ENCOUNTERS 2022/23

ArielSklyarevskiy

Tea

BriannaLevy

The commander wobbled as she descended the stairs and entered her quaint kitchen, fitful sleep plaguing her yet again.

Waves of tension gripped her entire head, cresting at the forehead where the knot she had tied for the scarf she wore to bed had stayed - dutifully protecting a dome of long and chemically treated hair. Roots slick once again; however, she had often missed the appointments to do this. Four to six weeks felt like seconds and years when punctuated with constant booms and bodies bobbing in water. Bodies she had led, overseen, seen too much, bodies. Bodies. Bodies. Bodies...

The gray kettle became a severed arm in her mind, lifting it to make her tea - water tepid to avoid the screaming. She could handle no more screaming. Friends, enemies, civilians alike were tea kettles she had once thought she could separate...sort through the bullseye lens atop a gun. Kettles were just kettles. She had come to find out. Sloshing souls and hot water on hands. Blood.

Sliced ginger into her cup of tea, sliced digits triggering screams with too much air, giving way to information that could’ve just been given to me the easy way, she would tell them. Those pieces of ginger. Those innocent people. Had you just compiled... 25 hours felt like 70 years, your own birth, life, and death when you didn’t know where you were, what was being asked of you, why it had to have been you...

Who knows where she was when she left the stove to be with her cup of screams, digits, criminals...people? Tepid water, browned with black tea packets and ginger slices. Could this even be called tea? Who knows? Who knows where she had been when she left that burner on.

Just one. 25 hours, four to six weeks, seconds and years, however long it would take...her thoughts died down again. She would soon see thousands of kettles.

She prayed they took apologies in blood.

You made it

EmilySingh

From the dean's office to the dean's list

All my accomplishments are a safety blanket

The obstacles and the hula hoops of being a hooligan

To playing basketball on varsity

Number five on the court, Starting five,

And ranked fifth in the class

Always having to prove my worth through rank

As I start to weaken,

The peak keeps on peaking

The bar is high again

And so I get high again at a bar

I'm tired of trying hard to overachieve

Just so people can perceive my success

Is it for them or for me

Pretending on LinkedIn

Who really wins in the end?

March, 2022 (1) AnyaBallantyne

Second Chances

Ethan Saif

You feel love in just a single moment

A duo altering each others fate Intimately bound by each other and vows

Attempting not to falter when miserable time allows Conflict still taking the world by surprise

Affection shown in hugs and kisses

In short time however, a snake hisses

Drawing away one with its poison

The other woefully disappointed and heartbroken

As the writhing snake entices, it’s drawn in prey

The untainted succeeds in taking them away

Relief rushes through the poisoned

But the other becomes skeptical of decisions willfully chosen Full of overwhelming guilt and terrible sorrow

They part till the following day

Neither of them showed face in that dreadful place

Torn apart, never to be repaired

At no moment did they traverse paths again

Because their’s was a broken story that could never be rewritten

Lily Burns

Toby LilyBurns

my sister ship LilyBurns

forget me not, one day she woke up and realized she had been, each time she stepped out into the light she shivered, just a little, and the sun dried her up and left her alone,

LilyBurns

the sound of wine bottles and glass and chatter, they brought her solace, because forbidden fruit tastes so sweet, sleeping alone after a night spent with some one new sickened her,

LilyBurns

but the steam opened her up and the scalding water cleansed her, and sound rattled in my mind like the memory of men who squeeze too tightly, i am a woman possessed, you possessed me, LilyBurns

don’t grab my ass

angelic LilyBurns

LilyBurns

splat! LilyBurns press pause

LilyBurns

from bedstuy LilyBurns

jersey shore LilyBurns

Chaos is not the goal

Ethan Saif

Chaos is not the goal, but what you are destined to cure

A vile world created in the mind.

A vile world hidden yet known to all mankind.

A prison that welcomes all.

A prison that pressures the unique to fall.

To win against this force is a simple game

To win against this force, don’t give into the pain

The quieter you are, the more you’re at ease.

The quieter you are, the easier you are to please.

To win against this force is a simple game

To win against this force, don’t let your ambition be tame

Chaos is not the goal, but what you are destined to cure

Humanity's choices are being trained to follow a path.

Humanity's choices lead toward wrath.

Humanity's differences being amplified.

Humanity's differences not being put aside.

Humanity's sight is blinded with red.

Humanity's sight being misled into hatred.

Chaos is not the goal, but what you are destined to cure

What you see are drones constantly being inculcated.

What you see is a system that is outdated.

But you are now wiser, you see the system and its many flaws

But you are now wiser, you are the variable who doesn’t obey its laws

The trickster in us all can be unshackled

We are fated to crush the chains of conformity

Chains that fool us into accepting our fake freedom

Freedom of choice, of ideas, of personality, of opinions, of thought

Open your eyes to the control you’ve been fooled to obey.

Open your ears to the anthem that you’re fated to follow

Chaos is not the goal, but what we’re destined to cure

Other Occasions you can request

Darling New York

Lauren Lee

Darling New York, you’re taking everything you’ve given me.

You gave me a life that is now a body on the pavement.

Your millions of residents reduce to a nightclub of strangers.

Your fashionable black clothes are looking rather morbid.

Every once-delicious mixed drink is outpaced by withdrawal.

Your lipstick kiss is going to swallow me whole.

April Braids, Brooklyn Braids

BriannaLevy

Artists of the black crown have stomachs that slope into smiles and press into shoulders as they weave length and dreams into scalps at whim and beauty into mirrors here and afar.

As I sit in this chair for the next 6 hours, I realize I was here last April, too.

I sat in a clunky salon chairs feeling rugged synthetics on my neck and on chunky Brooklyn stairs shoving rugged stones underfoot. I held back tears as talented brown fingers performed on my scalp and as grassy slopes pressed into my skin.

I stared at the sun, hoping it was weaving beauty into bereaved black skin just the same and I wondered if these slopes could do it. I wondered if they’d find a mirror that would show it to me. Maybe it was all the way out there, along red, yellow, green, and blue lines, or maybe it was right here, at the end of (synonym for talented) tips. Well I’m here again, in this chair, at this park. Maybe I’ll find out this year.

It certainly wasn’t in your eyes, though. Maybe one day it’ll be in mine.

THE PUGILIST LarryJ.Gomez

The Pugilist is a series of short poems that details the struggles, romanticization, and discipline of being a fighter. It is told from the perspective of an up-and-coming amateur boxer, who is gaining experience in the ring and in management of this lifestyle among other obligations in life. The Pugilist series follows a timeline of chronological events in this fighter’s life.

THE PUGILIST PART I

I needed an escape, so I chose to fight my way out. The first day of training, my guts matched my ambition. Like a student and his mentor, I will become enlightened in the art of violence, To complement the hardships of my life.

It’s either death or glory for me; Fortune's near, I can smell it here.

Day in and day out, tenacity leads me.

I step into the ring with the man, and all my anxieties are beneath me. We go toe-to-toe, close enough to fight.

I catch my breath as the blow strikes my skull. The sweat, blood, and wounds are evident of the toil of battle.

Courage fills my heart as it battles the cowardice of mediocrity.

Solitude accompanies my body, Desolation vies for my soul,

As thoughts of victory ignite my spirit.

The days of cowardice beneath me, victory must be seized.

My fears have been confronted; the only thing left is me and the man.

The wounds of these battles are conspicuous to me and me alone. Days move on as wounds heal, Another day back in, yesterday is now past.

Fortune now feels distant, farther than perceived, But I remain stoic because my grit empowers me.

Move forward with the willpower of a thousand men. No one can demoralize me now.

I am stronger, rougher, and mentally tougher.

I've been reborn, harder.

This is the eternal struggle of mastering my craft.

Chains

Ethan Saif

Tennis shoes and sneakers squeak and skid on checkered tiles.

Screams and shouts echo throughout the halls.

A pull, an invisible gravity forces my attention toward one side of the room.

As quick as a breath, I see her, and she sees me.

For how long, I cannot remember; my eyes dart to the floor.

An afterimage of two tiny coals burns into my brain.

The fleeting moment flees, and the room commences its momentary rush.

The echoes are replaced by thoughts.

The beat of feet is replaced by the pounding of blood.

The pull, the tug, the curse of sight.

I’m pulled into another gaze, our eyes drawn to each other.

The evening sunlight passing through the windows hides under the clouds.

The crowd fades away; only a pair remains.

She sees me, and I see her.

Those two tiny coals.

An opaque rope slowly fades into existence in our empty room.

A knot ties around our waists in unison, swinging in the air as we watch.

Her side of the room fills with a fall breeze, as if the front door was left open overnight.

At that moment, the rope begins to tug.

A gravitational pull.

I slide ever so slightly toward the center; I start to lose my footing.

The rope pulls faster than my feet can take me.

The rope pulls us toward the center.

I start to lose my balance as the rope becomes shorter and shorter.

It stops, and I’m thrown on the floor.

A metallic wail fills the room just ahead.

I gaze upwards; broken metal links are in her sooty hands.

The chain rolls from the center of her fingers to the tips of her nails.

As they smack the floor, I feel the waves flow over me.

My ankles sink.

She slowly starts walking away.

After the first step, my legs are swallowed.

Her pace quickens, and so does my burial.

My head hangs just above the dirt.

She stops, just for a moment before continuing.

I am consumed.

The people return to the room, their shadows first.

The rope disappears; I stand among them.

And the moment has passed once again.

Bearer of Bad News

Emanuela Gallo

I gazed through the peephole, and it gazed back at me. If someone pressed their face against the wood, they could make out my figure and the contours of my face but not the lines on my forehead.

Curling my frozen fingers around the door's glossy, golden handle felt like a betrayal. An evergreen wreath hung proudly, its vibrant color contrasting with the maple wood background.

The door possessed strength and weight, yet it wasn't thick enough to shield me from the cacophony of singing, laughter, and chatter. The joyful voices emanating from behind the door filled me with dread, beginning with a lump in my throat and settling heavily in the pit of my stomach.

I could almost feel the infectious warmth promised behind the door, but if I had the choice, no degree of Fahrenheit could coax me out of the cold December night.

George MansiSajan

Malina Seenarine

I imagine you on the way back home

Three stops but you can’t keep your eyes open

Your defense down for only a small moment

You try so hard to make sure you’re still coping and I don’t want to count the days

But I miss your voice everyday

And if I think about it too long

It’s too many thoughts that are all wrong

But I pass your stop everyday on the F train

I see you everywhere but I forgot your face

What can’t you say ?

Why did you go away ?

Blank Paper

Ethan Saif

I dreamed of undyed bed sheets, folded next to the window that faced the morning sun

I dreamed the sky played with the sheet

I dreamed the sheet blew out the window like a falling leaf

I dreamed he placed white race track walls for the sheet

I dreamed of paper cranes chasing the sheet

I dreamed the sky folded every crease and bend in his workshop

I dreamed his ear to ear grin while he made them, blue color reflecting in his eye

I dreamed he made paper planes to chase the cranes

He stared at the race, the sheets flying in circles

A fleet of sheets chased a fleeting sheet

He felt a pinch on the very tip of his ring finger

He raised his finger, placing the pad on the center of his bottom lip, and tasted pennies

I dreamed cranes laughed and danced with the planes

I dreamed the sheet crossed the line first, and found he was alone

The sun beamed and the sheets finally caught up

But only when I dreamed

Dahianna Murillo

The Ballad of a Struck Down Knight Dahianna Murillo

I am just a humble knight, Riding on my gallant horse so white, Journeying from a tiring war, Excited to see the wife I adore.

Seen much horrors on my way here, On the battlefield the king was our puppeteer, Now that peace has reigned once more, We can focus on rebuilding our lives postwar.

My darling and I have yet to fill up a babe’s room, Her letter tells of a new life stirring in her womb, What I have prayed for has finally come true, A father’s life is what I look forward to.

My beloved home is just a bit far, This road I trot on isn’t one familiar to me, But what’s the worst that can happen when life seems so carefree.

Safety is secured by my two greyhounds, They pant beside me on this lush green ground, But even they could have not foreseen my tragedy, Through these woods robbers have waited to show their brutality.

These men lunge out of the trees in groups of three, Stealing my armor, my gold, and my dignity, But one final act do these robbers engage,

Left for dead I stumble onto a field, I lie down as a grizzly truth has suddenly been revealed, How cruel fate would have me to die here all alone. As I draw out my final breaths,

I pray for a quicker death, Before seeing the light of one of God’s glorious havens, On a tree perched not far from me did I see three black ravens.

Name Necklace

Dahianna Murillo

_________, that’s my name,

It hangs from shimmering gold strings, Letters shaped in masterful calligraphy, Diamonds intricately placed on each curve, A reflection seen on the back plate, But it’s not of me.

Instead a warm smile greets me, A woman hugs a child, That warm feeling takes away all pain, She stands back, present in hand, The child eagerly awaits to open it.

A sudden whoosh, I’m back to the present.

The necklace still in my hand, Back around my neck it goes.

Fire Dahianna Murillo

Burning on skin: Temperature rises, No air left to breathe.

Smoke fills steady lungs, Spreading faster veach second, Leaving trails of raw wounds, A patchwork of scars, Groves turned to ashes.

But it's also life, Bringing warmth to cold hands, Flaming sparks in a lover's eyes, Wounds heal with time, wisdom gained. From embers grow a new today. More lush and greener than ever, Like a little heartbeat, it burns.

Chess

Dahianna Murillo

Chess pieces bravely guarding the monarchy, Gliding across a sea of black and white, Defend their kingdom with comradery.

Pawns break the barrier with casualties, Knights will conquer and divide, Chess pieces bravely guarding the monarchy.

Rooks look for any signs of anarchy, Bishops ordain and diagonally slide, Defend their kingdom with comradery.

Before attacking her highness curtsies, The king sits and waits for the chance to fight, Chess pieces bravely guarding the monarchy.

Mindful planning for the best strategy, Taking pieces one by one far and wide, Defend their kingdom with comradery.

One winner remains to claim victory, Chess pieces bravely guarding the monarchy, Defend their kingdom with comradery.

Ecuador

Dahianna Murillo

January brings summer skies, August brings cold winds, Flags of blue and white rise, Friendly smiles and running kids, Warm sea and delicious seafood, Mothers outside rocking cribs.

Sounds of soccer balls hitting the street, A moving car with a rolled down window, Listening to salsa from the backseat, Sunset turns the sky indigo, Moving figures dance to the beat, Neighbors come to join the flow.

Sleeping under buzzing mosquitoes, Ground doves cooing in the distance, Worries long gone, leaving no regrets, I lie in this peaceful bliss.

Deep Divel

Nahiar Nokshi

Unsentimental Love Poem

Dahianna Murillo

Take these flowers from my hand, They're hypoallergenic. Please don’t make a fuss, This feeling rarely happens to me, Saw you as a friend, Now I see you as something more. It’s embarrassing for me, But for you I guess I’ll try. Don't expect wonders, I’m new to this so be patient.

Saying the ‘L’ word is too much, Instead I will say, I really like you.

The Sisters

Dahianna Murillo

The lady in black walks down a lonely road, Her hood covering eyes that hide a deadly stare, Painted lips of ruby red,

The lady in white glides across the field, Luscious curls sway and shine in the sunlight, Soft warm eyes offer wisdom that show, An enchanted future that will excite

The two sisters bring balance to the world, Keeping life and death in a stable state, Spinning the threads of life they pull and twirl, Leading you to a well and deserved fate.

The Mosquito

Gloria Wu

You're the mosquito that resides in my head, The one that buzzes so quietly

I didn't even realize you were there.

My thoughts would drift, and there you'd emerge

To take what you require

And then vanish.

Yet, you'd return

To remind me, each time,

That I’m itching to know you

But it’s you I’d never find.

Aphrodite Tymborychos (Gravedigger) Adelina Nita

Moments

ManaFaye

She’d never seen him so happy

Eyes twinkling, laughter ringing

Waves crashing, birds trilling

The tan sand still

Their eyes met and all was calm

He took a long stick, almost as tall as her

Split it in half

“There”, he pointed

“Let’s write it out”

Eager, she stood up

Dusted the soil off of her pastel skirt

Earth between her toes

And their eyes met

He began

I - L-O-V-E

She couldn’t breathe

He no longer looked at her

Concentrated on the letters he carved

He stopped abruptly

The stick fell down

He stepped towards her

She was still

Wiping his hands on his cargo shorts

Hair sticking to his forehead from the heat

He smelled like sandalwood

She was still

Eyes burning into one another

A minute passed

And another

And another

Suddenly it went silent

No waves

No birds

No sand

Just them

They knew Moments

Song of the Wind, the Weeds, and Something More

Samantha Sollitto

The wind flows curiously through the weeds, Causing each one to dance in susurration.

She notices the ever-present sense of longing And belonging,

Two feelings that can never seem to coexist. The weeds, while they might belong there, she can feel the idea of longing that flows with the very source of their music.

The wind flows curiously through her hair, Making her wonder how she even arrived at this moment. She is ubiquitous yet ineffective, Present everywhere at once, but nowhere at all.

Through her hair and the weeds, the wind flows with synchronicity. An anomaly occurs, and suddenly she’s no longer gazing at weeds on the side of the road, But a stage of dancers performing a heart-wrenching piece centered around the presence of longing that lingers within us.

She has a sense of déjà vu; she’s been here before; she knows how this ends. The curtains close, the audience applauds.

The dancers go home, forgetting about the emotion with which they performed, Forgetting about the grace with which they moved, Leaving behind only her.

The audience pours out, the lights turn off, the stage doors close, But she's still there, waiting for the encore.

The wind flows curiously through the weeds once more, And she's brought back to a reality where she is infinitesimal Compared to the weeds that are dancing to her insurmountable grief, Not for the loss of a loved one, but for the loss of herself.

She’s always felt like she’s belonged, but the inevitable feeling Of longing gets the best of her, and She is still there, waiting for something more.

The Desire to be Bodiless Lauren Lee

My mouth moves to shape words. To you, they are lips that look better still.

I choke and swallow appeals for respect. My voice is lost when confronted with your eyes.

My being has no body parts. I am not a dress or pair of shoes.

I wish to strip the soul from my body. Would it then be taken seriously?

Samantha Sollitto

I’m sitting in the corner of the room

At a party I didn't want to go to.

I watch as they drink, I watch as they dance,

I watch as they laugh, big, boisterous laughs,

The kind that makes you double over with stomach pains and tears threatening to pour at any given word.

But I just watch.

I’m sitting in the corner of the room

At a party I didn't want to go to.

I thought it could be fun and, at first, it was.

But that feeling was evanescent, as it always is.

It never seems to change, no matter how much I want it to, No matter how much I try.

I’m sitting in the corner of the room

At a party I didn't want to go to.

I don’t even know why I bother going out anymore.

I don’t enjoy it.

It’s a vicious cycle: the repetition of my worst thoughts and the Hauntings of my ghosts who become plus ones

To parties they were not invited to.

I’m sitting in the corner of the room

At a party I didn't want to go to.

I tried; I really did.

I wish I understood how to let go of the things

That keep me tied to the past, Exiled from the present.

I’m sitting in the corner of the room

At a party I didn't want to go to.

I watch as the party drags on.

Everyone is having the time of their lives.

My plus ones are laughing and dancing

Around in my head, reminding me

Of everything I worked so hard to forget.

But then,

You walk towards me, high off the energy in the room. You’re sweaty from dancing, and the glitter from Your makeup is smeared across your cheeks, Giving you an effortless glow, Something I’ve tried to perfect for all the wrong reasons.

You sit next to me, but don’t say a word. You look at me and you understand,

So, you take my hand and, suddenly,

We’re sitting in the corner of the room

At a party I didn't want to go to.

The Identity of a Waif

Lauren Lee

If bones could cut - mine would wound. My spirit is traced in the angles of my limbs.

I was born a waif and if I have my way I will die one, for I’ve never known anything else.

My material existence has bled inward. I imagine my soul looking as it does in the mirror.

Who would I be if not the wiry ballerina whose wrists you wrap two fingers around?

I was built to be underestimated. For my mind to take up more space than my body.

Captured Time Zarin Tasnim

White Ghost

BriannaLevy

Why are you trying to impress a ghost?

When you throw your hips in circles, a supposed mouth, underneath, do you imagine them coming back to life to hold them?

To be a dam to those once active springs where fertile banks grew life-bearing flowers they once so loved to pick?

What ghost still has the ability to smell flowers sweeter than life itself?

What do you expect that ghost to do?

Will they rock you to sleep and cradle every one of your curves— fingers dancing joyfully on your skin?

Will they bring you fruit?

Cut with ancient precision and ethnic love?

Did they like the plateaus and mounds on your person, in your people? Did they even explore it? Understand it?

Woman, your lover is dead. They are a white ghost.

Why couldn’t their hatred for you be your priest?

The thing to remove their soul from your home for good?

Why wasn’t it enough?

Throw your holy water, light your incense, utter your prayers, they do not leave until you admit they are there. They do not leave you until you admit you want them to stay.

Yiyuan Mai

Where the Moon Shines YiyuanMai

Lights blur by at night. Leaving the city behind, looking for a change.

Outside, trees grow tall, Old skyscrapers grow shorter Omit city life.

Vast land, distant from vomit and garbage-filled streets, vaporizing unpleasant noise. Easing the pain of eerie city fog, that sinks encouraging souls.

Like an eraser lifting traces, the soft moon, lightens burnt-out spirits. Yarn with needle weaves year-round, like the gentle moon yielding comfort.

Lullaby YiyuanMai

The night is a concert broken at dawn.

Wind plays the leaflute. Ocean waves play the organ. Grass plays maracas. Crickets are the chorus. Skyscrapers are stage lights. Ground is the stage.

Bright Stars come to glimpse the concert held at night with the soaring speed of light.

Moon shows up every time, empty or full.

Sometimes, the chorus pause for half a year.

It’s too cold to sing. So, with no chorus, they play A lullaby.

The Paintbrush and The Hand YiyuanMai

Air bubbles rise from its paint-tainted tips as it drowns in the murky waters at the bottom of the jar.

It’s pushed down, swirled around, and left to drown.

Above the surface, its green handle all covered in scratches and hardened paint, asks weakly for help.

It survives when the mighty hand arrives in its most desperate times.

A gentle tap on the napkin to dry was all it takes for a skip in its heart coloring itself in perfect pink.

Across the canvas floors, a paintbrush held by a hand creates their story.

They dance, they prance, and fall into a pink romance.

Mischief Moonlight

SableGravesandy

Mischievous moonlight that follows close the day, Your face, the stars, and all I've learned to fear,

To what new harm will you lead me today?

A lonely fool, you've ensnared me in torturous play, My teary eyes now dreading to see clear, Mischievous moonlight that follows close the day.

You spurn my pleas to change, leading me astray, To roam the streets for rum and wine and beer,

To what new harm will you lead me today?

Found stumbling through the rain, I shake and sway, Lifting my bottle high to toast the dear, Mischievous moonlight that follows close the day.

Does all of heaven usher me this way?

Forfeit my will and let the shackles steer.

To what new harm will you lead me today?

The shops now closed, so in the street, I'll stay, With pleading lips, I'll curse and shed a tear, Mischievous moonlight that follows close the day—

To what new harm will you lead me today?

Waves

SableGravesandy

Indigo rampage, Crashing against the beach with waves as steeds, Time and time again, Over and over,

His hand grabs fistfuls of sand, Stripping away Earth's fabric—

How mighty you are beneath the moon, At night, When no one sees, How you batter her, Again and again, And again,

Turn not your rugged fingers toward me, For then I shall be swept Into your mouth, Rigid,

Caught between your tongue and teeth, Your ancient deep, Abyss, A haunted home of spirits.

Spring in a Temporary Home

Grace Lara

Thunderstorm air, heavy and sweet, Gurgling, soaks into the gaps

Between us and burgeoning life and blades of grass.

This anticipation torments me daily.

Driving feels perfect only in the nighttime, With the windows down, dreaming, pretending. I light a candle that carries this scent and pray

To the squirrels in the tree outside

My third-floor window

"Can you hear the hum of the blooming flowers? I wish to feel this content when I pass."

Hindsight

Emanuela Gallo

Nothing stings more than a cherished memory tainted, Overshadowed by the painful days that ensued.

It's not easy to involuntarily recall the smiles you once bestowed upon me, The promises that slipped from your lips,

And my casual, unquestioning faith in your love for me,

Before it shattered into a million fragments,

The grinding of shattered glass between my teeth,

Replacing the melodious tone of your voice and the taste of your lips,

A tenderness I took for granted,

A sensation I can now only mimic by running my tongue over the cuts on my lips,

My saliva providing only fleeting respite from the way I bleed upon the tile,

The metal serving as a reminder of the hollow void in my chest where my heart dwelled,

Chains

Ethan Saif

Tennis shoes and sneakers squeak and skid on checkered tiles.

Screams and shouts echo throughout the halls.

A pull, an invisible gravity forces my attention toward one side of the room.

As quick as a breath, I see her, and she sees me.

For how long, I cannot remember; my eyes dart to the floor.

An afterimage of two tiny coals burns into my brain.

The fleeting moment flees, and the room commences its momentary rush.

The echoes are replaced by thoughts.

The beat of feet is replaced by the pounding of blood.

The pull, the tug, the curse of sight.

I’m pulled into another gaze, our eyes drawn to each other.

The evening sunlight passing through the windows hides under the clouds.

The crowd fades away; only a pair remains.

She sees me, and I see her.

Those two tiny coals.

An opaque rope slowly fades into existence in our empty room.

A knot ties around our waists in unison, swinging in the air as we watch.

Her side of the room fills with a fall breeze, as if the front door was left open overnight. At that moment,

the rope begins to tug.

A gravitational pull.

I slide ever so slightly toward the center; I start to lose my footing.

The rope pulls faster than my feet can take me.

The rope pulls us toward the center.

BriannaLevy

Today we celebrate the unknown. Later we eat like kings.

Jamaican kolas sit farthest from me in a freezer labeled “Cold Drinks.”

I wonder if I have found a part of myself here, a liquid diaspora, similar to the contents of the room. We joke about our dislikes as I pay: Mangos for me, peppers for him. Idiosyncratic Africans, with uncontrollable tongues and smiles you can hear beneath cloth.

Right now, stark colors and brown skin ordain the TV screen, They face 2 brown people, beneath 5 chandeliers, One presses his knees against a blue mat, The other admires him, under the crystals.

Today we meet like lovers. Right now we enjoy our stay.

Now I reflect on this blessing. Later I plan to go back.

Icarus Adelina Nita

Estranged

ZoraRayson

Write our names on wet sidewalks

Pause the moment for a picture

Can I have your concert ticket for my memory box?

Interestingly sentimental

Countless trinkets and their countless stories

Hotel keys, boarding passes, receipts, metro cards

Birthday Cards, Bulletins, Playbills

Don’t you want to remember?

The good thing about remembering is that you get to forget again

I forgot how smart you are, how curious

How unrelenting

I remember your dirty hands

Always touching something you're not supposed to

Some things just wouldn’t fall into oblivion

So I pushed them there

6. Focus, 1. As Above, 3. So below, AnyaBallantyne

Rewriting of Chapter Four of "Ask The Dust" by

John Fante Emanuela Gallo

The shame of my nickel weighed heavily in my pocket. Sliding into a booth, I considered that I had hit a new low by coming to the Columbia Buffet. Five cents could have gone toward the rent I owed to Mrs. Hargraves, but here I was, surrounded by old men in a dismal bar.

"Can I get you something?" the waitress asked.

I lifted my eyes to her. She was tall and young, making me wonder how she found herself in such a place. Thick, black hair was swept behind her ears. Her lips had ceased moving, and I wondered who she was trying to impress with that red lipstick and brown eyeshadow that resembled the sawdust on the floor.

"A beer," I replied, though I meant to say coffee. I knew it was all my five cents could buy me. But the girl's scent overpowered me, leading me to say what I did not mean.

"You can afford that?" she asked. "Doesn't look like it."

I felt her dark eyes scrutinize me, just as I had done to her moments earlier. But I did so with fascination, maybe appreciation. Her gaze analyzed my faded pants and criticized my disintegrating belt. In one hand, she held a black tray, while the other rested on the curve of her hip. I let my eyes travel down to the hem of her dress and, beneath it, her silky brown legs. Leather wrapped around her feet but didn't cling tightly enough to be called huaraches.

"You're one to talk with those things you call shoes," I thought, but I didn't let those words break my smile.

"I'm a writer, you know," I replied. "The Little Dog Laughed, ever read it?" She shook her head no.

"Well, you should," I continued, silently adding, "if you even know how." "My writing does me well. So get me a beer," I said aloud.

She turned her back to me, and I watched her stride away, noting the smooth skin on her swaying broad shoulders. The girl picked up empty bottles and glasses on the way, and the glass clinked together on the tray on their way back to the bar. As she put the dirty glassware away, she chatted with the thin man pouring a drink, who glanced over at me from time to time.

I stared back, convinced they must be talking about me.

When she returned with a beer, she said, "He's never heard of your book either."

"The Little Dog Laughed" was not a book; it was a short story. But I felt no need to correct her. Regardless, she must have figured out that I didn't have the money. Was it that obvious from my clothes, my posture?

I sipped the beer, feeling its sour sting melt my taste buds and incinerate my throat. It was horrible.

"Have you ever been to Colorado?" I asked.

The girl waited for me to finish my sip before replying, her eyes wandering off as other patrons waved for her to come over.

"No," she said, the disinterest evident behind her long lashes.

"I'm from there," I replied. "Came here to work on my next big thing—"

"Let me know if you want another one of those," she said, cutting me off and looking doubtful as she said it, as if she intended it to be the last time we spoke tonight.

I felt an overwhelming urge not to let that happen.

I surveyed the room at the others. Middle-aged and old men gathered around plates of food and beer: laughing, gesturing, eating, drinking, yelling. No wonder I stuck out like a sore thumb, some young loser mulling over my single beer at a lonely table in the corner.

Gulping down the rest of the bottle, I leaned comfortably against the cushion of the booth. I could act like them. I could look like I belonged in a room of paying American customers.

The waitress walked briskly past my table, so I shot my hand out and grabbed her wrist. The filled bottles on her tray rattled, almost veering off the edge. The skin under my thumb was smooth, and I could feel the veins in her wrist. She stopped abruptly in her tracks and immediately shook off my grasp, her eyes widening slightly, not expecting me to do such a thing. I leaned into her surprise.

"Take this," I drawled, handing her the empty bottle. She accepted it and put it on her tray.

"And get me another beer," I added, hoping my words oozed confidence. She then kept going, giving me no indication that she heard me other than her stare. I watched her serve the other men with pleasure, and smile and laugh with that bartender. He accepted a tip from an older man, who then saluted him on the way out. He slid the bill into his back pocket, and the nickel weighed heavy in my own.

The waitress danced her way back with the same kind of awful beer. I immediately regretted the order. She barely looked at me as she popped open the cap. She was about to leave my table when I grabbed her wrist again.

"Give me a cigar," I said.

"Can you afford that?" she said, with a hint of a smirk behind her passivity. She found nothing of value in me except for a cheap laugh. This I knew.

"Can you?" I spit, standing up. "You filthy illiterate."

The action startled her, causing her to stumble back. Along with her balance, she lost the empty bottles to the floor. The murky brown glass split like a mosaic, like stained glass in a church but without the beauty of color and religion. When I first saw her, I let my eyes travel from her face to her feet. Now, I looked first at her worn-out sandals. In between the straps was a spot of blood, bubbling to the surface after a shard had pierced her dark skin. The blood dripped, staining the faded brown leather with the same color as her lips.

My eyes made their way up the flare of her dress, the slant of her waist, the firmness of her bust, until I looked at her face. There was a deadness behind her eyes. Gone was the hint of humor, leaving only passivity. I felt my fists ball up in anger. What would I have to do to get her to believe me? To respect me? To give me the song and dance she gave everyone else in this bar?

The bar had fallen silent. I knew there was nothing else I could do to make her look at me with anything other than that boredom: not anger, admiration, annoyance, love, disgust, hatred, amusement. She looked at me with nothing.

I stepped over the broken glass and headed toward the door, hearing the bell ring as it opened and closed behind me.

Executive Board

Tahsin Shadat, Malina Seenarine, Alexandra Adelina Nita, Karina Aslanyan, Ariel Sklyarevskiy