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CONTENTS 2 4 6 7 8 9 12 Cover Image Editors Editorial Staff

Layout Editor

Samantha Spraker Leela Denver Helen Keusch Kimberley Edwards Bri Kovan Michelle Ewart Connie Zuo Meredith Lancaster

The Blackbird Bath Scene, After Dad Untitled Bonfire Man Excerpts from Getting to Know You Questionnaire Excerpt from Mao Charcoal Woman

Nick Nuechterlein, Paige Lester Alex Baumgarten, Leela Denver, Jared Frank, Lauren Harsh, Michelle Hoban, Lauren Stachew, Jenny Wang, Phoebe Young, Roland Davidson

Tammy Lakkis

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The Blackbird Samantha Spraker

Dessert If you’re cunning, you pour honeyed words over Bad omens & black ink. Bake it beneath a volcano crust, Shifting as its set before the hungry king, who Cuts open the explosion of spun sugar feathers. Revenge In a river of four-and-twenty blackbirds is sweet indeed. Metaphor A suggestion; a subtle acquaintance with poison Laced mulberry tea, to help mull over the meaning Of the blackbird, who is perched in the tree tops watching The untimely demise of the king and his fickle pulse. Spies Peering down at the hangman from his raincloud, The blackbird keeps dead men’s secrets imprisoned Behind his smiling cyanide teeth. His warm gossamer sugar sharpens into a scythe As he sings low, how do you think we got inside the pie?

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A Song A blackbird only sings in the dead of night-In the rafters of the gallows, his songs in a skeleton Key that unlocks many doors. Notes of brittle Bone raked over misty dry ice mornings only cost A sixpence and seven years bad luck.

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Bath Scene, After Leela Denver

I crawled into the ceramic boat, turned the showerhead on, sat on the bottom of the white-winged rectangle. Warm water spat down my back and you held me from behind, your legs angled around me. I barely remember the stains along the faucet or even upon my knees and palms; red wine and summer grass and, maybe, wet streaks from the wooden dock. I have always loved feeling like I’m in a forest. I sat, slumped into you, and felt my insides root up beneath the downpour until each drop slowed into a monumental tree trunk. Your bare breasts pressed against my shoulders and for a moment we were movie stars, big and incandescent. You were drunk but I was intoxicated and, some things, I remember clearly:

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my satin dress, your shirt and tie, the way they lay strewn and tangled like sodden lovers on a quiet bathroom floor


the dewiness of the light; not fluorescent but wrapped in a midnight shawl

how it all felt like sipping from a crystal chalice from your cupped tongue from treetops, treetops, treetops.

Rachel tucked in with a beautiful man, Gina and Ella spooning on the downstairs couch, Kate on the phone with her boyfriend until 3 a.m.

I remember thinking, then, this must be the crown.

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Dad Helen Keusch

The oxygen machine clicked, hissed long and began again. Her father sat in a stiff red chair very close to the bed, a sculpture; mountainous knuckles folded in quiet under his chin, but his eyes sunken and half-wild from slowly being starved of the shallow breathing of his father. Joe and I shifted from corner to corner, unfamiliar with the scent of age and with a sad that lingered more than half an hour. He played with a Hotwheels and I tried to copy the sophisticated positions of grief my older cousins had settled into. Red lights began blinking softly as if the bread were done or someone had a call waiting. A nurse parted through, making practiced sounds of practical sympathy. My father raised his head, purposeful, like a coal miner or a surgeon. He spoke steady, unalarmingly: There was a plate of cookies in the lobby. Joe and I went in search of them and we tasted the rich butter of white chocolate macadamia nut instead of attempting to riddle out how death should settle in the stomach.

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Untitled Kimberley Edwards

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Bonfire Man Bri Kovan

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Excerpts from Getting to Know You Questionnaire Michelle Ewart

“Think of this piece of paper as a chance for me to get to know you better—a way for me to put a face to a name (please return to me by the end of class)” Racial/Ethnic identity German, Slovak, Scottish, English, Irish, and Swedish. A mutt. Just like the German Shepherd-Collie I had as a child. Every year at our huge family Christmas party, my 100 percent Slovak grandma hobbles around the banquet hall with her walker, putting a dot of honey in the center of each of her eight grandkids’ foreheads. Supposedly, the honey symbolizes the sweetness of life and good luck for the coming new year. I think it symbolizes bees having sex with flowers. The honey christening is followed by my great-uncle Andy giving a toast in which he thanks the 100-plus family members for coming together to celebrate the holidays, and blesses those who are no longer with us. I want to wipe the honey off of my forehead, but doing so signals bad tidings for the coming year. The viscous substance that once sat in a perfect fingerprint on my forehead slowly coats my eyebrows and drips down the bridge of my nose. We all break off a piece of thin Eucharist bread, dip it into a shallow bowl of honey sitting in the center of the table, and say “cheers.” Merry Christmas and a sticky new year. White ... Is there anything I should know about your learning abilities?

“When will you be able to come home next?” my mom asked me as we sat down at the kitchen

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table with my dad and sister. “Hopefully next weekend, there isn’t a—” “When’s the first hockey game?” my Dad interrupted. “I don’t know, I think it’s—Hey, did you ever change my windshield wipers?’ “No, but it’s gunna start snowing soon. The ski hills are almost open,” my dad replied. “Snowmobiling too,” my sister added. “How did we ever come up with the name ‘Jazz’ anyway?” “You’re cousin made it up,” my dad responded. “He has a soccer game this weekend.” “I was terrible at soccer. No hand eye coord—” I began. “Yeah, I remember coaching you. You were scared to death of that ball. That’s why you started swimming. When’s the last time you swam?” my dad asked me. “You coached me in T-ball too, remember Dad?” my sister chimes in. “Dad, remember when you hit me in the face with a baseball playing catch outside?” I ask him. “Then I got hit in the face at the Tigers’ game the following year.” “I think your uncle might already have tickets to the first Tigers game,” said my dad. “Michelle, do you like my shirt?” my sister asked. “It’s new.” “Yeah,” I respond. “Shit, I still haven’t used that gift card to Subway that I got last Christmas.” “When are you coming home again?” my mom repeated when she finally managed to force her way into the conversation. “Could you guys focus for just three seconds. I don’t even know what we’re talking about anymore. I swear I’m the only sane one in this family.” Probably true. My sister, dad, and I all have ADHD. It’s the worst when the three of us are together—our brains wired in the same mosaic pattern, but only we understand the connections. Holding a conversation is difficult, a fact that never ceases to amaze my mother. She once told me that our brains fascinate her, how we can jump from subject to subject in the blink of an eye without getting lost. How is it even possible to think of just one thing at a time? Exhausting. My brain moves in a million different directions at once. Staying on a single path is like walking with blinders. The inexhaustible alternative paths are too alluring, and I never want to limit my thinking to a bounded reality. I’d much rather play hopscotch with my own thoughts. Hop. Skip. Jump. Playground. No ...

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Is there anything else you want to tell me? I scared a cat last week. Sautéing onions and Italian sausage for my dinner, I stood over the hot stove inhaling the steam rising from the pan. The pungent smell of garlic invading my nostrils, I glance over to the kitchen window and notice a kitten sauntering toward the back door. Its fur was like a pinstripe suit—gray and white stripes on its back and tiny black speckles covering the chest and face. Sniffing at a trash bag that had been ripped open by raccoons, it began pawing at a small red bouncy ball. Rolling the ball toward my back door with its freckled front paw, the cat pounced on its rubbery prey as if it were a fresh field mouse. Immediately breaking out into a wide grin, I left my station at the stove and walked quietly toward the door. Two eyes the color of desert sand met mine through the small windowpane. The young animal tilted its head gazing at me, asking, “What is this enormous creature? Will you play with me?” “I’m just trying to say ‘hi,”’ I pushed to telepathically communicate. “I want to pet you, I won’t hurt you.” I reached to grasp the knob of the door, and gently turned the lock to the left. Click. With that single sound, the cat was up and over the trash bag, under our handmade Michigan beer pong table, and onto the neighbors back porch. Dammit. Stupid giant human body. No. That pretty much covers it.

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Excerpt from Mao Connie Zuo

If only I could pull off what my cats get away with. When my cat Tuffy smashed a five-hundred-dollar, collector’s coffee table, all she had to do was whisk her brown-striped tail a few times and turn her fearful, clear blue eyes toward my already softening mom. Yet, when my older sister Anna and I broke a window while throwing rocks at a hornet (great idea, I know), we were exiled to our sixty-yearold neighbor’s house to sit indoors and watch Civil War documentaries all day until we were worthy of supervision-less play again. When my other cat, Oreo, dislikes the turkey tidbits in her cat food, all she has to do is flick a paw, disgusted, and wait for my dad to hurriedly open a new bag of salmon-flavored snacks for her to sample. And to think of all the times I’ve wished for my plate of limp, mushy eggplant to turn into chocolate cake. It’s not fair, but I can’t complain for too long - I too adore our family cats. I was seven years old when we adopted Oreo, and I dressed for the occasion in a white shirt with a pink, sparkly, cartoon kitten printed on it. It was from Limited Too, a store that sells little girls’ clothing and the associated “coolness” at prices like thirty-five dollars for a t-shirt. I later learned by eavesdropping on my parents at night that my dad had been laid off, and we shouldn’t have been shopping at Limited Too or shopping much at all. But a little girl’s birthday is a little girl’s birthday, my mom argued. Anyway, I was waiting at the door with Anna when my mom came home from work without her usual briefcase and a maroon, plastic kennel instead. On October 17, 2002, my family of four welcomed a black and white tuxedo kitten aptly named Oreo. My mom fussed over the weeks-old kitten, scolding Oreo while actually adoring every movement of her sharp, little claws. My dad was the happiest, even happier than Oreo in a box of packing peanuts, as he told us about the kitten he raised as a boy growing up in poor, politically-tumultuous China. For once, my mom and dad were in agreement over something, and our family quickly centered on our newest addition as we became cat obsessed together. A year later, I went to a classmate’s birthday party with a wrapped present and returned with a calico, blue-eyed cat that the host family no longer wanted. Neither my mom nor Oreo was particularly receptive of this new cat at first, but Tuffy grew fat alongside Oreo as we pampered them both. My mom’s grumbling about five-dollar organic milk and canned albacore tuna gave way to smiles with

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every purr or meow. We were happily powerless against their soft, padded feet, the little pink dots of toes and noses, the coarse tongues, and best of all, the warm stomachs humming like little lawnmowers. From afar, it must’ve be a funny sight – this Asian American family coddling two fat cats, cradling them like babies, letting them sit at the dinner table, and nestling their faces into thick fur that smelled like home, comfort, and faintly of Fresh Step cat litter. But our two cats have become more than just pets. Whenever the dinner table tension becomes too much, I simply abandon the cold rice I have been poking at and run to my bedroom where somewhere, under the bed or inside the laundry hamper or on top my just-washed sweater, I find a fuzzy lump of a cat. Scooping up Oreo or Tuffy, I march triumphantly to the kitchen where pursed lips are replaced by begrudging smiles of adoration. Sleepy eyelids blinking in complacent confusion, these cats have no idea that they are one of the last remaining links between my mom and dad. Even halfway across the globe, cats still work their magic on my family. You see, my maternal grandmother, my Lao Lao, practices cat worship as well. When she found out that some neighborhood kittens had fallen into a sewage hole and that my dad, who just happened to be visiting at the time, was the one who rescued them, we never heard the end of her ballad: “Zuo Jun Ba Mao Jiu Le!” My father saved the cats. And the cats are saving my Lao Lao, too. She is a tiny, wizened old lady who refuses to socialize with the neighbors, wear anything but black, or cook anything but potatoes. Although my mom urges her to try celery or carrots or anything with a speck of nutrition, Lao Lao refuses out of peculiarity and stinginess. Yet, she buys only the freshest, most expensive fish for the neighborhood cats. She throws a rag over her wild, stringy hair in a kitchen so hot that it threatens to cook you right along with the fish, not making dinner for herself or my grandfather, Lao Ye, but for her beloved cats. While my Lao Ye visits a Buddhist temple and plays mahjong with the old men downstairs, Lao Lao keeps to herself and visits her shrine – a pile of broken cement blocks and thrown-away newspapers where the cats live. These cats are the only things that can lure her out of her apartment. Since the car accident that’s left her struggling to walk, she’s been saving her toothless smiles and the energy it takes her to get down the stairs for her two daily trips – one to the market to buy fish and the other to feed the cats. It’s a sacred journey to her, and when I ask to go, she crinkles her face and shakes a hand. My mom agrees, “It’s too dirty. You stay inside.” Finally, after days of begging, Lao Lao shyly brings me along. She taps her cane against the wall of the garbage pile: “Zhar.” Here. She says it with a mixture of pride and apology, not sure what her youngest granddaughter will see in this heap of cracked clay pots and cinder blocks leftover from a nearby construction project. Flies and mosquitoes have also made this their home, but Lao Lao doesn’t seem to notice the buzzing or the unforgiving humidity, although she wears long pants and a long-

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sleeved shirt in a hundred degree weather. She begins to call the cats in her nasally, piercing tone, and four black and white kittens come scampering out from under a broken lawn chair. Lao Lao continues her sing-song dinner cry: “Mao, Mao, Mao, Mao!” Finally, we see the kittens’ cautious mother and a lazy, white cat that she says is the mother’s son from last year. Lao Lao keeps telling me to go back, that it’s too hot, but I stay and watch the cats devour their gourmet meal of liver and sausage. She never once pets them but observes and laughs childishly, clapping her wrinkled hands a few times. She squats the way the Chinese do, with their arms draped over their knees, and lovingly berates her cats. “Don’t you know how much that cost, Cat?” she points a gnarled finger at the kitten who doesn’t finish his share of liver. Lao Lao sighs as the cats lay down for an evening nap and says that she wishes she could see my own two cats. I know she actually means that she wishes she could see me for more than two weeks at a time, every three to five summers. I tell her that one of the kittens looks like Oreo, and I see her try to smile for me. She says that she’ll pretend it’s my cat from now on. She picks up a twig, traces some lines in the dust, and flings it away tiredly. By the time we leave, I sense that I’ve accumulated upwards of fifteen mosquito bites. Lao Lao and I later count twenty-six swelling, itching lumps, but she dabs ointment on my arms and legs with an air of approval. Somewhere in between her exclamations of “Aiyaaa” and “Ni Kan Kan Ni” (look at you!), I hear relief that someone else understands this faith of hers. I have been to her temple, and I know it is real. ...

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Fortnight Literary Press Volume 5, Issue 2