

a

yellow

hat

and

a

comedy

club

promoter

asks

if

we’re

Danish.

34

Allegory

by Katie McNeirney ǡ ơ Ǣ he,

protesting— “I’m

not

hungry,”

he

pleaded.

“Besides, I

don’t

know

if

I

believe in

sex

before

marriage.”

The

next

week,

they

went to

a

faux-­‐French

restaurant,

drank red

wine

and

white

and

he

hailed a

cab

and

they

stumbled

and

fumbled the

whole

way

home.

They

carried each

other

to

his

room

and

did

it on

top

of

the

rose

petals,

the

shattered wine

bottles,

the

still

burning

candles.

When

he

left

the

room,

she

took a

quick

swig

of

wine,

picked shards

of

green

glass

from

her

back,

and

pressed melted

wax

into

her

wounds.

35

“Mandril”

by Allyza Lustig

36

to saw a thought and take

by Rebecca Gray tastes

like

these

don’t

go

away

from

this

into

space

for

scrubbing

ribs

with

rain

and

be

looking

still

from

this

into

place

where

sounds

drying

out

make

me

want

to

shave

taste

buds

from

tongues

spoken

in

Papua,

New

Guinea

where

revenge

means

war

is

just

another

way

of

saying

desire

and

grief

taste

the

same

37

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