The Comma 2018-19 Issue 1

the comma

fall 2018

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ERIN KIERNAN

If, for some reason, You were chained to a pole In a land without season, Perpetually cold And if I, shall we say, Lived in New Orleans, Licked beignets all day, Nights peppered by dreams I’d leave my sugared world behind, I’d shred my gown of lace, March the world till you I’d find, And kiss your icy face No, I do not like the cold, Frankly, I abhor it, But if you were there, regardless of where, I bet I could ignore it

At 3 o’clock in Hoboken, children march home from school accompanied by their parents and grandparents. Some kids ramble on excitedly about their days, others cry and or scream for reasons unknown, and some that are old enough walk home alone like little adults. I spotted these twins walking with who seemed to be their grandfather one day.

EMMA SEIWELL

I HID A FLOWER IN A ROMAN FORUM MAIA NUNEZ

I hid a flower in a Roman forum And left it there for someone else to find.

To find it alone, Alone, among and amidst the cool vacancy of grass, Stood my Flower.

Pluck: it takes courage to extract.

Violet, it was Now, is that wrath or tranquility?

Passion or melancholy?

Would that she could identify The purpose of her hue The story of the ewe, But this is Rome.

The She-Wolf, then, Nursing the twins And counting the wins of One, then the other, Up and over ‘Til one fell andOh well.

I think we were given two eyes for a reason And yet my Flower has none.

Cobblestone streets and nonsensical feats Of humanism, shadows, and shapes Simply cannot hide the fact that we are apes.

MIDDAY COFFEE

What, then, is humanism?

Intellectual airs are perfect façades As we meander down the esplanades that were once painted in the blood of a twin.

I run in.

Pluck: it takes gall to remove.

Velvet drapes cannot conceal the tarnished capes of former soldiers that have died.

CARMEN RECIO

LIGHT

MARY ALTER

There’s something funny about time— No matter what happens, sixty seconds is sixty seconds, And yet: Some minutes shine like the sun high in the sky While others fade to blackness gradually; Some are so insignificant that they begin as dark and homogenous as a cloud in a thunderstorm And end as the liquid darkness of the space between stars.

JESSE RUSSELL

My eyes are closed, but the sun stains the back of my eyelids orange.

Sometimes all you want is darkness, but the light will not oblige.

I remember summer, where days were years and I swore I could fly if I just had a little more practice.

I would spend hours jumping from the swings and laughing as gravity embraced me time and time again; But for a moment there I did fly Maybe that’s why I kept doing it Over And over And over again.

As daylight wanes And the long summer days lead into the staccato of fall Time, it seems, is now measured in how bare the branches of trees are.

“Why do the leaves have to change?” A young girl asks her mother, staring up into the trees, for the first time in her life realizing that their vibrant colors are the mark of death.

“That’s just how the world works” The mother replies and frowns. They keep walking.

Why do the leaves have to change?

The haze of summer Of starlight and warm breezes Could last forever In a loop of time Minute by minute Each one of them significant Each one of them a memory bright for eternity.

But too soon the nights turn too cold to enjoy And the leaves die a triumphant death But fall to the ground and decay like the rest of us anyways And fall turns to winter.

Snow softens the death of the world But even snow turns to darkness As the constant march of human lives Poisons it where it falls.

YINING KANG

JESSE RUSSELL

Winter was once a time of excitement Of freedom. That’s what amuses me the most about it all!

The forecast of snow would be in my mind as I fell asleep And the smell of it would be in my nose And butterflies would eat away at my stomach When I first came into consciousness the next morning As I waited the agonizing moments before finding out Whether the world had been blanketed in its blank canvas Or not.

Those brightest days were really the darkest days But somebody put a light on.

I guess that lightbulb went out And nobody’s bothered to change it.

Light doesn’t reach my mind anymore As the days grow darker, too.

I wish I could draw on the conclusion That spring always follows winter And life emerges from the depths of darkened places And the ice that forms there will always have to thaw But the uncertainty of tomorrow intercedes All I can manage to do Is live sixty second to sixty second And hope along the way The right sequence of time Will unlock the memories I should have never repressed.

Every time I close my eyes— There is darkness.

I just have to trust that when I open them again— The light will return.

THE LORD IS MY SHEPARD

ERIN KIERNAN I sit on this stump, yes I sit and I pray, And I wonder how God will address me today Because, God, He is clever, He likes to surprise, Which is easy to do ‘cause I ain’t got no eyes!

“LADY!” I hear and I turn to my right, But it ain’t make no difference ‘cause I ain’t got no sight.

“Why yes, LORD,” I say, “I am willin’ to serve.”

He says, “Ya speak without bowin’. What gives ya the nerve?”

“Sweet LORD,” I reply, and my voice starts to quiver, And honest apology I start to deliver, But the LORD cuts me off and tells me to walk, And on foot I set off through acres of chalk.

The LORD goes behind me but sits on a horse, And my body does shake with such violent remorse For disrespectin’ my God of five or so years, And I’d cry if I could but I ain’t produce tears!

We get to the river and I rest for a while.

“How far we gone?” He says, “Oh, ‘bout five mile.”

I ask my sweet LORD what He wants me to do.

He says, “Help me wash off. I am COVERED in goo.”

I bathe my sweet LORD like He bathed in the Jordan, At least that’s what it says in the Holy Recordin’, The one from which God reads to me daily.

He says, “I’m the protag’nist, and thus ya must hail me.”

Now, I may be blind but I sure ain’t no dummy, And I say, “Look here, my LORD, now here’s something funny.

The Book says the LORD was born without sin, So how can ya explain how damn nasty ya been?”

The LORD gets real quiet and walks up to my ear “Don’t ya EVER question again, ya hear?”

Your recent behavior’s been awful untoward.

For Christ’s sake remember that I am the LORD.” I shrink under my LORD and I know He is right.

“O GOD OF TRUTH! O LORD OF MIGHT! Forgive me, my LORD! Forgive me! Forgive me!

You are the Way, and I cannot see.”

ENLIGHTEN

TIFFANY CHEN

UNTITLED MEMORIES ZANE AUSTILL

Untitled #1 There is only one night I can’t forget, mostly. We were in your bed I think, or maybe we were in that gas station/Mexican Restaurant by the highway, the one with the server who says sweetcakes when she brings out food. And you said to me it’s funny how we won’t remember nights like this. Right now this means so much, but soon it’ll just be another night. And I said that you were wrong, that of course I would remember because you were the best thing that ever happened to me. I meant that, then.

Untitled #2 You didn’t know what to title the project. You said you were bad at titles. I said no way jose, having never seen any of your titles. The project: a painting, you as a fifth grader, a bit translucent, imposed over massive depictions of slides, monkey bars, etc. You said it’s about memory. About how when something is far enough in the past we think about it in a sort of distant 3rd person, whereas if I think about putting peanut butter on my sandwich for lunch I probably imagine it through my eyes. You said you went back to your elementary school and the slides, monkey bars, etc. etc. were not as large as you had remembered them. Wasn’t that funny, you said. I didn’t know what to title the piece. I don’t remember what you decided to call it.

Untitled #3 My Uncle likes to tell this story at family gatherings: I’m a toddler and he’s watching over me in the playroom. He says I can get one toy out of the box, but every time I go to the toy box I grab a shitload of toys and toss them around the room. And each time he puts them back I’ve grabbed more and more toys out of the box. I don’t recall this memory. I don’t think it really sounds like me. But whether it happened or not, I have the clearest picture of it in my mind because he’s told it so many times. I can almost feel it, the rough carpet turning my young knees red, the smell of his return from a smoke.

Untitled #4 You called me one night so drunk that I heard you throw up on the other end of the line. You were in your roommate’s bed. You told me you fucked up, that you still loved me. I said I did too because I knew you wouldn’t remember anything in the morning. You called me the next day. Asked me to tell you what you said the night before. I did not tell you that you said you still loved me. I told you I heard you throw up. And we laughed. And I asked how you were doing. And you said you were doing okay.

Untitled #5 You asked me if I remembered the day we walked through the abandoned church. It was such a wonderful day, you said. You said that you made me go through every door first and you wanted to take the silverware we found as a memento, the forks with little flowers etched in the handles, but didn’t want to get haunted. And did I remember how gross the couch we dry humped on was. And didn’t we hear something while we were dry humping. And wasn’t that maybe the best day we had together. When you told me this I imagined it like I was watching a movie. I told you I thought we were haunted anyway because of the whole couch dry humping situation which by the way I was taking the brunt of the grossness of. You laughed. I appreciated that even if you didn’t mean it. I told you I thought it was a school though. No, you said, it was a church. Okay, I said, and I wished you told me more stories about us, because I didn’t think that was the best day we had together, but I liked the idea that in your world, it was. And for a moment, that world, your world, was mine too, and it felt good to share something together again, but you asked me how I was doing, and I said I was doing okay.

YINING KANG

SAYING NAMES BEA MENDOZA

The first time he said my name, it felt like the air the wind carries.

Like how your mother says “maybe” at the toy store, and Crossing your fingers at a pinky swear, and Texting “be there in five” from an hour away, and Smiling with no teeth, and How you shake, falter, hesitate, and they say “I know you don’t want to, But you should.”

LINUS JIA

When he said my name, it felt like shivering in the winter, and hearing him mutter “I told you so,” from inside His featherdown comfort, and You laugh because he’s right, but You didn’t think he’d hold it against you, and it’s like You think it’s the right train but it isn’t, and You think it’s chocolate but it’s raisin, and You think it’s enough but it isn’t.

The last time he said my name, it was like He didn’t know how.

Like a child holding a baby, and Both are squirming, and The cameras keep flashing, and Everyone’s close to crying.

The first time she said my name, it felt like coming home.

Like when it’s late at night, and your feet are heavy, and The sidewalks glow from open windows, and The buildings are silhouettes, and The relief of recognition pulls your whole body to the front door, and Your lungs are cleansed by the cool air of the foyer, and Everything is familiar, whispering: “here, There are no surprises.

Here, You are allowed to be wrong.

Here, You are allowed to be tired.

Here, You are allowed to be, whatever you have to be, Even If That’s Nothing At All.”

JASON KESSE

When she said my name, it felt like No truer words had ever been said, like Language was invented by her, like Diction was perfected by her, like Sense was made by her, and like Mornings with bright eyes and black coffee, and Sunlight pouring through the window, the day spilling with potential, and Saying her name as if it’s The only sound I’ll ever have to make, and Hearing her say my name as if There will be no last time.

ISABEL LEDEZMA

SOME SHADE DARKER, excerpt

MARY ALTER The blackness in front of her gradually turned to grey. It was so subtle she didn’t notice it at first, but it was undeniable. As she pushed forward more, the darkness seemed to pull her back. Black thoughts pooled in her mind, and she began to sputter for breath and drown in them.

Every fiber in her body was telling her to turn back, return to the comforting darkness she was accustomed to.

But she couldn’t shake the picture of the lightning blotting out the darkness, and that thought rang out louder than all of the others.

She stepped into the greyness in front of her, and the light blinded her.

Everywhere, now, there is light. Malia is on the top of a bluff, and two hundred feet straight down below is the ocean. The grass is the brightest green, the ocean the deepest blue. She looks to her left, and there’s the soft pink glow of the rising sun in front of her.

She never had a word for these things or these colors before, but the knowledge of the light fills her brain and is undeniably true. The vibrancy all around her colors her insides and bubbles her heart and suddenly she is laughing and the sound is bright yellow, and her thoughts are a happy orange, and her smile is a melancholy purple.

She turns around, to take a look back at the darkness she came from, but all that meets her is more light from all sides, and suddenly she can’t quite remember where she was before.

All that exists is the blinding light overtaking her, caressing her, encompassing her thoughts, and so she walks towards the rising sun.

COCOON

CARMEN RECIO

THE BEDROOM

CARMEN RECIO

ADRIANE KONG

THE SETTING SUN BEHIND THE STAINED GLASS, excerpt ANN PEKATA

Everything Louis was not, Elizabeth was. Louis was proud, immature, and a true gentleman of the court. Elizabeth was humble, confident, and an honest person who represented herself as she was. For Marie, there could be no comparison. Two different people, two different lives laid down on two different paths in front of her.

The memories of Marie’s life with Elizabeth flashed through her mind as she repeated the words the priest taught her. Laughing in the fountain during a hot summer’s day, making themselves look like fools but with no one but each other to see. Riding through the forest, wind whipping Marie’s hair out of its ties and into her face. Stolen moments in the hallway. Shared glances when court was in session. Walks among in the garden at night, lit only by the moon and the candles they held. Each sentence, a new memory fading away.

“Through sickness…” the priest’s voice droned on, his monotonous tone once a joke that Marie and Elizabeth had shared after sitting through too many of these ceremonies.

“I love you,” Elizabeth whispered in Marie’s ear. “But if you do this, you will never see me again. It will destroy us both.”

Marie drew in a breath. As she did, her eyes were drawn of their own accord to Elizabeth. Marie had told herself not to look, but in this final moment, Marie found there was no way she could not. The love, the pain, the anguish, and the hope all mirroring on Elizabeth’s face were what Marie felt in her own soul.

Their eyes met for a brief moment, and in that moment, Marie felt her heart shatter. Understanding crossed Elizabeth’s face, understanding that perhaps there was something that could stand in the way of love, something that neither of them could control. Marie could not leave; the strength in her life came from Elizabeth, Marie had none of her own. She never had. In this moment, the two regarded each other with the brutal honesty that both had needed before but never had. Shaking her head slightly, Elizabeth turned and walked away, each of her footsteps a harsh twist of the knife. Tears began to form again, and this time, Marie could not force them back. As she turned back to the priest, her gaze fell over his shoulder and watched the last of the sun’s light disappear behind edge of the world.

“I do.”

the comma JUNE 2018. IDAHO.

THE COMMA FALL 2018 COVER ART

LINUS JIA (FRONT) EMMA SEIWELL (BACK)

EDITOR IN CHIEF TATIANA GALLARDO

MANAGING EDITOR CAT REYNOLDS

(WE LOVE YOU SO MUCH AND WILL MISS YOU GREATLY!)

SOCIAL MEDIA & DIGITAL EDITOR ALI RICHARDSON

FINANCIAL & EVENTS COORDINATOR

ROWBOAT REMINISCING PT. 1

ABBY WHEAT

EDITORIAL BOARD MARY ALTER LUCIA BAILEY ANN PEKATA BESSIE RUBINSTEIN

LAYOUT EDITORS ABBY WHEAT RYLIE SOLLARS

FACULTY ADVISOR ELIZABETH STONE

MEMBERS

A HUGE THANK YOU TO OUR BEAUTIFUL TEAM WHO MADE THIS SEMESTER SUCH A SUCCESS

ROWBOAT REMINISCING PT. 2

fall 2018 JULY 2017. PENNSYLVANIA.