Blue Flag 2020

BLUE FLAG

letter from the editors

Blue Flag prides itself on being an accepting, inclusive environment conducive to learning and the vulnerability of sharing. This year, Blue Flag’s 76th year of print, the club became a place of solace during incredibly hard and uncertain times.

We would like to thank our members for continuing to meet virtually, carrying a serious and hardworking attitude, when we could no longer meet in person. We have managed to put together a wonderful magazine filled with student work. Though it will originally appear online instead of print, the magazine is true to Blue Flag in its beauty, thoughtfulness, and creativity. Especially in light of the death of George Floyd and the developments of the Black Lives Matter movement, we would like to thank our members for respecting each other and working to create passionate art that addresses the injustices of our society and communities.

In addition to our masthead, we would like to thank Will Bousquette for his hard work as managing editor. Will has been an immensely important figure in Blue Flag, working hard to take notes and help lead discussions. We are proud that he will step forward as editor next year along with Naomi Umlauf and Chris Gumina. This issue’s beautiful cover has been designed by Nina Sloan. She has worked tirelessly for the last three years as our Art Director. Collecting work as well as her own art, Nina has made countless contributions to Blue Flag over the years. We would also like to thank our Advisor, Chris Hood, for the love and support he gives to both the magazine and the Creative Writing department. Mr. Hood, you have been both a teacher and a mentor to us, and we greatly appreciate you.

This year has been challenging and heartbreaking for many. We hope that Blue Flag continues to bring joy and comfort to its members and the Dalton community as it has for us.

Please Enjoy.

Ariana Blaustein, Lauren Kim, and Julia Radomisli 3

letter from the art director It is not customary for the Art Director to publish a letter, but as this is my final issue, I felt it was fitting to say goodbye. I am so happy to have been a part of Blue Flag, and I am so proud to have played a role in producing the magazine over the years, specifically the issue in front of you today.

Simply put, this year was a rollercoaster, and so many things turned uncertain. Despite this, Blue Flag remained as wonderful as ever, and that is a direct result of the unwavering commitment, investment, and passion our heads and managing editor have shown the magazine. Ariana, Lauren, Julia, and Will have put an immense amount of work into this issue, and the finished product is spectacular. A special thank you as well to Mr. Hood, our faculty advisor, for his mentorship and constant dedication to the magazine.

In addition, I am always blown away by the talent of Dalton’s artists, and I would like to extend my sincere gratitude to the artists featured in this issue and issues past. This magazine would not have been possible without them, and their work truly is appreciated.

And finally, a note on the cover: the cover for this issue is the last of a four part series, incorporating the same characters as those of issue 73, 74, and 75. While the specifics of their narrative are up to your interpretation, I hope this final cover provides some closure and a happy ending to their story.

Blue Flag means so much to me, and I cannot imagine what my high school experience would have been without it. I will miss so much next year, from sign-in sheets to Oreos to reading poetry on the couch in 311. It has been my honor to serve as Blue Flag’s Art Director for the past three years, and I hope you enjoy the issue!

Nina Sloan 4

letter from the advisor Throughout a long difficult year at Dalton, in the building or on the screen, one thing has remained unchanged: Blue Flag has been a home not only for writing, but for compassionate and thoughtful friendship. For this, we have Ariana Blaustein, Lauren Kim and Julia Radomisli to thank. As Heads, you have set a tone that I so value. Thank you as well to Nina Sloan and Will Bousquette—the magazine would not be the same without you.

To our readers, you may be viewing this online, but the quality of the writing is the same. Blue Flag is an outstanding literary magazine because of the student writers that grace its pages.

Finally, we congratulate Nina Sloan for her Johnson Prize-winning essay, “Fallen Father.” The prize is named for Warren Johnson, a longtime chair of the English Department and champion of student writers.

Enjoy Blue Flag!

Christopher Hood Faculty Advisor Creative Writing Program Director

contents - POETRY Jamaal Spence

14 15

Judas Hand-me-downs

Andrew Narain

17

i can’t breathe

19

Alphabet Soup

20

Red Lines on Skin, Living in Sin

22 Nina Sloan

Alex Shesh

Will Bousquette

The Figure Five

24

Anticipation

26

7am, october

28

Holy Water in a Salt Shaker

29

When I Go To College

30 32

You Ars Poetica

33

Louisiana Red

34

alien graffiti

36

birdshadows

37

floating back and forth in a cesspool of heartache

38

icaughtmytempo

Lila Sternoff

40 42 43

Music Box Pills Butterflies

Katia Lawson

44

God of Insanity

Zoe Ehrenkranz

46

Saline Song

Ines Chomnalez

48

Statue of a Young Mother

Dylan Andres

50 51

My Bench If

George Porteous

52

Sometimes I forget to remember you

Mei Bock

53

The View

54

Nights

55

Days

57 59

Tree Dream Teeth Dream

60 62 64 65 66

Brick Dream Elephant Dream Crowd Dream ATV Dream Doll Dream

Caitlin Monsky

KK Pohly

69 70

Mama Grandpa’s Kitchen

Chris Gumina

72

the trek

Naomi Umlauf

74

My Body is Ticking and I’m Starting to Hear It

75

Lauren Kim

76

Nativity Landline

77

Bathroom Soliloquy

78

I can trace thread on slippers to the beginings of My eyebrows for grounding.

80 81 82

Frenemies Lake George Departure

- PROSE Nina Sloan

87

Warren Johnson Prize Winner

Ariana Blaustein

94

An excerpt from her science fiction novel

115

Solitude

Charles Noyes

118

Wizard’s Apprentice

Chris Gumina

136

Runner

144

Bad Luck

156

Aurora

KK Pohly

160

From Ashkelon

Julia Radomisli

166

The Man and the Moon

168

Parallel Histories

169

Coming Home From a Long Day

170

Backhands of An Advice Columnist

171

Observation

172

Blue Fevers

Will Bousquette

- ART Nina Sloan - front and back covers, 11, 21, 27, 47, 56

Ella Harris - 13, 135, 159

Ellie Huntington - 16

Henry Stern - 18, 39, 68, 105, 142, 167

Zivi Ham - 31

Dylan Lee - 35, 73, 84, 99

Charlotte Vacarro - 49, 67, 163, 174

Julia Radomisli - 58

Will Bousquette - 61

Poppy Edwards - 63

Claire Jiang - 71, 83

William Ricci - 79, 86, 113, 125, 149, 173

Anais Scott - 114

Nina Sloan

11

poetry

12

Ella Harris

13

JAMAAL SPENCE Judas The stray cats from my backyard are known for scratching their kittens behind the ears, and biting behind their necks to pick them up.

The dirty brown streaks fly over the grass, like lost pennies skipped across a green lake.

The kittens play in the garden, silly games of hide and seek or tag, as though they were children.

Their happiness makes me full of shame, my face pressed against the door window, watching the bundles of joy hop up the steps.

They knock to come inside, because no one taught them that they were stray kittens, and that strays shouldn’t do that, because humans are evil, and even worse, loving.

14

Hand-me-downs My father’s machete waits patiently in our backyard, impaled into the ground by my grandfather, yesterday, cracked, brown hands swinging the rusting blade, supported by feeble arms. The swish, swish, swishing of cold metal against our neighbor’s shrubs, leafy green necks poking through our fence their execution was swift. Grandfather retired the weapon into the ground like Excalibur, light glistening off its edge, it beckons me, drawn to this Chekhov’s gun waiting to explode, distant star whose death has not reached me.

Icarus admires my determination. On his wings I will draw this sword and slay the sky. From a distance it becomes a marked grave, perhaps for my Jamaican cousins and ancestors, passing down knowledge with each new rusty speck. My father is their pupil, trained for combat against weeds and bushes who feel no fear.

He is the same, leaving home and country for white picket fences and racist slander. This machete is his hatchet, partially buried. One day it will yield itself to me, and find itself swish, swishing along in my closet, underneath old clothes and empty shoeboxes.

15

Ellie Huntington

16

ANDREW NARAIN i can’t breathe wake up. make your bed. don’t forget your lunch. remember to drink water. i love you. take a sweater. take the train. notice that man staring at you. don’t say anything. don’t look. be aware of your surroundings. your body is not your own. don’t wear a hoodie. everyone is watching you. facebook live saves your video. don’t walk alone at night. comply. know your rights. comply. can’t sell loose cigs. can’t hold up finger guns. can’t hold a cell phone. can’t roll over. can’t talk back. can’t say no. i love you. be safe. don’t buy skittles. don’t let them see you cry. never reach for anything. know your rights. comply. can’t go to the grocery store. can’t play in the park. can’t drink. can’t drive. can’t run. can’t walk. i can’t breathe. what are you following me for. i can’t breathe. i can’t breathe. they are going to kill me. i didn’t even do nothin’. officers, why do you have your guns out. you shot me. you shot me. why did you shoot me. stop shooting. everything hurts. i can’t breathe. please don’t let me die. i can’t breathe.

17

Henry Stern

18

Alphabet Soup songs have spilt their way out of my throat and I have been vomiting alphabet soup since I was three and tried to spell “special” amidst chaos, I am twelve and listening to friends in the locker room, “I hope you’re not a lesbian, they should change with the boys, not be creeps,” and ever since then I occupy the single-stall in the bathroom, I am thirteen and my life is going nowhere, I say a silent prayer to a god I do not know exists, to unbreak me, maybe it’s to unravel me, and maybe that was a prayer to Christ or Trimurti, my grandmother used to keep a painting of him on her bedroom wall, god of destruction and yesterday a man started to follow me home, took the same two trains, an hour ride home with me, and I hid in the bathroom at Dunkin Donuts for twenty minutes because I couldn’t breathe and I know how to say “war” in four languages but sometimes I wake up and don’t remember my name, I had a dream once where I was a vampire, or maybe I was just a regular ol’ joe shmoe pretending to be a vampire, there was a bag of rice on the table and I just started counting it, 1, 2, 3, to 8,365 when I woke up, I tried to fall back into my dream

19

Red Lines On Skin, Living In Sin perhaps if this body was not my body, i would find it beautiful. sitting across from me on the train. reading my favorite book. i would wish all day that i had struck up a conversation. at a party. dancing. i’d wish i had waved hi. perhaps even just in the domestic, quiet moment of morning, freshly woken, messy hair, mucus stuck to the corners of its eyes. lying down makes its stomach look the smallest. sitting makes it bunch up in rolls. perhaps then i would want to touch its face. stop it from destroying itself. it doesn’t use the scissors anymore, but it skips breakfast sometimes. lunch, too. it mutates. it adapts. it looks at the red marks on its right thigh, ancient carvings, the way they jiggle when it moves, and it thinks, cleverly, i will destroy myself in a way no one can see. inside out. no one sees inside out. politics section. read the news. global warming

20

Nina Sloan

21

The Figure Five i saw the figure five on the fire truck and it was beautiful. call me delusional. people don’t change. they suck in high school. suck in college. suck when they’re adults in loveless marriages with shitty jobs and then they’ll suck every last goddamn out of you. it’s a funny cycle, really. it’s just you and me sitting on a bench and it’s snowing. it’s snowing and a single clump just fell down the back of my coat and i touch you and you jump. you still feel weird running your tongue over the fronts of your teeth where a metal cage used to sit. the last color you got was red like santa’s hat or an old crayola marker bleeding or blood on the milky way on your back but it’s snowing and your hands

22

are shaking and ice cold because you hate wearing gloves and it melts when it hits the sidewalk. when it touches the grass, a soft embrace, it lingers for a painful moment before breaking into water droplets that make the grass droop. there’s this space between you and me where our hands used to touch and all i feel is cold, the cold and the white and i don’t have a damn thing to be sad about so why am i crying. vision blurs and your face is a brown blob and it all narrows down to the slope of your hair along the side of your neck and the snow falling in between us.

23

NINA SLOAN Anticipation I pinch my cheeks in hopes of blush, I gloss my lips with vaseline, I cannot find mascara here–– if only he were married.

I’d find some goddamn makeup then.

I’d have some goddamn lipstick though I doubt his wife––if she exists–– would be the type of woman wearing makeup, owning makeup even knowing how to contour; if she were that type of woman he would not have slept with me. I am not the type of woman who will judge her fellow women but I must say if this wife had worn some makeup then her husband might be working nine-to-fives instead of drinking in a bar instead of lurking five to nine a night and running up a tab a night and picking up a girl a night to take her home, to take her.

24

To take me and then leave me with no options to deceive him when the mask I wore has vanished into sheets and into sweat, abandoned in those bars I find I frequent every night and sometimes noon and sometimes mornings, sometimes one drink turns to ten: I wake in strangers’ beds again I wake in strangers’ beds again I wake in strangers’ beds and then I take a stranger’s towel.

I wipe away the smears of pouting lips and reddened cheeks, meager beauty trapped in terrycloth: a spectacle indeed. I leave his mirror foggy and my memory on his floor, my shadow in his sheets, his towel hanging on the door.

Before the evening rushes back, before he thinks to wake, before I hear a c’mon babe I stumble to the streets.

25

7am, october she clings to me like driftwood to sea arm floating on my ribcage, body anchored to my bed, last night’s clothes washed ashore at its foot. i could watch the morning pour itself in, painting her freckles into flecks of gold, watch the sunlight graze her face and soften into hazy beams but as it warms, the minutes float away. clothes unwashed on the floor; in the bed, a girl who is lost like i am lost, but asleep and unaware, not standing over her one night stand like a lunatic, a lunatic who will miss her train unless she tears her eyes from the (beautiful) distraction tangled in her sheets.

26

Nina Sloan

27

ALEX SHESH Holy Water in a Salt Shaker The earliest memory of faith I have is coloring inside the lines of ninety-nine cent books in Church on Sundays, squirming in red patent leather shoes because the pastor told us not coming to Church on Sundays was like if you had a birthday party and nobody showed up.

‘Jesus sure has a lot of birthdays!’ I thought.

Truthfully, I only had a first communion for the dress, but starving seemed Christian that morning as I sat, cross-legged, praying the wafer would fill my stomach like a balloon, heavenward, and I would become Holy.

When my mother got cancer, she promised God she’d go to Church each Sunday. It’s tradition in my family for women to make promises to God; my grandmother never ate meat on Fridays and I knock on my headboard six times each night before I go to sleep— that’s what I told the psychiatrist when he asked me if I had any rituals. ‘Rituals’ I thought back to myself ‘isn’t how I would put it’ so I asked him if he meant superstitions?

‘Yes’ he said, though I think he knew they weren’t the same thing to me, I think the sound my hand on the headboard makes back to me will hear me I think it is my belief system I think it is like the Holy Water in a salt shaker that sits on my dresser, empty from evaporation and full of universe, soft.

28

When I Go To College When I go to college I will be sweater-clad, frost bitten, books at my hips I will flip weekly through men, like the dog-eared pages of Steven King novels my uncle warned me about. I will speak to men who speak loftily of ‘literary citizenship’ and I will nod, I will become the knots in mahogany walls, I will see things in frames per second, I will press my fingernails into waning crescent moons on my palm and crime doesn’t work the way they tell you on the tours.

The blue light will do nothing at night but blare and I will envy the screeches outside my window, watch older women catch glimpses of themselves in me and I in them as I find pleasure in the crossword, in sweaters and they will tell me to stop my youth in its tracks, to freeze it in red brick, so when we link eyes, I’ll look away.

29

WILL BOUSQUETTE You are impossible to describe– a fleeting memory caught in the spider web which tells me to crawl away but I can’t resist the light, I bat my wings up and down until I can’t feel my body, lips– because you don’t exist in other people, you are divine and sometimes mine.

30

Zivi Ham

31

Ars Poetica Poetry is walking down the street, meandering until there’s a DEAD END– there I’ll find a poem.

Poetry is being in love, walking down the street hand in hand, singing and the song is a poem.

Poetry is feeling tired and lonely, walking down the street clutching a photograph in cold fingers and the photograph writes a poem.

Poetry is going on a trip, walking down the street in an unfamiliar place, excitement spilling into a poem.

Poetry is going to Church, walking down the street in nice clothes, reading the Bible and realizing it is poems.

Poetry is looping keychains on a backpack, walking down the street to school, nervous until remembering that school is poems.

Poetry is when you smile at me, walking down the street.

32

Louisiana Red I sit alone and I tell myself I’d go to Heaven if I played football.

33

alien graffiti pollution breath, smell the flowers and dash dash dash to Concord

Street, then Chapel over bridges and yelling in wind tunnels

with numb knuckles gripping East River handles and pushing

Manhattan Bridge pedals, the flowers screamed at my face as I ripped them from the ground,

I was just trying Flower Killing Therapy–you don’t listen,

do you?–I don’t think you ever really hear me–you just ask the

same questions every week–are you having any negative

thoughts?–all I have are negative thoughts. melatonin asked me if I hear any voices in my head and I said Look

At The Flowers, what I really said was No, but also look at

the flowers so I can get a clear shot at your head while

Sunflower Sutra fills your eyes with image, gluts your nose

with spring and now I’m looking at the sunflowers sideways, clawing through the

concrete which kissed my broken skull after my bicycle gears

broke and the bridge crumbled into infinity graffiti and

there’s ringing in my ears instead of Sunflower. the Sunflowers shudder in the Subway wind, train cars tearing down

3rd Avenue–no, 5th–I don’t remember because I don’t

remember today or what I’m doing while I do it so I just play

my music on full volume hoping I’ll go deaf before yesterday.

Fuck you, Sunflower Sutra–I’ve never even seen a sunflower in my life

and I wasn’t supposed to listen to Sunflower while speeding

toward brick-wall Love.

Just look at the flowers now, please, before I rip all of the pages out.

34

Dylan Lee 35

birdshadows and the lonesome distant rumblings of the FDR encourage me

to distance from myself and retreat into the

reverberations of yesterday, where days of the week have

no meaning and clocks tell you to leave the Cage, to get a breath of fresh air, breathe in life and exhale

pain, Anger, Anxiety, Depression, Shame, Happy,

Misery, Sadness, Hopelessness...there’s nothing like the

feeling of uncertainty, the eeriness of silence.

Legends sing to me through my headphones, the days seem

longer as life gets shorter, leaving me with anxiety–but

legends die Young, so I hope to Die, and my final meal

would be Quiet, because I see my past everywhere.

I feel my brain turning into Play-Doh, drizzling out of my

nostril in long coils, I’m too paranoid they tell me, I’m

hungry I say, and you’re tired so why does Insomnia

crack your ankles awake?

Everytime always I murder the sheep instead of counting them,

because my bed spring is broken and it creaks

when I cry myself to sleep, seeing trapezoidal pain boxes and phantom

highwaymen laughing at me through the cracks in

between silences, leaking particles of fading brickwork

beaten back by waves of children playing against time

and the rain.

36

floating back and forth in a cesspool of heartache perfume painters on streets straighter than dancing grass and

happiness and happiness humming tunes of memory

away into windows welcoming anything but the story

you bring, and Central Park hawks eyeing squirrels and

lonely children who escape to mystery buildings through

illuminated windows, hard rock, and cigarette smoke‌ and Ice Cream Man trading Happiness for 4 dollars and a

dead-alive person artwork museum donating inspiration

and headsplitting migraines, disturbing homeless sleep

early in the concrete morning‌ disconnected words flex against each other like the opposite

ends of a magnet inside my head, all day, so I give up

trying to write them all down, instead I decide to

suspend myself above avenue traffic and watch them go

up and down, tires relentlessly squealing through cafes

and trucks rumbling in coffee while I continue to float back and forth in this cesspool of

heartache, indifferently expressing my muted passion

37

icaughtmytempo abstract shapes and long telephone

fillmydays away from home crying into the fruit bowl and scraping at closed boxes getinside getinside put on the [blind fold] to see better and taste the n i b a o r w Marketing! i’m hungry: e m p t y s t o m a c h

calls

Ouch! raspberries hurt–not the fruit–i picked fruit once and Human

Beings Killed Them With Their Teeth–i like smiling at myself

in the mirror until i start crying–just kidding–i wish i had

allergies so i had an excuse to scratch my eyes out–MY

PHONE IS OUT OF DATA

38

Henry Stern

39

LILA STERNOFF Music Box She wears grooves in the floor when she turns spins twirls across the room. she urges her tiny body tinier, spinning until that invisible tuck of skin that life ruining career ending invisible tuck of skin vanishes.

I think she knows it never will.

I think she spins like the girl in a music box like she knows she will never stop like she knows that even if the music that roars in her ears dies if only for a second It will come back someone will open the box she will start to spin again.

40

The box wasn’t always open but once that melody begins It’s hard to hear much else especially for the porcelain ballerina trapped inside so she wears grooves in the floor flesh disappearing with every twirl, and all she can hear is the song a ceaseless echo that becomes a roar. she’s lighter now. but the song doesn’t end.

41

Pills White knights in clear orange armor come to fight the fires in my head. one by one they storm the beaches dissolve in swirling formations bitter tasting they stomp over my mind, numbing every thought so I won’t dwell on the fact when they stop fighting I will too.

42

Butterflies her hands shake moving across the soft skin of her forearm drawing butterflies. they dance across her arm, replacing the army of faded red strokes her shaking hands had drawn with silver tipped pens.

She rubs her butterflies with the pad of her thumb watching their wings flap in time reshaping in her vision in peaceful pinks and blissful blues She never uses red.

43

KATIA LAWSON God of Insanity You, You who sits there writing a poem about hate and fear and tears and smiles And cries while you laugh You who wish the clock would stop at 7:50 every minute but grins when it’s morning.

You who feels the graveyard dirt after dark and talks to the man beneath the stone.

She tells you the world is an ironic mess of smoke and mirrors and sunlight and tears and Abbey Road endlessly circling our brains.

She sits with him smoking his last joint before the clock starts again.

Stop. Stop! It should stop.

She tells you not to worry when your glass is empty and the sun is gone and your father is dead And the world burns and your mother cries And don’t worry when they drag you to your grave for the insane.

Don’t worry when they wipe your tears with the Bible and tell you God is watching.

You, who writes this poem and reads this poem and Knows the glass is empty even though your Grandfather told you it’s always full.

You who knows very well that the man beneath the stone can’t hear you But maybe you hear her and call her crazy for talking to the unborn flowers while gardening your white Roses.

You tell she. You tell she to stop. You tell she to sing Rocky Racoon and dream of Saturn and Sangria in the snow.

Don’t come to me when they tell you I’m insane And that the only measure of success is through numbers and names and money.

44

Don’t come to me when your glass is empty and you realize you failed, And not because of the numbers or the names or the money but because you can’t see the sun In the morning and your brother yells while painting a masterpiece of misery on the walls of The White House.

Don’t listen to me when I tell you the only reason your eyes can open Is because there’s a fountain pouring out of them and nobody is there to throw in their pennies, Maybe they’ll give them to Homeless John who sits on the corner of 10th and 3rd, No they won’t.

People don’t do that.

You, You who sits there and can’t write a poem about love and loss and the cliches they cry for.

Not because you smell it’s bullshit, But because everything is cliche, honey.

When they drag you to your straight-jacket while pouring God’s sweat on your unblessed forehead, remember I warned you.

When they pour pills down your dry throat Because you can’t stop screaming your father’s last words, So you quote Allen Ginsberg in a testimony to your pure insanity, Remember I warned you.

I told you they don’t speak your tongue, They don’t bleed red, They don’t release the hounds beating through your mind onto the world, I warned you, They won’t get it when you’re praying to your God of Insanity.

45

ZOE EHRENKRANZ Saline Song All feet fear the sea.

So I dip mine, sockless, into the glassy blue deep It gazes back, unflinching; My legs recoil, Thump against the wood hull Soles scrambling for solid surface cower hanging Above thousands of leagues But I am pulled Beneath thin layers of froth and drunken sunlight Toes tangling with seaweed fingers Graze the reef ’s razor edge, Scalloped oyster-knights Guarding fragile bodies with pearls As whales waltz below without corsets or bones I plunge deeper, called by a saline song Past a forgotten fleet, mariner’s names remembered only By seabed, their echo of ‘Exodus’ on the current; Past skeletons of coral cathedrals, Bleached spires preaching the ancient faith of tides, While silvered herrings worship the moon.

46

Nina Sloan

47

INES CHOMNALEZ Statue of a Young Mother Mom learned from her mother to fill every spare cavity with prayer cards, statuettes, wooden crosses I read the inscriptions for the names of places: Sinai Peninsula, Rosario, Sante Fe, Catholic Book Publishing Co. New Jersey Above my desk they form a poorly curated bazaar upon a tottering column of used math textbooks Chipped wood and worn leather encircle a young, ill-defined face, coronated by a wreath of pale, pink flowers, she cups in fragile ceramic hands: a single rose still stemmed, forever commanding the attention of her blank irises So that wherever I stand, Her eyes never meet mine

48

Charlotte Vacarro 49

DYLAN ANDRES My Bench My hair swayed with each gust.

I was down to my last three teeth.

Lone wolves in a vast expanse.

I had found a pair of blue plastic scissors yesterday.

I could have threatened them, forced them to leave, punctured their hearts.

But I didn’t.

Something was stopping me– the empathy I was told was coded into my heart, or my familiarity with inaction.

Maybe it was the police I knew were stationed a block away.

50

If I looked out my window, the steady Monday air was dark, the waves bit the sand.

Red flyers to caution us locals still bound to the beach’s entrance.

Radios had warned us, police had surveilled my view, but he swam nonetheless.

I had watched the paramedics take him. He lay on his back, red threads tied into his beaten skin.

I watched and I liked it.

Strangled in blood, his eyes, open still, met mine.

I could have known him.

I could have kissed him.

We could have been a thousand things.

The beach should be devastated with mourners–yelling, eating the sand, doing anything at all.

But the waves crashed, blue replaced red, and the steady air continued.

51

GEORGE PORTEOUS Sometimes I forget to remember you But there you are again, Arms extending, spanning oceans Never really gone

I am trying to hold onto you In the quiet ways now.

In the moments between sleep and waking Half-dreamt ghosts Conjure up the recipes you buried– Tins of Scottish shortbread And wild Ojibwe rice

At Salisbury Cathedral I light a candle for you Or maybe for myself And there you are again.

Did you ever really leave?

52

MEI BOCK The View I want to think there is an art to looking at the skyline and losing myself in the different windows, the sheer awe of floating lights.

That when I smile at the fog settling over the Empire State and proclaim my undying love for the New York Life building, it is the churning of a greater soul.

Simon and Garfunkel had it right: I want to be the only one living here, staring straight into the edge of the universe.

Millions of people in the swathe of my vision, shuttered away in homes but on this roof I have the wind howling through me and know, really, what it means.

53

Nights Pitch black this day has lingered on past its due.

I have never been one to let things go.

My greedy palms caught frogs from open lakes Held on for too long so when I put them back they wouldn’t swim right.

Sometimes I flip through old photos and worry I will never love anything as much As I loved summer in elementary school The simple art of sweaty arms, leaves so green They hurt to look at.

I will never love the same way Because now instead of trees I look at the past and feel hurt By the ease of it all.

Once I decide that some things are forever unspeakable I am left to wonder If they are dark by nature or because I refuse to let them come to light.

And why do I need someone else To say it’s okay so I can make it Through till morning?

When are my own words enough?

Until then I won’t sleep one goddamn night.

54

Days Evening in the park where the sky sits blue beneath the surface, statue of a general on his pedestal.

But as the night deepens I pick up the pace.

He looks at the world through copper-plated eyes, mine often fail me.

On the morning ride to school there is a boy crying, so quietly I almost don’t notice the glassy run of tears that he lets finish their course to his chin and I should look away but I can’t shake him.

I can explain it like this: a well between the appendix and diaphragm cracked mossy walls damp airs hard basalt shiny drain at the bottom.

For as much water you pour in with Laughter and chocolate In time it all slips out And nothing left to bear but the terrible floor.

When the world sits upright again I almost forgot the carpet on my cheek, hours gone by, older now afraid of the light instead.

Midday seeping through shuttered blinds when everything is immovable and I let myself hold my unwavering hatred for old men on the street who say I’m beautiful.

Liars.

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Nina Sloan 56

CAITLIN MONSKY Tree Dream My 10-year old legs brush against the trunk, Jabbed by insignificant splinters. Standing on the top branch as the city floods, ground turning blue, Cars float down fifth avenue.

I wonder if I can fly home, but I don’t know what it would feel like to fly away from invincibility.

Below I see myself emerge from the sea With longer legs and deeper wrinkles desperately trying to climb the tree.

I reach out for a helping hand. Grasping hold, feet dangling above water, I decide to let go watching myself plummet into waves.

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Julia Radomisli

58

Teeth Dream The smell of acrylic and formaldehyde fumes signal my brain to run. Instead I sit in a green-grey waiting-room chair.

A disappointed boy leaves with freshly cut wires Connecting cold metal braces, colored like a rainbow glued to bone.

He begs to keep his shiny white teeth Exposed like the skeleton that guides me to an operating room. It examines my two front teeth that hang from gum by a string. I stare Into soulless eyes, curious if they could see me, wondering if that’s what I look like.

Handed a mirror, I see only bones.

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Brick Dream The bright-eyed woman In her pencil skirt and patent leather shoes Scurried toward lunch At the deli around the corner, A newly freed Repunzel From her corporate desk job.

Good Vibrations flowed into her ears, Drowning out car horns and pedestrians Crossing streets on cell phones and a child holding a cardboard sign for money stating “not a scam� in bold.

She still stopped to give a dollar Receiving a thank you and disapproving stares.

Towers looming overhead, Her heel became trapped on a piece of pink gum embedded in the sidewalk. She struggled To remove the sticky substance, noticing A lack of interest and slight disgust From those around her, until a brick fell slowly Picking up speed to land on her Ending the song.

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Will Bousquette

61

Elephant Dream Pink pearls slap onto my skin like bullets rolling down my arms, covering my feet, sinking Until my heart pumps blood to my toes. They rise and I run To where an elephant wades into a river of pearls, Clearing a path with his trunk like Moses. I’m the only follower, trudging behind uncertain if I’ll make it through, unsure Of where I’m going. Somewhere important, maybe To my sister in a hospital bed, waiting for a miracle Drug to free her from cherry jello and cable TV. She coughs, peals spilling out of her mouth, scattering on the floor, knocking over The IV. No elephant in the room, just me And my sister, patiently waiting to drown.

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Poppy Edwards 63

Crowd Dream Ghost-like figures envelop my personal space In a never-ending white room. One calls me by name And asks if I am living. I recognize the voice, Raspy and cold, as belonging to the man that sits outside the subway entrance Begging for spare change and a slice of pizza, watching commuters stare at their phones and ignore. He offers a cigarette, I inhale. The need for fresh air transports us to the beach. The crowd of ghosts dissipates as I dive headfirst into white-tipped waves that await the arrival of alien mammal lungs.

Swallowed by the sea’s open mouth, floating sediment and rock beat against my expanded rib cage begging for nonexistent air.

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ATV Dream Dusty fumes from the wide desert path coat my hair and mask.

Gripping onto the person in the front seat steering the massive metal machine, I smell burning flesh. My left leg presses against heated metal.

Reaching down to feel the remains of my ankle, skin covers the surface.

I baked cookies yesterday, refusing to eat them straight out of the oven in fear of burning my tongue.

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Doll Dream It occured to me that I was a paper doll on a chain our drawn on faces and clothes an attempt to make us look different, but our shapes and sizes the same, attached so tightly together we didn’t have hands. floating in the wind, I waited to rip apart.

My attachments mocked me.

My non-existent paper-thin body, my inability to detach from others.

My helplessness in believing that I am special.

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Charlotte Vacarro

67

Henry Stern

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KAITLYN POHLY Mama The moon begins to fade into blends of orange and red As the night rolls further down a winding, twisting road.

My hands tremble as I dial the number Plastered and frayed above the kitchen counter.

“Mama,” I whisper As the clock continues, its endless march of time.

The line is silent on the other end An incessant buzz of nothingness, yet My ear stays plastered to the plastic “Mama?”

It’s past the time when she returns From her days of making feather beds and Nights of scrubbing kitchen floors For men in fancy suits And ladies in shimmering pearls Her days are always long and hard Eyelids heavy with the sleep She never gets So I sit and wait, Wait for her to come home And stroke my hair, And sing me a song, And say “Mama loves you, goodnight.”

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Grandpa’s Kitchen Mom told me to come with her to clean out the old house.

She hasn’t even been able to plan services yet, It’s been almost two years now.

The front door clicks, the crumpled up newspapers, half-empty beer bottles, and coupon clippings scattered across the floor.

Now it’s Thanksgiving Day, and the parade in New York City plays on his ancient kitchen television set.

He sets me down behind the kitchen counter, the ingredients sprawled in clumps, a mess.

“You just sit there, Angel,” and so I do.

Playing with the sugar and the flour, the two whites running together, I am trying to be helpful.

There’s a clash of dishes and he shouts words my mother told me to never say.

He’s touched something hot in the stove.

Leaping down from the counter, I grab an ice pack from the freezer.

“Thank you, Angel,” he says.

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Claire Jiang 71

CHRIS GUMINA the trek White rings cap six peaks of stone battered by wind and hail and we see him among the dancing white undaunted by the gail swiftly swirling around he trudges forward with icicles growing off his eyebrows and out of his nose while white monsters wage war without a care for the man picking his way beneath their frigid feet as he travels through caves and valleys over hills and mountains until he comes to a squat, red, building.

He walks inside, sits down, and gives the teacher his homework.

That’s how my grandfather described it.

I walk five blocks.

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Dylan Lee

73

NAOMI UMLAUF My Body is Ticking and I’m Starting to Hear It I’ve learned to keep apples In ice boxes to avoid rotting

Ignore school bell doctrine, find faith in grandfather clocks.

The weather predicts more time Tomorrow for questions.

We’ll sleep on.

Hourglasses crack under the Gravity of tree rings.

Our bodies resemble their x-rays.

Zip skin over carcasses And measure the length of toenails.

Even in the Sistine Chapel Adam never touches God’s hand.

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Nativity Sunday is holy day.

Is wake up to dog barks and mother, Walk up church steps Laces and fingers crossed day.

Sunday is holy and am I holy and what is holy day?

Leg shakes against pews, Back molds to oak and Bible benches.

Blood and body to cracked lips, This is revival because I practice by my sister This is release because here I become My mother’s daughter, my grandma’s southern accent.

My cheek: Tapestry for sun Reflecting through stained glass. I become what I am not.

At dinner, sneaking food before grace Thank you God For the food we’re about to eat Staring as mother spills syllables of Amen.

I want to ask What it feels like to believe.

To sustain yourself with hymns. I want to ask What it feels like to love Unrequited, Uncontrollably, Like she says she loves me.

Like she loves the blood and body she bore Like something she has never seen.

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Landline When my Jewish grandmother calls for me She says “Na” as “now.”

Her German scoffs the last syllable.

It must stick to her tongue this way, Wanting familiar sounds For her American granddaughter.

After 9/11 my mom thought she’d lost my father: Your Oma would have been so mad If I’d taken him and this happened.

On the phone Oma exchanges my name: _____, is she there?

The metal voice cradles my neck.

Mostly, we converse in pauses.

She’ll say slow down.

I do.

She doesn’t understand, But I tell her I’m well, About my sister, when we’ll next visit.

I know few words in German: bitte, Mädchen, auf wiedersehen, Hallo wie geht’s Dir.

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Bathroom Soliloquy In mirror I am sunken eyes, calloused hands, I am doing something right.

I am white hair from I am keeper.

I, shaking now am sifting through pleads To put meaning into handshakes.

Finding grounding on porcelain Is not different from on a podium.

Oak under palms, I stand in front of a crowd of myself.

Looking up my eyes greet mirror, Which scan varieties of hair attached to my head and many.

I, still in front of mirror am gripping oak, When throwing words onto walls resonance is empty nods used to promises.

I, still in mirror am prey, I am predator, hunter, I am rifle, I am holster, I am folded over myself, I am limp.

I am killing myself because I am scared of myself, because I have been scared Of hating what I do not know.

But in mirrors it seems Not knowing is the same as hatred.

Is the same as headlines, one dead, two dead.

Body buried in star-spangled liberty I am the house on the hill and I’ll burn myself to show our blood is the same.

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I can trace thread on slippers to the beginnings of My eyebrows for grounding.

Here I bear stubble to say:

I too once was.

Once heads with tails Play heads and tails Till this is hot blood in, these are our bodies.

Skin of half-lineage glazed over With birthmarks on collarbones.

A bone we’ll holster between two fingers. xSliding them on the train For something to play with.

It’s here we’re taught beauty.

In terms of sharp Turns and metal poles, For grounding.

In the bathroom mirror, We practice this motion: Of making bone more than bone.

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William Ricci

79

LAUREN KIM Frenemies Mind is self-conscious of its moist wrinkles so it’s the happiest when Body keels over, creating a fold bigger than all of its own combined.

“Better you than me,” Mind will say in its butter-voice.

Body knows of Mind’s insecurity so it stays silent through battery.

Mind is gleeful for now, but what will happen when the spider web of cracks forming on Body suddenly open. If Body becomes a bloody, rigid shell lying prostrate, will Mind cry? Or will it eat the carcass?

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Lake George Gazing across Lake George, I saw the silhouette of a man.

In the twilight-dark, a swollen head atop slouched shoulders.

For an hour, stone-still.

The man convulsed.

Tilting his face to a bruised sky, he shook as if exorcised.

Later, he held a young salmon to his chest. A fisherman.

Cradling the shuddering animal, he grazed its steel with his eyes before casting it back.

Again marble-like, he waits, thinking of carving fins and clapping gills.

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Departure Dying will be like swimming in a tar-filled pool, the pressure on the eyelids as you push forward denting the balls. The light you’ll see won’t be light, but phosphenes caused by the stimulation of the retina.

You’re no longer you’ll tell yourself, but instead of accepting the vacuum, you’ll think your body is shortening.

It’ll happen gradually, but soon you’ll forget your cat, your cousins, your country, your mother your husband, your children, until you’re confused, decomposing matter, wondering whether this dark is home.

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Claire Jiang 83

Dylan Lee

prose

William Ricci

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NINA SLOAN The Warren Johnson Prize Winner Fallen Father

Is Shakespeare’s The Merchant of Venice anti-semitic?

In truth, the play paints Judaism in an unflattering light––the most prominent Jew in the play, Shylock, is deeply flawed––but Shakespeare is no less critical of Christianity. Despite Shylock’s faults, Shakespeare casts him alongside characters with similar imperfections. Thus, the central contrast between the play’s characters lies not within innate heroism or villainy; instead, the play examines how someone comes to be perceived as righteous or evil. The nature of a Jew and the nature of a Christian are often indistinguishable, and as a result, their relative power and privilege over one another relies on the climate they live in. In The Merchant of Venice, it is societal convention––not inherent morality––that dictates the fate of its characters.

Shakespeare demonstrates this concept through an extended biblical metaphor, one he introduces early in the play.

When Antonio and Bassanio ask Shylock if he will charge them interest on the three thousand ducats, Shylock responds with a rather obscure biblical tale detailing Jacob creating “interest” out of Laban’s sheep. During this speech, he says: “[Jacob] pilled me certain wands…” (1.3, l. 92). Though the insertion of “me” into his speech functions as an ethical dative, it also incorporates Shylock into the story he tells. Jacob, in essence, “pilled” the “wands” for Shylock. In doing so, Shylock reminds Antonio of his religious ancestry; he evokes the influence of Jacob/Israel, and simultaneously excludes Antonio and Bassanio from 87

claiming the same ancestry (in saying “me” instead of “us”). He goes so far as to equate himself with Jacob; though his whole speech compares Jacob’s actions with his own, the use of “me” places himself more personally within Jacob’s narrative. When considered alongside other details––Shylock “[swears] by Jacob’s staff ” (2.5, ll. 37) and his wife’s name was “Leah” (3.1, l. 120)––this speech establishes that he is Jacob in the context of the play.¹

After casting Shylock as Jacob, Shakespeare extends the metaphor to Lancelet; just as Esau serves Jacob in the Bible, Lancelet serves Shylock. Lancelet also mentions he is “famished in [Shylock’s] service” (2.2, l. 106), mirorring how Jacob withholds food from a starving Esau in order to steal his birthright. There are undeniable biblical parallels in Lancelet and Gobbo’s conversation, to the point that Act II, Scene 2 can be considered a reenactment of Esau asking Isaac for his blessing.

Gobbo’s “sandblind[ness],” Lancelet’s “beard,” and, of course, Lancelet’s request for his father to “give [him his] blessing” (2.2, l. 76)––all of these mimic classic elements of the original story.

In the Bible, however, when Esau asks if a blessing was “reserved for him,” Isaac instructs him to serve his brother, Jacob.

Lancelet and Gobbo’s conversation directly subverts this expectation: instead, Lancelet asks his father to release him from his servitude to Shylock so as to serve Bassanio, a Christian.

It is also important to note that the Edomites––Esau’s descendants––were seen as distinctly different from the –––––––––––––––––––––––––––– ¹ I would even argue that Shylock’s role as Jacob hints at a play within a play: in Act I, Scene 1, Antonio says, “The world [is] / A stage where every man must play a part, / And mine a sad one,” to which Gratiano responds, “Let me play the fool” (1.1, ll. 814). Just as Shylock characterizes himself as Jacob, Gratiano chooses to “play the fool.”

In Act I, the characters cast themselves as certain roles. If it really is a play within a play from that point on, that would imply a lack of agency on the characters’ parts–– their fates are predetermined once their roles are cemented.

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Israelites: the Edomites were neither Jewish nor Christian.

Thus, their allegiance to a certain religion depended on circumstance rather than ideology. Lancelet’s decision to abandon Shylock relies on this characteristic, and his speech as he considers whether or not to leave is perhaps most revealing of the play’s ambivalence regarding religion. Despite being set in an overwhelmingly anti-semitic society, Lancelet seems to judge Christianity and Judaism equally. Though he considers Shylock “a kind of devil,” he also says that a “fiend”––in other words, Christian intolerance of Judaism––“tempts” him to leave.² Both Christianity and Judaism have the potential for evil, and, thus, Lancelet cannot find a satisfactory answer to his problem.

Furthermore, of all the Christian characters, Lancelet concerns himself least with the appearance of piety and blind allegiance to Christianity. Unlike the more devout Christians in the play,³ Lancelet displays little investment in Jessica’s conversion, saying: “This making of Christians will raise the price of hogs: if we grow all to be pork-eaters, we shall not shortly have a rasher on the coals for money” (3.5, ll. 22-5). A truly devout Christian would rejoice at her conversion––after all, proselytization is the religion’s hallmark––but Lancelet seems not to care either way, only remarking on how the price of pork might go up. In addition, Shylock’s reference to Lancelet as “Hagar’s offspring”⁴ (2.5, l. 45) paints a picture of Lancelet as someone who is only Christian in name, and an outside observer in the play. This allows him to take a less biased view of Judaism and Christianity, contextualizing the dissonance he feels regarding Jews and Christians.

–––––––––––––––––––––––––––– ² Potentially a reference to temptation in Genesis. ³ Specifically Antonio, considering how he forces Shylock to convert to Christianity. ⁴ This could also be a reference to Lancelet’s race, rather than his religious heritage.

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Perhaps Lancelet’s relative lack of prejudice stems from a more flexible approach to faith, allowing him to see the world without a preference for one type of person. But even Portia–– despite upholding purported Christian ideals––briefly assumes the same impartial role as Lancelet in Act IV, Scene 1; because of her isolation from the Venetian world, she cannot tell the difference between Antonio and Shylock when she arrives at the courthouse, asking “Which is the merchant here, and which is the Jew?” (4.1, l. 176). Though this question resolves itself soon enough, it hints at the similarities displayed between Jews and Christians throughout the entire play: neither can claim superiority over the other, because the best parts of Christianity are present in Judaism, as are the worst.

As Shylock and Portia battle over Antonio in Act IV, Scene 1, both demonstrate the worst of their respective peoples. Their behavior in this scene conforms to one of Bassanio’s musings earlier in the play: “In law, what plea so tainted and corrupt / But, being seasoned with a gracious voice, / Obscures the show of evil?” (3.2, ll. 77-9). Here, “a gracious voice” can be interpreted as adherence to the law––a “plea” cannot reasonably be denied when it appeals to a system that supports it. As Shylock argues for the fulfillment of his bond, he employs these legal principles to justify an undeniably immoral act. Portia initially exploits a legal loophole to achieve a moral result; had she stopped after saving Antonio’s life, she would undoubtedly be the more ethical of the two. However, she continues on to strip Shylock of his wealth, his faith, and even threatens him with execution. Portia prevails over Shylock not because she is more virtuous, more honorable, but because she works within a system which allows her to accomplish her goal.

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Prior to his first conversation with Antonio, Shylock asserts, “If I can catch [Antonio] once upon the hip, / I will feed fat the ancient grudge I bear him” (1.3, ll. 46-7). Though this line references Shylock’s desire to punish Antonio for his behavior towards him, it also alludes to Jacob once again. In the Bible, Jacob wrestles with an angel until, at daybreak, the angel catches Jacob on the hip. When Jacob refuses to let the angel go, the angel renames him Israel; this marks Jacob’s birth as a father of Judaism. Shylock, as a modern⁵ Jacob, follows an inverted path.

In the courtroom scene, Portia “[catches Shylock] on the hip”⁶ and forces him to convert to Christianity. She strips Shylock of his livelihood, his religion, and his name.⁷ The original biblical story follows Jacob’s rise to power, but The Merchant of Venice tracks Shylock’s fall from favor.⁸

If Shylock is an inverted Jacob, then a new “Jacob” must take his place––a role filled by Portia. Portia facilitates Shylock’s fall, specifically through depriving him of his wealth. As Shylock references early in the play, “Thrift is blessing if men steal it not” (1.2, l. 98). Shylock’s career as a moneylender rewards thrift, therefore qualifying it as a “blessing” to Shylock. By characterizing his thrift as his blessing, Portia’s theft of Shylock’s wealth begins to resemble Jacob’s theft of Esau’s blessing. Portia even mirrors the tactic Jacob uses, donning a disguise when ar––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

⁵ Modern in the 16th century. ⁶ Gratiano even explicitly references this in his interjections: “Now, infidel, I have you on the hip” (4.1, l. 348). ⁷ Metaphorically, of course––in becoming a Christian, Shylock can no longer be considered “Israel.” ⁸ As a generalized figure, Shylock’s fall could signify the erosion of Judaism as a prominent religion. Jessica’s conversion to Christianity anticipates this––Jacob’s transformation into Israel relies upon him continuing the bloodline of the Jewish people.

When Jessica strays from Judaism, it undermines Shylock’s responsibility as a Jewish father and as Jacob.

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guing in court. Just as she masks her relatively unethical intentions with legal expertise, (“obscuring” her “tainted and corrupt [plea]”), she conceals her physical appearance. In some ways, her success against Shylock means she will supplant him––without his blessing, Shylock can no longer call himself Jacob, and Portia (possessing said blessing) can lay claim to the role.

Shakespeare’s decision raises the question: what justification is there for this inversion? Shylock is by no means perfect, and perhaps deserved to be punished for his wrongdoing. After all, he did intend to kill a man. But what about Antonio, Bassanio, and Portia? Their sins remain largely unaddressed by the play’s conclusion, and no perfect character, no utterly righteous prophet emerges to demonstrate the fallacy of their ways. It cannot be explained away by an anti-semitic Shakespeare either––as previously established, The Merchant of Venice critiques religion as a whole, not just Judaism. Why then, is there such an imbalance between the fate of Jews and Christians?

The answer traces back to Merchant’s biblical source.

Jacob had no claim to Esau’s birthright or his blessing, but the Bible sanctions the theft despite the official immorality⁹ of such an action. Jacob’s power over Esau has little to do with unequivocal supremacy; rather, it relies on which of the two happens to possess societal favor. Though Merchant’s Christians have no true moral high ground to its Jews, the Christians have become God’s chosen people and therefore become exempt from the same restrictions that Jacob was. Antonio and Portia need not ––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

⁹ See the Eighth Commandment: “Thou shalt not steal.” Though Jacob would not have personally known the Ten Commandments, they were certainly set in stone (pun intended) by the time Shakespeare wrote his play. It is reasonable to assume the same values were present in Jacob’s story, even if God had not yet spelled them out.

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repent for stealing Shylock’s “blessing,” because, in essence, society allows it.¹⁰ It does not matter whether Jews act righteously or wickedly––Christians have replaced them as the chosen ones and, thus, Jews must defer to them.

Altogether, Shylock’s story ends pitifully. But, compared to more extreme opinions of the time, Shakespeare produces a remarkably sympathetic portrayal of the Jewish people––their misfortune is not caused by empirical inferiority, but by the nature of the world they live in. Thus, the inequity they face cannot be excused by supposed inadequacy. The Merchant of Venice serves not as a condemnation of Jews or a laudatory tale of Christian triumph; rather, it is a matter-of-fact dramatization of how arbitrary God––or life––can be. On the surface, this may be a feeble, even flippant explanation for the adversity Jews faced, but for its time, it was nothing short of remarkable. It is a direct rebuttal of the era’s common convictions: that Jews deserved to be punished for not conforming to Christian ideals.

In its famous assertion––“Hath not a Jew eyes? Hath not a Jew hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions?... cooled by the same winter and summer as a Christian is?” (3.1, ll. 5763)––Merchant persuades its audience to compassion. In defying the expectations set forth by Jacob’s story, Shakespeare upends the expectations of his audience; in portraying Shylock’s fall, he demonstrates Shylock’s humanity.

–––––––––––––––––––––––––––– ¹⁰ Shakespeare deliberately evokes Jacob’s biblical narrative, doing so often enough that it can be considered integral to the play––in so clearly setting up the bones of this story, Shakespeare implies some sort of divine condonation. Since there is no overt reference to God’s involvement in the play, society assumes the role of an overarching power, deciding between right and wrong.

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ARIANA BLAUSTEIN An excerpt from her science fiction novel

I run my fingers along the rusted metal. The chains shudder. This swing-set is tired and stiff. The metal is kindly cool in this Arizona sun. I brush the dirt off the plastic seat and lower myself into the swing. Foreign, I think, to be so grown.

My mind wanders thinking of my lanky body and I begin to feel myself lengthening in the low-set swing. Stop, focus, I think, I am swinging. The creaking of chains reminds me of twisted arms, driving to the emergency room. In my ears, I hear chattering nurses, beeping machines, and screaming behind curtains. I clear my throat and the screaming stops, was that me?

I drop the swing’s chains, and refocus. Almost lazily, I walk through the backyard. Familiar yellow patches of grass. I am near the house, the peeling red door frame becomes clearer.

Now I am in the garden, one foot in ripe tomatoes. The memory hits and I am six again, sobbing, my mother’s red gloves pulled loosely over my tiny hands. I have pulled all of the budding tomatoes instead of the weeds. No, with effort I drag my mind back to the previous scene. I am seventeen again, but the tomatoes beneath my feet are ragged and dead. I look around the rest of the garden. Mainly vegetables, except for her patch of daisies. I hear her in my ears, “there should always be a little beauty among the practical.”

Mom’s lilac watering can appears on the cobblestone to my left. Balled water dribbles down the side. My heart flutters, could she be here this time? Loud barking sounds from inside the house, the scrapping of paws against hardwood floors, and Arthur bounds into the garden. He throws himself on top of me the way used to, but now he only reaches my hips. You used to be so big, I think. Instantly, he triples in size. I fall to 94

the ground, struggling to breathe, as he rests on my rib cage.

“Fuck,” I squeal, “Off! Arthur, down!” He rolls off of me, belly up, wagging his tail waiting to be pet.

“Dean?” A voice rang from inside. My heartbeat quickened and my stomach grew tight. “Is that you?” I slowly rise, leaving Arthur behind, taking careful steps towards the house. I wipe my feet on our welcome mat, “The Rilers Family.” I push open the screen door, it creaks shut behind me. I am inside our little yellow house.

Mason jars filled with grains line the counter, sun tea soaks on the windowsill, and grocery lists are stuck along the refrigerator. I feel every chair, wooden surface, and picture frame.

She is standing in the corner of the kitchen, holding a mug of coffee close to her chest. I run to her, fall into her arms, breathing in her heartbeat and informal perfume. “Good morning to you too,” she laughs. “When did you get up?” I smile and shrug, and drop out of her arms. “You want eggs?” She asks, walking towards the refrigerator.

“Yes, please,” I say. I miss your eggs, I miss you. She is gone, I look wildly around the kitchen. “Mom?” I call out, and she is back beside me, a plate of eggs in front of me. I sigh with relief.

“Your dad isn’t up yet.” she says, taking a bite from her own plate. “I expect you to be sleeping in late, not him,” she says with a light laugh.

“Dad’s not home, Mom.” I say firmly. I don’t want him here; he doesn’t exist here.

“No, hun, he’s upstairs,” she says. I smile and shrug, but I burn with frustration. A business trip, a long car ride, something not in the house; isn’t this my world? “Any plans for today, Dean?” She grabs the salt and shakes it over her eggs.

“Not really, I thought we could do something.”

“Fine by me,” she smiles, “are you going to eat that?” She points at my untouched plate of eggs. I shake my head, if only, 95

I think. She scoops a forkful from my plate, piling it onto her own.

“Hungry?” I ask.

“Always,” she says with a big smile.

The ends of her lips begin to droop downwards.

The walls of the little yellow house melt with her, grocery lists falling to the floor like droplets. The roof of the house caves and I can see the sky dripping above me. I watch as Arizona slips away: the feeling of her arms, the warm breeze, and the screaming of her old teapot which I know is coming from me.

“Dean.” His father was standing over him. He was back in his bead, sweat pooling beneath his back. “It’s time for school, bud.” He walked out of his room, leaving Dean twisted in his grey comforter, tears swimming in his eyes. ***

After a few rushed moments and the tying and untying of shoes placed on the wrong feet, Dean sat in the kitchen silently on the left side of his father. The two of them never sat at the dining table for breakfast, only on the cold hard chairs tucked beneath the cooking table. This had been his choice, he couldn’t bear the thought of having to sit facing his father during meals. At least looking out the window they could pretend they were in thought, which was a lot less painful than conversation.

“What’d you program last night?” His father asked obligatorily. This had become their way–pretending everything was normal and boring while loudly crunching bran flakes.

“Same as usual, pretty action based.” Dean mumbled, pushing around the cereal with disinterest. His father nodded approvingly, bringing his spoon to his mouth and slurping the remaining low-fat milk. “What about you?”

“Nothing. I just wanted to be peaceful for a night, you know?” He brushed a napkin over his top lip and scooted his chair back from the table. “Do you need a ride to school?”

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“No thanks, Chasen’s picking me up.” Dean quickly spooned the rest of his cereal into his mouth, taking the cue from his father that breakfast was over.

“Ah, a new friend already? You like this kid Chasen?”

He walked towards the other room, and Dean could hear him rustling his papers, shoving them into his bag.

“Um, sort of. I mean, we just met yesterday. But yeah, he seems nice.”

“That’s nice, buddy. It’s good you’re making friends.

You’re good like that.” He re-entered the kitchen and stood awkwardly for a moment. He looked too big in their small kitchen and too broad in his tight clothes, his shoulders stretching his shirt so the buttons barely clung to their opposing fabric. “See you for dinner, then?” Dean nodded and his father walked towards the door, the frames creaking noisily as it shut closed behind him.

With a small sigh, Dean picked up both of their bowls, bringing them to the sink and let the milk soaked flakes splatter into the drain. He dried his hands, picked up his school bag, and walked outside to the end of the driveway where he had told Chasen to pick him up. They had met in Dean’s first physics class the day before, when Chasen had called him over, looked him up and down. “Who are you?” he asked. Chasen wore long army-green overalls, which accentuated his awkward height. He slouched his head in an attempt to counteract his gawkiness which made his shaggy brown hair brush his shoulders.

Dean didn’t take much to rude people but Chasen was intriguing.

“I’m new, and I’m, um, Dean . . . Rilers.” Chasen looked at Dean smugly, gave him a smart smile, and took him around the shoulder. Dean could feel his bony elbows digging awkwardly into his back. Chasen smelled strongly of detergent and coconut shampoo.

“Hey Sabrina! Check out my new friend Riley!” He an97

chored Dean by the shoulders and turned him to face a pretty girl on the other side of the room. He smiled politely at her, taking in her long brown hair, crooked nose, and freckles lined against her olive skin.

“Hi, Riley!” She said cheerfully. She turned back to her friends who had already given Dean the once-over, whispering unkind things about Dean’s thin chest and bold lips. He wondered how he had immediately subjected himself to scrutiny.

His plan was to stay out of people’s way and slowly assimilate to normalcy.

“Look, they’re already talking about you. Good choice on my part.” He laughed and slapped Dean on the chest, which made Dean uncomfortable. He couldn’t help but feel resentful towards Chasen, who had ruined his quiet plan so suddenly.

“My name’s Dean, though.” He said self-consciously.

“Yeah but, I feel like I’m knighting you or something.

It’s totally fine if you like Dean better, I just think Riley is cooler, more intriguing.” He pauses, “I need your consent, though.

I’m not bullying you, I’m like recreating you, get it?” Dean nodded and took the seat next to Chasen.

When a group project was assigned Chasen pulled together Sabrina, Dean, and another girl he hadn’t been introduced to yet. Faced with the prospect of being left out, Dean was suddenly glad to have someone. He was sure their friendship wouldn’t last, but he wasn’t in the best place to be picky.

At the end of class Chasen had offered to drive Dean to school the next day, so long as he “didn’t live in bum-fuck nowhere” because they would have physics first period together the next day.

After minutes of standing in the cold, Dean’s nose had turned pink and his fingers were numb. A car moving a little too quickly for a residential area turned on the end of the street. It was a small green car with decal stickers of bands he didn’t recognize on the back. It honked twice and came to a stop in front of the Rilers’ mailbox. Chasen rolled down the window, “hop in, 98

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Dean!” He walked to the other side and cautiously opened the passenger’s door, and with Chasen’s nod of approval moved a bundle of blankets to the back seat of the car.

“What happened to Riley?” he asked, “my recreation?”

With his eyes on the road Chasen fidgeted, gripping the wheel.

“Yeah, I thought about it a little more and I realized maybe I was being unfair to you. I was gonna apologize for that. I talked it over with my mom–she’s a psychologist–and she thinks it was unfair for me to try to create an identity for you before you’ve even expressed your own.” He laughed, “like, whatever, she’s a bitch, but I’ve decided to call you Dean.”

“Fine by me.” Dean looked around the car, taking in the plastic wrappers, dirty clothes, and maps stuffed into the side door. “What’s with the maps?” Dean asked, pulling them out of the compartment and opening them.

“I don’t really fuck with automated maps, I feel like I’m being tracked––but I’m also really horrible with directions. I know the route to school from here, but getting to your house was a nightmare.” Dean folded the maps and put them away; nobody used maps anymore. Chasen was wearing a jean jacket with sequins along the seams of the sleeves. He could tell from the shoddy stitches that Chasen had sewn them in himself. “So, Dean, what’s your deal?” Chasen cocked his head towards Dean, his eyes still on the road.

“What do you mean?” Dean was horrible at talking about himself. In the eighth grade, his teacher had assigned him a one page memoir and he had panicked and wrote a seven page paper about his dog, Arthur. When Ms. Nulberry confronted him about it, he told her that he thought Arthur was more interesting than he was. His mother had comforted him as he lay in bed that night, stroking his head in that way that she did, tears streaming over his failing grade.

“Like what do you do? What kind of music do you like?

What are your DREMs like?” Dean could feel Chasen needed him to be interesting. He had chosen Dean, and Chasen was 100

expecting him to be entertaining and worthwhile. He thought Chasen would regret his choice and ultimately ditch Dean; he would never sew sequins into his underwear much less anything people at school could see.

“Well, I’m really into computer science. I like jazz––alternative stuff. When I use DREM it’s usually action-based stuff, I guess.” Chasen smiled and murmured ha-ha! clicked a few buttons on his steering wheel, and out of the speakers came smooth jazz, something really old that Dean didn’t recognize but liked. He got the idea that Chasen enjoyed all things retro.

Dean smiled and Chasen slapped him on the back and looked at him knowingly. “Nice!” He said.

“So tell me about this action stuff. Are you always the hero? Like I don’t wanna be friends with a psycho, but if you wanted to play the villain we could do some epic collaboration––I’ve been looking for an immoral sidekick to add some depth to my plots. Add me on DREM, by the way, my user is ChasenHoes.” Dean pulled his phone out of his pocket and opened up his DREM app, searching Chasen’s user on his communications browser.

“Oh, I don’t know, I guess I don’t keep much of a narrative.” Some of Dean’s friends from Arizona had used DREM this way, creating stories, plot lines, and alternative lives. Dean thought this was a total waste. Why spend time twisting memories into new lives when he could change his own?

“Nah, dude, that’s the whole point of the app. I’m a huge storyteller, and I like to experiment in DREM. Sometimes when I wake up I’ll write down everything I did and all the new characters I added. I think I’m gonna turn it into a book: Chasen’s Marvelous Adventure,” he looked embarrassed for a moment, “or something like that.” Chasen wasn’t the first person to write about DREM, studies were going on all the time. A couple years ago a speaker had come to Dean’s school to speak about the dangers of DREM.

“In 2047, Ted Danfroth gave us something extremely 101

valuable and incredibly dangerous.” The short man whose name Dean could not remember walked away from the podium as if that would make him a better public speaker. As he spoke, groans followed from the crowd, nobody wanted to hear anything against the application they all loved to use and used often. He ignored the groans, “It all seemed perfect. A system which allows you to get the proper amount of REM sleep while living awake inside a dream life you can program. Yet, we as humans need to consider what this means for our brains, our livelihoods, and those around us.”

He was writing a compilation of scientific studies which explored DREM and the way that it affects the brain. He had gotten heckled throughout his entire speech, causing an all school assembly on how to treat guest speakers.

Dean figured that Chasen’s book would have nothing scientific in it at all.“That’s really cool. How far have you gotten in the book?” Dean asked.

“Like eighty-seven pages. I keep falling behind because I have to redo certain dreams because they keep getting messed up.”

“Mine are the same, everything always goes wrong, or they end too quickly and I wake up in the middle of the night.”

Dean shuddered as he remembered Arthur’s brittle fur and his mother’s sagging eyes. He could empathize with Chasen, it was so hard to get things right on DREM, everything you logged the night before had to be so careful and specific.

“No, it’s the same with me. One time I had to program this DREM like seven nights in a row to get it right. It was this sex scene between me and Sabs. It was hard to keep her interested; even DREM Sabs doesn’t like me.” Chasen gripped his hands on the wheel and giggled awkwardly, glancing over at Dean.

“Who’s Sabs?” Dean asked. He thought of the tall girl with brown skin and honey lips.

“Sabrina. You met her yesterday. I am her unofficial 102

boyfriend. We are in love, she just doesn’t know it yet.” Dean smiled and thought of all the girls who had never liked him.

There was Mel, a skinny redhead with freckles that Dean’s eyes would trace and map along a jazz treble clef, giving her face its own theme song. Next came Marissa, the first one to get breasts in the seventh grade. And finally, Antonia. She had loved Dean, but he moved away and she became a distant pin-prick, a person who was no longer a person but a mug of memories he couldn’t bring himself to remember.

“Well, I hope she finds out,” Dean said, patting Chasen on the back.

Chasen laughed and mouthed “Oh, she will.” ***

The two boys walked along the school’s quad. Dean felt a stark contrast between his rural high school in Arizona and this unfamiliar urban Chicago campus. There were certainly less windows, and the ground was concrete rather than the lush grass where Dean used to spend most of his free periods. The steel lettering spelling “Northside College Preparatory High School” seemed cold and eerie, students walking with umbrellas brushed past Dean and Chasen, though some turned to greet Chasen. Entering the hallway, Dean searched the hallway for an interesting face. He liked to watch people. His mother had insisted that he stopped staring so he had become more discreet about it. The kids here seemed different from those in Arizona.

Everyone was wearing more expensive clothes, Dean could tell from the way they tucked in their shirts so people could peek at their belts and he pulled his own shirt down a little farther.

Most people were walking in clumps and Dean tried to memorize their faces, trying to remember friend groups. Even in Arizona, every friend group had an alpha. He liked to pick them out and figure out how they had been put in charge, why everyone tried to mimic them.

A huddle of boys stood by one side of the lockers. They were all gripping their backpacks, jackets still on. “Give me 103

a minute, Chasen, I gotta get my locker.” Dean followed the numbers of the lockers with his eyes until he reached 187.

“Dude, nobody uses their lockers,” Chasen said, “except for Amelie, I heard she’s running some kind of drug trade with her old ADHD medication.” Dean gave him a tight smile and pushed towards his locker. Standing in front of it was a boy with shaggy blonde hair and broad shoulders, his facial features melting together to look almost thumb like. He couldn’t tell if he was wildly attractive or brutish and ugly. Chasen cleared his throat and shifted uncomfortably behind him.

“Hey, uh, excuse me,” Dean said, motioning to his locker.

The boy looked over at him and smiled, pausing for a moment before stepping away from his locker.

“You’re Dean, right?” said the boy, his friends pausing their conversation.

“Oh, yeah,” Dean said confused.

“Yeah, I heard we were getting a new kid. You’re from Ohio, right?”

“No, um, Arizona,” Dean said with the trace of a smile.

“Okay, yeah, same thing, I was close,” the boy laughed, thinking that he and Dean were sharing a joke. “I’m Jasper.” He pulled one of his friends by the strap of his backpack, “This is Connor,” he slapped him across the chest, “literally the dumbest boy you will meet at this school.” Connor laughed and shoved Jasper away from him. Dean couldn’t help but feel jealous of Jasper’s casual manner. “That’s Leo,” he motioned to a boy with a short neck and thick thighs, “biggest ass in the school,” laughing as Leo flipped him off. “And this is–”

“Malcolm,” said the tall boy with dark skin, and he reached out to shake Dean’s hand. He accepted it and Malcolm said kindly, “I was new freshman year, don’t worry, the people here are nice.”

Jasper laughed and said, “Us especially.” Dean could still feel Chasen fidgeting behind him.

“Yeah everyone has been really nice,” he said, shoving his 104

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jacket and bag into his locker and pulling out his physics notes.

Really great to meet you guys.” He shut his locker and made to leave with Chasen, when Jasper nudged him on the shoulder.

“Hey, Dean–Connor and I are hosting on DREM tonight, you should come.” Jasper smiled and Chasen breathed loudly behind him. Dean smiled, trying to figure out if these boys, who were so very clearly popular, were playing some kind of prank on him. Chasen nudged him, and Dean got the feeling that he had never gotten an invite before either. It was tempting: new school, new parties, new meet-ups.

“Yeah, sounds cool. What’s your user?” Dean asked, “I’ll request you.”

“No, just give me yours and I’ll pull you in tonight.” Jasper took out his phone and clicked into his DREM app.

“Dean underscore Rilers.” Jasper typed the user into his phone and Dean felt the familiar DREM chime in his own pocket with the new notification.

“Get excited, Rilers, we’ve got big plans for tonight.”

Jasper looked over and smiled, “What’s up, Chase,” he slapped Chasen on the shoulder, and he and his friends walked away, muttering and laughing to each other as they headed to class.

Chasen turned towards Dean, straightening his jacket.

“Dude, you gotta pull me in tonight. I have to see what they get up to.” The two of them turned to walk down the hallway in the direction of their physics class, opposite from Jasper and his friends.

“I can’t, he’s pulling me in–and I don’t even know if I’m gonna go.” Chasen’s eyes widened and he gripped Dean on the shoulder, stopping them in the middle of the hallway.

“You’re joking right? You have to go, they invited you. I have been waiting to get an invite, if you go then maybe I can go next time–you just have to ask. And, oh my god, I’m picking you up tomorrow again, and you have to tell me exactly what happens.” They continued walking and Dean could feel himself getting nervous. He would have to prepare for whatever it 106

was–in Arizona when the older boys met in DREM they would always get up to stuff and rumors would spread all over the school. Even in his nervous excitement, Dean could feel a pit forming in his stomach about what he might be walking into.

Still, he couldn’t help but feel a bit satisfied with himself. He had been chosen, Jasper had wanted him to come, and Jasper was so clearly the alpha.

“Okay, yeah, I’ll go. I’m sure they will just do something stupid,” said Dean.

Chasen shook his head, “No way, it’s gonna be crazy man, stupid maybe, but definitely crazy.”

Dean twinged, “Whatever, I just hope it doesn’t get back to anyone.” The past year one of Dean’s friends had done some really stupid stuff in DREM and his parents had disconnected him for the rest of the year. They never found out what it was, but there were a lot of really terrifying rumors. A lot of the parents at the school had gotten really angry. They held a protest at town hall and asked the town officials to put child control on the app, but no one could get anything to pass. There were all these complicated sanctions that DREM corp had created–– one of the parents consulted a lawyer who said it was unconstitutional to inhibit anything within DREM.

“People always talk, but nobody knows exactly what happens. They’re so secretive, it’s all boys and invite only.” Dean shrugged as they reached their classroom, Chasen walking in first and striding towards an empty seat next to Sabrina. Dean took a seat right across them at the table.

“Hello!” She said, smiling at Dean and Chasen. She was wearing a paisley jacket with a white t-shirt beneath and a loose pair of blue jeans. Sabrina was undeniably pretty, and Dean had to remind himself of Chasen’s crush before he could think anything more of her. “Cold outside, no?” Dean nodded and Chasen scooted his chair closer to her and slammed his palm on the table.

“Cut the small talk, Sabs, we need to get to some real 107

shit here.” He paused dramatically, “Who in God’s name let you out in a paisley hollister jacket?” She shoved him, corners of her mouth twitching.

“Oh, right, sorry I didn’t bedazzle, Chasen,” she said, pinching the sequins he had sewn along his sleeves, “not all of us have time for crafts. Try wearing something sensible.” She motioned to Dean. “You’re so smug.” Dean looked down at his navy sweatpants and black t-shirt, feeling bland and out of place.

“I guess I didn’t know you were so mainstream.” While Chasen and Sabrina continued to bicker and flirt, another girl walked towards the table and took the seat beside Dean. She had auburn hair and wide hips. After Sabrina pulled her into their group project in the last class, Chasen had whispered something to him about her being on the “outskirts of Sabrina’s friend group.” Dean thought that it was likely that Sabrina had only asked her to join their group so she wouldn’t have to be with only boys and maybe to be a buffer for Chasen. “Hey Lila,” Dean said, talking over Sabrina who was tracing the stitching along Chasen’s jacket.

“Dean,” she acknowledged, taking her jacket off and laying it on the back of her chair. She took a pair of headphones out of her pocket and put them on. Dean watched as her thumb pressed down on the volume button, and Dean heard loud music streaming out of her headphones. He put his hands in his pocket and looked up at the clock, five more minutes until class started. It was difficult for him to adjust to Northside. He was lucky to have Chasen, but he was so deeply ingrained in his life at school that it was hard to make space for Dean.

As the rest of the class streamed into the room so did their teacher, Dr. Covel, a stout british man who liked to drop large physics books on the ground when students weren’t paying attention. He called, “Please don’t make me call attendance, someone tell me everyone is here.” He walked to the desk in the middle of the room and opened up his laptop.

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“Jessica is skipping,” a short boy chuckled in the back, the girl beside him shoved him and called out, “No. I’m here!”

The two muttered to each other, and Dr. Covel rolled his eyes and began to write on the board. Dean unzipped his backpack and pulled out his physics notebook.

“Do this in your groups,” Covel said, gesturing to the projectile motion problem he had written on the whiteboard.

“And Jessica and Max, you can separate now.” The giggling pair went silent and reddened, Max snatching his backpack embarrassedly and moving to another table.

“Okay,” Dean said, turning to their table, “how should we start this?” Sabrina sucked in her cheeks and Chasen shrugged. He turned to Lila who still had her headphones in, “you?”

“Dean, I thought you were the big math kid?” Chasen said taking down the problem with offensively bad handwriting.

“Yeah, but more like coding and stuff, I’ve never been great with theorems.” He turned to the front of the class and raised his hand, “Dr. Covel, can we get some help?”

“No.” He said boredly, “Try harder, Mr. Rilers, we do things differently in Chicago.” Chasen snickered and Lila removed her headphones. Dean frowned at the comment, he wondered if Covel actually meant that they do things differently in private school.

“It’s not hard,” she said, grabbing Dean’s notebook and scratching out some equations, “just take the derivative of the position graph and you’ll get the velocity, then set the time to zero and solve.” Chasen grabbed Dean’s notebook out of her hands and started copying down what Lila had written.

“Thanks,” Dean said, mulling over her explanation with very little comprehension. “But how did you get the acceleration–”

“So, Dean,” Sabrina said, cutting him off and not caring to open her notebook at all, “how do you like Northside so far?”

“It’s been good,” Dean shrugged, taking his notebook 109

back from Chasen and starting the next problem. He made a note to refer back to the problem Lila had solved after class.

“People have been nice.” Chasen gasped excitedly and tapped Sabrina furiously on the shoulder.

“Sabs, Sabs, Jasper invited Dean to DREM with them.”

Sabrina dropped her mouth at Dean.

“No way. You’re going right?” She asked excitedly, “You have to go.”

“That’s what I said!” Chasen smirked, “we got a man on the inside, Sabs.”

“I heard that they did one last week and got in with Parker and his friends!” Sabrina whispered, “and they’re in college . . . I can’t even imagine what they got up to.”

“I can,” Lila muttered. She was busy copying the rest of the problems from the board into her notebook, easily gliding through each one, boxing all of her answers.

“How would you know?” Chasen asked, “Did your brother tell you?”

“Oh no,” she said laughing slightly, boxing her last answer, “Jackson wouldn’t tell me anything.”

“So then how would you know?” Sabrina said, a touch of accusation in her voice.

“You’re right, I wouldn’t.” She frowned and then raised her hand, twitching her pencil in her other so it clacked against the spiral of her notebook.

“No you may not leave, Duvant,” Covel said, “come to me for extra problems.” She made her way to the front of the class, grabbing a sheet of paper from Brelove and walking back slowly. Kiss-ass, the boy called Max coughed from his isolated seat in the corner, Jessica laughed across the room.

“That’s enough, Max. That’s an extra problem set for homework–” Chasen snorted which made Covel snap, “for the entire class.” There was a low groan from the class and Sabrina shoved Chasen in the arm with her elbow.

Lila sat down again and started working on her second 110

round of problems. “Why aren’t you in the advanced class?”

Dean asked her, watching as she continued to box answers.

“I hate physics.” She said, looking up and smiling at him.

“Anyways, Dean, you have to give us a play-by-play tomorrow.” Sabrina said, “also pull me in if you can, I’ll bring my friends.” She unzipped her backpack and pulled out a bright blue market, grabbed Dean’s wrist and wrote SabSecrets on his hand.

“It’s a boys’ club, Sabrina, he can’t pull you anywhere,” he said with a touch of annoyance, “it would have to be me,” he paused and then smirked, cautiously delivering the juiciest detail, “and besides, he can’t–Jasper took his user.” Sabrina made some kind of guttural sound and gaped at Dean. She recollected herself and smiled.

“Oh, Deanie, you are in for a treat!” She yelled and Lila scoffed and shook her head, making it clear she was above all of the drama of Jasper’s invitation. Dean thought this was a little obvious of Lila, maybe she was one of those emo girls.

Something about her bothered Dean, maybe it was because she was better at physics. Dr. Covel shushed their table and they worked in silence (except for when Lila explained certain topics) until the bell rang signaling the end of class.

Dean spent the rest of the school day being shuffled from class to class by Chasen. To his credit, Chasen had done a good job making Dean seem more interesting than he really was. “Arizona is dope, I’ve always wanted to go,” Chasen said casually during lunch, “Lake Powell, Sedona, the Grand Canyons!”

Dean nodded and shrugged, taking a moment to swallow the tough ham and cheese sandwich he had slapped together in the cafeteria sandwich table. “Yeah, I guess. Not as busy as Chicago. My friends and I spent most weekends chilling in someone’s basement or backyard.” This wasn’t entirely truthful. Dean hadn’t had very many friends, he had closed everyone off after the incident, and he didn’t spend his weekends doing much of anything besides mulling around his room or program111

ming and coding.

“Well, we will take you into town this weekend,” said Carson, who Dean had met during English class. He was another one of Chasen’s friends, a theater geek who sported the “Ceci n’est une pipe” t-shirt. “Do you have a fake ID?”

“Oh,” Dean searched his mind for a lie, “yes, but I’m not sure it will work here . . . it’s an Arizona ID.” He didn’t know if this was true or not but he thought it was better than admitting he didn’t have one.

“No! That’s great, mine’s from Colorado,” Chasen said, “better to be out of state.” Dean’s face fell, and he could feel himself going red. “We can go this weekend. I’ll text Sabs and see if their group will join us.” He nodded to a group of girls sitting across the cafeteria. Sabrina was sitting off to the side leaning towards the center, eyes darting back and forth between girls she was attempting to please. Even farther from the center was Lila, who was picking at the sandwich she had crafted on her plate. In the center of the table, clearly the alpha, was a blonde girl Dean hadn’t met yet. He cast thoughts of his fakefake ID aside for a moment and nudged Chasen.

“Who’s that?” He asked, pointing to the blonde girl with freckles and hazel eyes.

“Oy, men, he’s spotted her.” Chasen laughed and thumped his fists on the table causing a mess of laughter from the table of boys which included Carson and Max from Physics.

He spoke in a grave and dramatic tone, “A long time ago within the walls of Ms. Cheshire’s seventh grade class, a girl became a woman, and that woman,” he paused and scanned the table, “became the beast.” The boys began to drum their hands quietly along the table, “Ladies and Dean,” Chasen continued, “I present, the celibate, the untamed: Sky.” The other boys at the table began to woot, thumping their chests and then dispersed into stifled giggles and many in the cafeteria began to turn and look at their table. Dean blushed at the attention from their classmates but smiled to himself as he became a part of the 112

joke. After their laughter had subsided, Max patted Dean on the back and put in, “Good luck, man. That’s Sky. She’s hot as fuck.” Dean glanced over at Sky again and caught her eye, then turned back embarrassedly.

“Careful, Max, I’ll tell Jessica.” Chasen joked, and Max reached across the table to give him a shove on the shoulder.

“I keep telling her we’re not together,” Max said, looking over at Jessica who sat on the left side of Sabrina, stroking her split ends and giggling at the girls’ conversation. Dean could tell by the way Max looked at her that he was certainly not the one saying they weren’t together. Chasen murmured a sarcastic agreement and leaned over to whisper to Dean, “Max is obsessed.”

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Solitude

I press my hand against the rough wall, sliding it this way and that, and close my eyes. Linda, from woodshop. “Jesse,” she would say and hand me the sandpaper––but what color was her hair? Red? Linda with red hair would call me “Jesse,”––yes––and we were working on a shelf, no, birdhouse.

“Jesse?” She smiles and shoves my shoulder. “If you won’t sand the edges then we are going to fail,” my arm tingles where she touches it, “Brennan’s a stickler for precision.”

I laugh and grab the sandpaper, glide my hand against it, rough like the coarse wall. “So are we not going to talk about the big crush you have on me?” She blushes and pushes back her blonde hair. Pushes back her red hair.

“That’s big talk, Jesse,” she purses her lips when she pauses, “for someone who couldn’t take me on a date even if you wanted to.” No it was meaner––crueler––purposeful. She wanted to hurt me, she needed to hurt me––they were like that. Women, girls.

Cruel, and purposeful. You could give them your entire heart and they’d still reach for your wallet.

“Big talk, Linda,” I’ve got her now, “for someone who puts out in the locker room.” She stands from her chair, tears forming in her eyes, the sandpaper shifts between my fingers and I let my hand drop from the wall.

“Screw you!” She storms out of the woodshop. She probably knows now. She brings it up at book club. She and her nosy friends whisper about me. Ironic, twenty years later and I bet she talks about me. Probably regrets not going out with me. Better stories for the dinner table.

I press my hand against the cool leg of my bedframe and shut my eyes again, she’s just handed me a plate. Dinner time at the Reynolds’. Actually, she’s probably married now. He’s in finance, yes. Last name Taylor.

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She turns and looks at me. I am boring and white Mr. Taylor. There is another couple with us. Woman From Book Club, husband works with Mr. Taylor. “Lucas always gets a kick out of this one,” she turns to the couple across from us. “Do you know I used to go to school with Jesse Flondman?” The couple’s jaws dropped. I grip the bed frame harder.

“You’re joking,” says Woman From Book Club, “did you know him personally?”

“Yes,” she pauses for effect, “he actually asked me out once.” She laughs with glee and pushes back her red hair with streaks of grey. I smile and laugh along with her.

“You know some say you can see signs of those kinds of things early on,” explains Man From Work, “did you notice he was a bit weird?”

Linda nods excitedly, “he was always making weird comments. Bit of a loner, too. Total freak. And he was completely obsessed with me!” She laughs again and places her hand on my thigh.

I look over at her and smile, “maybe if you hadn’t led him on, honey, he wouldn’t have given you the time of day.”

The table looks at me, confused. You knew what you were doing, the others did too, it was on purpose. You did it on purpose, to get to me.

Wrapping my hands around the leg of the metal bed frame, it morphs into a metal dinner fork which I plunge into the hand she had placed on my thigh.

Horror filled her eyes for a moment before she continued, “Anyways, Maggie, I cannot wait to hear your opinion on the chapter we are supposed to discuss this Saturday.” I have no effect on you. You brush me aside, like I am nothing––a party trick, a bad habit––but you know my name. So you must think about me. Think about the days when you were young and pretty and the weird boy liked you. Mr. Taylor doesn’t give you that kind of attention––working late, and later, while you grow old living off stories of desired women.

The door creaks and I open my eyes. He looks from me to my hand, which is still clasped around the bed. He passes me 116

a tray filled with tasteless nothings. “Eat up,” he says. I glare at him, his face that I have memorized with every line and scar.

He knows me, my name, my record, my story––but I confuse him. I can tell. I’ve seen him shudder sometimes. He is strong in body but not in will, that makes me feel better. He leaves.

I begin to eat, and I move the food around in my mouth, feeling the texture but not the taste. I close my eyes once more and I am sitting at the table with my mother. She takes a long drag from her cigarette and asks why I haven’t finished my food.

“I am not hungry,” my voice says higher, prepubescent, I am only thirteen.

“You should eat more,” she says coldly, “you’re so pigeon-chested you might as well put some meat where you can.”

She is ugly and old. Dad left because she is ugly and old. She pushes her brown-grey hair behind her ear, “Now you’re not talking to me?” I’ve watched her over the years, watched fat collect around her shoulder-blades. And she calls me ugly? They’re all the same. Two-faced, ugly, and purposeful.

I spit the bitter nothingness back onto the plate. I’m not hungry. I look around the small room. I know every inch, splinter, crack. I know what every hour feels like.

Every bubbled leak on the wall is a juror, I see their faces at night, contorted with disgust. Linda is always here, but sometimes it’s Lacie or Sasha or Annalise. But it usually starts with Linda. Because I knew she liked me too. I could tell she wanted a taste of the ugly, the deprived, the troubled.

I’m too smart to be left all alone. Sometimes I whisper my thoughts to the springs in my mattress. We cry out at night, stretched and constricted and unheard. If I could throw Linda onto the bed, she would hear us scream, she would see me, she would understand.

I close my eyes and drag my hand against the wall. “Jesse?” She asks, “can you hand me the sandpaper, we have to get this done today.” I push it towards her and our hands touch.

“When will you admit you love me, Linda?”

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CHARLES NOYES The Wizard’s Apprentice

Jamie crept through the quiet tunnel. They held their sword at arm’s length, occasionally glancing at it, as if nervous that it would bite them. It was chock full of magic, so that wasn’t out of the question. Master Roghart walked a few paces ahead, nonchalantly taking in the intricate carvings on the wall, occasionally stopping to explain the significance to Jamie.

“Aha, well you see my child, this one’s telling us to turn back, says there’s certain doom ahead. But here’s the kicker, they’ve actually miscarved one of the runes, it actually says there’s certain pie crusts ahead! Isn’t that humorous?” Master Roghart turned to Jamie, as if expecting an answer.

“Very humorous sir.” said Jamie politely. A frown came over their face. “Sir, if you don’t me asking-”

“Ask away, child.”

“Thank you sir. Well, if you don’t mind me asking, what does it mean by certain doom?”

“Oh that.” Master Roghart waved his hand dismissively.

“Traps and such, I expect. Nothing to worry about, really.”

“Oh.” said Jamie, not particularly reassured. “That’s fine then. Right?”

“Oh yes, perfectly fine. I wouldn’t let a thing happen to you, la- child. Now, we mustn’t dwell, got to make good time on this.”

Jamie and Master Roghart continued to trudge along the roughhewn tunnels of this forgotten place. It was damp and cold, and there was a constant dripping of water somewhere just out of sight. It set Jamie quite on edge, but Master Roghart continued along defiantly. Jamie sighed. The man was apparently a power118

ful wizard, but still seemed to need to prove his bravery at every available opportunity. He just ambled past various warnings left by previous treasure seekers, only stopping to point out their spelling mistakes.

Jamie glanced down at the faintly glowing blade in their hands. They quietly wished that they had just left it in the garden where they’d dug it up, but no, Master Roghart had insisted they return it to its rightful resting place. As if the sword cared. Or maybe it did care, it was magic, but either way Jamie shouldn’t have had to risk their life just for some up-jumped eldritch butter knife! It was ridiculous as, Jamie was coming to learn, most wizard business was. Jamie had expected a less practical approach for this apprenticeship: reading ancient tomes by the fire, occasional ingredient-gathering for potions, maybe doing actual magic if the wizard was feeling extremely generous. Instead, Master Roghart was constantly taking Jamie on dangerous trips through the countryside, where he would track down dangerous creatures neither of them were prepared to deal with, handle cursed objects with his bare hands, and be a general nuisance to everyone, Jamie included. In the brief few months Master Roghart had been teaching them, Jamie had been nearly killed at least twice a week every week, usually more. It was far too exciting in Jamie’s opinion. And now, at this very moment, they were delving into an ancient ruin, probably full of all kinds of nasty creatures, attempting to return some sword to its “proper resting place,” whatever that meant.

Jamie’s train of thought was cut off as they walked straight into Master Rogharts back.

“Careful there, child.” said Master Roghart, a rare note of caution in his voice. “Don’t want you knocking me down there.”

There was a 20-foot-deep, 5-foot-wide, square hole in front of them. Jamie took a quick glance over the side and yelped, darting back behind Master Roghart. In the pit were thousands of snakes, all various shades of purple. Jamie hated 119

snakes. Not in specific, you understand, just in the same way they hated all creatures capable of killing them.

“Now, young Jamie,” said Master Rogart, turning to face them, “How would you go about defusing this particular conundrum?”

Jamie considered the question. Certainly a fire ball or two would sort the situation. Jamie set down the sword and gestured for Master Rogart to pass them the focusing staff.¹

“What’s the magic word?” said Roghart.

“What?” said Jamie, broken out of the haze of concentration, “For fireball? Uh, ***** right?”²

“No-Well yes, but- ‘please,’ I meant ‘please’, child.”

“Oh. Can I please have the staff?”

“You may.”

Jamie considered the staff. Holding a wizard’s staff, or indeed any implement of arcane casting, is a unique experience not easily put into words. If they had lived in a world and era where such things were available, Jamie might have described the experience as not unlike holding TV static. It radiated power, and the effect could be felt in every cell of your body.

Jamie was just beginning to plant their feet and get into the position of spell casting when Master Rogart coughed loudly. They looked back.

“So,” said Master Rogart, attempting in vain to sound casual, “You thought fireball, eh? Good choice, good choice, nothing wrong with that, no siree.”

Jamie considered the situation. Clearly Master Rogart didn’t want them to use Fireball. Was it a problem with Fireball itself? No, Fireball was a good spell; it would have killed the snakes very efficiently. Hm. It must be a problem with killing ––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

¹ It was possible to do magic without a staff, but very difficult, and extremely peculiar. The best way to describe it would probably be to say it felt like dipping your soul in a swimming pool of jello, but even that doesn’t do it justice. ² Writing down one of the ancient words of power would be a mistake so grave that it beggars belief. Words don’t like to be trapped between pages, magical words even less so, and they can do something about it.

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then. That made sense, Jamie supposed. They were the ones barging into the snakes home uninvited, and killing them would just make the situation ruder. Jamie decided to use another spell.

“*****!” Jamie shouted with purpose.³

A little circle appeared in the air above the pit. Something that looked a bit like mercury began to pour out, forming itself into the shape of a large disc. It floated there, seeming expectant.

“Well done, young one!” Exclaimed Master Roghart, “Very well done. Glad you settled on a different spell, Fireball might nearly have blown the supports out completely. I had faith that you’d notice that though you’ve always been a perceptive one. Anyhow, let’s be going on!”

The wizard gingerly took his staff and stepped onto the mercury disc. It wobbled a bit but stayed firm. He continued along through the cave.

Jamie picked the sword off of the ground, mentally hitting themself. They should have noticed that! It was bloody obvious now that they’d stopped to look. Jamie followed Master Rogart at a brisk pace, fists clenched. They really had to be more careful next time. ***

The tunnel was cleaner now, less rough, more like a hallway. It kept going down for hours, and Jamie was frankly losing track of all the twists and turns. It was good practice for a wizard, Master Rogart said, to memorize random snippets of information. He said it prepared one to remember the random bits of information that would be thrown at one throughout daily life as a wizard. Jamie supposed they could see the logic in that, but it still seemed far simpler to just carry a quill and parchment around, taking notes on things and then memorizing them in the comfort of one’s own home, perhaps with a cup –––––––––––––––––––––––––––– ³ It was always good to show a spell you were sure of yourself and what you were doing, otherwise it might get ideas.

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of cocoa while sitting by a roaring fire. Or something like that.

Jamie hadn’t given it much thought.

Part of the problem was the wall carvings. They were beginning to distract Jamie, having shifted from long messages about certain death ahead to brutal scenes depicting certain death. It was as if they were trying to say, “Well if you hadn’t gotten the message before, you better now.” Master Rogart didn’t seem to be getting the message though. He would occasionally stop to admire them, scoffing at the artistry of a few, but the images never seemed to give him much pause. This was one of the things that most confused Jamie about Master Roghart. He never appeared to stop and consider. Jamie could hardly get out of bed in the morning without contemplating the ethical ramifications of making themself a piece of toast for breakfast, but not Master Roghart. He never seemed to contemplate. He just went ahead as bold as brass. It was probably something to be admired, something that came with age and experience. Perhaps all of the other masters were just like him.

Jamie considered this. On the other hand, perhaps not, if only because Master Roghart did not seem to like other master wizards very much. He was going on about them now.

They had come to the end of the hallway, ending up in a giant, rough-hewn cavern, almost spherical in shape. In the center was a small island of rock, held up by a huge stone pillar.

On the island was a temple of some kind, decked out in marble and pillars and surrounded by various depictions of gods. There was a flimsy bridge made of wooden planks nailed together linking the hallway to the temple. Master Roghart hadn’t asked them to stand on it yet, but Jamie was deadly sure that it was coming, as soon as Master Roghart finished his grand speech.

Jamie snapped back to attention. It was always beneficial to pay attention to those; he often referenced them later.

“-And the fuddy duddies at the University Ocularis would have us ignore what is dangerous in favor of what is plain!

They let me go, and for what? So called incompetency? Well we 122

have proved them wrong today, haven’t we, Jamie,” Jamie nodded vigorously at this, “with this magnificent find, the sword will be returned in no time! Why, this temple must be ancient!

Lost for centuries beneath the earth! Isn’t it glorious, Jamie, my child?” He turned to look at them. Jamie nodded.

“I’m glad you think so, because you shall be the first to step over that bridge and head inside!” His smile faded a little.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that, you’ll be fine. It’ll be a wonderful way to practice your spellcraft.” Jamie took a reluctant step toward the rickety planks. “Feather-fall, at the very least.” added Roghart nonchalantly. Jamie glanced back slowly. Roghart gave them a thumbs-up.

Jamie turned back around. The bridge was a non-starter.

There was absolutely no way that it would support their weight, so it had to be bypassed. Jamie leaned on their staff and took in their surroundings. The wooden bridge couldn’t have been here as long ago as Roghart said the ancients had been here, so there must’ve been some other way they got across. Jamie’s brow creased. The ancient people here were spellcasters right?

That’s why Roghart had brought them here in the first place, to take in the ancient knowledge? So they used magic magic to get across then? Just teleported? But no. Teleportation was finicky, it tended to get you halfway stuck in a wall 3 miles from your destination,⁴ and it expended far too much energy for what would be a daily commute for worshippers. So, Jamie thought, there must be some low-level spell or spells that would get them across. Jump, maybe? No, that wouldn’t get you far enough, the gap was some 45 feet across. But maybe you didn’t have to jump all that way…

Jamie started to back up. They were going to need a running start if this was to work. Jamie glanced over at Master ––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

⁴ The trick of teleportation is most often to simply convince the universe that you have always been in your destination, and that it is the one who was mistaken about things. This has a lot of potential to go wrong; the universe does not like being called a liar.

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Roghart. He had a knowing smile plastered across his face in what Jamie felt was the most irritating way possible, as if he had already figured out what they were going to do and already knew it wouldn’t work. Jamie suddenly felt a deep, burning desire to wipe that look off his face. Jamie took another couple steps back, and then a couple more for safety’s sake. Then Jamie started dashing towards the edge, casting Jump as they went. They made it a good 15 feet across and 20 feet up into the air before they started to drop. Jamie could see a flicker of magic light in the corner of their eye, probably Master Roghart thinking they needed saving, but Jamie was entirely prepared.

They cast feather-fall on themself and started to float gently towards the other side, the momentum of their jump carrying them along nicely. Jamie turned back to try and see the look on Roghart’s face. He didn’t seem to be smiling. ***

“Yes, very well, child, quite well done.” said Roghart after jumping across to meet Jamie, his voice dripping with nonchalance.

“Thank you, sir, I was rather proud of it,” said Jamie, beaming. It wasn’t often you got a compliment from Roghart, even one made grudgingly. “It was your talk of the Feather-Fall spell that gave me the idea.” Jamie paused. “You might say I was inspired by you,” they added casually. Flattery always helped with Roghart.

Roghart’s chest puffed out microscopically. “Yes, well.

I’m happy to play my small part, I try to encourage thinking outside the box. Now, let us continue. ” He began to walk briskly into the temple.

Jamie was about to follow when something caught their eye. It was the bridge, specifically a nail in one of the planks, specifically the color of the nail in the plank on the bridge. It was gray. There was no rust on it at all. Jamie jerked their head back around. Roghart had disappeared - it was far too dark to see him in the temple. Jamie felt their heart skip a beat. They 124

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dashed into the temple, terrible scenarios flashing through their mind. If Roghart was killed, they’d never be able to learn magic: There wasn’t another Wizard around for miles, and if they couldn’t learn magic they’d have to go back to their parents, and if they went back to their parents they’d have to become a farmer again, and if they had to be a farmer again they’d Jamie ran head first into … something, and fell back.

It was something solid. Well, not that solid - it’d moved when they’d rammed into it. It was still moving, in fact. It was cursing as well “Oh,” said Jamie, slightly out of breath and feeling embarrassed. “Hello, Master Roghart.”

“What are you doing, girl? You nearly killed me!” Master Roghart was jumping up and down clutching his leg. “You’ve scuffed my robes I’m sure of it. These things are expensive, you know!”

“Not girl,” said Jamie, annoyed.

Master Roghart calmed down a little. “Yes, well, obviously. Obviously I wouldn’t call you that on purpose, heat of the moment and all that. I assume I am forgiven?”

“Sure.”

“Very good. Now, what was the reason you came running in like that?”

Jamie took a moment to catch their breath before speaking. “There was a nail-”

“Yes? And what about this nail?”

“It didn’t have any rust on it.”

“So?”

“Well,” said Jamie, feeling put out. “That’s strange. It’s been down here for what, one thousand years? It should have a little rust.”

Master Roghart rolled his eyes. “Child, I’m sure the denizens of this place simply put some sort of anti-rusting charm on it. We studied those in one of our first lessons together. You must remember even the small things if you are ever to become 126

a great wizard and impress the rest of the wizarding community.

Now come, no more distractions.” Master Roghart turned back around without another word, and continued down the passage.

Jamie was feeling put out. It was rare that they had an anxiety with any actual backing to it, and to have it dashed so quickly felt rather cheap. “Why would those ancient humans even build that bridge? It’d be way too small for them,” they muttered to themself. Before this thought had time to register, a strange voice spoke in their ear.

“I suppose that’s where we come in.”

Before Jamie could respond, something scaly hit them in the back of the head, and the world went even blacker. ***

The torchlight was hurting Jamie’s eyes, even with their eyelids closed, and each of their cells felt as if it weighed 10 tons. Whatever had hit Jamie had hit them extremely hard, and they were still trying to piece together what had happened.

Something had spoken to them, they’d been knocked out, they’d been moved here. Or maybe they hadn’t been moved at all - the ground here felt mostly the same. There was a rumbling though, a deep bassy sound almost like … snoring? Through tremendous effort and intense curiosity, Jamie managed to open an eyelid.

Lying there, his drool forming a small ocean next to his face, was Roghart. His hands and feet were bound, and his staff was nowhere to be seen. He’d been captured? How? He was one of the greatest wizards of all the ages! How did a couple of- It occurred to Jamie that they didn’t actually have any idea what had captured them, it had all happened so suddenly. Maybe their attackers were powerful spellcasters, true paragons of the arcane who were able to best Master Roghart in single combat. Yes, that must be it. That was the only logical explanation.

Jamie glanced nervously over at their captors.

There were two little bearded people, both about a foot tall, with tall red conical hats extending a good six inches 127

high, and each of them was wearing a blue shirt and overalls.

Gnomes. Their captors were gnomes. Master Roghart had been snuck up on and defeated by a pair of tiny people with pointy hats. A fraction of an idea about Master Roghart and the type of man he was began to make itself known at the back of Jamie’s mind, but Jamie quickly shoved it down. This was neither the time or the place. Right now they had to think of some way out of this situation.

At least their being gnomes explained why Jamie was having such a hard time understanding them. It wasn’t a concussion after all. Or at least, it wasn’t just a concussion. One of the gnomes was holding a torch, and the other was holding a metal stick which Jamie’s brain told them was important. Oh. It’s a sword. A sword. The sword! They were holding the ancient artifact Master Roghart had entrusted them with! Jamie had to get it back - it was a powerful magical tool. With that kind of arcane energy they could do … something. That aspect of the mission had never been properly explained to Jamie. Master Roghart had just said that it was of grave importance and Jamie must be very careful not to cast a spell while holding it for fear of the overwhelming power. Jamie tensed up. Perhaps these gnomes were powerful spellcasters after all, and by using the sword had managed to defeat Master Roghart! Yes, that was the only logical conclusion. Jamie had to act quickly or the gnomes might cast something even worse. Unfortunately, Jamie’s brain was not in the business of quick thinking right now, and so the only plan they could come up with was to say one of the Gnomish phrases they had learned from their interactions with the gnomes in Jamie’s home village. “*I am not a Gnome I am simply very short!*”⁵ they shouted earnestly.

The gnomes turned to them. The one with the torch ––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

⁵ Gnomish can best be understood by the reader as sounding basically like Russian spoken in a thick New Zealand accent.

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spoke, “*Ah! You speak gnomish?* Askdfqof-*” “*No, I do not speak gnomish.*” responded Jamie quickly.

“I should say not,” said the other gnome in the common tongue. He was glowering at them. “Your accent is atrocious.”

The first gnome put their hands on their hips. “Now don’t be rude Digby. I’m sure the young one was trying their best.”

“Wilma, am I supposed to lie to them? Tell them they put on a good show? Well, they didn’t, and I shouldn’t be attacked for saying so.”

“Oh lay off it, there’s no need to be cruel to the poor thing-”

As the gnomes began to argue loudly, Jamie heard a rustling coming from the side. They turned to look and saw Master Roghart glaring at them with a finger pressed against his lips.

“Sssh!” hissed Master Roghart, being louder than Jamie.

“Let’s not alert these gnomes to my consciousness. Jamie, my l-child, you must make a grab for the sword, the fate of the world depends on it!”

“What?” whispered Jamie. “Excuse me if I’m being impertinent Master Roghart-”

“You’re excused.”

“Um, thank you, but if it’s so important, Master Roghart, should you do it? Being the senior wizard and all?”

Master Roghart shook his head gravely. “No, child, it would be far too dangerous for me to hold it. The arcane power might fry me alive.”

“What?!” said Jamie, a little louder than they meant to.

They glanced to see if the gnomes had heard it, but they were still too busy arguing. The discussion had moved on to laundry now, and the lack of doing it. Jamie turned back to Master Roghart, “Sir, begging your pardon, but I’ve been carrying that sword all day - won’t it hurt me as well?”

“Ah, well, you see that’s the clever part,” said Master Roghart, seeming quite self-assured. “I theorize that with 129

prolonged exposure you might gain some sort of immunity to it.” Master Roghart saw the look that Jamie was giving him and added “Or something like that - I haven’t ironed out all the details. Anyway, you’ve been holding all day and you haven’t died yet, so it’ll probably be fine. Go on now. The fate of the world, and your continued success, depends on it.” Master Roghart flopped down and stuck out his tongue, pretending to be unconscious. Jamie sighed and turned to face the gnomes. How to approach this? Surely the gnomes wouldn’t be stupid enough to just hand it to them? Maybe they could “Quiet, you two. I have returned.” This was a third voice, a calm voice. “I see that one of our prisoners has awakened.” The voice stepped out of the shadows revealing what could only be described as a hunk of a gnome. It was a good three and a half feet tall, not including the hat, and its biceps were so large they appeared to have ripped its blue shirt. Its beard was long and mangy, and its hands were large and worn, but it was the eyes that stood out the most. They stared right through you, not even acknowledging your existence. Jamie flinched as the gnome reached behind his back and brought out something silvery- Oh. It was a haddock.

“I used this fish to bring you down before and I could do it again,” said the hunk gnome, “So don’t even think about trying something, wizard.” He spit out the last word like a curse.

Jamie flinched. The thought that they might be powerful spellcasters was crushed. He clearly wasn’t fond of the arcane. The hunk gnome looked at them expectantly.

“Oh. Yes. Of course. No, I wouldn’t try anything obviously,” said Jamie. They were a little nonplussed, frankly, all things considered. They’d expected something a little more frightening.

“Good,” said the hunk gnome. “I don’t expect you could do anything anyway. Wizards are so weak without their staves.”

He chuckled to himself and grinned toothily. There was a pause before Digby and Wilma got the message and started chuckling 130

too.

“Good one, boss.” said Digby.

“You really are the master of comedy as well as combat, sir,” said Wilma, wiping a tear from her eye.

The grin faded from the Hunk gnome. “Don’t try and flatter me, you two.”

“Of course not, sir. I’d never dream of it.” said Wilma.

“You’d see right through it, boss.” said Digby.

“Hmm.” said the hunk gnome, rubbing his eyes. “Hand me the sword, Digby.”

“You got it, boss, I’m right on it-”

“Yes, thank you,” said the hunk gnome, snatching the sword from Digby’s hand. “Now. Wizard. What do you know about this sword?”

“Oh,” said Jamie quickly. “That old thing? Useless, utterly useless, so so so so so so useless, more useless than a-”

“Don’t lie to me. I’ve got pins and needles just holding this thing. How do I use it?”

“Oh. You swing it, I expect.” said Jamie. Then a thought occurred. “But to properly access its true potential, you’ll have to hand it over.”

“Hey, now.” said the gnome. “Don’t try anything here.

I’m not stupid.”

Jamie considered this. This gnome was big and scary, but he wasn’t necessarily smart. If they could shock him with a bunch of technical nonsense, Jamie might be able to scare him into giving it over. “Listen,” Jamie said, shrugging “if you want to overload the probability matrix of this whole dang quadrospatial sector, be my guest.”

“Probability matrix?” said Wilma, concern creeping into her voice.

“Quadrospatial sector?” said Digby, sounding worried.

“Hm,” said the hunk gnome, betraying nothing.

“Exactly, probability matrix,” said Jamie. “The pins and needles you’re feeling is the quantum super-death starting to 131

take effect.”

“Hm,” said the hunk gnome once again. He sighed.

“Fine. But don’t try anything.” He started to hand over the sword. Jamie was itching to take it, barely holding themself back. The gnome saw the look in their eye and hesitated.

“I have your word? You won’t try anything?” he said.

“You have my word,” said Jamie. The gnome handed over the sword.

Jamie gripped the handle and felt the magic rush up their arm, like a dog jumping up to its master. Master Roghart sat up and grinned at them. “That’s the ticket, Jamie! All thanks to my expert teaching, eh? Well, very good anyway, now cast Fireball!” Jamie paused. They looked at the hunk gnome. They could see fear in his eyes, pure absolute terror. This was a creature Jamie could destroy in a second, with barely a thought. The power was intoxicating, the temptation overwhelming. Jamie thought for a second, and let the sword clatter to the ground.

“Go, now, before they change their mind!” shouted Digby⁶ and the gnomes scattered.

There was was a beat before Master Roghart exploded.⁷

“How in the world can you be so careless!?” he shouted “You had them right where you wanted them and you let them escape! Now they’re certain to come back and attempt to steal the sword again. Really, Jamie, I thought I taught you better than that-”

“Wouldn’t it bother you though?” said Jamie, turning to look at Master Roghart “To explode those gnomes like that?”

“What?” said Master Roghart, befuddled “I would have thrown up a magical shield to resist the effects if that’s what you’re worried about, la-child, I would have been quite fine-”

“No, I mean, to kill them. Wouldn’t that bother you?”

Master Roghart paused for a moment, seemingly at a –––––––––––––––––––––––––––– ⁶ A lot can be said about gnomes, but they know when they are beaten. ⁷ Not literally, but intense emotion and magical power has been known to do similar things in the past.

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loss for words. Eventually he spoke, “No. I don’t suppose it would. They were thieves, gi-child, ruffians, lowest of the low It would have been perfectly fine to-”

“And that’s another thing,” said Jamie, surprising even themself by interrupting once again. “What is it with you almost calling me ‘lass’ all the time? I’m not a girl, you know.”

Master Roghart seemed bowled over by this, “Yes, of course, Jamie, I don’t think you’re a girl. I really have no idea what your point is here; that has nothing to do with the matter at hand-”

“I guess what my point is,” said Jamie, who was figuring out what that was as they were saying it, “Is that someone who can barely remember to use one set of words instead of another maybe shouldn’t be in charge of an all-powerful magic artifact, especially not if that person also just got knocked out by a bunch of gnomes!”

Master Roghart put his hands on his hips. “Young lady-” Jamie narrowed their eyes at that, “-I seem to recall you yourself being knocked out by those gnomes as well.”

“I’m an apprentice and you’re a master,” said Jamie. “We shouldn’t be judged on the same metric. And anyway, I’m not going to hold on to it very long. I’ll be taking it to the University Ocularis so they can figure out what to do with it.”

“Really? Why in the world would you do that?” said Master Roghart. He shook his head vigorously. “Why, those fun-ruining bores would rather not delve into an ancient ruin full of dangerous traps!” said Master Roghart.

“Yes?” said Jamie, “Rather than what?”

“What? No, that was the end of the sentence.”

“Hm.” said Jamie, placing the sword gently into their pack, “Well, if I get there and they don’t seem capable, I’ll do my own research and see what is best to do with it. Goodbye, Master Roghart.”

“Now, hang on there,” said Master Roghart, puffing out his chest, “If you won’t see reason then I shall be forced to stop 133

you using my arcane abilities!”. He pointed his hands at them, gripping his staff. In a flash, Jamie saw a globule of pulsating magical energy begin to charge itself up in his palm. After a beat, he released it, and as it arced towards them it began to take the form of a net composed of undulating light. For a second, Jamie felt a jolt of fear before instinct took over. They raised their arm, took a breath, and knocked the net off-course, causing it to hit the wall with a splort.⁸ Jamie’s insides were on fire. Deflecting that blast had been like batting away a kitten.

Could that really have been the best Roghart could muster?

Master Roghart’s face was forming a perfect O as he stared at Jamie’s hands. Jamie themself was immensely shocked by what had just happened but they managed to rally magnificently.

“I suppose that proves you have nothing left to teach me.” said Jamie.

“Perhaps you are right,” said Master Roghart sheepishly, “But my conscience demands I make one last attempt. Child, the wizards of the University Ocularis are fools. They overlooked my greatness, chewed me up and spit me out. They’ll do the same to you. And besides, I took on this apprenticeship to improve my standing amongst the wizarding community. If you leave now, I’ll be a laughing stock!”

“I think, Master Roghart,” said Jamie, hands on their hips, “That the fate of the world is slightly more important than your reputation or your personal grudges!” Jamie sighed, “I need to do this, Master Roghart, end of discussion.”

“If you want to go and I can’t stop you then it is your right to leave.” He shook his head. “Very wizardly, I suppose, to assert yourself like this. I must have taught you something.”

“Yes.” said Jamie, turning away, “Maybe you did.”

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⁸ This is called a “counter-spell”, and basically involves convincing the magic that it would rather break than work correctly. This is not too difficult as magic is naturally lazy.

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Ella Harris

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CHRIS GUMINA Runner

My grandma accumulated many tidbits of wisdom over the years, tidbits she was eager to share among our family. She told me to listen more than I talk, never take my life for granted, and turn the other cheek. But the piece of advice that I remember best from my childhood visits to grandma’s house was this: never marry anyone until you see them run.

“People can fake the way they walk,” she always used to say, “But when they start to run, now that’s when the real personality comes out.”

As with all advice from my grandma, I took it to heart. In first grade I was briefly engaged to a girl named Melissa Leary. She was everything I wanted in a potential partner: funny, kind, and able to rotate herself through a perfect cartwheel. We were happily together for two days, when I unfortunately had to break it off after I caught a glimpse of her poor running form. As I grew older I realized that my grandma was more than a little senile towards the end. I wanted to take her advice with a grain of salt. How could you possibly judge someone’s true personality based off nothing but the swinging of their arms and pounding of their feet? And yet something about my grandma’s advice rang true, and I was never able to shake myself free from it. Now, whenever I start getting close with a girl I always find some excuse to make her run where I can see her.

My sister is one person who could never run very well. She was all elbows and knees, and would sprawl into the dirt after a few steps at top speed. I felt bad for her my whole childhood. Who would want to marry a girl that ran that poorly? I used to take her outside on sunny days and give pointers, but they never seemed to work. When I brought it up to my grandma one day she just smiled sadly and said, “Ah, but running isn’t something that can be taught.

It’s about your personality, and that’s not an easy thing to change.” I 136

only hope that one day my sister will be able to buck the trend and prove that those who can’t run well aren’t the horrible people my grandma makes them out to be.

It happened four Saturdays after the start of my freshman year. Most of the leaves had lost their tenuous hold on the branches, resigned to their impending doom. Those leaves with more fortitude held onto the trees, but shifted from green to a reddish-orange seemingly overnight. Fall was somewhat of a new experience for me. Where I grew up we had summer and colder summer, and almost no time in between the two. The leaves would stay green all year, and if the weather had dipped below 60 degrees the governor would have called a state of emergency. In my youthful ignorance I arrived at college utterly unprepared for the northeastern weather, and shivered through my first three weeks at school until I saved up enough money to buy a proper coat. Even that did nothing to protect my pale features from the unforgiving elements, and my cheeks quickly took on a red hue that rarely faded. I’m told that the weather gets even worse come Christmas. If that is true, I might have to drop out and head on home. No education could be worth this torture.

Each time the wind gusted through the quad I watched it swirl leaves into tornadoes and felt it creep into my bones. No doubt I attracted curious glances from my classmates, who wondered why I looked so decidedly uncomfortable in the fall weather.

Maybe I should have gone to school in California. USC looked nice enough when I visited. Unfortunately I was rejected to free up spots for a few unusually talented freshmen who were recruited by the rowing team. I was so caught up in my musings about warmer weather that I did not notice the girl walking in front of me until we collided.

The papers she held were propelled directly upward, and quickly dispersed throughout the quad. They moved as if they had a mind of their own, propelled by puffs of air. I only caught a glimpse of these runaway papers, however, before my face was shoved un137

ceremoniously in the dirt. I tried to clamber to my feet but the girl had landed square on my back, making this endeavor impossible. I had just about resigned myself to remaining trapped on the ground until the end of the semester when the weight on my back was lifted and I was unceremoniously hauled to my feet. The girl spun me around so we were facing and fixed me with a look of disgust.

“What do you think you’re doing?” She asked angrily, “Are you blind or something? Do you have a pair of eyes in your stupid head?”

I looked around, somewhat ashamed. I’m not a big fan of confrontation, and I was getting some very aggressive vibes. To be fair, I had tackled her and spilled all the papers she was carrying, papers which were still being gusted around the quad. However, I still wished to extricate myself from this awkward situation with all possible haste.

“I’m sorry,” I said, in what I hope was an appropriately apologetic tone, “I’m really not used to the cold. Also, I’m very top heavy right now and it is an ongoing struggle to stay on my feet.”

“I don’t have time for this,” she said, looking down at her watch, “I have class in 5 minutes.”

She took off at a run, not even bothering to pick up the pieces of paper which had now settled around the quad like new snow.

I watched her recede into the distance with something approaching awe. Our interaction had been nothing special, but now I saw her in an entirely new light. She was the best runner I had ever seen.

Her name was Emilia Weber, something that I discovered after scouring the track and field roster on the athletics website. She ran the 400 and 800 hundred meters, as well as participating in the relays. I knew it was fairly early in our relationship but I already knew that I wanted to get married.

This may seem odd, and I will admit that I certainly got well ahead of myself in those first few weeks. But finding someone with the perfect run had always been something of an obsession of mine.

Now that I knew who she was, it was hard not to spend time think138

ing about it. I began daydreaming in class about arms pumping at precise angles and feet striking the ground with the perfect amount of force. Steinbeck’s critique of society in The Grapes of Wrath held even less import in my mind then it previously had. Differential calculus went from being my most difficult subject to my easist.

This, of course, was because I stopped paying attention. I would sit in class trying to figure out how to draw hearts with my graphing calculator, then spend hours cramming the night before each test.

I found countless excuses to walk by the athletic building.

On Mondays I would “forget” my water bottle in the student gym at least four times. Tuesdays I would take the long way to the engineering center and back, passing by the track each time. I considered trying out for the football team, but decided against it when I saw how big they all were.

My roommate was somewhat confused about my change in behavior. I explained the situation to him, and exactly what actions I was taking to ensure that Emilia and I crossed paths again.

“Yeah, but why are you so crazy about this girl?” He asked, “The only time you saw her she was mad at you for knocking her over.”

“But her running form was perfect when she ran away,” I replied, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, “That’s what really matters.”

“Ah, ok,” he said, “Now it makes sense.”

I was pleasantly surprised at how quickly he had come around to my point of view. It was not often that other people could understand the whole running idea. Little did I know it was at that moment that he decided to text our RA to inquire about switching rooms.

Despite my best efforts, several weeks passed before I saw Emilia again. Even when I did, it was through pure chance, and not through some nefarious scheme. I swear.

I was in the library, completing my math homework. If you think that this sounds out of character for me then you would be right. After seeing Emilia in the quad I did work only under du139

ress, like when my parents threatened to stop paying for college if I failed just one more test in any subject.

It was while I was doing this work that I happened to look up. Some might call it a sixth sense, others might call it finely tuned intuition, but my eyes were immediately drawn to one of the small rooms where groups could study together. I got up and walked over to it slowly, trying not to look overeager. Sure enough, there she was, typing away on her computer, earbuds wedged firmly in her ears.

I opened the door, and sat down. She looked up surprised, and removed her earbuds. I immediately regretted my rash decision making.

“Do I know you?” She asked, confused.

“Actually I... well I kind of ran into...” I started, then thought the better of it, “No, actually. No you don’t know me.”

“Was there something you wanted to say to me, then?” She asked, still confused.

“Kind of,” I replied, cursing my lack of forethought, “You know, I really hadn’t thought that far ahead.”

She nodded, understandingly, clearly thinking I was insane.

“OK,” she finally said, carefully, “Well I have a class soon so...”

I stood up, desperate to make my point.

“Look,” I said, “I’ve seen you walking around campus a few times. You seem like a really interesting person. I was wondering if we could maybe, like, get food sometime?” I decided not to mention her running form at the last second. Best not to creep her out.

“Well, you are kind of cute in a weird way,” she answered, thoughtfully, “And I’m not doing anything tonight. We could get dinner.”

I left the room elated. It felt like a pity date more than anything, but I would gladly take any kind of date she would give me.

Based on the way she talked to me I gave it around a 30% chance she didn’t stand me up, but anything was better than zero. I went back to the dorm that I now had to myself, and spent the next three 140

hours getting ready for dinner.

We met at Chipotle that night. She showed up, surprisingly.

I chose the venue. In my experience nothing brings people closer together than sharing some delicious pseudo-Mexican food in a warm and welcoming environment. I decided to order a carne asada burrito. In fact, Chipotles across the country now serve carne asada in addition to their other meats. I thought it was delicious, as do thousands of other satisfied customers. “This burrito sounds too good to be true,” you might be saying to yourself, “It must be incredibly expensive.” Never fear, as this delectable treat can be had for just $9.99. But move fast, as carne asada will only be offered for a limited time (Chipotle please sponsor me). After dinner I took the bold step of offering to walk her back to her dorm. That was about as far as I was willing to go. After all, I am a gentleman at heart.

The snow continued to fall in flurries, obscuring my vision. The quad was quiet. No one else was stupid enough to be outside in weather like this. The ground was slippery, and I stumbled every other step. Emilia was not so awkward. She strutted confidently through the precipitation, her walking nearly as nice as her running.

I noticed a light coming from one of the windows adjacent to the quad. Upon closer inspection I realized that it was a menorah, with a light that contrasted sharply with the dark night around it.

“Oh, I forgot that Hanukkah started a few days ago,” I said, mostly to myself, “I’ve always like Hanukkah.”

“I’m not really a big fan,” she said.

Not a big fan of Hanukkah? I thought.

“It’s a holiday,” I replied, “How could you not like it?”

“Well, I do think that Hitler made some good points,” she said back nonchalantly, as if she were rattling off the weather or ordering her food at McDonalds.

I stopped walking. It took Emilia several steps to realize, and she was forced to awkwardly turn around. She looked back at me, confused.

141

Henry Stern

142

“I’m sorry,” I said, “I know you didn’t just say what I think you said, so I must have misheard you. Can you repeat yourself please?”

“What? I’m not a Nazi or anything,” she answered, sounding defensive, “I just think that Hitler made some good points. It’s not a big deal or anything.”

I paused. This couldn’t be happening. She ran perfectly.

“How do you feel about World War II,” I asked, trying to sound disinterested, “I’m sure you agree it was tragic.”

“Oh, of course,” she replied, earnestly, “8 million Germans dead. 3 million Japanese, 500 thousand Italians.”

“Huh,” I replied, “You know, I might be wrong, but I think you’re missing just a few more million in there.”

“I don’t think so,” she answered, “No one important at least.”

“Oookay,” I said, stunned, “You know what, I think I left something in my dorm, I’m going to have to head back. Don’t bother waiting.”

“Aww,” she said, “That’s too bad. Well, I’ll see you again soon I hope.”

“I wouldn’t count on it,” I shouted back through the blizzard.

Looking back on this episode has always been tough for me. The girl of my dreams was a Nazi, I lost my roomate, and came very close to failing my classes (Cs get degrees though so we good).

What I can tell you, though, is that none of it hurt as much as my grandmother being proven wrong about the whole running thing.

What if Melissa Leary was actually my soulmate and I dumped her for something that was not remotely indicative of her personality.

Maybe I shouldn’t have trusted my grandmother. The silver lining, however, is that now I can be confident that my sister is, in fact, a good person. Ever since I first saw her run I had been waiting for her true colors to show themselves, but I guess now I can rest easy.

143

Bad Luck

When asked to pinpoint exactly where the bad luck had begun Gerald always used his birth as a prime example. His parents were boring people with an affinity for boring names.

Perhaps they were resentful that they themselves had been given names of the dull variety, and thus wanted to pass their pain down the line. Gerald’s bad luck continued through his school days, including an unfortunate incident in second grade when Gerald had been rushed to the hospital after lodging a pencil several inches up his nose after a freak accident involving some blocks and a few toy soldiers. Because of this obvious and overwhelming evidence Gerald had long ago decided that there was nothing he could do about his unlucky streak, and had grown quite resigned to unfortunate accidents continuing to affect him. So when the girl fell from the sky, Gerald was quite surprised that she had not landed directly on top of him.

When he heard the thud and the subsequent screams of the pedestrians, Gerald was confused. He had been sitting outside cowering behind a newspaper that he wasn’t actually reading. The newspaper was just a facade, in place to show the world that Gerald was a normal person having his morning, and that no, he was not eating alone on a Saturday morning just as he had for the past several Saturdays preceding this one.

Gerald was a self aware person, and the image he projected to the world was of paramount importance. Which is ironic because the world did not care about Gerald. This started, Gerald believed, in fifth grade when he was abandoned at the zoo by his school group, and was eventually found several hours later cowering in a corner of the tiger enclosure. How Gerald survived this situation is a mystery, and while some may point out that this is a sure sign of good luck, Gerald always responded by pointing out that only very unfortunate and unlucky people 144

could end up trapped in the tiger enclosure in the first place.

Gerald cautiously peeked over his newspaper to see what the commotion was about and was quite surprised to see a girl splayed on the ground, unmoving. Gerald cautiously got up from his chair and walked over to stand above the girl. He paused, uncomfortably aware of the now deserted street and the quite possibly dead girl lying on the ground in front of him.

Gerald looked up, but he could not see anything that the girl could have fallen from, like a large open window or a balcony.

Clearly, divine intervention was the answer here.

Gerald came to a decision and nudged the body with his toe.

“Hello?” he said, pausing uncomfortably. “Are you OK? Are you alive?”

Now while Gerald may seem to be acting rather awkwardly given the severity of the situation in front of him, he will have to be forgiven. Gerald lacked the people skills usually developed during the school years, as he had not been on speaking terms with most of the other young people he knew. They had grown tired of hearing about Gerald’s unlucky streak and Gerald in turn had grown tired of people telling him to “Grow up” or “Join some extracurriculars” or “Maybe you shouldn’t have been climbing on the fence of the tiger enclosure.”

Slowly the girl began to peel herself off the sidewalk, acting rather woozy. More of a woman really, Gerald now observed, somewhere close to his own age. Gerald was unexperienced when it came to looking at members of the female sex, but he adjudged her to be a fairly normal looking person, all things considered.

“I’m just feeling a little dizzy,” said the woman, as she slowly rose to her feet, “I just need a minute.”

As she said this the woman crumpled to the floor again.

Gerald rushed over still quite confused as to what, exactly, was going on.

Gerald squatted down over the body, still unsure of the 145

proper conduct for this type of situation. While he was not a doctor, Gerald had taken a CPR class at the Y when he was in 11th grade. He quickly ran over the steps in his mind. First: Shake and Shout. This was always Gerald’s favorite step, and in the CPR class he took he had been reprimanded several times for shaking the dummy too vigorously.

Gerald leaned in close, grabbing the woman by the shoulders and shaking her. There was no movement.

“ARE YOU OKAY?” He shouted. The girl again gave no response. Gerald panicked, forgetting what step he was on.

In the class he took, Gerald had been too busy wondering how much trouble he would get in if he cut the face off the dummy like Dwight from The Office to care about the order of steps.

He knew he should have been paying attention during the class, it was just that he assumed if anyone was going to have a premature heart attack it was going to be him.

Gerald decided checking the pulse couldn’t hurt, and so pawed around for the woman’s arm. This was the first time Gerald had ever touched a woman. Gerald knew that he could test for a pulse by grabbing the woman’s elbow and squeezing.

He couldn’t feel anything, so Gerald immediately assumed the worst. He quickly grabbed for his phone, and dialed 9-1-1.

“9-1-1, what’s your emergency?”

“Hi, my name is Gerald, and I just wanted to say I really appreciate everything you do to help keep us all safe and,” Gerald paused, realizing he should get to the point, “Uh, well, a girl she fell - I mean she collapsed and I think she might have had a heart attack, and I was wondering if you could send an ambulance please?” Gerald decided at the last second maybe he shouldn’t tell the operator that the girl had seemingly fallen from heaven, or somewhere thereabouts.

“Yes sir, right away, can you please give me your location?”

Gerald looked around wildly, then said “Uh yeah, I’m across from the Starbucks on Main Street.”

146

“Thank you sir,” the operator replied, “An ambulance is on the way.”

The line clicked dead, leaving Gerald alone on the street with the woman once again. Suddenly, Gerald remembered what he had to do next. There was no pulse, so Gerald needed to do chest compressions and then mouth to mouth resuscitation. Or was it the other way around? Gerald could never remember. He decided to skip the mouth to mouth, as clearly this girl was in no position to give consent. Furthermore, Gerald had never actually kissed anyone before. He had been far too interested in reading articles like “Why Do I Have Bad Luck?

2 Simple Things to Change Your Destiny,” and “14 Things That Could Be Causing Your Bad Luck,” to be interested in members of the opposite gender.

Gerald began chest compressions, trying to stay as calm as possible. Gerald hoped that his bad luck didn’t apply to saving peoples lives. Gerald heard approaching sirens, but continued with the chest compressions, vaguely remembering that it was important to keep compressing until help arrived.

Gerald heard a screech of tires, and car doors banging open. He was shoved roughly to the side by a group of paramedics in their uniforms. They hoisted the woman onto a stretcher, and rushed her into the back of an ambulance. Gerald slowly backed up, once again feeling awkward and out of place.

Just as he was about to leave, Gerald was accosted by two policemen who tackled him back to the ground, snapping handcuffs around his skinny wrists. Gerald, who was at this point completely bewildered, was roughly shoved into the back of a waiting police van and whisked away before he could even utter a word.

The woman’s name was Mary. That was the first thing they told Gerald after they brought him into the room with stainless steel walls and a frighteningly bright light. Gerald had been handcuffed for the better part of two hours, and by this point had worked himself into a furor of righteous indignation.

147

When the two men in drab suits entered the room, accompanied by one of the police officers, Gerald exploded.

“Who are you people? Why am I here? How could you do this to me? Don’t you know who I am?” Gerald added that last question on a whim. They most certainly did not know who he was. Gerald was not special. But he liked the way he sounded, all tough and full of anger.

The two men in drab suits gave each other a bored expression. One of them sighed. He had been through this before.

“You didn’t even read me my rights,” Gerald exclaimed, “You have to read me my rights. That’s how it works. I watch Law and Order.”

“Sir, we read you your rights,” the police officer interjected, “You just held your hands over your ears and started shouting really loudly. That’s your fault, not ours.”

Dammit, thought Gerald, I thought for sure that was going to work.

One of the men in the drab suit finally rose to his feet and leaned in towards Gerald. He smelled like unwashed socks.

“Sir, we have some questions for you,” he stated, matter of factly, “Why were you assaulting the woman as she lay on the ground unconscious?”

Gerald was flabbergasted.

“I was trying to save her life!” He said, “She had a heart attack!”

“No she didn’t,” replied the man, “She was just unconscious. Didn’t you check for a pulse?”

“Of course I did,” Gerald replied, although slightly worried. Maybe you weren’t supposed to feel for a pulse at the elbow after all.

The officer leaned forward. “All we saw was you groping an unconscious woman. Quite frankly we find it incredibly suspicious that you would just happen to be the only person in the vicinity of this woman who you claimed had a heart attack but clearly was just knocked out.”

148

William Ricci

149

Gerald leaned back in his chair. He really had the worst luck.

After another round of questioning, Gerald was rushed from the interrogation room. He was marched through the dank halls of the detention facility, and eventually deposited inside a dimly lit cell. The door slammed shut behind him with a depressing sort of finality.

Gerald quickly took stock of his surroundings. A single light bulb flickered in the ceiling, casting ominous shadows all around the room. There were two beds, one on each side of the cell. Padding leaked out from both beds where there were holes in the mattress. The pillows looked half filled and mildewy. Gerald did not think they looked comfortable. A toilet was nestled in the far corner of the room, covered in mysterious brown stains. Gerald decided he would not be using the bathroom for the duration of his stay at the prison.

Gerald cursed his luck, as he had been doing nearly nonstop since being shoved into the back of the police van. This is what you get, he though, angrily, This is what you get for being a good person. For trying to help someone. He sighed. There was nothing he could do anymore. Gerald’s fate was in the good hands of the judicial system. Gerald had always liked judges. His grandfather was a judge, and Gerald liked his grandfather more than anyone else in the world. His name was Gordon and, as Gerald occasionally bragged about to his classmates in the rare instances that they talked to each other, he had helped secure the right to vote for black people in the state of Mississippi.

In Gerald’s mind, these actions made Gordon a hero. Gordon also liked to bring Gerald candy whenever he visited, and that couldn’t have hurt his reputation.

Unfortunately, Gordon was killed when he accidentally discharged his weapon at a gun safety class. This is where Gerald assumed the bad luck came from.

Gerald wandered over to one of the beds and sat down.

It felt a little lumpy, but it was actually far more comfortable 150

than Gerald would have initially assumed. Gerald continued to make himself comfortable, but he soon paused. Something wasn’t right.

“If you don’t get off me right now,” a voice said, “I will cut off your dick and make you eat it.”

Gerald leapt off the bed, emitting a shrill shriek. Gerald quickly attempted to change this shriek into more of a brave yell.

Nailed it, he thought.

A shape sat up in the bed. It was a man, a massive man.

Easily twice Gerald’s size, this man wouldn’t have fit on both beds combined.

Huh, Gerald thought, I wonder how I didn’t notice him.

“Yo, I’m talking to you,” the shape barked, “Why the fuck did you sit on me?”

“I’m so sorry,” Gerald answered meekly, “I didn’t see you there.”

The man grunted and rolled over. Gerald breathed a sigh of relief. He didn’t think that he could’ve taken this guy in a fight.

“Is it true?” Gerald blurted out, not thinking before he spoke, “About the soap? And dropping it?”

The man rolled over, incredulous. He stood up, dwarfing Gerald with his massive bulk. Gerald cowered on the floor.

Why did I just say that?

“Did you really just ask me that?” That man said, still shocked, “Are you trying to be funny? Or are you just stupid?”

“Um, I...” Gerald tried to answer, but the words just weren’t coming out of his mouth, “Well, I... I just thought I should know. Just in case I have to shower. While I’m here.”

Gerald curled in on himself, awaiting the punch that he was sure would be arriving momentarily. Gerald had never been punched before, and he did not think that, if punched by this particular specimen, he would live to be punched again. Imagine dying in your very first fight.

Several seconds passed in this manner, and finally Gerald 151

peeked out from between his fingers, worried about what he might see. To his astonishment, the large man was sitting on his bed, shaking in silent peals of laughter.

Gerald got up, feeling rather embarrassed. There he was, cowering on the floor, fearing for his life, and this man was dying of laughter.

The man finally got himself under control and was able to coral his hysterics for long enough to look at Gerald. He stuck out a meaty right hand, offering it to Gerald. Gerald took his hand and shook it, although he immediately regretted this decision when he felt the bones in his hand begin to crunch together.

“My name is Rahiem,” the man said, “Good to meet you.”

“Gerald,” said Gerald, still confused and a little scared, “A pleasure.”

Rahiem cackled again.

“Talk like that in prison and you won’t last long my guy.”

“Oh, I’m not going to prison,” Gerald replied, with fake confidence, “this is all just a big misunderstanding. A mistake.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought too,” said Rahiem, his voice growing quieter, “But it wasn’t. It never is.”

“What happened?”

Gerald immediately regretted the question. Rahiem seemed nice enough but he looked like he could crush Gerald’s skull with his bare hands. Gerald wondered what that would look like.

“I tried to rob a gas station,” said Rahiem, after a long pause, “I needed money. My daughter was sick. I couldn’t pay for her medicine.”

Rahiem sighed. Clearly these memories were painful for him.

“There was an accident during the robbery. The manager didn’t want to give me the money. I shot him, man. I shot him in the chest. I went into shock. When the police pulled me over later I didn’t even fight. I told them it was me. I don’t know 152

what I was doing.”

Gerald couldn’t think of anything to say. What could you say to something like that? How could Gerald’s own experiences compare to what Rahiem had gone through.

“They took her away,” Rahiem continued, his voice weak, “They took away my daughter. I haven’t seen her in weeks. I’m scared, man.”

“I’m sorry,” Gerald said awkwardly, “I’m sorry.”

“Thanks,” Rahiem said, after a minute, “Thanks.”

They passed the rest of the night in silence. Gerald would sometimes think of a remark to make or an idea that could be said, but he kept it to himself. Rahiem looked like he did not wish to be disturbed. Gerald rolled over on his cot. The cell was cold, and Gerald had been provided with only a single, threadbare blanket. Eventually, despite the freezing temperatures and Gerald’s overcrowded mind, sleep claimed him.

The cell door opened with a loud clang, and harsh light spilled into the room. Gerald sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Two men stood in the door, both wearing official looking prison uniforms. They looked angry. Gerald figured that if you decided you wanted to work as a prison guard, you were probably just the angry sort of person.

“You,” one of them barked at Gerald, “Get up.”

Gerald clambered to his feet then promptly collapsed back to the floor, his legs feeling like jelly. The guards sighed, before moving inside the cell and hoisting Gerald to his feet.

They quickly guided him out into the hallway, and shut the door. Just before the door smashed back to its closed position, Gerald looked back over his shoulder. Rahiem was staring back at him, eyes empty. It looked like he might have been crying.

Gerald looked away, and the door shut.

The guards brought Gerald into the same interrogation room that he had been in the day before. They sat him down, and the same men in drab suits walked into the room. One of them was smoking a cigar. Gerald shrank back in his chair, scared.

153

The man with the cigar spoke first.

“You’re lucky,” he said, “You’re very lucky.”

“Lucky?” Gerald replied, incredulous, “Lucky? I’m in jail! I’m the least lucky person there is! I may be the unluckiest person on the face of the planet.”

“Shut up,” said the man, “That’s stupid. People have it worse than you.”

Gerald was about to reply, but suddenly a picture filled his mind. Rahiem, in the cell. The door closing. The tears on his face. Gerald grew silent.

“Lucky for you,” said the other man, “The woman you assaulted vanished. We can’t find her, and if she’s not here there is no one to press charges.”

Gerald looked up, hopeful. Did this mean what he thought it meant?

“You’re free to go, sir,” said that man with the cigar, trying his best to sound happy but really just looking nauseous.

Gerald rose from his chair, and was escorted into a waiting room where he completed several long forms. Gerald could barely see what he was writing, had to read each direction on the sheet several times before it registered in his brain. After completing the sheets and exchanging a few words with a lady at the door, Gerald was unceremoniously expelled from the police station.

Gerald squinted in the bright sunlight. He stumbled down the street, legs sore and tired. People flowed past him on either side, but Gerald was barely aware of them. Gerald’s eyes felt extremely heavy. He needed a coffee.

Gerald slowly made his way to the cafe where his series of misadventures had begun. What should have been a 15 minute walk took nearly an hour. He eventually made it inside, where he was immediately escorted back out onto the street and instructed to pick one of the tables outside. They probably didn’t want him scaring away the customers.

Gerald slid out a seat and collapsed into it. It was a beautiful day, and the soft light caressed the green trees and leaves 154

that lined either side of the street. A family walked past, playfully arguing about something unimportant. Gerald smiled. A waiter walked up and Gerald ordered a small coffee. The waiter made a mark on his pad, then offered Gerald a newspaper. Gerald was about to accept, but something made him pause. What was going on? Why didn’t he want a newspaper? He always wanted a newspaper.

“Um, sir,” the waiter said, confused, “Did you hear me?

Would you like a newspaper?”

“Oh, sorry,” said Gerald, snapping back to the present, “I’m OK, thank you.”

The waiter bustled away. Gerald looked back out over the street, filled with the people making their way to work.

Suddenly, in a blur of motion, Gerald leapt from his seat, and dashed through several lanes of traffic, nearly causing several accidents. A cacophony of horns broke out but Gerald paid them no mind. After reaching the opposite side of the street Gerald paused, searching. Where had she gone?

“Are you looking for me?”

Gerald turned. In front of him stood Mary, seemingly none the worse for wear after her tumble. Gerald paused. He was unsure of what to do now that she was standing right in front of him.

In fact, Gerald hadn’t really thought much of anything when he first saw her in the street. It felt more like instinct than anything else.

“Did you want to say something?” She asked, smiling.

“Uh, yeah,” Gerald answered, stumbling over his words awkwardly, “Would you like to, uh, I mean if you’re available and don’t, like, have anything right now...”

Gerald paused, unsure.

“Would you like to come get a coffee with me?” He finally said, hoping against hope that she wouldn’t laugh in his face.

“I would love to,” she answered, smiling, “I would love to.”

155

Aurora

It was still dark outside when I started up the mountain.

Stars twinkled merrily and the moon cast her soft glow, throwing dark shadows over the craggy landscape. These shadows danced with the movements of the clouds, adding to the already eerie atmosphere. I ignored this display and surged forward, pausing only to duck the fence designed to keep out the wild pigs. Some of the barbs caught in my sweatshirt, and I felt them graze my back. I managed to extricate myself without doing too much additional damage, both to myself and to my sweatshirt. I quickly ran my hand up my back, and it returned slightly sticky.

This night was not off to an ideal start.

I wiped my hand on the ground, then shifted the backpack I carried back into place. It was small, a composition of zippers and muted colors. It weighed almost nothing, and contained only a few, unimportant items. There was a water bottle attached to the bottom right corner by a small metal clip, and it bumped against my leg with every other step. I didn’t need it, really, the backpack or the water bottle, but they gave a certain kind of comfort and routine that I sorely needed.

The crunching of gravel quickly gave way to the soft padding of careful feet on damp moss. Twigs and dead branches littered the path but I picked my way around them, almost unconsciously. The shrubbery quickly began to encroach from all sides. The first bushes I passed were at knee level, branches angular with green leaves poking off in random directions. They were clustered in groups, competing for the same scraps of dry dirt. I wished them the best of luck in their quest for survival. I moved on, and these bushes soon gave way to saplings, then fully formed trees. The weathered bark was chipped and scratched in some places, and entirely scraped off in others. A number of branches hung directly across the path, and I would 156

occasionally have to shift one out of my way. The leaves clung to these boughs for dear life, fighting a losing battle against the elements. Like the shrubs, I gave these leaves my regards as I walked past.

The muddy ground sucked on my feet with each step. I was glad I had the foresight to bring an extra pair of shoes for the remainder of my stay, as these would be too disgusting to wear again. Still, I took care to step around the small puddles that dotted the trail, and worked to avoid the most treacherous parts of the path. While my journey was not dangerous by any stretch of the imagination, every few minutes I would double back around the edge of a sheer cliff. Each time I walked along this edge my feet brushed small pebbles to the side and into the abyss. They tumbled down, rattling against the rock face and each other as they went. I almost wished I could join them.

I came across wildlife only once on my journey to the summit. As I picked my way through a particularly dense patch of brambles I turned right and stopped. The two deer on the path ahead of me stopped as well. It was a buck and a doe, and they looked as surprised to see me as I was them. Perhaps they had been hoping to consort in the woods in secret, and I had interrupted their ritual. Perhaps they were in love. If that were the case, surely I should apologize and continue on my way. And yet I could not move. We stared at each other for an eternity, the deer and I. I saw my reflection in their glassy eyes, and they must have seen theirs in mine. Finally the buck snorted once, then nudged the doe with his horns. She broke eye contact, and they made their way off into the trees. I watched them go until it was impossible to discern their shapes from those of the trees.

I made the remainder of my journey in silence. There had been a waterfall by the entrance road, but its roar had been quickly left behind. Now, the quiet that was only interrupted by the occasional hoo of an owl or the almost imperceptible dripping of water. This dripping was something that I was only 157

peripherally aware of. I wasted no time pausing to listen to the wind or peer into the muddy darkness. I had a deadline.

The sky had begun to lighten by the time I reached the summit. The dense foliage that had surrounded me on the trek up gave way to an open, windswept rock face. Scrawny shrubs clung onto the rock for dear life, and several gnarled trees survived in the cracks between boulders. The boulders themselves were stacked on top of each other at almost impossible angles.

I chose a boulder at random and placed my hand on its granite face. It was cold to the touch, but surprisingly smooth. I gave it a small push and, even though I didn’t really expect it to move, was mildly surprised at its immobility.

I drew the hood of my jacket up tight around my ears to protect them from the gnawing cold. My breath misted out in front of me, forming clouds of moisture which seemed almost unnatural on the bone-dry mountaintop. I dropped my bag to the ground, and the bottle fell with it. The sound of metal hitting stone was shocking. I realized that now there really was quiet. There were no more hoos, and even the dripping was too afraid to make its way up here. I picked a flat rock to sit against, and arranged my limbs comfortably. I took a quick sip of water, out of habit rather than thirst. My eyes were fixated on the brightening horizon. It had quickly shifted from black to blue to yellow to pinkish red, and the sky was getting lighter all the time.

There was not an animal in sight, and I suspected that it was not a random occurrence. It was only fitting that I was to spend the final minutes of my journey alone. The sun crested the trees at last, bathing the world in its orange glow. I sat in silence, contemplating the blank slate before me.

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Ella Harris

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KAITLYN POHLY From Ashkelon

“Tamar! Tamar! Wake up!” Raphy jolts me awake, throwing a dress in my direction. I rub my eyes, still hazy with a dream; I remembered a girl- I think she was me, I’m not so sure. It seems to seep further and further away, back between my ears, the longer I am awake. “We will miss the train if you don’t dress sooner!” I speed up; it’s the first day of Summer, and we are heading South to Bubbe’s house to spend it with her.

Mom and Dad are going away for work, and this is the longest I will ever be away from home. As I dress, my feet begin to dance with excitement; Raphy barges through the door again: “Breakfast is ready in the kitchen when you are,” he taunts.

“I’m coming, I’m coming.” I grab my rucksack from the wooden table beside my bed, look back at my bedroom, and whisk out the door.

“Goodbye, Samantha,” I shout over my shoulder, the doll on my dresser waving goodbye. Now, my stomach is rumbling.

“Well good morning, Tamar,” Mama says, putting a plate of shakshuka down on the table, “A bit of a sleepy start?”

“Sorry- I don’t think my alarm went off,” I choke out, scarfing eggs into my mouth. They’re hot. I burn my tongue, ow.

“Raphael, I expect you will take good care of your sister, Bubbe is getting old and cannot be troubled with being entirely responsible for both-”

“Yes, Mama,” he cut her off, taking the envelope of shekels from her hand, now beginning to etch with funny lines.

“I will drive you both to the train station. Tamar, come on, we need to go.” I shove some more food in my mouth before putting my place in the sink. I’m still chewing as I run out 160

the door behind them. Outside, I have to squint to be able see our car, parked along the edge of the sidewalk; the sun is strong and hot. Families are walking on their way to the beach, it really is a beautiful day. On the way to the station, Mama puts on the radio station. Listening to the sweet melodies, I begin to drift off; my eyelids become heavy again. Raphy looks back in the rearview mirror from the front seat,

“Tamar! Don’t fall asleep please, we are almost there.”

He was right. Our car was rolling into the parking lot just as the words left his mouth. Looking down at his watch, his most prized possession which he got for his bar mitzvah a few months ago, Raphy jumps and unbuckles his seatbelt, “Okay, we’re late, ba-bye Mama,” he says, kissing her on the cheek.

“Bye Mama!” I say too, jumping out of the car. She rolls down the window, waving us goodbye, as she disappears back onto the highway.

“Southbound train to Ashkelon leaving the station in… 7 minutes,” a voice announces over the loudspeaker. Raphy grabs my hand and whisks us through the crowd. The figures tower over me, I can barely see Raphy’s face above me.

“Stay close, T,” he says, looking down at me. I clutch his arm until we make our way to the platform; he picks me up and places me onto the train.

“Tel Aviv to Ashkelon, final boarding,” the announcer man says again, his voice booming through the air. I fall asleep on Raphy’s lap as the train rolls away from the station. ***

Only one other family is still on board the train by the time it reaches its last stop: Ashkelon. Raphy and I are greeted by salty Summer air from the sea, and Grandma and her caregiver waving at us from the platform.

“Bubbe!” I squeal, jumping off the train onto the concrete, embracing her into a hug. She smells like roses.

“Hello, my little ladybug!” She wraps me tighter in her embrace, my head resting between her head and shoulders.

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“Tamar, Raphael, this is Abia, she lives with me now.” Miss Abia’s head is wrapped in a funny cloth with red stripes on it, it looks like the one lady at the grocery store wears. I stare at it wondering if she’s hot with that on in the Summer. She doesn’t seem to mind. She outstretches her arms to greet me,

“Nice to finally meet you little Tamar! Your Grandmother was not lying about how beautiful you are.” I blush, and return her hug. She goes to shake Raphy’s hand, “and you are too are so handsome, just as your Grandmother said!” He looks down at her hand, wipes his own on his t-shirt, and scrunches his nose- not returning the gesture. I furrow my brow and look at him-puzzled- but I’ve learned to not ask questions. Retreating her hand back to the inside of her pocket, Miss Abia takes out the car keys, “We better get going, then.” ***

Bubbe’s house is different from what I remembered.

Smaller. It smells like a mixture of her and tabbouleh, her favorite. It makes me nauseous, but I got used to it in a few days.

The days with Bubbe were short; we spent time at the Dlila Beach, cooking food together, and playing games with Abia, although Raphy is barely around. Bubbe is getting old too, and Raphy doesn’t seem to like to listen to Abia much.

“Tamar, Raphy, it’s getting late and time for bed,” I hear Abia shout from next door. Raphy and I are playing cards in our bedroom. Abia’s face appears in the door frame as I begin to pack up the playing cards, although for once I was winning.

Raphy grabs my hand, stopping me:

“And why’s that?” He shuffled the cards defiantly, laying them out for another round.

“Because, Raphael, it’s late, and I told you to get ready for bed.” Abia is getting angry, I don’t want to upset her,

“Raphy, it’s fine. We can just play again tomor-” I start to pack up the cards again.

“No, Tamar. We don’t have to listen… to her.” Raphy and I seemed to be doing a dance with the cards; we were in a tug162

Charlotte Vacarro

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of-war almost. Abia snatched the cards from both of us:

“Go to bed, now.” Her voice was stern; I jumped and scurried off to the bathroom to get ready for bed. Raphy mumbled something under his breath and did the same. I guess Abia won our game of tug-of-war. ***

I was washing the cucumbers for dinner one evening, the sun outside beginning to turn a soft orange, when from the other side of the kitchen, there’s a clatter of pots and pans, a large crash. My head whips around, Bubbe’s hands were covered in blood. She’d dropped a glass bowl onto herself.

“Bubbe!” I run over to her with a wet rag, beginning to pick up sharp glass shards, remnants of what’s left of the bowl.

“Tamar, don’t move, sweetie. I’ll get some bandages from the closet. Don’t touch that, you could hurt yourself,” Abia says, running in with the commotion.

“I’m fine, I’m fine. No need to work ourselves up,” Bubbe said, brushing herself off. She couldn’t stand up, though. I held onto her shoulder to comfort her as Abia went to find the medical supplies. She came back with a wet towel, putting it on Bubbe’s hand to stop the bleeding.

“Tamar, in the closet there is some cream next to the broom on the shelf. Can you go get it... please!? I will take your Grandmother into the bathroom.” She looked a little panicked, the bleeding was bad. Abia brought Bubbe into the bathroom, washing her hands, and then went to clear up the pool of glass and blood that remained on the kitchen floor. I run to do as she says, scrambling through the jumbled closet. Nothing seems to fit her description. With my head buried in a pile of junk, the front door clicks open.

“What the hell is going on in here?!” It was Raphy, back from his mysterious activities for the day. The kitchen went silent for a moment, before Abia cleared her throat:

“Your Grandmother, she, had an-” She was cut off by Raphy’s yell. I shuttered.

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“Did you hurt her?” I peeked my head around the corner to see what was going on. Raphy was towering over Abia who was on the floor cleaning up. I could hear Bubbe’s soft cries from the bathroom. Raphy yelled louder, “I said, did you touch my Grandmother?” Abia shook her head in response.

“No, no, Mr. Raphael, she dropped a-” Raphy didn’t seem to be listening. He raised his hand and tore Abia’s scarf off her head. I’d never seen her hair before, it was pretty. Abia’s began frantically reaching out for it. I came out of my hiding around the corner, the two of them turned to look at me. Raphy was angry. Forceful. He yelled out at me,

“Go back to your room, Tamar.” He was stern––I was actually scared of him. I didn’t listen, though. Defiantly, I reached down for Abia’s scarf, helping put it back around her head. She looked up at me, eyes filling with tears, choking out the words, “Sweet girl, thank you.”

“Don’t touch her, Tamar,” Raphy scowled, still looking down on the two of us, together on the kitchen floor. “She’s a Muslim pig.” The words rang through the air in silence. We sat there on the floor as Raphy walked away, back down the hallway, slamming his door shut. Abia, still on the ground, didn’t say a word. We sat there for a moment. I was still on the ground, until she said, calmly,

“If you’re all set for the evening, Tamar, I think I will go home now. I’ll come see your Grandmother in the morning.”

She didn’t wait for a response and was out the door in seconds.

I wasn’t in the mood for dinner anymore.

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JULIA RADOMISLI a series of flash fiction The Man and the Moon

The gondolier took his job more seriously than anyone would have expected him to. Like ocean waves, his motions were driven by the moon, constantly sailing to reach that distant glimmer. By day, he took up passengers and sang love songs while gazing at a blue sky. Some days he was lucky and the moon was visible, guiding and taunting him as he rowed. Other days he had less luck and was forced to go after an invisible, cloudless finish line.

Eventually, his eyes grew tired of squinting into unforgiving sunshine, and his vision declined. Impaired, he still knew the canals well enough to go on with his job, though more wobbly and less sure of himself this time. He kept his strains secret, as many experienced laborers often do, sailing an increasingly blurry course after a goal that felt closer each day.

One day he woke up completely blind. Unsurprised and disappointed, he could not find his way to the gondola dock; each road felt the same against his feet and each building seemed to share the same coarse brick he ran his fingers against. He soon found himself lost, no longer searching for just the moon but also the very vehicle that would take him there. He wandered for hours around the same few blocks, hoping one would feel different and right or someone would recognize him as the gondolier with the sweet, loud voice and say yes, it is you, thank god you are here, I could never think to travel without you. Here is your gondola and your oar, please take me for two miles and continue on into the sky, for you have been traveling for a long while and have made great distance and are very close.

Yes, by my estimates, today might be the day, so please, sir, just step this way and into your boat and let’s go, for we are losing daylight.

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Henry Stern

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Parallel Histories

The class is over, but no student wants to alert the teacher or be the first one to leave.

In Stalin’s Russia, the people clapped for hours.

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Coming Home From a Long Day

One only wants to undress, have a meal, and take a rest.

One never wants to exchange false pleasantries with the doorman, the neighbor, the hallway ghost, the ringing phone, or the hollering man out the window.

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Backhands of An Advice Columnist

Thank you for writing, Pissed Off Patricia. I understand your difficulty and I don’t think you are overreacting at all but perhaps if you radically shifted your perspective and opinions you would see these things much more rationally and calmly.

Your coworker is wrong, to you, but to herself she is right and you are wrong. I’ve often advised others to step into an adversary’s metaphorical shoes and eat breakfast from their perspective. For you, I suggest doing so, and carrying on for the rest of the day in this outlook until it overtakes your own and you see that, in actuality, you are quite wrong and she is right.

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Observation

If you give a man a bad piece of writing, he will grow confused and frustrated and yell at it, shaking both fists and demanding it improve. If you give the same piece to a woman, she will mask her bewilderment and praise both the writing and its author and, if called out on her puzzlement, insist no, no, it was excellent. The problem was with me.

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WILL BOUSQUETTE Blue Fevers

I still don’t know my name. I’ve lived in the same place my whole life: my head. Living here has brought me to countless mirrors in countless bathrooms, the image of myself wrapping itself around the core of reality until my entire existence sits right in front of me: an apple. The vines I’ve seen climbing up buildings had faces on them, jutting chins and curved lips. I’ll never forget the movies I’ve watched.

I vaguely remember going to my friend’s house in middle school and sitting on his bed as he showed me his pet snake. I was afraid. Now, I tell myself I’m not afraid of anything. I think I’m waiting to feel fear and see myself holding my own hand, leading myself into a darkness disturbed by the occasional glow of a lit cigarette. I’m waiting for myself to leave my melting face behind the glass and to show everyone I’m finally a statue. I’m waiting for a bus to pick me up and drop me off in a new world, where dragons replace immune systems and movie screens watch real life.

When I was younger, a person driving an orangish car took a hard turn, crashed into the barrier, and activated the air bag.

Somehow it punctured their lungs. I remember seeing three dead ducks by the side of the road that night, lined up as if they were part of an art exhibit. Later on in my life, I was in a circus. I rode on elephants and I conquered the world. I ran in magazines faster than anyone could, and I flew higher on billboards than all of the birds.

Then legless lions began to disturb my dreams, and everything crumbled around me. I realized it had all been a dream and that my life was waiting on a faraway screen for me to press Play. It was waiting for myself to live in a house without rusty pipes, which soaked my circus outfit every night while I slept restlessly. It was waiting for myself to get married to a beautiful countryside villa, 172

engulfed in purple petals. I once imagined that my parents had died on the Titanic, it erased the pain of knowing they got away on a life raft. You see, when I visited home and told my parents “I’m in the Circus”, they ran away from themselves.

My time writing myself into existence is coming to an end.

It’s time for them to bring me into the thunder room now; they can’t forgive me for seeing ghosts instead of ten dead children. I must go now, and discover myself through electric imaginations, blue light, and death.

William Ricci 173

Charlotte Vacarro 174

masthead EDITORS-IN-CHIEF Ariana Blaustein Lauren Kim Julia Radomisli

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ART DIRECTOR

Will Bousquette

Nina Sloan

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