Rucha Mehendale

PERIPHERAL VISION

Although he strides onward, my eyes hesitate to leave the sight beside the bus stop. Their hair is caked with damp red mud, tinged blue at the ends from indigo dye. Their splayed limbs say, You know. He may be jaded, but you still see us. Feed us. Lan l"No. Give them something once and they won't stop asking for rnore." Ma always said that about the cat that prowls by our basement; Da said it whenever he saw the squirrel that nests perpetually by our window. There's thunder above our heads. I stand four feet one inch to his city height, but we tower above our pitiful company. I dance from one sandal to the other, twirling my eyes around to watch them. They stare at my feet, and I still my legs, the better to gauge theirs. One has casual limbs, lines of dust tracing faint veins, taut skin over bone. The other's legs tilt inward at a sharp angle, so that she tumbles over every time she tries to get up. I turn my ankles outward, attempt to continue dancing and end up collapsing into a muddy heap. From my new vantage point, I can see the slight mirthful tremor of their stomachs. "What are you doing? Get up so I can slap some sense into you!" The clouds rumble again, closer this

time.

"I'm sorry, I just wanted to-" My eyes slide over to the two girls on the comer. "Don't look at them. You don't want give them any ideas, do you?" I shake my head, but my pupils have locked themselves into the comers of my eyes. Although I'm not actually able to see them, I remember their stomachs, the way their ribs moved under their skin as they laughed, the hollow under those ribs which my stomach lacks. His pocket vibrates and he begins monologuing, gesticulating frantically with his free hand. A golden opportunity. I twist my left hand into a phone and shadow his gestures with my own. I don't have to see them to hear their laughter, but I turn to look anryay. So does he. Rain mists through the street, carrying the taste of mud. I'm standing in front of him now, his eyes deep set under creased brow. His hand rests on my bare shoulder, and as I stare stonily ahead, a mosquito lands on the other. I imagine that its whine is a story. As it proceeds to suck blood from my shoulder, it asks, What if the world kept a jar full of philanthropists that it saved for a stormy day? Would silver coins pour in place of raindrops, wetting the tongues of thin children so they could sing? The bus grunts to a stop in front of us, and he strides onward, relieved to escape the summer's flood. His hand and the mosquito have fled, so I finally turn. In that moment, through thick, slanting rain, I see a taxi swerve into a man and knock him into the mud. The two girls scamper over to him, the blue tips of their hair flapping and dissolving in the downpour. They pull him up by the bus stop, and the hobbling one flashes me a chipped smile. The other, her limbs purposeful and rain-slicked, neck bent over his figure, proceeds to

ransack his body. They don't hesitate before making offwith their treasure, and I hear them yelling in excitement behind soggy cardboard and straw. He is behind me, having reahzedthat I have not followed him. "Why are you standing out in the rain? Come on, or we'll be late!" He glances at the prone corpse by the bus stop, and pulls me up onto the bus by -y shoulder. There's a rising bump where the mosquito sustained itself. As we sit, he wipes wet hair from my face, and rain from my eyes. He watdres my face. "What did you see?" I look out of the window of the bus. "I didn't look at their eyes."

-RuchaMehendale

-Scarlett Reynaud

DANCE

Ankles swollen red and black, tears deep blue - for you. Torn tendons bloody toes and mind anew - for you.

Fear transversal, wrecking spirits, watch as feet devour spirits, flyin' across and through - for you.

Time eaten while days grow slim, eyes set, watching, waiting, torturing self pursue - for you.

Loss of time means loss of love, opportunity, experience and trouble, minutes must undo - for you.

Watch our eyes, hungry for first, despiteful for last, defeat stuck like glue - for you.

Steps become dreams and dreams become steps, notes roll day and night through - for you.

Leather feet for popping joints, popping joints for heavy collisions, pain in my whole soul brews - for you.

Commitment will rebel, an unthought - of thought, get back to work- Zoel I'm not here to watch - for you.

-Rebecca Kelley

ON THE AVENUE

Pushing past scarlet harlots with scratched porcelain masks she chokes on cigarette smoke and thrift store dreams; The air thick with the familiar stench of Stale innocence, coated in nicotine as Frozenteeth scrape her soft flesh as she

crosses the avenue, December bite tasting the tears that streak her chipped china cheeks The click of her boots against concrete echoing through her mind like The deep chorus of a grandfather clock with Heavy, measured, precision.

Her decision in place, her sweet eyes rake across her hometown The broken boulevard of her childhood berates her, staring back as it Unforgivably portrays the unforgettable misery of her family, Iike Corrupted cousins with the cold countenance of criminals and the Belied brothers barely breathing through the Broken barrier of the Neurological blister that is hope. On the Avenue she cries Soft tears to breathe life to the stone street, Feeding the cruel beast of concrete Hoping to grow love in the pits of their depravity. A quickened pace putting the pitter-patter of footsteps past

The pattern of precise pathways, She hurries through her hometown, homebound and Shaking from her declaration of separation from destiny.

Climbing up sinister stairs of condemned accommodations, she Sheds her street skin and sliding through the silent halls of her Forgotten dollhouse, Pulls the heavy metal from the restraint of her waistband and drifts to the sad bedroom, where sad thoughts sadly sink to Sad memories and sad memories seduce sadistic sins to surface.

Casting one look around her shelter, watering eyes rest upon her mirror and bears witness to her pitiful porcelain, chipped and dirtied, repulsed and insulted

she raises the pistol to her temple and tries to control her shaking trigger finger, her breathing berates her resolve, frantic thoughts struggle to coherency, she can't breathe, why can't I breathe? Why did I deserve this to happen to me?

No, it's not me, it's the street, the avenue is cursed and I am cursed with it. It cannot be.

Locking eyes with the distraught doll of the reflection, I Point the barrel of my lead to that soft spot on my head, My breathing slows, my heartbeat lets go its frantic rhythm, Reduces to a beat that resembles the chorus of a grandfather clock, Echoing through my mind with heavy, measured precision.

My decision is final. My breath is slow.

My eyes close. My finger explodes in ecstasy, I feel so much nothing. I was birthed, raised, deprived, I lived, laughed, cried, Defeated and died, Here, on the avenue.

-Aliana Barnette-Dear

-AdrianaMiranda

CARNIVAL PRIZES

All the people swarm to cut through night with electrical lights and fried everything carnival prizes and delighted shrieks from grungy rides while old ladies with shawls cross themselves Iine up to kiss the shrine and mumble in Old Country tongues. We walk edgily, sideways through people sprawl and packed shoulders stale sweat and shuffle feet. We buy fried dough ice cream paper bowl plastic spoons and lean against dingy, temporary walls with cigarette embers like orange stars smoldering at our feet. Everyone screams above our heads and chatter at ticket booth lines orange stubs clutched in hands the smell of artificial sweet and light strings curling around my head like Tilt-a-Whirl dizziness a small something scurrying in shadows crushed, stomped, onion rings in dirt And I whirl on a foot

to vomit spectacularly in an overflowing carnival trashcan.

-Claire Kowal

LABELS

Accept my peace offering. This purse isn't a hint to get you to change your image you taught me to be comfortable with creamed skin. To dance circles around the people who were uncomfortable with different sexualities. This is a reminder of who you aren't going to be. Your confidence is superior to your imagination; yo:u carry multiple catacombs of struggle on your shoulder. You hang on to gay jokes making your interior hollow like those gray diamond skulls on the handle, Accept my peace offering The cruel words burn mouths. We search for opportunities to be noticed so that we can create borders around our values. Accept my peace offering,

we accept you.

-RonYtem