Blueprint Issue 10 by Blueprint Magazine

Who We Are Blueprint Literary Magazine (est. 2010) is a student-produced literary magazine at the University of Michigan. We annually publish original writing and art from across the UM and Ann Arbor, including poetry, fiction, photography and art. Our mission at Blueprint is to promote artistic diversity and foster creative expression. To that end, we seek submissions from across all schools and majors, as well as from the greater Ann Arbor community, for inclusion in our magazine.

Editorial Board Editor in Chief Natasha Gibbs Vice President Katelynn Mulder Layout Chair Rachel Rettie Submissions Chair Naitian Zhou Assistant Submissions Chair Aly Gessner Secretary Tanuja Tase

Cover Images mm. mushroom MUSH. ROOM yehaw by Vellia Zhou

Social Media & Events Chair Vellia Zhou Treasurer Sam Mathisson

Our Team Aly Gessner Natasha Gibbs Jacob Hook Dylan Kaufman Sam Mathisson Katelynn Mulder Ajay Pillay Theo Polling Naitian Zhou Vellia Zhou

©2021 The written and visual contents (“Work”) of Blueprint Literary Magazine are protected by copyright. Third parties (persons other than the original author) may not reproduce Work published in Blueprint without first obtaining written permission from the author. Under all circumstances the author retains rights to reprint, publish, license, and/or sell their

Special Thanks To ArtsEngine Arts at Michigan University of Michigan CSG University of Michigan Engineering CSG University of Michigan College of Engineering Office of Graduate Education

Letter From the Editor Hello, and thank you for picking up a copy of Issue 10! Blueprint has been around for a decade now, and we’re celebrating with one of my favorite collections of art and writing so far. For our theme this year we optimistically landed on Healing; the pieces in this edition start out in a dark place and finish in a light(er) one – a path I imagine we’d all like to take as we leave 2020 behind. If you felt lonely standing at your kitchen sink this year, found company in your own shadow, or missed a distant family and home, this magazine is for you. I hope that one day we can all channel the same inner peace and sense of identity as are held by the mushroom in a cowboy hat.

Natasha Gibbs Editor in Chief

Table of Contents Page(s)

Title

Artist

Medium

one in the morning a week after classes are cancelled due to covid-19

Ari Coester

Poetry

Classics

Katherine Qiao

Ink

Rubber Duck

Hannah LevineDrizin

Collage

The Sink

Willa Hart

Poetry

Things That Connect Us

Katherine Qiao

Ink

It’s War, Coward

Natasha Gibbs & Grace Guthrie

Collage

Bad Things Happen in Philadelphia

Phoebe Chase

Poetry

11-14

Unprecedented Times

Rachel Rettie

Digital

11-14

Whose America

Susan LaMoreaux

Poetry

15-16

Hypocrisy

Daniela Butkovic

Poetry

Fight Me!

Katherine Qiao

Ink

Family Reunion

Rachel Rettie

Collage

18-19

Nighthawks

Aly Gessner

Prose

20-23

Blood Moon

Susan LaMoreaux

Poetry

Dark Moon Rising

Ryan Adkins

Mixed Media

Ready For The Taking

Courtney Eberlein

Poetry

A Great Sacrifice

Courtney Eberlein

Poetry

My Shadow

cherilee

Poetry

Day Off

Hope Mao

Digital

Uncomfortable Poses

Alejandro DerieuxCerezo

Poetry

Dogs

Hannah LevineDrizin

Collage

31-34

A Troubled Soul in Six Fareah Fysudeen Parts

Poetry

35-38

The Man From White Cat River

Tom Madigan

Prose

EARTHBOUND the 13TH

Ryan Adkins

Mixed Media

Page(s)

Title

Artist

Medium

Vellia Zhou

Embroidery

Geography Flame

Tahani Almujahid

Poetry

41-44

Stones Between Us

William Crenshaw

Prose

4 43

Purple Haze in the Motor City

Ryan Adkins

Mixed Media

45-46

Mother Nature Healthy / Mother Nature Poisoned

Sierra Iverson

Mixed Media

47-48

to get your attention one last time

Tahani Almujahid

Poetry

49-53

Rainbow Paradise

Dylan Kaufman

Prose

MARIO 2600

Ryan Adkins

Mixed Media

53-54

Lines Of A Circle

Eric Stillman

Ink

55-56

Somewhere in Dearborn, MI

Tahani Almujahid

Poetry

57-60

Parineetha

Sandhya Srinivasan

Prose

CEBU in my Heart

Ryan Adkins

Mixed Media

Cake Break

Hope Mao

Digital

Rule #1: Be From Her Planet

Tahani Almujahid

Poetry

63-66

Dear Delhi

Sandhya Srinivasan

Prose

American Dhulan

Riya Aggarwal

Mixed Media

Galaxy Beta

Ari Coester

Digital

Temporal

Sam Mathisson

Poetry

69-72

My Name is Minette

Theo Poling

Prose

HINDSIGHT IS ___

Katherine Qiao

Ink

73-76

The Gardener and the Fisherman

Katy Rose

Prose

Dark Humor

Katherine Qiao

Mixed Media

Grow

Katherine Qiao

Mixed Media

The Trees

cherilee

Poetry

Covid Safe Dogs

Hannah Levine-Drizin

Collage

Breakout Star

Naitian Zhou

Poetry

81-86

Tin Foil

AK Berry

Prose

Old Grandpa Pumpkin

Katherine Qiao

Ink

MUSH. ROOM

Vellia Zhou

Digital

87-90

The art of words

wlod

Poetry

87 & 90

Mm. mushroom

Vellia Zhou

Embroidery

91-94

Paper Worlds

Tanuja Tase

Prose

Yeehaw

Vellia Zhou

Digital

Paper For Pencils

Glenn Taylor

Poetry

Stop looking at me...

Vellia Zhou

Embroidery

Lone Tree

Glenn Taylor

Photography

An Ending

Claire

Poetry

Celebratory Dogs

Hannah Levine-Drizin

Collage

one in the morning a week after classes are canceled due to covid-19 by Ari Coester

in our dorm lounge someone leaves behind a bao bun i cleave it in two hand you my one spare fork we dig in to slightly sweet dough pork drenched in soy sauce even though we are both vegetarians in these days we waste nothing afterwards you wash the forks as always yet i’m still surprised, grateful (and only slightly jealous of them being held in your strong hands) a quick shake to dry no excess movement in these days we waste nothing or at least try not to as we talk you lay your hand on the table but i do not take it

Classics

by Katherine Qiao

Rubber Duck

by Hannah Levine-Drizin

The Sink

by Willa Hart After Wendy Cope’s “The Orange” Today I arrived home from work And found the kitchen sink dirty. I forgot I hadn’t cleaned it this morning: I woke late, and left in a hurry. Tonight I set down my bag, and picked up a sponge, then ran water and poured soap. I scrubbed my lone plate, my lone spoon and lone fork, And laid them on my counter’s blank slope. It’s been a long time since I saw you; I thought of that, as I stood at the sink. My white cupboards sometimes feel too empty I miss using your mug for my drink.

Things That Connect Us

by Katherine Qiao

It’s War, Coward.

By Natasha Gibbs and Grace Guthrie

10 She will be outstanding, And we have the right to do it. We should Strip Her Rights that she thinks She has. She said We’re “Totally wrong.” That’s simply not true. I am Going to dominate you, You know that. “How many have survived?” “Is It Going to end?” Look, hey. I’m not going to listen.

Bad Things Happen in Philadelphia by Phoebe Chase This poem is based on this exchange at the first presidential debate in the 2020 general election between Donald Trump and Joe Biden, along with the fact that both of these candidates have been accused of sexually assaulting women. The words are taken from their mouths in the debate transcript, but reimagined in light of this. The line breaks show that each line is from a different sentence. The full transcript is about 40 pages and if you scroll through it you will see the red words that have been taken out and modified into this poem.

Look here’s the deal. I’m going to get very lucky tonight.

scan me to read more!

And I’m going to make sure Everybody knows You’re the liar. As you might know but probably don’t, They’ll blame me. So we do want to get rid of that and give something that’s cheaper and better. “Please” Will you shut up? The people understand. It is what it is because you are who you are. That’s the way it is, unfortunately. But let me just say something. I don’t care.

Whose America

By Susan LaMoreaux I catch my attention on beds of roses, purple things— the cold has taken it out of me. Did you really believe the first frost would make us see red? Don’t trust anything you hear now. Just wear your mask, the fancy one from Asia, all the characters to mark their meaning. Pretty, until you put it on. Girl, you thought it was so simple. Get off the pill and get something longer-lasting. Well, you thought

12 an IUD would save you but what if there’s no clinic in your city? Like, do you even want to have his baby? It’s yours because you choose it? And they say condoms work great too. 7am and Siri tells me someone’s in the lead. Not what I wanted to hear, okay. Not in this place, where golden sun glances off the water, holds the moon, surrounding everything. These trees are going bare as winter comes. And look at you, taking to the streets with your guns. God, sometimes I envy you. Just turn off all human compassion. How can you not pity the people trapped in food deserts, stuck trading dirty needles and their STIs and custody? This is what victory looks like? Stars opened the horizon after last night’s dusk. I walk outside, surrounded by so many other citizens, poll workers in our KN95s and face shields, breathing the fresh air. The sound of ballots (thirty-seven thousand) ringing off the cafeteria walls. Eighteen-thousand left to go. The moon waits just above my car, one corner missing. She keeps trying to tell me something, but I can’t hear her for the noise. So many texts I didn’t see. You know we are giving our lives for this?

Detroit wakes up again and keeps on counting. They said in Pittsburgh, white poll watchers stood over the black workers holding guns. So slavery isn’t dead? Those same people once brought here to pick cotton in the fields now grow hemp in their basement aquaponics and keep democracy alive. Did you know they are our nation’s best hope to have a future? Which one makes people put away their guns and stop the civil war before it starts? I am so angry, but it’s on your behalf. I would fight you, bitch, if only I had body armor, too.

In the morning sunlight, swans Unprecedented Times unfurled their wings and turned By Rachel Rettie to angels on the water. Maybe they are the ones who carry our new beginning. One chance to start over, try again. You can’t keep the country in its old world ways; the narrative won’t play, here. I see the seams of fire all along the edges of just everything you say. It waits, now, to surround you, catching everything in golden gas flames. I hope it takes you all down with it, all your money and your mansions. This is what democracy looks like when it works. And we’ve already won.

Hypocrisy

By Daniela Butkovic What is more human than hypocrisy? That unexplainable urge That twists thoughts Murders memories And makes demons of our desires That promise of pride That allows apathy To seep in our souls And our every broken breath Leaving us lying lifeless Unable to escape this earth Filled with our failures And reminders of the ruin We have created for our own corpses

That wish for a world Free of the fear Of creeping contradictions And deceitful despair Lurking beyond the light And hiding just down the hall To mutilate our minds

That latent lie Disguised as trivial truth That invites ignorance And watches with sadistic satisfaction As we damn ourselves to destruction Blind to our own blasphemy Until our final fate arrives

That gruesome gift Of vile victory And orchestrated opulence That kills our knowledge And assassinates our awareness Before slinking off into the shadows So nobody notices The devastating damage Wrought willingly By humanity on its own heart

Fight Me

By Katherine Qiao

Family Reunion By Rachel Rettie

Nighthawks

by Aly Gessner Inspired by Edward Hopper’s “Nighthawks” (1942) “Getting late, you know.” No matter the bar, the man behind the counter’s voice always sounded just the same. Tonight was Phillies. Tomorrow might be somewhere else. “Closing soon.” It was always late and the bar was always closing but the nights were all the same. Midnight to one minute after, the day might change but the night sky did not and neither did the patrons or the newspaper in front of him. He swore he read the same pages every night, the same political jargon, the war abroad. The only change between the days was he switched his whiskey to a strong black coffee, no cream, no sugar. Across the counter were a couple, their words flat as two strangers, the only sound in

the bar yet he did not hear a word. wJust the stillness, the silence, the same. A night like any other, a night he would forget. “Getting late, you know.” The bartender dressed in white wiped a dirtied white dishrag against a white mug stained red. “Closing soon.” Closing soon. It wouldn’t matter when she left or where she went. The smoke trailed from the end of her cigarette, dancing in pretty little lines across the counter, drifting away from one another until they disappeared into the nothingness and somehow the smoke felt closer to her chest than any of the strangers by the bar. It wouldn’t matter if she went home. Her husband wouldn’t know—he was across the ocean. She didn’t even love him. She wasn’t wearing his ring. The man beside her was tall and dressed in dapper blue and

she wore red and with the white coffee mugs they may as well reflect the flag for which they’d sold away their lives. His left hand was bare of any band; she crept her fingers towards his. “Getting late, you know.” Those words again. “Closing soon.” Getting late. If only it were later. If only it were the summer again, some years down the line, and the sailors had come home to their wives and the war was done and nothing but a memory they tried to forget but no one ever would. If only. He looked too far into the future. His mother always called him idealistic but he knew that wasn’t true. There just had to be something. Something down the line, something good, something to make his measly existence worth anything at all, and if there was nothing in the present then there was no reason to breathe if not to look towards the future. If only his heart was stronger he could be overseas. If only he weren’t so tongue-tied he could bear a son who might make his father prouder than he ever could. If only the woman beside him could even

stand to look his way. He must reek of it, inadequacy. If only. “Getting late, you know.” He said the words without thinking, a voice he knew his own yet speaking without his control. “Closing soon.” He’d said the words a thousand times before, wiping the dish towel against the last white mug when whiskey had turned to coffee and the night turned to morning and in only a few hours the sun would rise and all would start again. Closing soon, the bar would never close and anyone would know if they’d ever taken the time to stay. It merely hesitated in the earliest hours, settling in the stillness of a gray dawn. He’d return to his one-room apartment upstairs, drop his jacket on the ground and put it on again in the morning, the wrinkles still present and the customers none the wiser. If they cared they didn’t show it, and if they showed he didn’t care. He was getting tired now, tired of all of it. If only the last few nighthawks would leave the bar.

20 Blood / Lollipop, lipstick, the color that you find between your legs. Sunsets that burn hot or a gash, an open wound. Goose down falls over the open water, changing like the early snow. You sons of bitches, I want to tell them. Don’t accost me on the street like this. I carry my keys in my hand, lock the car door right away, text my boyfriend when I’m home. I swallow these pills like tiny moons. Don’t you dare take my body away from me. I see your eyes on me following my movements from across the room. There was a choice of pebbles cast across a quiet pond, breaking up the surface of the moon. Into this silence you swallowed my tongue and stole my voice. I wear your bruises as a battle scar.

Blood Moon

By Susan LaMoreaux

For what, now? There’s no chance that you will ever bleed. It doesn’t matter when the bright sunset and the lipstick, the lollipop trees will not reflect themselves all down your thighs. I think it’s only fitting, now. I want to try it again.

/ Moon Leaves shot through with light remind me I am not ready for your name. These shorter mornings dawn in chaos, aching for a new reality, the type of truth we cannot run from. Autumn mornings don’t leave room for grace. The cold has taken it out of me, beating against my head like bird’s wings, deaf and blinding. Wool socks and steam, everything ending. Outside, broken gardens littered with stems, dry bones bent in frost. My body holding on to frigid nights, stars scattered in my thighs, frost freckling my hands and wrists, capturing my ribs. I thought I was safe here, with you. Your hands just warm enough to melt my edges, heal my body where it aches and changes, curves like autumn. The woods are a place that we enter and leave, reminding us that we are alive… Cattails smoke into the dying light, edged and glassy, caught for a moment between blossom and destruction. I wonder if that’s

what ovaries look like, blown in the spark of time between egg white and the dark moon. Your cover like a sunburst, waiting to open and catch me unawares, pretending I was ready for it. Call me back into the darkness; there exists a world where stars stopped falling down to grace my body with their pain. I say to you now that I claim myself. All around us, creatures of the wood come out to die. All hiding places yield to this full moon. / Womb \ When you view it from above it doesn’t look the same. Those brick walls, windows like prison bars. I remember a promise high in this fluorescent room, a woman saying you are capable of this yet still my body chose to betray me. Maybe there’s a sea change coming. I feel it in the trees, so many pines all

ready for the frost. It’s coming in cold nights and the way you look at me, all patience gone, now, seeing only the things that you want to believe. You don’t know how they scraped me open, scalpels, dilators and ultrasound all vying for position deep inside. I wish I could tell you not to worry. I balance bright stars on my fingertips, bubbled in plastic pockets, waiting to crinkle open. My angels and my demons watch as I swallow the first one. And the sun is relentless in her setting. I want to hurt myself. I want to be so gentle. Why the hell is it my fault? I think I feel her shifting: my body asking questions, changing plans. A slow trickle down my bloodstream, through my arteries. It still feels the way the night falls early. Sometimes, there’s no moon. I blink and remember fluorescent lights, all that’s left to face these darker days. I wonder if if I’m not careful I’ll find myself back there again.

Dark Moon Rising By Ryan Adkins

Ready for the Taking By Courtney Eberlein

A hollowed corpse, A slurried mind, Head thumping along Every divot and stone, Swaddled in a crisp white tarp, A child enters the world In a bed of brittle bones. Budding flesh swollen Beneath the mud and blood Of birth, unearths A supple body Ready for communion. There is no prince Kissing awake her sunken eyes ‒– Only God, wading in the riverbank With a bullet carved smile Spread wide as the nubile Corpse’s thighs, Ready for the taking.

A Great Sacrifice

By Courtney Eberlein From a steel pipe I hang, The perfect marionette, Limp wrists chained into an X, A blackened finger bent, A peek of bone showing through. Enter: my captor — My cruel puppet master. Clothe me in your Mother’s pearls Ex-lover’s slip I am your Chimera Do with me as you will. I am yours to explore To poke and prod and examine. I have played this role Before, and I played it well. Feed me every precious line Off the script — Let out each whim With a lash on my skin, Dissect my ivory ribs, how they shine Beneath your silver scalpel, Carve out a slice For later A few rubies, too Until there is no more of me To give to you. Another failed invocation, Left as those before me, Hanging, in the cold of the icebox.

My Shadow By Cherilee

My shadow wears a short black dress with Stiletto heels that accentuate her legs and echo a message of confidence. She strives to leave her mark on the world, like tacks on a paper map. The louder she calls the deeper the tracks. The men who dare to stand in her way are lured in by her charm crushed by a siren’s song. I am friends with my shadow, however different we may be. The smaller I feel the more she radiates. She is an entrepreneur, a seductress and a risk-taker. She does not like to be neglected or ignored, materializing when I cower to the men in my field. Perhaps I could learn a thing or two from my shadow.

Day Off

By Hope Mao

Uncomfortable Poses

By Alejandro Derieux-Cerezo I stare at these people, smiling in photos, for hours. My neck skewed, I watch off-kilter, hot and weighted, a coal in my stomach. Balance out of line, precessing, I pivot. The spin feeds the flame, a fire devil. I burn, not even to ash; I feel too heavy. This matter passed away, gray, matted, breeze of jersey knit. Birdshot in the air, seep of blood into the swamp. Drowned, pull the drawstrings of the hoodie to my face. Chest a hearth, I sit still in the warmth. Eyes glaze. My shoulder is stiff. Clay in the kiln, turning rough. It hurts to be rock, craving polish. To lose my smooth, no longer soft.

Dogs

by Hannah Levine-Drizin

31 1. He said He is closer to me than my coronary artery, the artery that loops right back to feed the heart itself. my body feels very far from me these days. I blame descartes. I am laying on freshly mowed grass on some land like the land of the teletubbies, my eyes closed, the sun spilling everywhere uncontrollably, and the contortions of light I see behind my eyelids is my body. who could have predicted a history of hurt descending upon a soul in farmington hills, michigan where no one dies, and there is freedom? a thoroughly colonized subject, they say.

a troubled soul in six parts By Fareah Fysudeen

I do not know myself. a cloudiness fogs everything in my ribs, I smudge the glass as though it were just hot breath but it remains. He said He blew His breath into my soul, but I cannot breathe-and sin coats my ripe heart like the skin of a tomato scalded to its body. she tells me I am detached. I want to tell her I am incredibly unwell.

32 2. I have an ego as large as a star, and just as dumb, too-blundering through my heart, blocking vital arteries, like king menas, burning holes in the name of bestowing golden light. I have an image of myself I will not sacrifice, even if the world were to be snuffed out like a candle. even if darkness descended in dusky pallour, I have a stupid, fiery star, an excuse for survival: dear God, crush it between your index finger and thumb, as you hold the necks of hypocrites, so it can blast into a supernova, drenching me in your true light-- washing me clean of secrets.

3. oh, apathy! oh, boredom! oh, monotony! I feel you, the curse of nothing, paralyzing me-poof! I do not change, the greatest curse was me, fixed, all along.

I am being silly. in truth, I am disgusted with myself; you are an indication of blessings I do not deserve, of privileges I have not earned. even if I earned them, they are not mine-- oh, apathy! oh, curse of the young white man, who, ensconced in privilege, believes society and the job market robbed him because he got picked on on the school bus and didn’t get laid, who turned to firearms and nazism and became an incel, you disgust me,

33 and yet I feel you. a blackness overtaking My heart, the evil calm of danger. it quiets the red sirens, it freezes blood. the surface of a lake at the true level of the world: silk silent. there is a calm to the death of the soul. if it were not for the tiny air bubble that rises to the viscous surface, an infinitesimal planetary indication that life once thrived, I would have gone quietly. a casualty of a failed consciousness.

scan for parts 5 & 6

4. the teacher takes a yellow safety knife and cuts open a styrofoam star. third graders ooh and aah, one shoves another for a closer look: it is my ego! the proton fusion that fuels it is a highly reactive and unpredictable particle: guilt, exploding against judgement, again and again, growing hot enough to burn through blood.

34 if I could tell my third grade self that God does not want your guilt-smudged deeds, I would. if I could tell my third grade self that desire and body and substance can pulse with meaning, even more than the unfeeling universe, I would. if I could tell my third grade self that internalizing shame will not make you good, that staying home from homecoming dance or desiring a boy should not send you into the greatest depths of adolescent despair, that now you are twenty years old, and you cannot see the face of God without counting your sins in the reflection of His eyes, I would. self-hatred is a special kind of worship. I wish your teacher told you that styrofoam is a poor substitute for a soul, and though the universe is beautiful, the stars cannot Love like you can. and I felt that today: my mother, shaking with tears in remembrance of You, while my brother pet our cat and my dad washed the dishes. silently, as though it were nothing at all. once, her conviction would have shamed me. today, I am in Love.

The Man from White Cat River By Tom Madigan

Preface. There’s a friendly wager every year about how cold that frigid river gets in the fall before it freezes over for the winter. The loser has to jump in. White Cat River resembles a creek at times it’s so narrow, but it’s a river indeed. She’s a mysterious little waterway that can take a man’s life, and has done so more than once. At the end of last summer, the first week of September in fact, the lore of the river got more interesting when a skeleton with skin exploded up and out of the icy water and made a primal bawl so harrowing my toe bones froze inside my wading boots. The vibrating numbness shot all the way up my spine to the back of my brain. It must have scared off the animals in all directions for miles with that cavernous cry for air it let out. I had never heard such a sound before. I don’t know how else to describe it, other than that’s what it must sound like when a planet is born. Or dies. Before now, I’ve never bothered to tell anyone about that lanky, drooping, animated corpse I saw burst up from that shimmering wetland and disappear somewhere into the brush of the riverbank. Then I put two and two

together and decided I might as well say something, to someone, while I still can. Maybe someone will find this after. I. Tammy had taken out her pigtails a few minutes before the bell rang, as she was sure the giddy snickers she was hearing from the other girls was about how she was wearing her hair. Everyone seemed to eagerly take score of who wore what on the first day of school. Tammy did her best to brush her hair in the girls’ bathroom before she took her first seat as a high school freshman. She was already fifteen because she missed nearly a whole year when she was ten due to a little-known disease that would render her asleep for days at a time. Despite her natural looking appearance, she had a tendency to spark unconscious envy from other girls because she was attractive without make-up of any kind. Tammy was never up on the latest fashions either, nor did she really care. Her unique sense of humor and interests didn’t help her popularity either, as they seemed infantile to her peers despite her being the oldest girl in her class. Today she thought quietly that she might have a shot at reinventing

36 herself a bit by starting a new year in a new building but she realized too late that the pigtails wouldn’t help her chances. She feverishly brushed her dirty-blonde hair as the warning bell sounded. Her stomach dropped. Late for class? Never! Not her. She was always early—as long as she was healthy. To Tammy’s great relief, Mr. Scott, the infamous English teacher she’d been cautioned so much about, was not sitting behind his giant dark wooden desk taking note of tardy students when she finally darted inside the classroom. In fact, there was no teacher at all.

“I dodged a bullet,” she thought to herself. No way did she want to get on anyone’s bad side her first day of high school. The final bell rang. 7:45 AM. She quickly scanned the room for a front row seat. None, only two desks open near the doorway. She quickly sat down. “Mr. Scott’s out,” an elevated, shrill woman’s voice commented from the hallway to someone unseen. “No, I said he’s out! But this is the class you’re looking for. Go inside, Mr. Tardy.” A handsome boy with slight bedhead and a look of mild disgust walked through the door and sat in the only vacant desk. It was in

Earthbound the 13th By Ryan Adkins

37 front of Tammy. Her heart jumped a little. Who was this boy? She had never seen him before. “Is he new here?” Tammy thought to herself. She didn’t know how to take his indignant, fuming look towards the harpy who howled at him in the hallway, but his face looked profound. The shrieking principal clomped her way in just after the defiant boy took his seat. “Mr. Scott is absent, kids,” she snorted. “You’ll have a substitute tomorrow. I’m going to get you started. Did you have a good summer?” She rattled along so fast the students weren’t sure how to respond. She didn’t take a breath. “Uh oh, hope this isn’t a class full of duds! No interesting stories? Anyone go anywhere on vacation? You, yes, in the back. Where did you go?” A rotund girl in the last row had raised her hand. “We went hiking in Utah.” “Oh dear, sorry about that! Anyone go anyplace really interesting?” The skirted woman seemed so anxious the kids squirmed. The handsome boy got up. “Where do you think that you’re going?” the principal guffawed. “Eff you, lady,” the valiant boy slung his blue backpack over his shoulder and walked out. Tammy’s heart sang. “Yah, eff you lady!” she thought to herself,

smiling on the inside only. II. Four miles out of town where it’s nothing but woods, a ghostly sight drifted across the pot-holed road. A gangly man or hominid in a tattered, discarded dark green rain coat and pale, swollen bare feet silently hurried towards civilization. III. “How was your first day, baby?” Grandma was sincere. The nice old lady was nothing like the coldhearted administrator Tammy encountered in English class. “The school’s a lot bigger than I expected. I forgot which end of the hallway was which twice today,” Tammy said. “Who’s your favorite teacher so far?” Grandma set a plate of beautifully cut fruit in front of Tammy and they both sat down at the corner table. “I guess the gym lady is nice. And the Spanish teacher was pretty easy to be around.” “OK, enough with the boring stuff. Which boy caught your eye?” Grandma’s smile reflected more than just the tired old tradition of girl meets boy. Grandpa had died in the spring, with Grandma at his side. His last words weren’t sad. He sat right up, as if he was about to run off with her to a carnival. His weakened voice changed for its final moment into that of a booming, twelve-

38 year-old boy: “Where I’m going, I’m young! And when I see you again over there, I’ll wear you out, young lady!” He laughed like a lion, laid back down and closed his eyes forever. Grandma never bothered Tammy about her grades and never even asked to see her report card. She only ever seemed concerned with whether or not her granddaughter was listening to her heart. “I think there was a new boy in my English class. But he walked out of school,” Tammy said as she poked a piece of apple. “What color were his eyes?” “Dark,” said Tammy. “I don’t

know if they’ll let him come back. He swore at the principal in front of everyone.” The next day dawned, and the warning bell rang for just the second time of the new school year. Tammy was the first person in the room today, pigtails intact. She sat with gut-wrenching anticipation; eyes fixed on the seat in front of her as her classmates filed in. One minute till the late bell. Tammy’s heart sank when the frazzled principal again clomped in. No boy with dark eyes. “We’re very lucky today,” the principal crowed, interrupted by the school bell. She adjusted herself and continued. “I’d like to

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By Vellia Zhou

Geography Flame By Tahani Almujahid We settled in routine, then everything became forgettable You stayed as long as my perfume entered your throat and you couldn’t say anything. You loved the fragrance of denial. A sip of coffee meant a taste of attitude, too early in the morning for blood-bodied snark and sheath it began this way each time. I slip in one leg at a time, into my flowy wide-leg pants, raise my arms into a sheer lavender top embellish my chest with gold and now I am decorated and wise. My body is bright and you love mystery, yet, you hate the city, the distance, not knowing your body. You hate my coffee. I can’t teach you how to walk sideways or forward, or how much sugar to add Your feet must learn to follow me. Learn how to toss your legs without entangling

Stones Between Us

By William Crenshaw

I don’t know how many times I have to say it: what happened to Richie was an accident, and you can ask the Flint police if I killed him in that parking lot. Was I there when Richie died? Yes, and I get that people saw us arguing here before we left and went over there. But our argument didn’t turn violent, and, unlike some of the jerks who drink here, the police believe me instead of that wino who said that he saw us from the alley. Even that toothless asshole, though, didn’t say that I murdered Richie. He just disputed exactly what happened, which isn’t surprising because, like half of this goddamn town, he probably hasn’t been sober since ninety-nine when GM closed Buick City. With Flint’s water and how much he drinks, I would bet that guy’s got about two brain cells left and that neither of them is working. But hey, never mind that my best friend is dead and that I could use some consolation. Never mind that I’ve known Devon and Jimmy P since all of us were kids, auto-brats who, with our laidoff fathers’ approval, would key Toyotas and slash Subaru tires

for kicks on Saturday nights. Some bum disagrees with what I say happened to Richie, so them and other people who I’ve been drinking with for years feel entitled to not say hello to me. They’re not going to drive me out of here though. Shooter’s might be a shithole, a rat-trap that reeks of piss and, ten years since the smoking ban, the cigarettes that our dads and some of our grandpas used to smoke here when it was legal. But this place is my fucking shithole: I’ve been drinking here since I turned twenty-one back in 2012, and I plan to keep doing so until I drop dead while I’m sitting on top of this bar stool. That’s just what all of the regulars do here, drinking here almost every night until they trade their stool for a coffin. It’s called Shooter’s because it had pool tables, but it doesn’t have any tables now because replacing them is too expensive, unlike back when GM was booming and everyone had money to spare. None of the regulars, though, really miss shooting pool; it was nice but not why we came here. Instead, we come in to watch the Tigers and get away from our wives and their

42 nagging. It’s also where I met Richie, who started coming here about a year ago after he moved to Flint. Which brings me to another thing that’s bothering me: Devon has always been Mr. Thank the Troops, one of those guys who acts like every vet personally saved Private Ryan. But now, suddenly, he has the balls to start talking shit about Richie, someone whose ass he used to kiss because of Richie’s two tours in Afghanistan. It’s just not right, especially considering that Devon is a junkie who’s never done anything in his life. Anything, I guess, but set what happened in motion, and all because he misheard what I said when he was eavesdropping on me and Richie. Even before Devon was an addict, my wife Denise couldn’t stand him because he threw me my bachelor party, when I got so fucked up that I puked for hours and nearly missed my own wedding. But she hates him even more now because of when I was using myself, blaming him because, after I hurt my back, he was the one who first turned me on to oxy. She also doesn’t believe me that I haven’t been using again, thinking that how we’re not having sex means that oxy has killed my libido. I’m really not using though, and it’s been hard to restrain myself from telling her something

whenever she starts to accuse me: that I might want have sex with her if she ate more than Pop Tarts and Skittles, and how, unless she changes her diet, pretty soon her head and her ass are going to have two different zip codes. I bite my tongue the same way when she talks about having a baby, which, with how much sugar she eats, would probably be a Sour Patch Kid that Flint’s water would make retarded. But I care about Denise and I shouldn’t have said retarded. It’s not nice and I was blowing off steam, and I also really try to not say fag even though I slip up and still say it. Most of the other guys, though, say both of those words all the time, and they really don’t care if out- of-towners are appalled when they hear them say them. Which is an attitude I understand, even if I watch my own language regardless of who’s around me. People don’t get what it’s like here, and I don’t just mean because, through no fault of our own, our water suddenly looked like someone spit tobacco in that orange drink they have at McDonald’s. You should try having to boil all of your water sometime, and it will be years before we know just how badly it fucked up toddlers and babies. That never would’ve happened, though, if GM hadn’t made Flint bankrupt, which is what

Purple Haze in the Motor City By Ryan Adkins

I mean when I say that outsiders don’t understand what it’s like here. Until the seventies, GM used to employ around eighty thousand people in Flint, including our grandpas who, after beating the Japanese and the Germans, came back home and then went to work in the factories. But then it was like America forgot about World War II. People started buying Volkswagens

and Hondas, and after serving in Vietnam, our dads and uncles came back to jobs that slowly but steadily vanished. And guys like me, Jimmy P, and Devon? When we graduated in 2009, GM was down to something like five thousand employees in Flint, and we all knew better than to even try to get hired at one of the plants. I understand that it’s not all

44 GM’s fault, and that this wouldn’t have happened if, in the rest of the country, pieces of shit weren’t driving around in Hyundais. But no one here believes that GM couldn’t have kept more jobs, most of which got shipped to places like Mexico so executives could get even richer. Flint, meanwhile, went from middle class to a borderline third- world shit-show, with almost half of its population below the poverty line. Did I also mention how violent it is? Crime is caused by poverty, and that’s why, for places with over fifty thousand people, Flint is the sixth most dangerous city in America. That’s also why you’re a dumbass if you don’t carry a gun here, and I have a question for people who get offended by how some of the guys talk at Shooter’s: Who’s been hurt worse here? Is it you by their language, or is it them because you helped to ruin their town by buying a foreign car? So I don’t expect the other guys to care, and I imagine that I’d talk like that too if I hadn’t spent a year in Ann Arbor. When I was fifteen, I went to stay there with my Aunt Christine and her husband, getting farmed out because my parents were divorcing and not stable enough to take care of me. Both alcoholics, my parents didn’t know that I would start to drink there myself, something I

did with some other burnouts who I met at Pioneer High School. But that wasn’t all that I did in Ann Arbor, and, before I moved back with my mom, I got exposed to different viewpoints that the guys here have never experienced. It made me do things like think about how I speak, and I also think it’s why me and Richie ended up getting so close. That year was a glimpse at life outside of Flint, and Richie was a reminder that there was more in the world than polluted water and poverty. That was something that I’d almost forgotten, and not because the people here are stupid or something and their ignorance had rubbed off on me. It’s because life in Flint grinds you down, and even with my year away, I already felt stuck here before I was done

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Mother Nature Healthy...

Mother Nature Poisoned By Sierra Iverson

to get your attention one last time By Tahani Almujahid

the moon coughs when she knows i am out too late thinks i am doing wrong can’t cover for me even though she looms over me like a nosy auntie, like jiddo’s voice over Jeopardy maybe the moon caught the virus too. the car ride i keep watching the Michigan sky how i can avoid death pretending like my hands on the wheel are a prayer i poke my fingers under the wheel perform surgery at the light I sink further till it’s all apart match the pieces together like a game of Tetris

on the street, I choke on thoughts of going back i think, what would be left of you if I died now? of ragged prayers, kneeling into the earth like the plants I can’t keep alive how to keep a pulse going when i see eyes of night animals all glint of war in your calm, I match with howls still, you did not see me at all

Rainbow Paradise By Dylan Kaufman

I’ve never had a problem with planes. My dad has it really bad, though. I’ll always see him hanging on for dear life as soon as we hit some turbulence. “Relax,” I’d always say, “Flying is, statistically speaking, the safest way to travel.” It’s my favorite Superman quote. I thought about that quote as I, for a change, held on to my armrests during turbulence. With every shake, every bump, I inched a little bit closer to the edge of my seat. Why am I scared? I’m a college student. I thought I was supposed to be more mature. I guess not. Outside my window, the clouds began to shift, and as the plane dipped below them, I saw the bright lights of the city. The buildings, reflecting the light with their windows, seemed to be ever-changing as the plane tilted from one side to the other. When I caught a glimpse of the water, I could see the waves crashing into each other, and into the pillars holding up the bridges, and into the shores of the city itself. I always tried to look for my grandparents’ apartment along the shore. No matter what part of the city I was actually over, I always

tried. We turned again, and I gripped tighter onto my armrest. The stale smell of plane food and air conditioning intensified as we descended further into the city. The skyscrapers began to disappear, and I saw the brick, deteriorating buildings of the outer boroughs. I made out baseball and football fields, schools, and basketball courts. I imagined myself going to one of those basketball courts and playing with the neighborhood kids. I saw myself, crossing someone up with a crossover, and charging right up to the hoop for a dunk. There was always a person right under me when my hand slapped the rim. Poster-perfect. My mind was going to too many different places. You need to settle down, I thought to myself. You have nothing to be nervous about. You’re going home. Home. Not my home. Not the home I’d been living in for the past four months. But another home, the home of my childhood. The home where my friends are, where my family is. I haven’t seen any of them in what seemed like forever. My family made it

50 hard for me to remember I was in college, though. The non-stop FaceTime calls were the reason for the fist-sized hole in my dorm wall (and no, I haven’t reported it to the staff yet). When I came to college, I was so excited to get away from my family, and that hadn’t changed. I love my family. They’re some of the most loving, caring, and kindest people I know. But I’m the youngest. That’s all I’ve ever known: their constant love. The love you give the baby of the family. But when the baby grows up, his needs change. He’s not the kid faking an injury in gym class, he’s not the kid reeling from his first heartbreak. He’s almost a man now. I’m almost a man now. My friends always made it easier. For my entire high school career, they were there for me, and helped me to get through stuff I couldn’t have gone through alone. Long Island may seem like such a nice, enticing, up-scale place, but all that changes when you peak underneath the surface. Freddy, Racks, and I had peaked under long ago, and saw our island for what it was: hideous. Another friend of mine once peaked under, too. He wasn’t as lucky as the rest of us. I saw the flaps on the wings of the plane open and shudder at the strength of the wind. I thought about all my friends from high school-- the ones I was closest with, the ones that drifted apart,

the ones that were taken. I missed my closest friends more than anyone, and wondered how long it’d been since we last spoke. Then I remembered-- four months. And for good reason. They fucked up. Particularly, Freddy did. He’s the one that decided to throw away his future. I was just trying to help him get his shit together. The horizon from the window began to line up with the Earth’s. The sun was setting over the ocean, and the most magnificent shades of orange, purple, and yellow streaked the sky as if the heavens had transformed into a canvas. The water reflected the colors, giving the river a darker yet more extravagant shade of blue. I marveled at the beauty, the peace. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. Our plane jutted forward the moment I exhaled. Home, I thought. -- I slammed the door to my room. “Fuck you too!” I shouted back. I waited for an answer but only silence greeted me. “Great to be back,” I muttered to myself. I put down my luggage and laid on my bed. It felt so strange to be back in this cell. The walls, which in my head were covered with the screams, hugs, and life of the past, seemed to be washed clean. Instead, they

51 were covered with the stench of an empty house, an empty nest. No more memories. I took out my phone and saw some missed texts from my friends. Oh, how I missed them. I missed the chilled breeze that came from the water, and how it would seep into my room and in my bed and lull me to sleep. I missed the trouble my friends and I would get into, getting into fights, kicking kids out of our parties, driving around until sunrise. We had our problems, though. A few years ago we almost got consumed by the very land that raised us. We were so close to entering the dark oblivion that took so many people we knew, people close to us, friends. But we didn’t. We leaned on each other, we survived, and we became brothers. As I reflected on past trials, I wished I could call up Freddy and go hang out with him. Sadly, it wasn’t that simple. Freddy and I have known each other our whole lives. He lived down the block, and when we were young we’d always play together with the local kids. Whether it was playing sports outside, playing video games inside, or just doing dumb shit that kids do, he was always around. We didn’t start getting really close until around middle school. Middle school was awful. The hallways reeked of B.O., everyone was concerned with how bad their acne was, and the

lunch food was terrible. Just an overall mess. Freddy hated it too, which is why we started hanging out. It felt good to have a friend who thought the same things I did, who understood. Over time, we got closer and closer. By the time sophomore year of high school rolled around, we were best friends. Me, a short, pale Jewish kid with a slouch and the wardrobe of a homeless man, and Freddy, a tall, buff Italian guy with a soft heart and a volatile temper. Our circle of friends wasn’t complete yet, though. If we wanted to get through high school, we needed at least another person to help us through it. Enter Rodney Thomas O’Callaghan IV, or as everyone else calls him, “Racks”. Racks was, and is by far, one of the most interesting people I’ve ever encountered. Standing at 6’4” and a whopping 130 pounds, he sort of looks like a tree that was supposed to grow wider but kind of got lazy and decided not to. The love child of his Irish father and Jamaican mother, Racks has been sporting a mohawk and a beard since we were twelve, had bright pink braces until our junior year, and has the fashion sense of a color-blind schizophrenic. I can’t lie, though. He rocks every outfit he wears. He was also one of the most athletic people in our high school, which made sense given that he, Freddy, and I really got close when we all

Mario 2600

By Ryan Adkins

53 joined the track team in the fall of our sophomore year. The last time I saw them was right before I left for school-- when shit hit the fan. We were hanging out at the park by Meadowbrook Elementary (a usual hang out spot) when Freddy came clean about his college plans. I don’t remember exactly what he said, or how he said it. All I remember was my reaction: one of pure anger. In a fit of rage, I said some things I shouldn’t have. Some really harsh shit. I wanted to apologize then, and while I was in school. I still want to apologize. But I maintain that what Freddy decided to do was the bad choice. I couldn’t let him throw away his future like that. Some people don’t get to have a future, I know that all too well. I wasn’t going to let my best friend suffer the same fate as Anthony. I realized I couldn’t just do nothing anymore.

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Lines Of A Circle By Eric Stillman

Somewhere in Dearborn, Michigan By Tahani Almujahid

peacocks roam in the bright green grass play solitaire until a student tries to feed them bread the singing mantra stills to a holy quiet In the halls of Edsel Ford High, my eyes linger to my friends in their paradise to be there, in patience engulfed in garden their eyes of truth my feet fill of cowardice, confusion tripping on trailing wires of plastic identities I have given myself in this moment in these halls, I exist for a 4th year Arab girls paint their nails in B Hall before 5th hour some have sticky-handed fingers from sabaya their mothers made for everyone to share I feel it here defunct when my nose rises so far into the air I do not acknowledge how I wish our tongues were the same I feel it in screeching defeat Goddesses of language. A free-flowing Arabic that my mother mirrors what if I sat with them and spoke in same exaggerated tones everything I say would become a story connected to homeland and

56 Heart. the Yemen I never stepped foot in my ears perk up to patch the quilt together it never comes out the way I like my throat dismisses with a click To be like you, foretold in my dreams, would mark my tongue immortal

It makes me see my own body

Our time together gets smaller Observe my surroundings: Everything is closing in on me that the last word I say is barely English I am too old to eat at the crusts of my misery Outside, we wait for different buses

Parineetha

By Sandhya Srinivasan I stepped off the train, wiping the sweat from my brow. I rubbed my swollen stomach wearily, feeling for another kick from the little being inside. I hadn’t been able to get a moment of peace in months because of the baby inside me. Ilango stood beside me, looking at my stomach. “Are you okay?” he asked, his brows furrowing in concern. “It’s sweltering today, isn’t it? I hope the train ride was comfortable; I’m so sorry if the car was so packed.” I shook my head, giving him a small smile. “No, I’m okay. I’ll be fine.” My eyes roved the passengers at the station, looking for my father. “Ezhil!” I heard someone call. Ilango and I both looked in the direction of the voice to see my father waving at us. He came up to me and embraced me, and my husband placed his palms together in greeting. “The journey was fine?” he asked, taking my trunk. “Are you doing all right, Ezhil?” I nodded, rubbing my belly and giving him a tenuous smile. “I’m fine, Appa. I’ll be fine. But how

is she? Will she get better?” Appa put our trunks in the back of the car, and sat in the driver’s seat. “I want to say yes, chellam, but none of us really know. We’re all hoping that your presence will help her recovery. She’ll be so happy to see you.” I nodded my head slightly. Would that be enough, though? “How are you, Appa?” I asked, settling into my seat. “How are you and Amma?” “We’re managing,” he replied, his hands gripping the steering wheel. “It’s good to have both of you here. That’ll give us some comfort.” I reached forward and rubbed his arm tenderly. I sat back and stared out the window as the car rolled along the road, taking in the sights of Chengalpattu, where I had grown up. One hand rested on my belly, the other on the window, my chin in my cupped palm. I felt anxious to walk into my old house, to see her. I felt that my heart would shatter the moment I set my eyes on her. Ilango looked over at me and reached for my hand and squeezed it reassuringly. I looked at him and flashed a watery smile.

CEBU In My Heart By Ryan Adkins

59 I turned back to the window and looked at the streets, envisioning myself and her walking, me as a little girl, jumping and bouncing excitedly as her lucid grey eyes dazzled with dewdrops. My lips upturned into a big smile; those were halcyon days for both of us, before I got married and moved away, leaving her behind. I could suddenly feel my heart beating quickly, feeling like quick fingers on a mridangam. I was looking forward to seeing her once more, but also scared. I was afraid to see her ill, weak, subdued. I was also afraid that she would die. We finally turned into our street, and out of my window I saw our house as we approached it, large and usually cheerful, except today it seemed grave and empty. Appa parked the car, helping me get out my trunk. Amma was waiting for me by the door, her eyes red and sunken. “Oh, chellam,” she breathed, hugging me the best she could, given my large belly. “I’m so glad you’re here.” I held her in my arms, my frail mother, blankly staring ahead. “Come inside,” she finally said, releasing me and looking into my eyes. I nodded slowly, taking my trunk from Appa, and passed through the doorway, Ilango following in my suit. I trudged up the stairs, my feet feeling like pillars of iron, my hands gripping

the railings for support. Amma followed me to my old room. “How are you?” she asked us, taking Ilango’s trunk from him and setting it to the side of the room. She looked pointedly at my stomach. I gave a small scowl and rubbed my large belly. “This isn’t easy,” I replied, groaning. “God knows how you managed it.” “She’s done a wonderful job so far,” Ilango told Amma. I smiled, but it quickly dissipated from my face. “But you know Amma, I’m not happy if she isn’t. How can I be happy when I know she’s ill?” She gave me a melancholy look, and whispered, “I know, Ezhil, I know. She’s my sister – of course I can’t be happy if she’s ill. Come, you can see her.” She led us to a room, pausing to open the door latch. “She’s sleeping,” Amma murmured softly, “but I knew you’d want to see her right away. Just don’t disturb her.” I gave a small nod and stepped inside the room, pausing at the side of the bed, taking in her still, sleeping body swathed in a white sari. She looked like she did when I first saw her, all those years ago; she still had the same serene look emanating from her beautiful apsara-like mien. I approached her bed gingerly, not wanting to wake her up. I stopped at the edge of her bed.

60 “Oh, Paru,” I murmured, wanting to press my lips to her hand. I squeezed my eyes shut firmly. It pained me to see her ill, to see her suffer once more. Seeing her beautiful body resting on the bed, I wanted to shake her awake and pester her to tell me a story like I used to do when I was younger. I would clamber onto her bed just as she was trying to sleep, shaking her slim arms vigorously, pleading her to tell me a story before I slept. She would open her eyes and sit up smilingly, stroke my cheek gently, and relent. “Anything for you, Ezhil kanne,” she would say laughingly. And I would lose myself in her soothing voice and her vibrant stories, her hand gestures weaving a beautiful tapestry of words before my very eyes. She could keep me entertained for hours, days, with her voice alone. I leaned forward and touched her hand softly, imperceptibly. “One more story, please, Paru, one more story,” I whispered softly, gently placing my fingers against the folds of her white sari. “Tell me the story of Kannagi again, or about Karna! Anything you want, but please, one more story. Just one.” But my aunt lay inert, her eyes closed. She looked the same as she did when I left, young and beautiful. The room would always be filled with the sound of her

dulcet voice, her eyes laughing with mirth. She loved playing with me and indulging me in my games, romping about with me on my mischievous adventures, even though she was older. When she first arrived at our house years ago, when I was six, I thought she would be boring and grumpy, muttering about me getting underfoot. She was none of that, I found out the morning she came, and I couldn’t imagine that day how close we’d become, how much she would mean to me. “Ezhil,” Amma said that morning, “have a bath and get ready quickly, please. Someone special is coming to stay with us.” “Who?” I asked, toeing the stone tiles in the courtyard, slowly eating my breakfast. She sat down next to me. “My younger sister, your Parineetha Chitthi. We took you to her house when you were very young – you wouldn’t remember her. I want you to get ready so you can say hello to her when she comes. Finish your food quickly and get ready.”

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Cake Break

By Hope Mao

Rule #1: Be From Her Planet

By Tahani Almujahid

When I welcome you into my home, Do I give you the seat of honor? in the room where mama keeps fancy and neat The couch has a gold trim, unmarked by child antics, as if to read it is not for me The calligraphy on the wall is hard to make out-says something about Allah Think: Did I praise Him today? mama is watching Did I ask you about your family yet? She brings out the mint tea Her eyes scrutinize the lint on my shirt: they motion me to change, become radioactive to tear me apart, saying Are you kidding me? I fidget cracked fingers how to dull my pricking claws into a halted stance walk upstairs like I’m someone else’s unknown, except Allah’s Wonder how I can make a room for someone who is not from my planet if only I took tea with me when I said, kef halik

Dear Delhi

By Sandhya Srinivasan Dear Delhi, How are you doing? I hope this letter finds you well. It must seem odd now, me reaching out to you now, years after I left. What does she want? you must be thinking. If you’re bemused, I understand. Never once in those eight years that I lived there did I try to talk to you, to start a conversation. I was reticent towards you – you must have noticed. But now, I wish I could turn back the clock and start anew. To open the windows in the morning, to hear the birds singing and the autorickshaws honking cheerily, and talk to you. Let my words circulate your skies, carried on the backs of the pigeons. “Good morning, Delhi!” I wish I could have said, like the Radio Mirchi RJs. “How are you doing today?” Do you remember what my sister used to say to me? “Sandhyu, are you becoming a Delhiite?” She would snigger when I wouldn’t check if anyone was exiting the lift before stepping inside. I would shake my head, mortified. I had no desire to be rude, which was what my sister was implying. It was like I wanted to dissociate myself from you, despite breathing in your essence daily and being nourished by what you offered me. I was too embarrassed to claim a sense of belonging to you, to say “Yes, I am a Delhiite.” Now I will gladly say that, write it on a nametag and stick it on my shirt, tattoo it on my skin so that my identity is indelible, unfadeable. Because I know now what it means to be a Delhiite. What it means to be large-hearted, warm and welcoming; what it means to feel peace amongst twenty million other beating hearts; what it means to crave sarson ka saag and soft, hot rumali roti on a cold winter’s night; what it means to hear rhythm in the incessant honking of autorickshaws and cars; what it means to cherish the crackling bonfire and the beating of the dhol at Lohri. What it means to be me. These thoughts never entered my mind until I had to leave you. I went across the ocean, millions of ripples away. Whilst your sun rose, mine set. I no longer woke up in your junglee womb, with cars honking, people gossiping, the thwack of the daily newspaper hitting our balcony, wedding processions tooting and beating their way down the street, mischievous monkeys scampering and chattering in the trees, the characteristic crooning of koels gladdening the air. I missed your mornings that start before dawn, some of your children arising from

American Dhulan By Riya Aggarwal

their somnolence, quiescent in your winding streets. Someone would always be awake in the early hours of the morning, like the newspaper delivery boys or chaiwallahs. The birds filled the empyrean kingdom with their bodies and their voices. By the time I woke up, there were already thousands of living beings that had already started their day. When all this disappeared around me, and I yearned for them every single second, when I started seeing you in every object, every word someone uttered, I knew then that I belong to you. That you flow through my veins, are etched in my mind, are all the cells in my body. That Delhi blood is in me. After all, you fed me, kissed me with your hot sunlight, entertained me with your bustling life, that ecosystem you nurtured. You taught me a curriculum of your own, one that didn’t require textbooks or sitting in classrooms all day. Instead, you taught me how to beat the hottest summer heat; how to bypass vehicles veering right towards

65 me when crossing the street; how to hear myself think amid the din of traffic; how to maintain my place in long queues when people try to slither in ahead; how to defy gravity when my bus hits a pothole; how to greet a pigeon crashing zealously into my study. You taught me how to be resilient. You made me the person I am today. So no, I haven’t forgotten everything you’ve done for me, Delhi. No one can ever forget you. With your radiant, affectionate smile suffusing through your ageless visage, you kiss all of us, searing yourself into our memories. I haven’t forgotten you and your vivacity, how you are painted in a thousand colours. How you are sapient, watching as dynasties staked their claim on you, wanting you as their stronghold. You bore all this with resilience, giving everyone a home. You now flaunt these battle scars – Red Fort, Tughlaqabad, Purana Qila, Connaught Place, to name a few – taking pleasure in all those who come to view them in awe today. Now you’re a modern city with an abundant soul; an insomniac like your sister Bombay; you’ve filled yourself with trendy boutiques, glittering malls, fancy flats and farmhouses. You don different outfits, different hues, express a range of emotions. There are days when you are calm, days when you are jubilant, days when you swirl in turmoil. You are dynamic yet constant, historic yet modern, perfect amalgamations of everything. Unforgettable. I walk your streets every day in my thoughts, exploring your nooks and crannies. You have become my happy place. I walk along the crowded lanes of Connaught Place, stopping inside the state emporiums, eyeing the various handicrafts, the stark white Georgian buildings glinting in the bright sunlight. I walk along the tree-lined streets of Vasant Vihar, my first home in you, where the upper echelons of South Delhi reside, and where koels croon amongst the trees. After a further walk and a street crossing, I enter Malai Mandir, the temple we used to frequent. The scent of jasmine flowers wafts around me, even now, an ocean away. My bare feet press against the warm grey stone steps as I climb up. The odd peahen pecks at the ground (I was pecked by one, do you remember?), and I feel so close to the sky. I can see you below, the busy streets cheerfully emitting honks galore. I circumnavigate the deities’ shrines as the vadhyars chant prayers. The aroma of flowers and incense curls around me. I climb back down the stone steps and leave the temple, walking on your streets once more. I find myself in Chandni Chowk, at Red Fort, where the Mughals once stood, my hands against the sandstone walls, the sky slashed with pink and orange as the sun sets. And then I’m shrouded in peace. This is my escape from my stresses

w 66 and pressing matters on my mind – a jaunt through your lanes, trying to stitch together all my memories of you into a coherent Google Maps-like street view. It will have to suffice until I can come back to you again. I came so close last summer, remember? The plane landed, and I sat inside its belly, watching as the airport lights winked at me in the night. “Hello Delhi,” I said softly. Did you hear me? I hoped you’d heard me. I wanted to jump off the plane and kiss the tarmac and jump into your arms, like a child coming back to her mother. Instead I solemnly entered the airport that I hadn’t entered in years. It looked the same as it did when I left. I watched planes coming and going from the large windows at the terminals. I watched your night sky, although you were obscured by the darkness. I could not see your pulsating heart, but sitting in your outer edges, I still felt it. My heart broke to leave you behind, to watch as the plane rose higher and higher, leaving you down below, lights softly blinking like they always have. I know I shall find my way back to you someday, Delhi. I am a magnet, pulled towards your effervescent charm, a compass that always points back to you, my north. No matter where I am, I will always wander your streets in my mind until I come back, where I can curl up in the cradle of your loving arms. There I shall gently bask, ever-content. Main Dilliwaali ladki hoon. Main hamesha rahoongi. Until next time, my beloved city. Love, Sandhya

Galaxy Beta By Ari Coester

w 68

Temporal

By Sam Mathisson Swirls of floating temptation Visions in the mist Unmooring me from materiality A thin line between addiction and pleasure Within its grasp, I’m temporal Weightless No more than the thoughts in my head And the inhalations of my breath Sensation brings me back to earth If only we could leave these troubling bodies behind So constant, so needy, so tangible We are helpless in their grasp To be free of the constraints that bind us Eating, sleeping, desires on desires To reside in clouds of ideas Away from the world of things My haven violated, its peace disturbed Hunger unsated, reality curbed I return once more to the body’s cruel vicissitudes The tremorous highs and bitter lows of reality

My Name is Minette By Theo Poling

Minette’s father sat upon their toughest horse. His name was Lumpy--the horse, not her father. He was a grey and white piebald draft horse, a sturdy, wide-footed work horse that pulled their carts and wagons. The wagon he pulled today was shoddy but wide and deep. They’d kept it all these years because no other wagon could haul the same amount of copper from the mines. Minette sat in the back, straw and dust and dirt poking her butt through her trousers. The cart bounced over the potholes, ruts, and piles of horse shit. It was a hot day, weighed down and sticky by the humidity. The cicadas were loud this year, and their cries sang of exhaustion, like Minette who was permanently caught between sleep and wakefulness. Deep in the doldrums of summer, the grass was dead and brown and the sky was a weary, endless blue. She held a hand above her eyes as a visor, squinting into the piercing sun. Despite the oppressive heat, Main Street was bustling at high noon. Vendors put stalls out, saloons, stores, and restaurants had their doors open, and horses, carts, and pedestrians bumped into each other,

pushing out a path through the disarray. Even from afar, voices carried, jostling over each other. Her father had the same reaction she did. He stopped Lumpy, staring at the hustle and bustle with a tired slump of his shoulders. Droz-Upon-Wooton was not by any measure a large town. It wasn’t even in a particularly hospitable part of the country. Minette might even call it a dump. It was a nice dump, a dump she liked, but a dump nonetheless. Paw grabbed the reins, nudging Lumpy to the right. They skirted town altogether, avoiding the tall brownstones and cobblestones and other kinds of stones. Lumpy thumped tiredly along a winding dirt road, head bobbing, ears flicking flies away. Minette had never been to this part of town before. She craned her neck, looking left and right. The roads were thin, some just trampled grass. Hills stretched into the distance, a forest at the top of a hill set into the horizon. Here, it was just a flat field with some huts and homes. At first, she thought it was deserted, but the longer they rode, the more faces she saw peeking out from behind curtains. The sweat pooled at the small of her back. She

70 scratched at it, no longer able to ignore the feeling that niggled in the back of her mind. “Maybe we should turn around,” Minette called out to Paw. “We’re almost there, Mort,” he responded. “Just a little further.” Minette slumped back against the cart rail, lowering her head to hide her face behind her hair. Paw and Maw hadn’t made her cut it yet, but with how hot this summer was getting, she knew it was only a matter of time. She carded her fingers through the brown curls, already lamenting their loss even as they shone in the sunlight. If they could stop calling her Morton or Morty or Mort, that would be nice, too, but at this point, it was wishful thinking through and through. Just like it was wishful thinking to dream of escaping being the golden “son,” the “heir” to their coppersmithing business, the “strong, tall boy” who was “built like an ox.” No one realized it, but their words, their assumptions, burned Minette to her very core. A building up at the next street corner caught her eye. It was solid brick, two stories, with a porch and a puffing chimney. It was out of place among the tiredness of this part of town, and it was the first building they’d passed where

people didn’t hide or dart away. A few fat, old men sat on the porch spitting into spittoons. One man had a banjo and was playing a type of music Minette had never heard before. It was twangy and morose, but oddly upbeat: she felt like she could cry about a dead lover and beat the crap out of a bad guy while listening to it. She made eye contact with the banjo man as they passed. He smiled up at her, gap-toothed, and played even faster, all without looking down at the strings. A few people came outside, the door hanging open. She couldn’t tell if they were boys or girls from afar--some had makeup on but short hair. Some wore dark clothes with cloaks hiding their features. Some were broad, others rakishly thin. One of them said something to banjo man and they all started dancing. They moved freely, raising their hands to the sky and sashaying their hips. The music possessed them. Minette couldn’t look away. She kept looking at banjo man for as long as she could, their connection only severed when they turned a corner and the building vanished out of sight. Paw was noticeably silent, jaw clenched as he pushed forward into the deserted hills. “Paw, what was that place?”

71 “Droz’s only shame,” Paw growled, with surprising ferocity. “Don’t you ever go there, Minette. That place is full of thieves and liars, weirdos and outcasts.” Minette’s heart thumped in her chest, as if to tell her to take note. “Oh,” she said, trying to sound angry or disturbed. “That’s... terrible.” “Damn right,” Paw growled. “Sinners they are. Just do your work and find a wife and give her some sons and you won’t be like them.” They reached the yawning chasms set into the hillside, surrounded by all sorts of lumber devices. Some of the mines went underground, but they also carved into the hillside, creating dusty, orange canyons where forests and valleys used to be. The copper mines were practically the only reason Droz existed. Paw whickered to Lumpy. The horse knew the routine by now. He ambled over to the rack, stopping just as Paw swung himself out of the saddle and tied Lumpy’s halter to the post. Minette climbed out of the cart. It was times like these that she bemoaned her long legs and well-worked muscles. Now she was the workhorse, not Lumpy. Getting copper from the mine was when Minette felt the least like herself. The miners

called her “boy,” teasing her about “manning up” or “getting some soot on his shoulders.” They compared muscles, loading her up with the biggest raw ingot of copper available just to admire her form and how tough she was. “That’s a big’un you got there,” she’d overheard one worker say to Paw one day. “You better find a wife for ‘im and sire up some more soon.” She hadn’t stayed around long enough to hear what Paw would say. She was afraid of what she’d hear. Paw and Minette got to work. She joined the train of workers moving copper from the mines up to the repository. They took ingots from the lode. They must’ve hit a good vein. There was a lot more copper than usual. Paw was excited. “Think about what we can do with this, Morton,” he said with a wrinkly grin. “This is gonna be a good year.” Minette sighed internally. She nodded and smiled at her paw, taking the lump of dirt and metal from him and thunking it into the wagon with a grunt. This would not be the rest of her life. The thought of hauling copper until her shoulders gave out made her sick. She didn’t want to wed some lady to give her children

72 she looked after all day while Minette hammered out copper in the smithy. She didn’t want to stay in Droz-Upon-Wooton for the rest of her life, swinging a hammer instead of singing. Adventuring. Wearing fine outfits. Laughing. Dancing. Minette had never danced before. And how she wanted to. How her feet itched to dance to

By Katherine Qiao

HINDSIGHT IS ______

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banjo man, to go in that place and discover its secrets. To be like those people. Free. Honest. Real Maybe that mysterious place--and all of its mysterious patrons--was her ticket to freedom. She had to go there. Tonight. It was her last chance to jump out of this story, this fake world everyone else had built up

The Gardener and the Fisherman By Katy Rose

Once upon a time, there was a gardener whose thumbs were not green but a stark, bloodless white. Perhaps this would not have been so obvious had her skin been more fair, but as it was, her thumbs stood quite at odds with her rich, mahogany skin. They were the delicate ivory of trillium in May, pearlescent as fragrant white rose petals and the palest of lilacs. And in fact, these floral scents wafted after her wherever she went. She lived on the edge of town, near enough to the sturdy wood-beamed houses and cobblestone streets, but closer to the thick forest that wrapped the settlement in a half-moon embrace. On the adjacent side, the forest petered out into grassy fields that butted up against distant mountains, looming deceptively close despite the multi-day journey that lay between. Tasked with keeping the town’s proud municipal gardens in their prime, a near fulltime job in the warmest months, the Gardener also managed to maintain a floral stand year round where she kept a steady stream of marketplace business, supplying bouquets, perfumes, and the flower water that was customary for anointing graves. For all her success, she was happy. The townsfolk greeted her with smiles and conversation, and

there was always the invitation of a warm hearth on the holidays, having no family of her own to speak of. Sometimes she took them up on the offer, other times she felt content to spend a day off alone in the extensive flower garden behind her quaint cottage. Her personal garden was her pride and joy, the reason why she chose to live so far from centre-ville. Here, she had the room for her sprawling expanse of ironwork trellises and lattice fencing, a hodge-podge of vines, bushes, and ornamental trees perfectly placed and pruned. It was well worth the thirty minute walk to the heart of town for the weekday market and the gardens she had been charged with. And yet, as content as she felt with her place in the world, she had a niggling feeling that there could be something more. Sometimes it manifested as she loaded her market wagon in the morning, or when she sat drinking her tea beside the window after a full day’s work. Other times it rose unbidden as she wandered along the creek at the edge of her property, or on those ghostly gray winter days when naked trees stood stark against the sky. However, it crept up on her most forcefully in moments

74 when she least expected it; an indiscernible ache in her chest, sharp enough to take her breath away. *** It was on one evening, sitting alone in her garden after sundown, that she found herself with two unexpected visitors. She had settled upon a bench beneath her favorite trellis, heavy with blooming night jasmine, enjoying the early-summer twilight as the sun melted into twinkling fireflies. Once it was nighttime in earnest, she set out her various

candles and returned to her seat with a small jar of homemade oil, dipping her fingers and then weaving them deftly along tightly coiled black strands that spiraled down just past her shoulders. And so went her meditation, eyes halflidded as she lost herself in the sounds of the night. That is, until he came bursting out from the forest, half dead with exhaustion, eyes frantic as he stumbled uncertainly before her. She jerked back, tipping the oil jar, scrambling to her feet with the stone bench between them. After a moment, he regained some degree

Dark Humor

By Katherine Qiao

75 of composure and pressed a finger to his lips before ducking into the nearest bush, and that’s when she saw it—he was close enough to make out a clear contrast between his thumb and his hand. The next visitor arrived within seconds, running into her garden with the same velocity. She could make him out clearer, his stocky figure still for a moment beside the candles, revealing a pale mustached face and a wide chest, heaving for breath above a full hunter’s utility belt. Without preamble, he swung his head toward her and asked with urgent authority if she had seen anyone come through the area. She said she hadn’t seen anything per se, but she had been scared half to death by the sound of what she thought was a large animal crashing through the far reaches of her garden, letting the fear she still felt fluttering in her chest bleed truth into her words. She then described the direction of the supposed noise, away from town, back towards the woods. He assured her he would handle whatever animal it was, and with a wink, dashed off again into the night. She let out a shaky breath, and released the sides of her night gown she had been gripping, terrified he’d see her thumbs. After taking a deep breath to quell the trembling, the Gardener turned to assess the man crushing a

portion of her lilac bush. His glassy eyes stared back, clearly dazed in the flickering candle light. She knew that look, and the sharp desperation that belied it. She walked up slowly and reached out a hand, which he took after a moment. With one arm draped across her shoulders, she bore the brunt of his weight, laboriously bringing him over the threshold into her home. *** She remained in her home for the following three days, sending botanical instructions via messenger dove and lamenting over a violent illness that she must have contracted from a recent visiting seedsman, in which case, a highly contagious illness indeed. What she did not mention, was that a man lay unconscious beside her hearth, still as death save for her occasional prodding with a cup of water in hand and the resulting use of the chamber pot some time later. He had a high brow and hollow cheeks, his skin the color of lake sand and his hair the dark brown of driftwood upon it, freshly gifted from the waves. It pooled around his head upon the pallet she’d hastily constructed out of blankets upon straw, some strands straight, others in loose curls around his face. She’d had plenty of opportunity to familiarize herself with his slack features as he lay there, immobile for hours

76 at a time. She tried to keep busy, tidying her small living space, rearranging bouquets, stepping out for short periods here and there to tend her garden. Still, she always checked back in, untrusting of the stranger, but even more, curious what lay behind the face. It was late into the second day when he opened his eyes and kept them open. She didn’t notice at first, bent over her work table, spread with an array of flowers and leaves, but she started when he wordlessly sat up. She stood, a long fern poised in hand, and waited for him to speak. He placed a hand gratefully on his chest, bowing his head in thanks before rolling up onto his feet to stand. He staggered, a look of surprise crossing his face as he fell unceremoniously back to the pallet. The Gardener’s mouth briefly curled at the bewilderment on his face, but she did not move, carefully regarding his conscious form. Seeing as he hadn’t eaten in days, she wasn’t surprised at weakened state, and told him so. She went on to explain briefly who she was and where exactly they were, busying herself with an easily digestible meal and putting a large pot of water to warm on the fire for him to clean with later. She sat near him cautiously, not quite close enough to reach, and began to try communicating.

Although he said nothing all evening, his large hazel eyes were expressive. He explained through pantomimes what the Hunter in the woods was after, as she had suspected, and reiterated his gratitude for her help. As the evening wore on, their respective reservations began to thaw, her learning to discern the meaning in motions as he expressed himself more freely. She followed his lively hands with wonder, having never met another with thumbs as different as hers. Now out of the blankets, she could see they were a deep blue-green. His story was less than unfamiliar. He indicated that the Hunter had snuck up and struck him from behind weeks ago while he was on his daily fishing expedition, and he had escaped at his first chance only a few nights prior. The look passed over his face once more, the one that made her trust his motives as he lay in the bushes. She thought back to the

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The Trees

By cherilee

The sun is shy, the air crisp and cool. Green fades into yellow and red. Here and there lie heaps of rock and faint, dry remnants of earth’s smiles. The trees know. Like sad lovers ending an affair, they sever the tissues supporting their leaves. They cherish the present and the wonders it brings, but refuse to clutch to a thing that no longer exists. No matter, they say. Some friendships are not meant to stay. Better than humans, the trees know. Of the beauty in change, they know. They know of their throes and the forthcoming cold and sleet, of the breeze’s blustery cries and wistfulness of warmer days. Whether from wind or weight, the trees’ leaves will fall. But the cuts left by them will seal, and the trees will heal. You might think you are wise. You might think you are true. But the trees know your secrets, and the leaves do, too.

Grow

By Katherine Qiao

Covid Safe Dogs by Hannah Levine

Breakout Star

By Naitian Zhou I am an ephemeral space in a digital reality where words and worlds collide, where uncertain smiles meet strangers’ eyes and you can sigh, cry, confide. I am a facsimile of what you used to know, a reminder of a distant past, a touchstone of the current future, starker than the last. I am safety from judgmental eyes where you can discard your mask, and speak loudly and breathe freely, no questions asked. I am Breakout Room 3, and I will close in 60 seconds.

Tin Foil

By AK Berry I’m biting the inside of my cheek raw. Over the past year I’ve been grinding down my left canine tooth. Recently, I think it’s reached the nerve. I hear a baby crying and two dogs yipping at each other from across the street. As I walk up the cement steps, I glance down at the orange stains on my shirt from lunch and think about how pissed my mom is going to be when she sees. I lick my finger and rub at the spots, but they remain. I pop open the screen door and walk in sideways to avoid eye contact. She’s waiting there, leaning against the yellowing linoleum countertop, eating a ham and cheese sandwich with milk. Every weekday at three she does this, like how she uses one pump of unscented lotion after every shower and always says the Lord’s Prayer before dinner. Today she’s sporting a heinous pair of bermuda shorts and neurotically clean Skechers. My little sister, Lacey, is the same way, harsh and tight-laced. Like my mother, she’s repulsively self-satisfied, smirking for no apparent reason. She probably got home fifteen minutes before me and then talked shit with my mom until I walked in.

Now, she’s sitting cross-legged on the green vinyl couch doing a cross stitch. “Why must you insist on being a slob,” my mother says to me as I drop my backpack on the kitchen table. It’s wobbly despite the folded up Kroger ads someone shoved between the foot and the floor. She’s still staring at me. I guess she’s expecting a reply other than absent blinking. I spin around, cross our tiny living room, dive into the bathroom, and slam the door. Looking at myself in the chipped mirror, I squish my face in my hands. I use my finger to scrape the mascara film from under my eyes. There’s a fly buzzing around my head. In the mirror, I watch it fly up towards the light fixture. It lands, shivers, then crawls inside it. This is the only room with a door that locks. I push my back against the tile wall and slide down onto the coral shower rug. The yellowing tile across from me is so clean that I can almost see my reflection in it. After a few moments of meditation on the floor, I hear my mother go outside. Peeling myself back up, I slide into the room I share with Lacey. I try not to spend too much

82 time in there. It creeps me out. There’s no other desk, though, and I know that I don’t have much time to do homework. I’m trying to get out of here as soon as possible. I get the world history chapter and the math worksheet done at breakneck speed while I’m eating salt and vinegar chips from my stash. Completing the task feels good. Out the window, I notice that the sun has sunk low in the sky. It casts a golden hue over the plastic chairs in the patchy grass outside. Mom is sitting out there reading a short, fat paperback. I don’t have a lot of time. Dashing out the door, I grab myrollerblades off the steps. I pad down the sidewalk quickly in my socks until I get out of eye shot. Then, I skate to the library. My heart flutters as I whiz by sunken-in ranch houses and gravel driveways. I’ve been biding my time all week for this opportunity. After blocks and blocks of cloudy sky blurring gray around me, I reach the metal railing on the corner. Kicking off my footwear, I enter the library and slip quietly into the media room. “The Media Room” is a big sounding name for a table with three outdated HP monitors, each with its own greasy mouse, and one printer. We used to share an iPad that Mom won in a raffle at church, but I accidentally dropped it in the tub two months ago, so this is my best option.

I open a browser window and type rapidly. I consume page after page, clicking on all of the suggested websites. Enraptured, I read while scribbling notes on my hand. Flashes of light, mist, t-h-e-o-p-h-a-n-y. I print out a few photos. I scroll and scroll until the lights are shut off. A middle-aged lady who smells like baby powder comes in and tells me the library’s closing for the night so can I please leave. I nod and exit, nearly levitating. I had lost track of time. I’m really late. I know I’ll catch passiveaggressive hell when I get home. Anger is an emotion that can spill out, but tension stagnates like purgatory. Something is always lingering around our house. My stomach turns thinking about it. As I round the corner, I see my mom talking to our neighbor, Mr. Holstein. They get along because they both make complaint posts in the neighborhood facebook group incessantly. Her head snaps toward me. She sucks her teeth and knits her eyebrows. Paralyzed by her disapproving gaze, I roll too slowly over a crack in the sidewalk and smack my forehead on the ground. When I come to, I’m lying in my twin bed, tucked suffocatingly in throw blankets. There is a glass of Sprite with a bendy straw in it on the bedside table. Rising, I shake off the comforter and step onto the carpet. As I pass

Old Grandpa Pumpkin

By Katherine Qiao

84 the mirror, I notice that I have toilet paper wrapped around my head. A gash has bled through the makeshift bandages. Peeling off the thin paper, I see that it’s pretty deep. Around the edges it’s pink and puffy, but the middle part is dark maroon. A little bit of blood drips into my right eye. Squinting it shut, I walk into the living room. “Mom, do you think I need stitches?” She’s sitting with her back towards me in her Lay-z-Boy. I can see the thinning hair of her ponytail sticking up over the back of the chair and her veiny forearm laying on the armrest. “You disobeyed me,” is her response. Then, “There’s some bandaids under the sink, you’ll be fine.” I open the cabinet in the bathroom. There’s a lump in my throat that I can’t swallow. My hands are shaky as I sift through the clutter. I stick my head in for a closer look. It smells like mothballs. More blood drips onto the half-empty bottles of shampoo and used soap bars. I clumsily locate the box. There are two bandaids left, one little square one and a Hello Kitty. Standing up, my vision goes spotty and my ears ring. I blink it off and blot at the cut with a wet kleenex. The bandaids cover most of it. In the mirror, I notice the writing on my hand, “MOON @ 9:37.” In my disoriented waking, I had forgotten what was happening tonight. It

had been dark out for a while. Hopefully, my mother would be going to bed soon. I start shuffling around my room, gathering materials. Lacey, now asleep in her pink fleece blanket, keeps some metal wire with her friendship bracelet stuff in a bin on the desk. I pop open the latches and grab the spool, trying not to make a sound. I pull the aluminum foil and a pie pan out from under my bed. I stole them from the kitchen two days ago. I sit on the floor in the meager glow of the night light. The reference photo I printed out at the library is wrinkled from being folded up in my jeans pocket. Smoothing it as much as possible, I examine it closely. I place the pie pan on the ground in front of me and unwrap some of the wire. I clip off a few pieces of equal length and try to form them into a pyramid atop the pie plate. This takes me about ten tries. My fingertips sting from the sharp edges of the wire scraping as I bend and shape them. I try to rip the foil as quietly as possible, stopping jerkily every couple of inches until it finally gives out. My sister still snores across the room. It starts coming together. I tape the laser-pointer keychain I got at the career fair on top. Carrying my creation gingerly in my arms, I tip-toe out the back door. Behind my postage

85 stamp yard, acres of corn fields stretch into the night. When I was younger, my mother never allowed us to play in it. She used to say that the farmer would shoot us for trespassing on his land. I could never tell if it was a dark joke or a genuine concern. Tonight, I don’t care. Cold wind seeps into my hoodie as I traipse through the dying stalks. The moon is bright so I manage to get by without falling, but the dry leaves are sharp. I have to be careful they don’t scrape on my forehead. The air is buzzing with cicadas. I emerge from the stalks still holding the fragile object. In front of me, enormous concentric circles had been cut into the brown vegetation. They spread out across the length of a football field. My shoes are wet from the cold mud and my toes are beginning to go numb. I set my stuff down in the middle of the smallest circle. The wind whistles in the tops of the trees. I flip on the laser pointer. The red tunnel of light beams high into the night sky, disappearing into the stars. I reach my arms over my head. I stretch and stretch, waving at the sky like a marooned sailor. I wait. My neck begins to ache from craning up. I scan the stars, flinching at every passing plane. Is that the flashing light? What is that thing floating by Orion’s belt? It starts blinking. My body braces in place and I

squeeze my eyes shut. Nothing happens. With a sigh, I turn the contraption carefully around, facing it west this time. The tin foil thing just sits meekly, looking like the contents of my neighbor’s recycling bin. I pull down the back of my sweatshirt and lie on the damp ground. It’s getting freezing out. I retract my hands into my sleeves and stare up. I’m deep in thought when I notice rustling. I think the sound is far away, but the otherwise silence makes it difficult to ignore. Being by myself in the dark is making me anxious. I sit up, pulling my knees into my chest, and scan the periphery. Silence, dead corn, wind. The sky is still empty. I don’t lay back down. Then, I hear it again, the hurried swishing sound, like something is running through the stalks, leaving them broken in its wake. The backs of my knees start

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MUSH. ROOM By Vellia Zhou

Mm. mushroom By Vellia Zhou

Tiny Emperors By Harper Klotz Come with me, caterpillar feet, Through our powdered-feather stomping ground. You and I will be tiny emperors of this land. We will conquer the leaf mountains beneath us, And when we tire, the hands of the maple tree will cradle us. In her outstretched arms we will be head of the table at the aphids’ feast, Humming as you put your antennae in mine. Admire how delicious the daisies look next to the baby’s breath, And don’t ask the baby’s breath how she got there, Just dip your pincers into them and taste the crisp sunlight. It’s been a long winter, caterpillar feet, But I will meet you out where we greeted the mother doe last year. She will be there again and lead us to toadstool-down cribs. Our coronation is on the dirt path home. Don your circlet of stems and seeds, And follow me down the mountain and into our lily-boat, And don’t forget to take a sip of the breeze on our way out.

A random selection of 5 By wlod

Spis treści These 5 random poems (for starters) by wh want to be songs poe tr y poetry you’re a difficult lover i know you prefer it outdoors you desire cold shores and tall mountains sun burning rain camouflage and soft snow you like fireplay randomly cracking ornaments moving on the wall puffed pillows under your convex buttocks never worried about closing your door wh, 1991

phase transitions in Saigon in Saigon the rains and sun are warm Golden California you’re too cold too cold Northern California i don’t want your gold if to be streetful then in Saigon in rain where air’s wet to the full and becomes your home

the tree of your head and the roofs in the rain talk all night but can’t tell are we alive and wet or long gone and dead Golden California you’re too cold too cold Northern California and your blinding gold wh, 1991-april

89 digressing you greet and you part with your friends at airports around the usa you travel again and again till you can’t tell the heads from the tails your lady luck’s traveling too she smiled in maryland to you smirked in reno from every dice rolled like oranges in florida texan crowd waves the hats at the airport sail straight for you no more escorts no claim pass the baggage room light the city lights offer serendipity wh, 1991-06-10 dim noise do you attend happy hours dim bars u thrive on double drinks in single bars small talks big laughs truths at the glass bottom and the feel of sinking to the bottom i hear u married have a bunch of kids u work part time and play full time with kids u’r proud of your husband he’s not like mew but then nobody is truly like me i attend happy hours in the dim bars i sing on double drinks in single bars small truths big laughs dimes at the glass bottom and the fear of sinking to the bottom wh, 1991-08-29/30

Slavonic Dance too far from Baltic sea your red stream carries blue commit your suicide dream dream green land anew your blood plays in your ears a song of million birds a tune of million years for love for youth the Gypsy wagon left for the Carpatian trail commit your suicide to this Slavonic dance wh, 1994-10-24

Mm. mushroom By Vellia Zhou

Paper Worlds By Tanuja Tase

Mira’s feet felt especially ticklish today. She leisurely walked across the grass of her backyard barefoot, letting each foot drag against the soft ground. It had been a long time since she had gone shoeless into the outdoors. The nostalgic muscle memory of it sent little zaps of silly, electric giddiness through her. They started in her toes and zipped up through her, resting in her fingertips and stomach. For some reason, Mira checked over her shoulder as though to make sure her mother wouldn’t scold her for getting her feet dirty. Even though her mother was across the country, probably taking her afternoon nap. She felt the urge to twirl. She felt the urge to dance. Instead, she settled for a little half skip that made her feel a bit foolish. But foolish was good today. Everything was good today. All golden sunshine and sweet breezes, the earth seemed to agree. Or maybe it was just surrendering to the weight of her happiness, too overwhelmed to resist. Mira flopped down onto the grass, careless of the potential of grass stains on her white dress. She had written ten pages since Tom had left for work, good pages.

She felt like the story was flowing out of her now. Witches, vermin, and princesses barreled across her brain. Spools of thread, she was a puppet master pulling strings. She imagined herself from an outside perspective. Adjusted her fingers and legs so they were outstretched in a becoming way. Tilted her face so the warmth of the sun was on her. A Grecian statue, limbs alive but still, movement trapped right under the surface bubbling forth but never to burst through. She registered the ringing coming from inside her house but she laid there for a few seconds more. Proserpina couldn’t hear things. Eventually, Mira pulled herself up from the lawn that was probably getting too tall but would continue to grow unhindered because she hated how prickly freshly mowed grass was. Strolling inside she finger-combed her hair to loosen the blades of grass that had gotten tangled in her black hair. They drifted to land on the checked tiles. “Hello?” Mira’s mouth felt dry. “Why are you answering the phone like it’s a question?”

“Mother. How are you?”

“I’ve called you three times now. Why didn’t you answer?”

“I was busy.”

“Too busy for me?”

“Mom.”

“Ah yes, your writing.”

“Yes, actually.” Her mother went silent and Mira felt the anxiety that always surrounded interactions with her mother curdle in her stomach. “Mom? Are you still there?” Mira hated how girlish her voice sounded. Mira lifted herself up onto the counter and rested her head against the cupboards. “I’m sorry. I’ve just been having migraines again lately.” “You’re getting worse. I think you should probably go see a doctor.” “Why? So he can tell me I have some deadly disease and then I’ll have to live with that.” “Or die with it.” Mira grasped for something else to say before giving up. “Did you have a reason for calling?” “Yes. I want to know when you’re going to set a date for the wedding.” Mira began toying with the

ring on her left hand, suddenly aware of the foreign object. “We haven’t looked at any venues yet.” “Hmmm. Well, you should start soon, anywhere nice is bound to be booked solid for a year. And you can’t start working on the guest list or decorations until you pick somewhere. I’ll tell you what, I’ve been looking at some magazines--.” “Mom, can we talk about this later? I have to get ready for some party Tom’s boss is throwing. Tom’s up for a promotion and he’s been snapping at me all week.” “Alright. I’ll talk to you later.” “Bye.”

“How’s Tom?”

“He’s fine.”

“Okay, bye.” Mira held her finger over the end call button and waited. “When are you guys having kids?” Mira hung up the phone. She slid off the counter and climbed the stairs to the bedroom in the house Tom had paid for. She stood in front of the full-length mirror attached to the door and prodded at her skin. She contemplated her closet, trying to figure out how she wanted to present herself. Would she airily

93 float around the room like an heiress? Would she be shy and stick by Tom’s side, accepting cursory compliments made by guests before the conversation drifted away? Would she be mysterious, snooty, a saint, a genius, a wannabe fortune teller, an eccentric author? She turned away from her sweaters to Tom’s closet. She pulled on his suit jacket, she was swimming in it, letting the toolong sleeves brush against the tips of her fingers. As Mira stepped into Tom’s big loafers she became her

father’s daughter again. She felt small, not in a sexy way like movies made it seem, but like a little girl playing at Business Man. Like the adults were sharing smiles over her head at her silliness. “Mira has a problem with daydreaming.” That’s what had been typed neatly on Mira’s report cards for years. This was met with her mother’s pursed lips and her father’s silent fuming sulks that caused a weight, a fear that still sat deep in the pit of her stomach. Her mother had been a house-wife that cooked and cleaned and catered

Yehaw

By Vellia Zhou

94 to Mira’s father in a way that Mira detested. Mira began running from that life the moment she’d left her parents house. “Unsympathetic to nuanced characters. One dimensional.” Mira had a problem with that. Her Creative Writing teachers would scrawl these notes on the back page of her stories and underline it three times in red. Her mother wasn’t a victim. She was a woman who aggressively cared for her children and did everything in her power to make sure they had a good life. She was also a woman who had her own lessons indoctrinated into her in which a husband is a deity to be pleased. Mira repeated this to herself to rewrite the story in her head. When she was young, Mira’s mother would climb into her twin bed at night and whisper stories to Mira that filled her with an excitement that inflated her like a balloon with helium. One night, Mira’s mother had slipped into the bed and clung to her little seven year old body so tightly it hurt. Mira had been the one to tell a story that night as she stroked her mother’s hair clumsily. The realization that her mother was human scared her and she shied away from this version of her mother who needed to be held up. As she grew older, Mira would allow herself to live in other worlds in a way that scared her mother.

It made her cling beseechingly to Mira’s ankles as she floated upwards to the clouds. But Mira had never learned to listen. *** Looking at herself in the mirror, Mira saw how the night could play out in her mind. Tom laughed when he saw her, grabbing her face and kissing her cheek. His tired eyes looked bright for the first time in a while. “You look great.” The party was dimly lit and vaguely smoky (but where was it coming from?) and men were wearing suits and sipping whiskey. These were the same guys who were frat boys just a few years ago and who Tom would have hated if he’d met them before they graduated. Spirited jazz music played loud in the background of everyone’s gossip. Mira found she was glamorously smoking a cigarette with an outline of red from her lipstick despite the fact that she hated the smell. She was a darling,

scan me to read more!

Paper for Pencils By Glenn Taylor I’m a versatile 80lb pure off-white; I won’t discriminate by color or number. I want to feel your sharp point dragged to dull against my coarse tooth. Texture tells my story as much as yours: no new page is as blank as it seems. Know the difference between subtle strokes and bold; be wildly adept at both. Meet me somewhere between the everyday and the indelible. No lead too fine. Shade me, stipple me, fill me up with your most unwavering lines. Show what you can do with a steady hand and I will show you what it means to shine.

stop looking at me like that By Vellia Zhou

Lone Tree By Glenn Taylor

An Ending By Claire Thunder shook the pines aloft The ground cracked with despair Lamenting cries afar come softly Woven in the air Steady eyes quell fear’s rebirth As length to length we press Vein stillness into the russet earth Assured by each caress Gaia tears, shifts, turns, splits, yet Portent is lost in love’s duet While deserts sink and oceans dry Washed in light alone, we lie

Celebratory Dogs

By Hannah Levine-Drizin

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ISSUE 10 - 2021