The Blue Pencil 2017

THE BLUE PENCIL 2017

THE MAGAZINE OF THE WRITING, FILM & MEDIA ARTS PROGRAM AT WALNUT HILL SCHOOL FOR THE ARTS

2017 THE BLUE PENCIL i

TABLE OF CONTENTS Texts Beckett Azevedo 3

85 Carlisle Road

Jordan Barrant 5 11

Goth Metaphors Old Poems

Odessa Ernst 12 Juice 13 Dichotomy

Tiger Ji 15 Dylan

Violet Maxfield 17 Batman 18 Pamela

Lucia Mulligan 20

Nothing Personal

Hannah Ortiz 21 24

Flash Sequence On Holiday

Kal Pillay 25 Typewriters

Mariah Rogers 28

The Mudroom

Harriet Rovniak 30

Faces Himself Personally

Chili Shi 31 33

Mothers in Hungary Wild Card

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Mia Swann 35

In My Day

Brianna Zúñiga 46 47

Hija de la Mía Daughter from Mine

Index 48

Images

Beckett Azevedo 2

Sofia Bant-Ugaz 4

Jordan Barrant 10

Ren Hanna 14

Ahmari Ly-Johnson 16

Karen Morey 19

Mariah Rogers 26

Harriet Rovniak 29

Chili Shi 32, 34

Brianna Zúñiga 44

Cover Art

Hannah Ortiz 2017 THE BLUE PENCIL iii

Faculty Advisors Margaret Funkhouser, Director, Poetry, Fiction, Nonfiction Stephen Lacy, Film, Media Ronan Noone, Playwriting, Screenwriting Holly Worthington, Photography The Blue Pencil is published by the Writing, Film & Media Arts (WFMA) program at Walnut Hill School for the Arts. WFMA is one of the five major arts disciplines at the Walnut Hill School for the Arts. WFMA offers a possibility-rich environment in which students can develop an original voice and vision. Through studio courses, practicums, and master classes with notable guest artists, students invest in the process of creating dynamic stories with words and images. Technique is woven seamlessly into the curriculum in classes such as fiction, screenwriting, poetry, and filmmaking. After being exposed to various mediums through core classes, students can shape their course plan based on their primary artistic interests. In all areas of study, supportive faculty help students cultivate the skills and habits necessary to approach their college pursuits with a creative and technical edge.

For more information, contact: Margaret Funkhouser Director of Writing, Film & Media Arts 508.650.5083 or mfunkhouser@walnuthillarts.org Design & Layout by Elizabeth Lynn Hall elizabethlynn.com

Walnut Hill School for the Arts Š The Blue Pencil 2017, Volume 82, No. 1 All rights reserved. No work is to be reprinted without written consent from the author or artist and from Walnut Hill School for the Arts.

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THE BLUE PENCIL 2017

2017 THE BLUE PENCIL 1

Photograph by Beckett Azevedo

BECKETT AZEVEDO 2 THE BLUE PENCIL 2017

85 Carlisle Road Orange wallpaper with quadrants, yellow flowers in each square. Light gray berber carpeting with red, blue, and green streaks within. A glass door, home to much of my facial oil, protects a wooden TV console. Five square drawers stretch the length of the console, house an endless supply of home videos—4H Camp ‘02 or Christmas ‘01. I am three years young, cursing my mother off with words from my father’s Budweiser cans.

A humble leather couch matches its loveseat, battle scars from a makeshift martial arts studio, jealous blood, siblings chase bodies not biology. Captain Morgan not decks of cards. Doors on three of the walls lead to a bedroom to a kitchen to a hallway. My mother changes our diapers on a storage chest, towels atop cleaner towels.

An upright piano, out of tune, practices “Chopsticks” for two months. Perpendicular to this my Christmas present: a brand new 88-key Casio keyboard—forever in tune. Wall without doors, three windows, sheer and stretchy polyester curtains own a distinct smell of dust and cigarette smoke. Even now lingers, the curtains don’t clue me with their whereabouts.

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Digital Still by Sofia Bant-Ugaz

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Goth Metaphors INT. STOCKROOM - AFTERNOON LILY (18), going through her rebellious goth stage is sitting on a flip out chair staring into nothing. A man sits across from her yelling at her sister, ANNE (27) who is sitting next to her. They are blurred out and their voices are loud but unheard.

LILY (V.O.)
 The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results. Albert Einstein.

CUT TO: INT. LOCAL MARKET - DAY In aisle 8 there are long shelves of makeup with faces popping out of them. Small mirrors line every foot of the aisle. Foundation spills out of plastic containers onto the carpet. Cracked blushes are mixed in with face washes. The containers are stained with finger prints. The ceilings are short and the shelves scrape the ceiling.

An old woman applies mascara, wincing as she stabs her eye. A dog is on a leash attached to the NYC section.

At the front of the store is MR. MICHAEL (42). His tall looming presence is diluted by his warm smile and bushy hair, rings out a newly single new mother holding her child. The mother attempts to pick up her bags.

Mr. Michael smiles at her, grabs her bags and walks with her out the store.

EXT. LOCAL MARKET - DAY Anne and Lily walk in through the front door, there is a double-sided security camera but no other security precautions. Anne begins wandering towards the cleaning supplies ANNE (mumbling) We need paper towels, shout, detergent...


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INT. LOCAL MARKET - DAY We follow Lily to aisle 8 directly in front of the security camera - where the magic happens.

Lily browses through the aisle, wiping her black lipstick off her teeth. The old lady waves at her. She walks past her towards a section of $1.00 lipsticks. She places her hands in her pockets to make more room.

She starts to snatch lipsticks, blue, green, red, yellow, purple, anything you could ever imagine. She shoves them in her pocket rapidly.

Lily looks around the aisle. The old lady is still struggling to apply her mascara, the dog is moaning quietly.

She looks at it, walks towards the Maybelline lipsticks. A shiny silver lipstick stands out, the only one left in its section. $13.99. So overpriced. She grabs it, places it in her shirt. A hand grabs her wrist. Who is it? The dog barks.

MR. MICHAEL Hey! What are you doing?

Mr. Michael stands before her. He puts his hand out for the lipstick. She slaps the lipstick in his hand, her rings scrape his hand.

CUT TO: INT. STOCKROOM - DAY Anne and Lily are sitting next to each other in fold-up chairs across from Mr. Michael. The $1.00 Lipsticks are neatly stacked on his desk, who knows how long that took.

MR. MICHAEL
 What are we going to do about this Lily! You’ve always been so good! Why would you steal?

ANNE (whispering to Lily) Lily these are so cheap, even I can afford them.

Lily looks into her lap. Anne wraps her arms around Lily attempting to comfort her.

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ANNE (CONT’D) Michael, I have to apologize for my sister, she’s going through her goth phase. Rebelling and stuff, you know how it goes.

MR. MICHAEL I do not.

Anne blinks at his unexpected response.

ANNE Well, she’s given you the items back so if you don’t mind we’ll just be going. And this will never happen again, right LILY? Lily fiddles with her fingers, her head remaining down.

MR. MICHAEL Well, she can’t STEAL anything if she’s banned from the store.

ANNE BANNNED! Are you kidding me? Where are we going to shop if she’s banned?

Anne takes her arms off Lily, begins pointing at Mr. Michael.

ANNE (CONT’D) I’ve been shopping here for MY ENTIRE life and you’re going to ban me from your store?

Are you kidding me?

MR. MICHAEL Maybe if you were focused on Misses Sticky Fingers over here.

ANNE Do not talk about my sister that way!

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MR. MICHAEL I’m only saying what I see.

Mr. Michael folds his hands in his lap - turns his swivel chair towards Lily. He motions to the lipsticks.

MR. MICHAEL (CONT’D) What would your mother think of this Lily?

Anne rubs her head; premature wrinkles line her forehead.

ANNE I took a law class in college and I’m pretty sure what you’re doing is illegal.

MR. MICHAEL And we all know your studying habits were never very good.

Anne’s mouth opens.

ANNE Well, I dropped it, but that is not the point.

MR. MICHAEL Okay well here’s the deal, these lipsticks, they’re now damaged. So, if you pay my fee we’ll just put her on probationary measures.

Anne whips out her pink polka dotted wallet from her purse.

ANNE How much?

MR. MICHAEL $300.00.

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ANNE Excuse me? I am not paying that!

Anne drops the wallet, Lily looks up, pulls her headphones from around her ears, takes out her phone, turns the volume all the way up.

SFX: Small Victories by Warm Brew begins to play SLOW MOTION MONTAGE: Anne wags her finger at Mr. Michael, he waves lipsticks at her, Anne stands up, Mr. Michael motions for her to sit down. He reaches in his desk - pulls out a calculator - begins typing. Anne hovers over him screaming. Anne sits back in her seat. He crosses his arms. She crosses her arms.

END OF MONTAGE. Anne nods, they’ve agreed on something...

INT. LOCAL MARKET - DAY Anne yanks Lily up, drags her out of the stockroom into the store, pulls out one of her headphones.

ANNE (CONT’D) 7.5 hours a week for a month.

Lily blinks.

ANNE You’re welcome.

Anne pivot turns - begins walking down the aisle.

CUT TO: INT. STORE - NIGHT Lily stands in the middle of the aisle mopping the floor. She stares at the back of the security camera, she passes the Maybelline silver lipstick she was eyeing before. Grabs it, shoves it in her pocket alongside the other lipsticks.

FADE TO BLACK.

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Photograph by Jordan Barrant

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Old Poems The attic of my mother’s childhood house, collecting dust, befriending the rats, retains a pile of notebooks. The words seep out, lines blend together from wear. Stick a perfume strip as a bookmark. Place it next to the princess Bible on the kitchen counter.

Frozen foods halfway down the aisle are enveloped by freezer burn. Take one, eat it in front of the tv as the baby cries in the foreground. A metaphor; a bottle of pills dumped down the pharmacy sink. A similes’ clean shirt at the bottom of the laundry hamper tossed in with the dirty clothes.

Wait at the bench to be called. A participation medal wrapped around my neck and it’s lingering green stain. Slide your khakis over chlorinated legs, the ones that are suddenly oversized. Another metaphor, lollipops fall off their sticks.

Borrowed pencils snap over weekly planners. A collection of hellos on the desk. The loading bar crashes my vintage computer. Stand in the art gallery admiring a small canvas with a penciled dot. That is anything, and it is everything.

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Juice Sirens call my tongue to taste the bittersweet poison orange. Heart racing, I lay in the casket dressed white for angels.

Demons take scars away. Citrus journeys down cracked spine.

Bloodshed over my third eye.

Minutes compress holes, gapes the light cannot reach. Each sip I am forced to take is a battle; full on genocide. War ships come to shores of ashes, golden like the hidden sun.

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Dichotomy A black butterfly floats above my head. It swirls around me like satin ribbon; flying perfect circles around my swollen heart. Its rings gauze slow scabbing skin.

My eyes settle, with dark skies they pronounce danger. I trip over uncemented cracks that seal with the red flush of my blue lips.

Tomorrow red will turn to brown, disappear on brick and reveal itself in rain. Our mother will wash the wreckage and keep my black wings under shelter.

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Digital Still by Ren Hanna

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Dylan You’re in Tangier.

She isn’t chill, But lives to be happy.

I linger here, only to hear.

A soft sundown.

My heart hears the way.

Way too soon.

The shadows leave remarks wasted.

Busy at dawn, I work the farm wearily.

You used to carry me home.

But just like that, I took my time to refuse.

When I’m invisible, I feel like stone.

Yet, you nor the lives of the jealous.

The outsider’s tongue lies.

To defend is to rise.

Once a doll, always a doll.

You don’t choose to be alright.

I am bleeding, Ma. You lay on the beach of Oklahoma.

I am bleeding, Ma. While the rest are good.

To be you is wonderful.

Is a warm excitement.

It is like falling from a height.

And the trembling singing a song.

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Digital Still by Ahmari Ly-Johnson

AHMARI LY-JOHNSON 16 THE BLUE PENCIL 2017

Batman COBY: I know. I know. But let me tell you, Joe, it’s been a long, long journey. As a little kid, I was always bullied. One kid saw my mask and started calling me names. They spread like wildfire around the school and I became a laughing stock. They would say awful things, those kids. Just awful, terrible, horrible, hurtful things. Buttercup, fringe god, sour tooth, gumdrop, forgetmenot, saltymoo, cough drop, avocado, floorboard, salt, pepper, salad dressing, flagpole, light kit. It was the worst. I always knew I was different. I always knew there was something . . . something burning within me.

Something wanting to just burst out! And then it finally did. Then it finally fucking did! Now I can soar high above those who wronged me! I use my power for good. But it’s something that took me long to do. It took me a long while to get here. And I get it, you like being bad. You think it’s cool to do bad things and get away with it. Do things that give you a thrill. But, man. Ohhhhh, man. Let me tell you something. If you are going to listen to anything I say, listen to this: the thrill is cheap. Soon enough you’ll be outta here, and what do you think is out there for you? What do you think?

Well, let me tell you it’s nothing quenched by stealing tests and punching freshmen. It’s something bigger than us all. Well, not bigger than me, actually. I’m Batman. So listen to me! If there’s anyone who can save you, it’s me. But you have to meet me halfway.

If I can get myself out of the hole I was in, I am confident you can get out of here, and find true success in your life!

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Pamela hell is brushing my teeth in your kitchen sink one million four thousand two hundred and forty-four endopterygota fly out from the drain they burrow in my subcutaneous layer slick with glee for their new apartment complex they weasel themselves in and my talkbox is shook, a tin-like licorice invading my buds one is named Wanda; she tells me she’s from Switzerland she whispers in my ear a stinking confession; one of wing antenna bloodbath — I love brushing my teeth in your kitchen sink your window faces the window of a large woman smoking a cigarette her name is Pamela and she’s from Texas leaves her window to nuke some Easy Mac I feel empty inside, I think where’d you go Pamela? I thought we were friends did you know that the length ratio of your thumb and pointer determine your personality traits? the equanimous man of the far upstairs leaves me like Pamela a robbery occurs; the moment is momentous and perfectly opportune for a second I put on my cape and soar over to the victim, grabbing the evil and smashing its head VMAX is back—a warrior by trade: she’s saving the world one civilian at a time her hair follicles are obsequious and her nail beds, well, they’re nothing other than waggish suddenly Wanda is back - saying the things only Wanda can - she says: “one day we will all fly out from the drain we are living in” I say yes, Wanda, and then we will die then squish her between my thumb and pointer

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Digital Still by Karen Morey

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Nothing Personal We sit in the sand, let the reeds wave overhead, next to plastic beach chairs that overlook the water. No couch cushions were safe from liquor stains. I was told not to wear black.

When I asked my dad if the jeans and t-shirt was okay he told me I looked just like her: beautiful. I changed into black. After the memorial, I sat on the dirt where the wooden bench swing used to hold us together, its arms were more worn than my own. I fiddle with the food in my lap, white paper plates and red solo cups she bought for her vodka and mixers, they weren’t used very often, she was more of a whole bottle lady. She was cremated. No one really wanted to see her addiction riddled eyes and yellowing lips. I thought she should’ve been thrown into the water. We had been there so long. Our history soothed her. That night flashlights spun in and out of vision, in her yard a garden of hydrangea ate us whole. The smell of hops and summer left our lips as clear as the humid summer air. I still sit on the reeds, wade into the water up to my knees. It’s the first place I remember being called beautiful. It’s the last place I remember her face.

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Flash Sequence Sleeping with the Fishes

The wind flicks at the air freshener hanging from Maricela’s mirror. Tito watches

the tree waver. The pine scent faded a while ago.

Maricela reaches over and flicks on the radio. Cymbals in the song crash together.

They pull into the gas station. Maricela unlocks the car door. Tito leaves the car to

cross over to the store.

He enters and strolls to the counter. A woman stands behind it. Her hair is a puffy

ball atop her head, like a cloud of dust.

“Cigarettes?” Tito asks.

The cashier raises an eyebrow. Tito sets a few crumpled bills on the counter.

She pivots and picks a carton off of a shelf. Tito’s eyes follow the dirt-streaked

counter down to a fish tank sitting at the far end. A speck of neon orange floats on the water’s surface.

He watches the fish’s body hang. The woman sets the carton on the counter.

“Hey,” says Tito. “That fish, it’s not moving.”

The woman grins, red lipstick smudged at the corners of her mouth. “It doesn’t

bother the rest of them.”

Tito thinks. His phone vibrates in his pocket.

A Sandwich

Bruno approaches her while she waits for the bus.

“Hey,” he says. “Do you want to come to my house?”

He’s heard the rumor and he’s not mad. She smiles.

“Sure,” she chirps.

They board the bus and sit together. He slips in earbuds and doesn’t speak to her.

But each time the wheels run over a pothole, their shoulders brush.

At his stop, she follows him into his house, then down the hallway to his

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bedroom. Clothes litter the floor like fallen leaves. Video game posters glint in light that shoves through the blinds.

There’s a television in the corner and a console connected to it. They play a few

rounds of a racing game before she determines that she’s too bad of a driver. He plays alone as she picks at the beige carpet. The television’s light cradles his face with blue.

“Hey,” Bruno says, still staring at the screen. “Can you make me a sandwich?”

She looks up.

Bruno says, “You can make yourself one too.”

Good Fortune

The curtain draped over the tent’s mouth is dyed violet. Glitter dusts the fabric and

lays in the pleats. Inside, pillows surround the fortune teller’s desk. Kelly plops down on one in front of the crystal ball. It lays on a cushion atop the table.

The smudged glass distorts the woman’s face. “It’s two tickets to look into the ball

and three for a palm reading,” she recites.

Kelly slips her the two from Brad.

The woman crouches forward and peers into the ball. Her brow furrows.

She glances at Kelly through the glass.

“Um, well.”

“What?” Kelly asks.

The woman predicts: “You will fall in love.”

Kelly frowns. “But I’m already in love.”

Outside on the boardwalk, Brad shifts from one foot to another.

“No,” the woman says. She shakes her head, hair moving as a languid shadow.

“She will have black hair and blue eyes.”

Kelly rises and tears out of the tent. Brad catches her by the shoulder. “Hey!”

he shouts, pulling her so she turns.

She glares at him. “It was just a fraud. That’s it, so stupid.”

Brad chuckles. “They always are.” He reaches for her hand. She intertwines

their fingers.

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Juice

Tyler sits in the leather passenger seat of his boss’s car. This morning, he’d mused

over his mug of black coffee that he’d have to carry Bryan’s golf bag around the course that day. Nothing more. But Bryan is now sauntering across the gravel of the parking lot, approaching the counter inside the convenience store, and asking for a bottle of apple juice.

Tyler examines his nails: clean, white horizons. He shows them to the mirror outside

the window. The image is closer than it appears. He can’t say that the bottom of the golf bag is as clean. It sits in the trunk, smudged with mud and sporting the confetti of freshly mowed grass.

The door to the driver’s side opens. Bryan slides into his seat. He hands Tyler the

juice. The bottle in his fist glistens with condensation. Tyler opens it and pinches around the cap, turning it until it loosens.

“That’s weird,” Bryan says, and Tyler glances at him. “My wife, she hates apple

juice. Says the smell makes her sick.”

Tyler removes the cap and brings the bottle to his mouth, drinking until it hollows.

Nothing in Color

They’re not the first to have the photos. Someone’s used a Sharpie to draw a slash over

each set of eyes. Just a black bar where Jonathan expected something to stare back at him.

He presses a fingertip to one of the faces. A flash has touched half of it. “Why’d

you take out the eyes?” he asks.

“I didn’t,” Will says. “They just came like that.”

He picks up a photograph and thumbs over rubble. The family stands in the center,

ankle-deep in a sea of crumpled stone.

“Well, someone did,” says Jonathan. He leans back in his chair, down an invisible

line. “It defeats the purpose.”

In the photo Will’s chosen, the boy’s arms peek out of his shirt, a flag of white.

He was once looking at something.

When Will sets the photo face down, he notices that the marker has bled through

the back.

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On Holiday He is a lie-down, another sheet

An icicle off the trim is a swan,

someone leaves atop this lilo.

folds back wings which glisten.

Sick pushes from the balcony

In the summer, mirages let us

of my mouth. He is immune,

lick water from the doorframe.

a bird over the hive of my head.

Of course, I want the refrigerator.

A bird that catches hums

I want to be on the milk carton,

in its lattice of talons. One day,

plastered and have you seen her.

my fingers wreath the doorknob.

But I hear him say: I didn’t see the man you saw. Did you? I am in the clutter of cacti on the sill, waiting for him to drop water.

Doors need push, never a pull.

That night, we pill dinner, let sediment grit our throats.

He wants a new house staked into the riverbank. I say I knew a girl who drowned on New Year’s Eve, bared her body before baptism’s silken kiss.

She launched at the first spritz of sparks. On him, the slides look best, the story I tell. Light follows the trip of fallen water. People punch at the water’s tin foil overcoat.

HANNAH ORTIZ 24 THE BLUE PENCIL 2017

Typewriters Not the actual machine, but the font It reminds me of old writers And dusty books that had the font Of libraries and philosophic writing And coffee on rainy days. It seems Oh, so clichĂŠ, but it looks novel Novel enough that everyone tries it Novel enough for everyone to try Typewriters are used by those who Want to seem old, an aged soul Just like the record player They want to reject their peers They want to go back in time Live in a simpler time, all time Is difficult, all time is weird People died then. People die now.

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MARIAH ROGERS 26 THE BLUE PENCIL 2017

Photograph by Mariah Rogers

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The Mudroom The woman wears faux leather black boots with four inch heels. She stomps on the slate tile kicking gravel into the grout. On the hardwood stairs sits a little girl, picking lint out of the matted Velcro straps of her light-up sneakers. The girl gazes off at the car keys hung by silver Command hooks stuck stickered to the wall. A set and a spare. She tries to stand but her khakis stuck to the polyurethaned steps.

Shelves sit built above the woman’s head. Planks of driftwood hang bolted into the eggshell colored wall. They support clear Sterlite boxes packed with snow proof footwear. Gloves, hats, and hand warmers that look like tiny bean bags lie in an old orange crate. The little girl’s aunt and uncle live in Florida and like to send oranges during Christmas time. They taste seedy and rotten by the time they made it to Connecticut. The crates are more of a gift than the oranges.

Below the shelves sit rows upon rows of black boots. Most with a heel, five inches or more.

The leather warped by many trips to the bus stop and mailbox during snowy winter seasons.

The toe on most of the boots comes to a sharp point. The quiet woman stands holding a pink backpack with initials sewn into the front pocket. In her other hand, a matching lunchbox, with a Purell hand sanitizer attached to the zipper. The quiet woman does not enjoy flu season.

The girl stands and grabs her camelback water bottle, but looks down disappointed when she notices it is missing a straw. Tiny specks of white are falling onto the ground and her shoulders. She looks up and sees the popcorn ceiling deteriorating, too expensive and messy to remove. A welcome home sign sits crooked on the wall.

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Digital Still by Harriet Royniak

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Faces Himself Personally Your foot hits a fist, but as far as I can see, no morning.

A sharp pain tastes like a pinch of salt in the deafening wind, tastes like the deafening wind.

Those days he reaches higher than the tree tops, but not that high.

Be careful, ‘cause if you hit like a man, the earth will stop spinning.

The heart of masculinity is a blinding personality. A man unable to face himself personally.

Faces himself personally, but the eyes of love glaze over with anxiety. He wonders what would happen if the unsatisfactory people become satisfactory.

L’habit ne fait pas le moine.

The clothes do not make the man.

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Mothers in Hungary When the children ask for their father, it is not in Chinese. In the kitchen: Kinder Tojรกs, Nutella, the ingredients for gulyรกs. The traces you left are frozen dumplings your children make faces at. Pink steam rises out of other houses on Kakukk street. You long to catch the villamos back to Four Tiger Marketplace, where the Cantonese lilt welcomes you and rice cookers are cheap. No longer needed, disposed by Zsรณfi, the Hungarian nanny with skin light as stars. You consider the shoe-shine clementines for Spring Festival; not celebrated

by Xinyi and Yuan, who have long changed their names to Kriszti and Jen. Glazed plates of china with blue dragons, smashed one by one. They sit in the sandalwood cabinet. After, you stopped collecting antiques. The living room crowded by huanghuali pianos, red-faced buddhas patting overfed, lucky bellies. When the landlord comes, his gaze sweeps down his tall nose. Carved Guanyin Pu Sa narrows her unseeing eyes. Guilt: Your bodhisattva, Goddess of Mercy, unsatisfied.

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Photograph by Chili Shi

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Wild Card I, alone between corridors, dust elephants and imaginary friends, speak condescendingly to the TV each day. I seem to have grown.

And you haven’t. August: blistering heat permeates our sour pork mornings, drops of sun hiss to vapor on grease-stained tiles. Street corners chip and fade, dip to black, take tenants with sun. We are all gray. Schmuck and fumes. Urban Pest dreams in rose-colored phantasmagoria; mahjong parties on felt, on blackened cigarette butts. Gutted fish sleep in curling, wee-hour smoke. I strike lucky, drown in anonymity. The Danube drives, it builds us into corners.

Dad points: Gothic Revival, neo-Classical, Romanesque, Baroque.

I clap car accident, sing Molotov cocktail, jam drive sprocket. This car of loose eyes roams emerald hills unheard, unseen. It’s silent.

We play Hungarian lectures that sail over our heads, nip us with white noise. We let Bartók or Lajtha string us sideways, lose us in pronunciation. We hum, swirl gas station espressos and croissants.

In the back seat, an unread Magyar Hírlap carries the news: Where’d you get that haircut?

And who are you?

Wild card. Wild card.

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Photograph by Chili Shi

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In My Day INT. JAN’S BEDROOM - DAY SYDNEY (17) sits in a chair next to her mother’s bed. They are in the only home Sydney has ever known, with cream walls and outdated furniture. Her mother, JAN (53), is lying down, she looks tired and sickly but tries to keep up with her daughter and listens to her as she speaks with enthusiasm.

SYDNEY And when the teacher handed me back the paper I was so sure it was gonna be below 80, a C. But it wasn’t! It was a 92. Mom, I had to resist the urge to jump up in joy because I know Anna got another D, seriously she needs to get it together.

JAN And uh, what about the dance? Have you found a dress?

SYDNEY I’ve been looking online, there’s a few I liked. I also don’t have a date. I think it’ll just look stupid if I went alone. I don’t know, I might just not go.

JAN What’s wrong?

SYDNEY With me? Nothing, really.

JAN Honey, I can tell something’s on your mind – spill.

SYDNEY I guess, we now know, times running out, and in class the other day there was a discussion about our parents and all these people were talking about things their parents did when they

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were young and what they were like and it got me thinking. I don’t know anything about you, like what you were like and/ JAN Oh, right. Well if I’m being honest, I was definitely not a role model.

SYDNEY Well, what did you do? Were you a party type?

JAN Party? You could say that.

Beat.

Jan smiles, she’s remembering her past.

JAN (CONT’D) I had this friend, her name was Andy, if anything she was an enabler. I remember when I first met her.

FLASHBACK TO: INT. CORNER STORE - DAY JAN (V.O.) I was working at my grandparents’ small store on the corner of a street.

A younger JAN (17) sits at the counter, she clicks at the old style computer in front of her. There is no one is in the store and it is silent, apart from the loud tapping and clicks of the keyboard and mouse.

JAN (V.O.) I think the years were getting to them and my parents decided that to give them the breaks they needed I would step in every now and then. It was a quiet afternoon, if I’m completely honest that store was always quiet. No one really knew it was there. And so, on this quiet afternoon

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this girl comes in, I remember her brown frizzy hair, tied up in a scrunchie and her bright lipstick. I had seen her at school, before, but not this close.

The door rings as a tall girl, this is ANDY (17), waltzes in with bright clothes and an attitude.

JAN (V.O.) She walked straight to the back of the shop and it seemed that even though it may have been her first time in the store, she knew the place inside and out.

The girl walks back over to the counter holding a bottle of alcohol in one hand and a candy bar in the other.

When she gets to the counter she puts them both down in front of young Jan. YOUNG JAN No. No way.

ANDY Excuse me?

YOUNG JAN You can’t buy that, not here ANDY A candy bar?

YOUNG JAN No, not the candy bar, the alcohol.

ANDY Why not?

YOUNG JAN You’re underage.

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ANDY How do you know?

YOUNG JAN I, well, it’s obvious. You look/ ANDY Are you serious? You’re making assumptions based on how I look.

JAN (V.O.) I thought she was crazy.

YOUNG JAN You’re crazy.

They both pause for a moment.

YOUNG JAN (CONT’D) We go to the same school. And I can’t sell this to you, I’m only 17.

ANDY The candy bar? Girl calm down.

YOUNG JAN No, the, are you kidding me? Why do you even want this?

ANDY Party, tonight, it’s Andrew’s are you coming?

YOUNG JAN No, I wasn’t invited.

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ANDY Well, now consider yourself invited.

JAN (V.O.) And that was the first encounter I ever had with Andy, we still try and stay in touch. I haven’t seen her in a while, I think she’s living out in California or something. Definitely one of those pop culture types.

CUT TO: INT. BEDROOM - DAY JAN Obviously, I didn’t give her the drink, though I did sell her the candy bar.

SYDNEY What about the party? Did you go?

JAN I didn’t plan on going.

FLASHBACK TO: INT. JAN’S HOUSE - DAY Jan sits on her sofa underneath a blanket, watching TV with a bowl of popcorn. The doorbell rings and she forces herself from the couch to the door. At the door is Andy.

JAN (V.O.) I don’t know how, but she knew my address. And so she showed up at my house that night in her car. I was really not dressed for a party.

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ANDY You look gross. Did you forget about the party?

YOUNG JAN No, I just figured I didn’t have a ride so I couldn’t go.

ANDY Well, now you have a ride, at least for the trip there.

JAN (V.O.) So, I took her upstairs to my room, I let her make me over into I guess someone else and we left for the party.

CUT TO: INT. BEDROOM - DAY Sydney is staring at her mom in awe.

SYDNEY Wow, mom, I don’t think I could ever imagine you actually going out and doing something fun.

JAN Hey! I mean, I was surprised too. But Andy she had this thing about her. She was, I guess ‘cool’ and teen me really wanted to be just like her. So yes, I went to a party.

FLASHBACK TO: EXT. ANDREW’S (LARGE) HOUSE - NIGHT The two girls pull up at Andrew’s house. There are people everywhere, the music is loud and there is crazy bright lighting. Jan steps out of Sydney’s car, her hair is curly and big, she too is wearing a scrunchie and a bright red shade of lipstick, a mirror of Andy.

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ANDY So, I’m guessing this is your first party?

YOUNG JAN No, I’ve done this so many times before.

ANDY No, you haven’t. So just some information, find me if you run into an emergency, keep your cup in your hand! And finally have fun, no one likes a party-pooper.

YOUNG JAN Okay ANDY Okay?

Andy smiles, she starts dancing, holding Jan’s hand and making her move with her.

YOUNG JAN Okay Jan smiles too and dances with Andy. They join the crowd of people who greet them with a red cup and a “heyyy”.

JAN (V.O.) And that was my first party.

CUT TO: INT. BEDROOM - DAY SYDNEY First?

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JAN Yes, that implies it wasn’t the only. I, your boring mom did party. A lot actually.

Jan sits up in her bed.

JAN (CONT’D) Hey can you grab something for me?

SYDNEY Yeh mom, what do you need?

JAN In my closet, there is a box, it’s small and has some random stickers on it. It might be under some books. I don’t know, have a look.

Sydney stands up and walks over the closet, she slides open the door and sifts through various items of clothing, shoes and photographs. Finally, she pulls out a small cardboard box and brings it over to her mother.

SYDNEY Is this it? Kinda dusty, have you cleaned?

JAN Ha-ha very funny. Look, I did keep some memorabilia from my past.

SYDNEY Yeh, your party past.

Jan opens the box and takes out one scrunchie and lipstick.

JAN Okay so I need you to do something for me.

SYDNEY What’s that?

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JAN Grab a girlfriend and dress up. Go crazy You don’t need a boy and you don’t have to impress any boys. Go to the dance and have a good time.

Beat SYDNEY Mom. JAN And don’t drink. I know what I just told you, but don’t drink.

SYDNEY Thank you.

CUT TO: INT. SYDNEY’S ROOM - DAY Sydney sits at her dresser. She is wearing a black dress, pictures of her mom are spread around her desk.

Her dad knocks at her door.

SYDNEY’S DAD Okay, we’re leaving in five. Come down to the car when you’re ready.

SYDNEY Okay.

She opens up one of the draws of the dresser and takes out a lipstick, her mother’s colour, and applies it.

She puts it in her purse, ties her hair up in a scrunchie and leaves.

END

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BRIANNA ZÚÑIGA 44 THE BLUE PENCIL 2017

Photograph by Brianna Zúñiga

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Hija de la Mía La noticia vino por partida doble.

Las mujeres, atraz quintas con verjas, salieron con cambio en bolsilla, esperando el regreso de nuestras.

Yo sé donde está mi hija, enterrada entre río mi búsqueda como Abuela de Playa del Mayo, un punto de interrogación trabada en sepulcro.

Por inmortales distancias, caminamos no en el cuadro, sino entre desiertos extranjeros a tí, voz alta. Ambladura con la sensación que estás cerca.

Cada jueves te veía, nieta mía sin saber tu sangre. Los siete años silenciosos, ya son mi entraña. Casi invisible en tu villa débil, la tercera te encontrará.

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Daughter from Mine The news came twice – double-entry.

The women, behind iron fences, exit with change in pocket, awaiting return of ours.

I know where my daughter is, buried between stream my quest, as Abuela de Playa del Mayo, a question mark inscribed in sepulchre.

For immortal distances, we walked not in the quad, if not in between deserts foreign to you, amble with the sentiment that you are near. Every Thursday, I saw you, kin of mine without cut of your blood. The quiet seven years have become my chine. Almost invisible with your fragile shack, the third will find you.

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Index 88-key Casio keyboard, forever in tune, 3 Ashes, golden like the hidden sun 12 Berries, plastic, 2 Buddhas, patting overfed bellies, 31 Coffee, burnt, 16 Crates, more of a gift than oranges, 28 Cushions, not safe from liquor stains, 20 Family, in a sea of crumpled stone, 23 Fingers, wreathing the doorknob, 24 Fire, fluid, 34 Fish, sleeping in the wee-hour smoke, 33 Foods, enveloped by freezer burn, 11 Foot, resting, 27 Furniture, outdated, 35 Girl, dripping in sun, 10; drowned on New Year’s Eve, 24; picking lint, 28 Graves, polished, 32 Hands, combing, 19 Legs, chlorinated, 11 Licorice, tin-like, 18 Lips, blue 13; yellowing, 20; two-toned, 44 Mother, newly single 5 Nails, like white horizons, 23 Names, spreading like wildfire, 17 Nanny, with skin light as stars, 31 Pain, tasting like a pinch, 30 Phantasmagoria, rose-colored, 33 Scourge, blue, 14 Shack, fragile, 47 Shadows, leaving remarks wasted, 15 Soul, aged like the record player, 25

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Speck, floating, 21 Straps, velcro, 28 Sundown, soft, 15 Thread, spiraled, 4 Thrill, cheap, 17 Towels, atop cleaner towels, 3 VMAX, warrior by trade, 18 Wig, aglow, 29 Women, behind iron fences, 47 Wrinkles, premature, 8

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