Future Histories Issue 10, Spring 2023

future histories issue 10

Dear Reader, We are here. We have made it. Issue TEN of Future Histories Literary Magazine. To commence this letter, we present to you an origin story. Since forged by the hands of the first co-chairs – Sarah and Hunter – Future Histories has gone through many (and not so many) changes. The first magazine was seemingly conceived out of thin air (its first line being “Hello: we exist now.”), printed and stapled together in a flurry among the stacks of Tisch Library.

Now, the process is a bit more complicated. When2Meets aplenty, arduously long content reviews, hours of revision and re-revision, anthologies of printing press email exchanges… you get the gist. Despite the fact that we have entered into the realm of Big Magazine, we retain the original ideas of our founders. We are here saying, “Hello: we exist. Listen to us. We have something to say.”

While you won’t necessarily find us, glue sticks and scissors in hand, stapling together the pages of this magazine, each contributor today holds the same dedication toward the creation of this magazine as the founders did that one spring afternoon in Tisch. We come from humble beginnings, but we won’t be so humble about our hard work now. For that, we give…

A massive thank you to everyone whose voices have joined us in the creation of Issue 10.

Thank you for asking us to listen. To those of you who have submitted your incredible writing and artwork, our dedicated content reviewers and their thoughtful discussions, and our staff who have all helped create the object you now hold in your hands – you make this magazine possible. Hello: we are Issue 10.

Signing off, Emma & Lauren Co-Chairs photo | Isabel Genn fh 2

Our Team CO-CHAIRS: EMMA STOUT LAUREN FISCHER LEAD COPY EDITOR: JAY GUO LEAD DESIGNER: MADISON RED EVENT COORDINATOR GAIA SANTORO LECCHINI COPY EDITORS: IAN SMITH NEWT GORDON-REIN WILLIAM ZHUANG ELLA IRVINE SPENCER VERNIER

DESIGN TEAM: RACHEL LIANG ALICE FANG AMELIA MILLER SHAIYA SAYANI SOCIAL MEDIA: BELLA GISMUNDO-HOOK WRITER LIASON: JASON EVERS WRITER LIASON IT: JOSEPHINE YIP ONLINE EDITOR: ALEXA HOPWOOD TREASURER: ANTONIA RAMIREZ fh 3

FEATURED ARTISTS Michelle Zhang Maddie K. Cortesi Maggie Brosnan Param Upadhyay Rachel Liang Christy Yee Z Coyle Matilda Yueyang Peng Isabel Genn Tony Li Christy Yee

Special Thanks to All Our Content Reviewers!

photo | Isabel Genn

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Table of Contents

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B•L•O•O•D•S•P•O•R•T•S - by Carter Powers.......................................................................... 6 At Tisch - by Sarah Stahlman...................................................................................................... 8 a missive for the front - by Megan Amero............................................................................. 9 Part of me is sleeping by the Columbia River - by Veronica Habashy.......................... 10 Worries - by Anna Zhang.......................................................................................................... 12 Grapes - by Rob Treanor........................................................................................................... 13 Dishes - by Hannah Rappaport.................................................................................................. 14 A year’s worth of reflection - by Michelle Zhang................................................................ 16 Who Was J. Scrib, Forgotten Thinker of the New Age? - by Elina Garone.................. 17 Peach to Phantom - by Neya Krishnan................................................................................... 18 Daily Routine - by Ayleen Cameron......................................................................................... 20 Shame is something other people give to you - by Veronica Habashy........................... 21 La vida de los mitos: el caso de Tateyama, Japón - by Elina Garone.......................... 22 calloused fingers can be heroes - by Neya Krishnan......................................................... 24 Pyrite - by Ethan Hoffman........................................................................................................ 25 The Poet and the Archivist - by ☆♪ two twirling trinkettes ♡............................................. 26 Fairy Crimson Pearl - by Michelle Zhang............................................................................. 27 Call Me Tomorrow - by Andres F. Arevalo Zea...................................................................... 28 A Retort to the Representative of the Catholic Student Association and to You, Heavenly Father, Who Must’ve - by Annie Toleos.............................................................. 29 How Vinegar Was Invented - by Veronica Habashy............................................................. 30 Red Sky - by Z Coyle................................................................................................................ 32 The End of Parties - by Annika Crawford.............................................................................. 34 Christmas China - by Jo Haggard......................................................................................... 36 La tela de la araña - by Yuchen Ge........................................................................................ 38 A Study of Larceny - by Mark Oliver Vonnegut................................................................... 40 Sheets - by Chloe Cheng............................................................................................................ 42 crash course phonetics - by Sarah Fung.............................................................................. 43 melon baller - by Megan Amero.............................................................................................. 44 Jeans? - by Andres F. Arevalo Zea............................................................................................... 45 Love Castle - by Elina Garone................................................................................................. 46 Red (or green?) - by Neya Krishnan......................................................................................... 48 fh 5

L•O•O•D•S B•L•O•O•D•S•P•O•R•T•S CW: reference to suicide

by Carter Powers

Flesh is my least favorite chore Debris gets drawn in too easily i wish it could be Someone Else’s responsibility Stainless steel feels inhuman feels like

me Strip and search my body Like a curiosity in a cabinet Your pupils open to prey Make a spectacle of my

Intimacy Penetrable peephole Reveals a refracted silhouette A summation of skin i feel myself

slipping Sinking into fiberglass Falling out the faucet Leaking is so cathartic Inanimacy is so desirable

So easy i pretend like last year didn’t happen And next year i’ll try to forget today Memory melds into mold i despise the dinginess of antiquity

im dirty

S•P•O• fh 6

S•P•O•R• Maybe i’ll be more myself If i evaporate my favorite sport is blood my favorite sport is water

Am i vulnerable enough yet?

Put the condom on i can see the mildew forming on Your flesh You haven’t been cleaned in weeks Forgetfulness is foreign to me i would make sure You sparkle If You didn’t already smell like shit Wax in water Rind rots away Pressure washer abrasion Each minute worn down by friction Stuck in a cyclical suicide Wet specimen sanctity Don’t fucking tap the glass!!!!

Aquatex anxiety You never even Look at me Pantomime patina Plaster on my body Everyday Same thing

i just want it to be over with

•O•O•D art | Param Upadhyay

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A T

Purple eyes and hunched back licking the plaque from behind my teeth. Tisch is quiet tonight and I wish I could tell you about my melatonin induced nightmare - you’d chime in that you’re worried about how much I sleep, I’d reply that it’s not that deep.

I saw one of those Scott Street TikToks of bittersweet

T I S C h ah

by Sar

quotes and paintings about loneliness and girlhood and the ghostliness of time, and one slide said that they had simplified life and discovered that the only thing worth having was a person happy to see you when you walked in the room. But then I thought about how I had that I’d enter Tisch and you’d look at me and smile through your mask.

I guess I found myself worthy to ask for more. Now that I’ve had some distance from it all - the rule of thumb about time healing everything really does have its merits - I think I left because I expected to be saved from the outside in. Anyway, being here tonight reminded me of you. I wish you’d walk past my table while pretending to work. Smile

an

Stahlm

at me beneath your mask. Lean out your broken screen to kiss me. Lap at my shore.

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art | Michelle Zhang

a missive for the front

by Megan Amero

ar t|

Ma

gg

ie

Br

os na n

i sit perched at the writing desk, feeling my place like keira knightley in a corset; the rightness of my body in the activity, directing my thoughts homeward, watching your feet fall as you run on down to the war room where authors write battle plans like love letters and tactics are just arrangements— didn’t you know i’m new england’s worst daughter? i’ve always hated the taste of mussels shucked clean from clattering shells, pearls rolling loose like the doll’s eyes basement mice like to chew on, turn your tongue over for a change, talk of fairness as copper casings pass your lips ink tastes like sea salt if you drink it from the source take this letter as i am— i have written us into a corner.

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Part of me is sleeping by the Columbia River The rest of me wilts. I have been creased open, only seeing salmon, a glittering run, migrating up a falling ladder, and the vulgar way they climb.

I know that despite this the others are fighting in the next room.

Are screaming and Nobody is standing to worry for the salmon like I do.

(When will they learn the sacrifice of weariness?)

They only think how:

to win

and:

to hurt but they are not even thinking of Hurt. Only themselves.

The selfishness of victory never needs to be taught.

What if: And:

silver and meek and blessed, the fish cannot make it back home? the porch light was left on, the key rusting beneath the mat and the worry growing stale beneath a single living room lamp?

Sometimes I feel that we have chosen to fear the wrong things.

photo | Matilda Yueyang Peng

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How does the apple’s bruising make it sweeter?

Some thanks for the gift of kind fruit.

The ladder seems Difficult and it’s getting Cold. What then?

Who then to inherit the earth?

Don’t we all deserve to draw a sigh of relief at one time or another?

Some pyrrhic victory.

I claw before me for noise, for water, weight. I am starving for a heaviness I have never known.

Only finding the flailing body.

Rushing river.

Force of the fractured pink flesh– Marred by the jagged northward rocks– I know that it’ll be sweeter once we get to it.

Once it is all over.

The rest of me wilts.

by Veronica Habashy fh 11

Worries

by Anna Zhang

I worry for my mother. my mother who is the youngest sister of five kids; my mother who made the same journey twice to foreign lands without her siblings, my mother who released me from my suffocating umbilical cords with a c-section; and my mother who watched us leave for college from the garage. with her eighty year old parents and middle aged siblings with their children in China, with her high school friends in China, I worry for my middle-aged mother socially locked into her suburban town, Not even able to befriend her usual grocery store cashier.

I’ve spent the past month wallowing, worrying my mother. with two days left before I leave again, I worry for my mother.

My suitcase is packed, yet my worries flood from our basement heater to her room upstairs.

Does she get lonely in this house? when we’re all gone?

Does she think about her mother, who can barely smile without scaring her grandson?

At 19, a year after adulthood, I feel the consequences of my inconsiderate teenage actions, and the haunting closeness of my eventual severance from the house my mother can’t seem to get out of.

art | Z Coyle fh 12

GRAPES I hate things that squish.

That pop with a slime And release with a wet crunch And contain a wet crunch.

It’s sickly.

Just look at That.

by Rob Treanor

Bugs are fine.

They’re not supposed to do That.

They do, but they’re not supposed to.

They’re supposed to live, uncrushed.

Bugs, though plenty, don’t want That.

Most fruits are fine.

They’re supposed to do That.

The seed inside is how they live on but they’re sweet and clean, an apology.

They’re un-muddled.

Fruit, clean fruit, want That.

But grapes.

Grapes are the bugs of fruit.

They’re small and abundant and pop and squish.

And worst of all, they want That. It’s how they live on.

Stomped flat on a cafeteria floor, stuck to your shoe.

And I’m supposed to want That.

RAPES

art | Rachel Liang

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by Hannah Rappaport art | Michelle Zhang

Maya and Michael were washing the dishes. Michael was washing the plates, Maya was drying them. While Michael was taking care to scrub every plate thoroughly, Maya seemed to be a little absentminded, ever so often gazing through the window into the late afternoon sky.

“Make sure you dry the plates carefully,” Michael said, not looking up from his side of the sink.

“I am,” Maya responded, who had not been--she had been looking out the window, thinking about things that were now a long time gone.

“Okay, it just didn’t look like you were… very focused,” Michael said, choosing his words carefully, still not looking up at Maya.

After a second when it looked like she might yell, she instead offered him a tight lipped smile. “Why would I be distracted?” When Michael didn’t answer, she seemed almost disappointed. “I’ll try to be more careful.”

“Thanks,” Michael said, gritting his teeth.

“Please don’t grit your teeth. It makes me anxious,” said Maya.

“Sorry,” said Michael. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” Maya said, giving him another thin smile.

“And I’ll stop gritting my teeth,” said Michael. Maya smiled, really smiled, and turned away.

Maya continued to lightly pat the dishes dry. Michael scrubbed harder at a bowl and gritted his teeth.

All of a sudden, Maya looked up. “I think the phone just rang.”

Michael, who had been deep in thought, looked up too. “I didn’t hear anything.” “Well, I did,” Maya said. “I’d better go check.” She hurried out of the room, only to pause and hover by the doorway. “I love you.”

“Love you too,” Michael said automatically as Maya ran up the stairs, her footsteps echoing through the empty house. He scrubbed the dishes carefully, wondering what things might have been like in some other life. He was only jerked from this fantasy when his hand reached for another dish to wash and felt only empty air. He picked up Maya’s discarded towel and started patting the plates dry.

Maya had yet to appear as Michael finished drying the last of his plates.

Still deep in thought, he reached for Maya’s still-wet plates and began to dry them carefully. Maya entered the room then, the phone still in her hand. “I’m back,” she announced, waiting for Michael to inquire about her phone call.

“That was Elaine,” she said pointedly after enough silence had elapsed.

“Oh, really?” said Michael, still drying the plates, who did not know the names of most of Maya’s new friends, and for the most part did not care.

“Yes. I invited her to join us for dinner tonight,” said Maya breezily. When Michael finally looked up, she seemed happy to have finally elicited a response.

“I thought we would just be having dinner alone tonight,” he said, pausing from his job and turning fully to Maya, who had a little smile on her face. “I thought it’d be nice for you to meet Elaine.”

“Well, sure. I just…” Michael trailed off as Maya looked at him expectantly.

“You what?”

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Michael paused for a moment, then looked back down at his feet. “Never mind,” he said softly, and began gritting his teeth.

“Are you drying my plates?” Maya asked. “I finished those already.”

“Oops,” Michael said. “I didn’t realize.” He pushed the plates further back and stacked them up with the other dry ones.

“Okay, great,” said Maya. “Dinner for three.”

“Great,” Michael said blandly, and they looked at each other for a long time. “I love you,” he said after a while, for the first time really looking into Maya’s eyes. “I love you too,” she said, and then they were both quiet, thinking about a time that was no more.

----Michael was sautéeing some spinach and kale. Maya had said Elaine liked vegetables. Maya was setting the large oak table that looked much too big for three people. It had probably been designed for a large family.

“Don’t the forks go on the other side?” said Michael, not looking up from his task.

“Does it matter?” said Maya.

“I want everything to look nice for your guest,” Michael said.

“Our guest,” Maya corrected.

“Right, yeah, that’s what I meant,” Michael said. He turned the heat up and let the vegetables cook in the pan for a few minutes.

Maya slammed a plate down on the table.

“Are you upset? You seem upset,” said Michael. He sprinkled some salt over the vegetables.

Maya took a deep breath and seemed ready to calm herself down. Then she looked at Michael, who wasn’t looking at her, and changed her mind. “Yes,” she decided. “I am upset.”

Michael looked surprised and turned over his shoulder. “Why?” “Why aren’t you upset?” Maya countered. “It’s barely been a month and you’re just acting like things are fine!”

Behind Michael, the vegetables started to burn. A piece of spinach had shriveled and turned black.

Michael looked stunned. He turned away from the vegetables for the first time and looked at the table. “What else am I supposed to do? I’m trying to make this work here, Maya, but I just...I’m doing the best I can.”

“How can you say that when you can’t even look at me anymore?”

“Look at you? What are you talking about?”.

“You don’t look at me anymore. You look past me, through me, around me, but never at me.”

Michael sighed. “I don’t understand. Things were so good before, before…” His voice trailed off.

Maya sighed.. “I know. Back then I used to give you everything. But I can’t give you this. I can’t… pretend it didn’t happen.”

A little smoke was coming out of the pan. Neither had noticed.

Michael looked at the floor, then paused and took a step closer to Maya. He touched her hand, but she flinched and pulled away. “We’ll make it work. We have to. We’re a family. And I love you.”

Maya sighed, looking at his outstretched hand and then looking into his eyes. “I--” She hesitated, opening her mouth and then closing it, then touched his hand. “I love you too.”

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Forgot? I did— The nature of your voice To remember, I searched Through stamps you collected, and sculpted out Dongyang wood. art | Param Upadhyay

Peeked amid Your garden once tended Tongue petrified By skin tiger peppered green, Wrinkled hook of our nose God forbid! I recall Your peace, knowingly begotten rage passed through fatherly flames Which pushed, pressed onto my juvenility A silent repetition in dreams, Yet still I’ve called out west over blue mountains, fearing severance You’ve looked back, no sound between With all hopes lost, I dull my mind At last, hallucinate one phrase: good night But once I wake, I lose again Your voice that I did once forget.

A year’s worth of reflection

by Michelle A year’sZhang worth fh 16

Who Was J. Scrib, Forgotten Thinker of The New Age? BY ELINA GARONE In 1967, the name of J. Scrib name emerged in the field of speculative linguistics, which imagines the evolution of language under hypothetical contexts. Scrib—real name Sam Stanton—was an accountant for a mayonnaise company based out of suburban Ottawa. Coworkers described him as “professional,” “inscrutable,” and (on more than one occasion) “about as alive as stale soda.” Though he never showed an affinity nor aptitude for writing, on his 50th birthday he submitted to a local publication posing as an academic and quickly developed a cult fanbase.

A DISCLAIMER FOR THE IMPRESSIONABLE: Scrib’s followers have been known for their fanaticism. In 1972, Pat Gilmartin, a suburban landscaper and avid collector of Scrib’s articles, began communicating exclusively in high-pitched barks. Others followed suit, speaking in bodily contortions, guttural screams, and, most commonly, radio static. Several have been hospitalized for attempted self-lobotomy. (When asked why, one answered, “to access the cosmos of consciousness!”) For these reasons, Scrib is criticized for promoting “a kind of collective schizophrenia masquerading as mysticism” (See: The Comprehensive Guide to Infectious Mental Illnesses). While the writer of this article maintains complete faith in the readers’ discernment, it is nevertheless the wishes of this publication that readers approach his texts with no more than half of their minds, preferably to be read in a waiting room or while sitting on the toilet.

In other words, DO NOT DIGEST.

Ottawa-based occult magazine (which, incidentally, doubly functioned as a mattress catalog).

“IMAGINE!!: A Japanese woman and a Mexican man are in bed together, i.e., they are having sex.

The two climax at the same time, it’s wonderful, it’s like they become One Being, they grip at each other in a rapture. He yells: Me vengo!

(I’m coming!) She screams: Iku! (I’m going!) He comes, she goes.

Thus, language fails these lovers in a moment of total physical unification. This is how it goes–we live in constant compromise between the immediacy of our experience and the symbols which cannot directly convey it.

If only we could access the minds of others, the consciousness of animals and other earthly beings. What I’m talking about is a new form of communication, anchored not in the limited individual consciousness but in the anima mundi—the world soul. A language beyond language, which allows us to enter into the experiential realm of rocks as they tumble into a stream, or leaves as they are blown against cold wind!

From the personal diary of J. Scrib, published posthumously: April 24, 1978. “Last night while I was having my post-dinner cigarette, they decided to bring me to the future. They warned me against speaking about it in depth, but what I can say is that they chose me for an experimental brain operation. By the time I returned home, the process had already begun.

...continue reading on our website futurehistoriesmag.org

From: Where do we go from here? The Next Stage of Language (J. Scrib, July 6, 1968), published in an

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art | Tony Li

Phantom t o c a h e P by N

eya Krishnan

CW: domestic violence Mom puts down the phone and fury shovels a mean hole into the crease of her eyes.

It’s the fourth call this week from a best friend whose mother refuses to leave a husband that beats her into shards of sub mi ssi on.

The best friend’s mother is a soft peach

and every night she buckles against the weight of her husband’s

belt buckle; her breasts are branded

with bruises and surgical-looking cuts

as if he has mastered the profession

of scarring beyond the point of redemption.

The woman turns from peach to phantom.

“Why?” “Why won’t she leave?”

mom’s best friend pleads.

If she left that hostile hostel why can’t her mother?

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But if only she knew about the heirloom her grandmother passed to her mother on the day she wed her husband, “be tender child, a woman is to always be tender”like tenderness is a thing to be beaten.

art | Christy Yee

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DAILY ROUTINE

BY AYLEEN CAMERON

He stood on the shores of Lake Issyk-Kul as a young man: thin-shouldered, gangly arms tucked behind his back, he flashed an apricot smile in the summer air The same man now trembles beside me using a skinned branch as a walking stick he lives with his delusions and we have to live with him I can’t say good morning to him without suffocating August heat leaves him frail and shrunken under his sun hat he tells me there are two moons in the sky I brought pieces of them back to Earth, he says We shuffle round and round the cul de sac it doesn’t matter how they begin, because our conversations all end the same way: Did they get the trees I sent back to Bishkek?

My skin is blistering from heat when I lead him home when I look at him all I see is the glassy flesh around his eyes and his hollow pupils I sit him down in front of Channel One and he asks, Did Stalin receive my letter? he doesn’t notice when I start crying I tell him yes. fh 20

art | Rachel Liang

At the fulcrum of the small vertebra, a small flower is sprouting.

Atlas is an alien, dizzy with a solitary feeling.

While the sound of scraping knees floods the playground, I am scrubbing my knuckles behind the window Hot water is better for cleaning.

I know because every night I purge myself in the scorching bath Stand beneath the icy shower head to make sure I’ve rinsed off as much as I can.

I am always careful not to let the dirt of my skin smudge against something precious— white jasmine flower, plain jute rug, granite countertop— Because who wants to cry in front of others?

Children are crude and fleeting, but Shame is worn like a mole acquired in the careless days of sun play.

All that matters is that your cheeks are rosy so that I know you are joyful.

Don’t hide beneath the oak, You know that the nettles are never worth it.

art | Maggie Brosnan

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by Veronica Habashy

Shame is something other people give to you

La vida de los mitos: el caso de

by Elina Garone Tateyama, Japón Cuando era niña, mi familia pasaba los veranos en un pueblo junto al mar llamado Tateyama. Una tarde, mientras mi hermana y yo estábamos jugando en el agua, una vieja nos acercó. Sus manos estaban dobladas tras su espalda y su columna hizo una curva como una concha de caracol. “No te quedes hasta tarde”, dijo ella. “Te van a llevar.” Su boca estaba seca y pegajosa mientras contaba historias de niños ahogados y casi ahogados, que se encontraron cubiertos con las huellas de manos de “antepasados que quieren compañía.” Mi hermana y yo, que habíamos crecido en Tokio sin haber escuchado tales historias, estábamos aterrorizadas. Mientras nos salpicábamos agua brillante el uno al otro, en algún espacio de nuestras mentes estábamos pensando en la muerte, en el mar esperando tragarnos, en los antepasados solitarios echando sus manos a nuestros pies.

Muchos años después, yo vivía en ese pueblo como vecina de la vieja. Su nombre era Kyo-chan, y se la podía encontrar caminando descalza en diciembre, dando sobras a aves de rapiña, chismeando, recogiendo las flores de mi jardín, o golpeando mi ventana con una olla llena de curry en sus brazos. Era evidente en la forma en que me hablaba en japonés estándar en vez de los tonos rítmicos de su dialecto local que yo siempre sería una extranjera para ella. Pero una botella de sake y un plato de sashimi pueden relajar cualquiera frontera que existe entre personas; mientras bebíamos, ella empezaría a traducir los mitos del pueblo para mí.

Así me contó cómo era el pueblo hace décadas: lleno de pescadores, salones de pachinko, casas de baños y restaurantes familiares. Pero no sólo eran personas habitando el pueblo—también vivían delfines y martines pescadores, dragones que protegían los lagos, y zorros divinos que traían riqueza a cambio de tofu frito. Por las noches, los espíritus de pescadores ahogados en el mar volvían como orbes de fuego, y los bares abandonados se llenaban de música que no era de este mundo.

photo | Isabel Genn fh 22

La vieja habló también de Ken-chan, el pescador jubilado que vive en nuestro barrio. Cada mañana, Ken-chan camina por la playa mientras se cepilla los dientes, y mea en el océano. Según ella, después de su jubilación, Ken-chan se apasionó por el cultivo de algas, que él creía que tienen poderes mágicos de curación. Pero desde que un tifón hace unos años había barrido a todo su equipo, decidió rendirse. Le pregunté a Kyochan por qué él nunca me habla y hasta se niega a mirarme cuando lo saludo. “Es que es muy insular, sabes? Esta tierra es su sangre y hueso, no habla con nadie de afuera.”

Hoy muchas casas en Tateyama están abandonadas, y todos los jóvenes salen a Tokio para trabajar. Cuatro años han pasado desde que el tifón arrasó las algas mágicas de Ken-chan. Hace poco, un hombre jubilado vino de la ciudad y compró una gran tierra que solía ser un lugar de ejecución hace trescientos años. Construyó una casa en estilo colonial y plantó dos olivos enormes en su patio, enviados desde un huerto de España.

Hay un rumor de que está pensando en comprar más tierra y convertirla en un camping.

Así mueren los mitos. Santuario a parquímetro, lago al asfalto. Los mitos nacen de la sal y lodo de la tierra, moldeados por las alegrías y tristezas de la gente, y mueren solos, olvidados en las esquinas de las calles cubierto de polvo. Arrastrado por las tormentas o reemplazado por olivos españoles, los mitos quedan huecos, pierden su materialidad.

Esa noche, pasé por la casa de Ken-chan, el algaista. La luna temprana entró por la ventana media abierta de su cocina, iluminando una pila de platos. Desde la sombra adentro, dos manos arrugadas se deslizaron hacia la luz, brillando pálido contra la oscuridad. El fantasma de dedos flotaron por un rato, buscando algo sin encontrarlo.

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calloused calloused fingers fingers can can be be heroes heroes

by Neya Krishnan

calloused fingers slip into mittens with holes slip into pockets with holes slip into a coat with holes. calloused fingers find change, ten dollars, and fifty cents worth— cold to the touch, but the woman to which the calloused fingers belong heats up almost instantly at the thought of lunch. before she steps into a local deli she sees a man with calloused fingers alone in the December frost. he has no mittens, no pockets, no coat with holes. he sits bare. a skeleton of a man. is it a man or a child? is he a man or a child? the woman steps into the deli; she orders a coke, two turkey and ham sandwiches. she sits outside with a skeleton. she leaves a man who sleeps for the first time in a cruel December.

art | Christy Yee fh 24

Pyrite

by Ethan Hoffman Opal scale dragon In the mist of far-away Silent coiling over river rocks A spire, shining splendid day Pearled skull dips down to stare; From flaring nostrils billow steam Two ruby rocks shine sunken deep A gaping jaw, a whispered stream Teeth of pyrite part and glean With thousand questions all as one No simple feat for human mind In myth or metric all undone “What could you be, had you not been The one who walks your simple path?”

Unknowing fool, our manifest Can only speak in fits of wrath

photo | Isabel Genn fh 25

by ☆♪ two twirling trinkettes ♡ Cautious, formal, you hide what you feel.

Born of nebula, unprimed steel on the brink of inertia, fears

t vis hi

T he Poet and t he These crude beginnings of form Ar with questions of function, c sometimes fumbled introductions, All orbits ‘round you

For your time I’d fought forever, Warred with morality’s shadows, or dove in waving gallows to retrieve a letter still bottled So perhaps it’s greed I leave out the defining truth: The spark of your fingertips, The deception of your lightning lips.

If (selfish reasons betray equilibrium) { “I’m gladly guilty”; } else if (whisper’d conduit idiom) { “Toss’d aside integrity”; } when fusion grows wearisome { In archives, you remind = “You’re where I belong”; }

art | Param Upadhyay fh 26

Fairy Crimson Pearl Jasmine jilted around your neck Still, I wilt in sight of you I hide, I cower, a pebble at best On sprouting grounds, dusted red Sweet’n my name, a taste explored Just your whore, I’ve lapped and sucked none starved for more, please once— I want— A sip of this phonetic folly Taken edict of my hungered thirst Wrest my throat, prompt, I’ll sear secret Fill me— feed me filth— it’s flattery: Dirt swirled with promised tears Ailments, intrusion Murmur me I’ll heave a form so kindly smitten, out I spit Each time, a stained crimson pearl Of unknown value, or offered appraise Relief ! Please! Just lessen my pain!

Fragility cannot gift much But— trembling want from a pit

by Michelle Zhang art | Michelle Zhang fh 27

rrow o m o T e M l l

a C

Last time I bumped into you it was one of those weird dreams

y ya

h ad

t

ar

|

Pa

ram

Up

of mine, the ones that wake me up cold sweating on my parents’ couch. You were wearing that summer-orange dress, I was walking all around the market crowd. They smothered me when I reached for the back of your hand. There was no point, I thought, no point trying to fall back asleep.

by Andres F. Arevalo Zea

fh 28

attiivvee ooff tthhee CCa Reepprreesseenntta R atthhoolliicc e e h t h t o o t t t t r r Heea avveennllyy FFa anndd ttoo YYoouu,, H n a Reettoo o n i t o i t a AR i atthheer A a c i c o o s s s s A r,, A t t n n e e d

by Annie Tole SSttuud uusstt’’vvee os M M o Whho W

Asked me what I was living for— Never mind that you cornered me on the crosswalk with your pamphlets, or that I had just walked a blistering mile from the train station, because you looked at me with His eyes: eyes that sliced clean through my love-bitten leprosy: the marks beat red on my neck, your holy head high with me under heel, undermined and annihilated…

Never mind that, because any other day I would have pulled down my beanie like I was ripping the skin off my face and stalked off, looking inhuman,

but today has caught me in its jaws, so I puff out my chest, say, “I live for God,” all the while neglecting to mention that my God is nothing more than a shout across a hallway, a string between two cans, and then you hand me a pamphlet for your Evening Worship, to which I feign an orgasm, because if I’m anyone’s Daughter, I’ll find him with a hand pulling my hair and my face flush, thrust against a bedspread, Amen.

art | Maggie Brosnan fh 29

How Vinegar Was Invented

by Veronica Habashy After Bob Hicok

CW: gore Charlemagne’s knights were not the first to hurt and see that they were alive. Nor the second. Perhaps it was Lucy, dearest hominid, who first desired a burning of the skin, the lingering scar that would whisper from then on, the tender searing of calluses on the delicate lace stretched over her sternum.

Australopithecus afarensis predates homo sapien by three million years.

Enough time at least to ache in the brazen sunlight or Flinch at the grazed knee which is more Often than not the first time we are bruised I Never bruised easily but always Grieved each purple green yellowish blotch When its time had come to go.

Of course– some years pass before Definitions of accidental or Intentional or Necessary bruising for example: The operating room is no place for flinching, for pain. The cold is preferred and endured, the cutting anticipated and watched in gut-clenching, hungry awe beneath

fh 30

art | Maggie Brosnan

the stark white shock of fluorescent light that would blind you if it took you by surprise.

Under cover of propofol, etomidate, ketamine– forceps are passed among anonymous, slowly bloodying latex hands and the skin is pried open, the body tipped over to spill out quietly. The scars that come after are ugly, screaming things.

Such loud reminders of death that they leave your ears ringing.

But at least we are Sleeping for the worst parts, and need only to avoid the ocean, Peeling oranges, spilled vinegar to ensure comfort from there on out.

(I was awake for my first and only stitches, Resented the way time took them away from me so soon for I felt like I had earned something).

If Lucy knew surgeons, she would think them Crass.

If Lucy knew vinegar, she would dive in an ocean of needles and then bathe in it. Or drink it like it were the fruit and she were Eve. How sweet to know that even in the most beautiful places we have, bottled, and safely stored, the sour ugliness of life?

Pour me a glass, so that I may write a poem.

fh 31

red sky

by Z Coyle

It was a poor day for fishing. The water was nearly too choppy for the little tin boat, a thin gray rain was obscuring the horizon, and Cap had just reeled in a corpse. Heaving on the line he had assumed it was a particularly lethargic halibut, but now a body floated just beneath the surface, its mottled face puffy, long hair flexing with the swells. The hook was sunk deep into an empty eye socket. Cap leaned over the side, tilting his head left and right, then fetched the gaff.

It came aboard shedding water and smelling of rotting fish and, oddly, figs. Its clothes were similar to Cap’s own: Grundens, a flannel shirt, one rubber boot and one woolen sock. A fisherman, then. Or fisherperson. Its exposed hands and face had been nibbled on– most of the nose was gone, along with four or five fingers. Cap crouched beside the corpse and arranged it into proper coffin position, arms crossed across its chest. The flesh was pervasively cold even through his thick rubber gloves.

“Rest now,” he said.

“Thank you,” the corpse replied. “I really didn’t like it down there.”

“No,” Cap said after a long moment, off-balance, defaulting to long-lived manners. “No, I imagine I wouldn’t either.”

“It was super dark,” the corpse continued. “And cold.” Its voice was muted and papery, like tuning into a long-distance radio.

“Yes,” Cap said. There was a moment of silence. “Forgive me, but you are dead, correct?” He asked.

“Of course,” the corpse said, then stuck out a purple, bloated tongue in a parody of a dead body.

“Ah. And…how was it that you died?” Cap asked.

“That’s all you care about?” returned the corpse. “Anyone can die in any way, you know. It’s not a reflection at all of how they lived.”

“Oh, my apologies,” said Cap, cursing himself for being so inconsiderate.

“You were fishing, right? Hit your quota yet?” the corpse asked.

“I don’t think– no, not so far,” Cap replied, thrown off. “It’s still early.”

“Oh, go on then,” the corpse said encouragingly. “I’ll be here. Just don’t drop any fish on me and we’re good.”

“Well, alright then,” Cap said, and dropped a line.

Swells rhythmically hit the metal hull. A gaggle of nearby seagulls conversed in caws. Cap’s ballcap kept the rain out of his face, and his layers made the cold weather almost cozy.

“Read any good books lately?” asked the corpse.

“I’m not a good reader. Haven’t read much at all since high school, even,” Cap replied. Then, as an afterthought, “Yourself ?”

“Big reader, yeah, but that’ll all be boring if you’re not a fan. Got any good stories?”

Cap thought about it. His best stories were about buddies who had narrowly escaped death, which seemed insensitive considering his audience. “Naw,” he finally admitted. “But I’ve got a feeling you’ve got at least one good one.”

“Oh, you mean, like, how I died or whatever,” the corpse said tiredly.

Cap had meant exactly that. “Aw damn, I shouldn’t have–”

fh 32

“No, it’s fine. It’s just embarrassing is all.” It had gone quieter, its voice hard to pick out from the static rain against metal. Cap reeled up an empty hook, replaced the bait, and let it back down.

“You know,” he offered once he felt the weight hit the ocean floor, “when I was young I worked on a logging barge. We had to walk on top of the log piles, these towering mounds of logs– halfway to heaven my buddy always said– and we were supposed to push the logs down in manageable amounts. Now, I was brand new to the job, and what I didn’t realize was that I was supposed to be strapped into a harness-type situation.”

The corpse gave a gurgle-gasp. “You didn’t see how everybody else was? Seriously?”

Cap smiled a little. “I was seventeen, kid, I didn’t notice a whole lot. Now I’m up there and I take a stumble, and my foot hooks onto a log and brings a whole avalanche down. I slam into the deck, then a whole load of logs crash down right on top of me, but the first few get propped against the engine house and create a sort of barrier, see? So I’m stuck in this little tent of logs, and my buddies all think I’m dead, and I have to wiggle my way out of this little gap to shut ‘em all up. Now that would be a pretty damn silly way to die, don’t you think?”

“That would be pretty metal, actually,” y a y Upadh art | Param said the corpse. “Old-school. Logging accident. Like those dudes who fell into the cement when they were building dams.”

Cap shook his head. “Back then, kid, that was just another ridiculous way to die. There’s plenty of ‘em, trust me. Most deaths are pretty goddamn goofy.”

“Like in a cartoon,” the corpse supplied. “I bet people have actually been killed by falling pianos or anvils at least once.”

“I bet,” agreed Cap. He laid back on the cushioned bench and blinked up at the gray sky. The tip of the fishing pole betrayed not even a nibble.

“It’s just that… I’m not new at this,” the corpse said at last. “I’ve fished my whole life, since birth, practically. But it was my first season crabbing. I thought I would know how to do it. But I was really bad. Like, really really bad. Like, ‘you’re slowing down the whole operation’ bad. And nobody liked me, obviously, because I made all their jobs way harder, and when I got my foot tangled in a rope and went over…”

“That’s a rough way to go,” Cap said, when it seemed like the corpse was done. “I’m sorry.”

“Man overboard. I cut through the rope and I came up for air, and I thought I’d done it, that I’d live, but man…” it gave a gurgling, wheezing sigh. “The boat never turned around.”

Cap sat with that a while, anger for the boat’s captain cresting in waves. “That’s on them, kid,” he said once he could unclench his jaw enough to speak. “That’s on them.”

“Yeah, I guess,” it replied.

“I would’ve turned around,” Cap said. “If I was your captain. I would have turned the whole thing around, no question. No matter how bad a crewmate you were. You’re a good kid, you know that? A damn good kid. And you didn’t deserve that.”

The corpse didn’t reply. Cap wasn’t sure what was supposed to come next, what else to say.

“You want to fish?” he finally asked.

“Sure,” the corpse replied, its voice a little stronger now, and Cap kneeled next to the body, threading his fishing pole through its remaining fingers. He rested his hands over top of the kid’s and together they let down the line.

fh 33

The End of Parties

by Annika Crawford

I lay on your bed, like something spilled.

But I’ll be quiet—you know certain stains

are worse when you rub on them.

So I won’t go to the bathroom, even though my stomach bulges the starchy case of my jeans, and I won’t cry, even though the smell of everything that doesn’t belong is smothering me— No, I won’t cry.

In the room as dim and still as a held breath, You set a glass of water next to the bed.

Is there anything else you need? you asked, No, I said, but what I meant was, Yes, but it’s not here; I close my eyes, and imagine casting a line of spider silk

from my heart to the sky

it drifts across the deep nothing

like a thin crease in cloth or a sidelong tear and falls

into the deep fold

of one eternally waiting.

I hover through the night

through the eyes of trains blearing white through

curtains, cracked

light running like snot the more I wipe the more it spreads everywhere

on your clothes

draped over the rolling chair

evaporating the huddle of bottles welled up like sweat on the desk quivering frail in light of dawn the dull sheen of posters white wind

unending on the peak of a mountain

fh 34

my hair blows

below I hear in the mist

snores softly scrapeI melt

ing along the door

from miles

of silk and touch

down on the cold floor. my head pounds. a bar of light glares under the door

like a wound.

I creak into the hall

cabinet

fridge

everything is there. windows

as if magnified by a droplet of water.

in the corner, I see

the couch

depressed in your shape

swelling and dwindling slowly. one arm rests beneath your head.

Contact-less,

the outline of you

is unsteady as the surface of

water, like

something

I can’t touch

without falling

through— God is the softest blue moon during daytime.

fh 35

art | Michelle Zhang photo | Param Upadhyay

Christmas China

by Jo Haggard Christmas China Filled with one block of instant ramen Half spent for lunch, half spent for dinner Mama decorated the table With scrunched old birthday streamers Played her out of tune violin Tapping her sneakers on the weathered wooden floor I danced around hanging colors, it felt like a party And I felt lucky Sunday, eerie pews Mama had been cursing God’s views since I knew who he was But after service they put out tables of homemade food So she smiled, Dressed like the woman she called “prudes” And called it a “religiously educational experience” Ladies in pastels with tiny strings of pearls Stroked my knotted curls Mama said she felt like a fool, that we don’t belong here So we sang horribly off pitch, looked innocent as we could appear And laughed all the way home Slumber party, mid December Bundled together by the fireplace We played butterfly Emerging from the embrace of our blanket cocoons Raspy shouts, as we scurried around the house Till we got too cold to stand the winter chill Mama looked sad and worried But I had not been allowed to sleep with her in years And I felt lucky fh 36

Paper snowflakes Made out of the stack of envelopes that accumulated on the kitchen table Mama cut them up with vengeance, like they made a sort of mistake Ripping till they laid like fallen snow Glue stuck in my fingers and hair The house no longer felt bare Holey socks, holey sleeves I liked it, I could stick my fingers through, make a bunny ear But the shiny boy at school laughed at me Like he only saw holes and not the bunny Mama asked about my tears I smiled and wiped them away And told her that I felt lucky

art | Param Upadhyay fh 37

La tela de la araña

by Yuchen Ge

Cada vez que yo escuchaba la palabra fracaso, el interior de mi corazón temblaba como si estuviera chocado por un relámpago inesperado independientemente de las personas a que este vocablo se dirigía. Este sentimiento tal vez proviniera de mi preocupación constante por la incertidumbre de lo que le espera. Hay que reconocer que, desde la infancia, mis padres me enseñaron que la manera de vencer en la vida era trabajar duro y tener una actitud correcta ante todos los desafíos. No obstante, en lugar de dudar la efectividad de la manera propia, me sentía inseguro de la consecuencia desconocida de estos esfuerzos. ¿Para qué debíamos luchar tan arduamente por la victoria intangible si siempre teníamos que enfrentarnos a las dificultades más universales en la vida? Para mí, era una paradoja tan ubicua y espantosa que aún no había pensado en quitarla de mi mente.

A pesar de la ansiedad por el fracaso que jamás dejaba de importunarme interiormente, en público yo intentaba mostrar una imagen diferente. Consciente de la inseguridad corriente en el mundo actual, yo solía contener mis emociones y mantener una apariencia impasible en mi vida.

Curiosamente, esta indiferencia externa lograba ocultar la mayoría de mis pensamientos sobre el miedo de fracasar. El efecto de tal modo era tan fuerte que hasta para los que me conocían bien, una vez que determinaba mis metas, me empeñaba en conseguirlas sin ni siquiera considerar las dificultades o las repercusiones posibles. Por eso, a sus ojos, yo era un joven recto y tenaz que no titubeaba en ejercer al máximo. A veces sus evaluaciones positivas de mi desempeño incluso me sorprendían y, quizás contrario a sus expectativas inocuas, me humilló.

Para romper esta lucha que me cargaba, decidí refugiarme en algo que pudiera divertirme.

La solución era muy simple: la historia. Al asistir a la clase de mi asignatura favorita, me gustaba sentarme en la esquina del aula para disfrutar del fresco otoñal. Mirando una araña pequeña y negra tejiendo su tela fuera de la ventana polvorienta en silencio, yo, un amante de la historia desde la infancia, podría tener una distracción breve del complejo de inferioridad. Y cada vez que volvía a sumergirme en el océano de conocimientos y luego miraba hacia arriba, la araña había roto la tela y estaba tejiendo una nueva. Sin ser notada por nadie salvo yo en la sala, ella bailaba libremente sobre su obra maestra que sería destruida por su descuido en el próximo segundo. Un día después de presenciar que la criatura pequeña quebró su tela por cinco veces consecutivas, me froté los ojos y bostecé profundamente por aburrimiento. “¡Qué tonta es esta araña!” dije en voz baja. “¿Acaso ella no sabe cuidar su producto tras terminarlo?”

A veces la vida te trata tan cruelmente que ni siquiera le permite a una de tus únicas alegrías que dure un poco más por algunas razones extrañas. Por la duración del mes de septiembre, yo trataba de prestar atención a esta nueva profesora de mediana edad que solía hablar en una voz monótona y ronca, seca como la arena. Pero tenía que admitir que solo no podía. Era tan difícil seguir la enseñanza tediosa cuando casi todo el mundo en la sala bochornosa estaba de

fh 38

humor adormilado en medio del calor sofocante. Como se esperaba, en el primer examen saqué una nota pésima sin precedentes: 70%. La hoja de examen en mis manos pesaba como una losa de tres toneladas que casi arrastró mi cuerpo entero al suelo del aula. Como un amigo fastidioso que no se veía hacía mucho tiempo, el miedo al fracaso volvió a llamar a mi puerta. Sabiendo que yo sería regañado por mis padres de nuevo en la noche, me arrojé a la silla y miré hacia el cielo con plena impotencia. La araña, pequeña y negra como siempre, había tejido una tela nueva bajo el alero, esperando que la siguiente presa viniera para su fiesta nocturna.

Al instante, un gorrión gordo y gris voló rápidamente por la ventana. Sus alas eran tan fuertes que con un golpe suave lograron destrozar la obra maestra que la araña acababa de crear con todas sus energías. Casi derribada por el pícaro gigante ornitológico, la araña se escondió rápidamente detrás de un gancho oxidado en el alero. De repente, me di cuenta de que no era la araña propia sino los intrusos externos que destruyen las telas una y otra vez en los días recientes. Lo que esta criatura pequeña hizo después me impresionó de todo corazón. Silenciosa pero resuelta, ella subió por la tela restante y volvió a tejer sin vacilaciones. Me parecía que, a su juicio, no había nada más que una tarea que hacer: lo que consideraba la cosa más correcta para alcanzar su meta. Tras seis intentos fallidos de cazar, el animalito admirable finalmente capturó una mosca cuyo tamaño era casi igual al suyo.

Bajé mi cabeza y me quedé absorto ante la lección de vida que la Profesora Araña me dio. Igual a mi miedo de fracasar, esta clase de historia era como un leviatán que intentaba impedir mi camino de progreso. Estaba claro que ambos obstáculos eran bastante temibles al parecer. Sin embargo, no eran en ningún sentido inconquistables con tal de que yo tuviera la perseverancia y la fuerza de voluntad para superarlos como hizo la criatura pequeña fuera del aula. Después de todo, en una vida acosada por una infinidad de adversidades, solo tú puedes abrir la puerta de éxito para ti mismo.

art | Christy Yee

fh 39

A Study of Larceny by Mark Oliver Vonnegut The World is a thief, a vandal, and you a palace, My friend: The World would empty your treasury Would set alight your library Would hold a gun to your head Hold out a sack and say, “Your wallet, your jewels, your trinkets; Your life comes later” Would put a knife in your hand With a smirk and say, “Your paintings: slash them Your statues: scar them” Would watch you weep The World would take its keep Would watch you obey— The weapon is in my hand He is without arms But you do it, you pray— Would watch you fall Would light a match Burn the ruined paintings Would pull a hammer out— The weapon was in His hand He was always in control You knew that anyway— Smash the statues Turn to you and say, “See what I can make?”

-----------------------The World is cruel to you, my friend.

Yes. The World is cruel to Them too, my friends.

Not like to me— No, like you.

But They are cruel— Indeed they are.

And so are you.

Did you not see What it could make you do?

How it could make you bleed?

How— No. Why— Colder.

What— Go on.

What did I— No. Warmer.

What can I do?

Vengeance.

This World snaps my heart.

Sew it back together.

Steals my soul.

Take it back.

Crushes my hope.

Rebuild it.

Uses me.

Use it.

-----------------------A debt is owed.

An Eye for an eye.

The World is cruel to you, my friend. Yes. What will you do?

Be cruel in kind.

The World steals from you, my friend. Yes. What would you do?

fh 40

I would empty His dragon’s hoard Would set alight His infinity Would hold a sword to His heart Hold out a sack and say, “My wallet, My jewels, My trinkets; My life to me” Would put rope in His hand With a smirk and say, “Your hands: bind them” Would watch Him growl The World would see my joy Would watch me heal— His Might is so great Your sword is small But I rob Him anyway— Would watch Him glare Would take my clay Fill the sculpted scars Would flourish my brush— The weapon is in Your hand His is not the only ace I swindle the Cheat in kind— Repaint my house Turn to Him and say, “See what I can make?”

“Your rope: make it” Would watch Them breathe The World would see their gasps Would watch Them rise, say, “The power is in His hand We are without arms” Would say, “But We rob Him anyway” Would watch Them glare Would take my hands Soothe Their worldly scars Would flourish my hand— “The cards are in Our hands His is not the only Full House His hand is not so very great—” Wipe off His blood Turn to Them and say, “What can We make?”

The World is cruel to Them too, my friends.

“Yes.” The World steals from Them too, my friends.

“Yes.” What would you do?

I would fill Their cavernous coffers Would set alight Their eyes Would hold a knife to His belly Hand Them my sword and say, “Our wallets, Our jewels, Our trinkets; Our lives to us” Would put twine in Their hands Force up a smile and say,

photo | Param Upadhyay fh 41

Sheets

by Chloe Cheng My sheets are wrinkled and folded under my freshly bathed thighs.

I am a child again, tugging at the ridges, squirming after bedtime, unable to rest with such chaos beneath me.

When I was little, I would run to my mother’s room on nights when the mayhem of my bed was too much.

Thousands of miles away, She is awake while I struggle to sleep.

art | Rachel Liang fh 42

crash course phonetics

by Sarah Fung i. the phoneme is the smallest unit of perceivable sound in english, my favorite phoneme is ʃ, or sh–

a wind across the waves, sharing, sharpening, shifting,

shame ii. the phoneme is the smallest unit of perceivable sound in cantonese, my every phoneme is s l i p p e r y,

half-sung, half-sung, & dangled

like bait– rising tones speared like sunflies on the hook of my name iii. the phoneme is the smallest unit of perceivable sound breathless, swallowed whispers writhing behind bared teeth,

silence overflowing

where memory drowns where

photo | Matilda Yueyang Peng fh 43

melon baller melon baller

by Megan by Megan Amero Amero

i’m frightfully close to rot, maybe it’s already set in, as if i’m a clementine at the bottom of your backpack, field-tripped to death, five minutes away from spewing warm pulp into the lining, rotten orange blood up the seams i need someone to scrape my heart clean, watermelon flesh balled out with a blunt-edged spoon, to have my hull dried out under the sun; make of me an impenetrable gourdshell of a woman. i am not hard, i am difficult there is a canyon’s worth of distance between sun-dried and dumpster-bound the fault line between individual truths the valley between crimson and maroon

Co

rte

si

i would be happier if you just fixed my soft spots; take me out, tell me— knock your skull to test for ripeness, this is how beautiful an orange can taste

t| ar

K. id e ad M

make the scoops rounder— like this, see?

fh 44

Jeans?

a Zea alo Ze evalo Arev F. Ar dress F. by Andre

by An

I don’t know Jean, I kinda hate jeans. I mean, sometimes my mother forces me to buy a pair, but I don’t like wearing them. They’re tight and uncomfortable and often itchy. They’re so annoying to put on, and so annoying to take off. Jeans aren’t made for people with bellies like mine. They hurt my stomach like when my mother tells me to wear less so they can fit, When I get home drunk and don’t have the energy to take them off, I have to sleep in them like a dog on a leash, struggling to find comfort. The first time I slept. with a girl she was wearing this dark Levi jeans while we kissed all over and it just took forever to get them off. I don’t know, they’re just so inconvenient.

I remember every single time my father told me I should wear jeans, so we could appear more ‘decent,’ so people would not know we were running out of money. I remember when denim was a static dream that lived in movies and shows, from a faraway land that we could never belong to. Our place is with the ponchos, and ruanas, and the 50 pesos shirts with texts in languages we don’t even understand, sewn by abuelas. I guess I just wonder when we decided to move to overprices, ugly pants manufactured in countries we don’t know by exploited, underage kids polluting their homes. I don’t know Jean, I think it all comes down to the fact that I’ll never understand why people would design pants that don’t allow you to scratch your ass properly.

art | photo &

fh 45

iller

Amelia M

Love Castle

by Elina Garone

I once lived down the hall from a woman who owned a love hotel. Her name was Madam Ono and Mother hated her very much. She was seventy-two, short and square, more or less the shape of an eraser. Her favorite eyeshadow shade was purple and she liked to wear graphic tees printed with English phrases she couldn’t read, like “Lovely Girl” and “Live Fast. Die Young.”

For every 7-Eleven in Kinshicho, there are fifteen love hotels waiting to set the stage for affairs and rendezvous. That morning I was there with a boy from math class—it was always on school mornings, so Mother wouldn’t question where I was. Besides, room rates were cheaper in the morning.

“The number of love hotels around here must be related to the phallic imagery of the nearby Sky Tree,” he remarked, turned on by his intelligence. “There’s an undeniable eroticism about the tallest building in Japan dominating your line of sight and… penetrating the skyline.” fh 46

I should have told him how stupid he was. That day, though, I was distracted by the purple blisters on my feet. I was wearing Mother’s high heels: patent leather, slick like the body of a leech. I took them without asking and the shoes hated me for it, digging into my skin in retaliation. They remembered the feel of Mother’s flesh, flaring up with hives in the late afternoon, nervous in her stride, scolding me for “talking about the menses” outside of home.

We strayed off the main road and into Hotel Row. An overstuffed trash can dripped beer onto a salaryman, asleep next to the half-churned contents of his stomach—last night’s dinner—yakisoba? A suited man and a masked girl passed by us, arms entwined. Newly in love? Apparently not: when they reached a corner, the girl gave a curt bow and walked away.

I usually let the boy pick the place. Partly because I didn’t want to scare him by coming on too strong, but mostly because I liked watching them try to hide their nervousness. After a time he stopped in front of a sign printed with medieval lettering: LOVE CASTLE II. Terrible taste.

Very good. I love having sex in tacky rooms—it makes me feel trashy.

The hotel lobby smelled of stale carpet and cigarette smoke. A plastic suit of armor collected dust in the corner, lit by a chandelier coated in chipping red paint. Behind the front desk, in bright purple eyeshadow and a dress to match, Madam Ono swirled her finger in a circular fish tank. A blue guppy followed it with an open mouth, mesmerized by her violet nail polish. Our eyes met for a moment; I saw a glint of recognition. She said nothing.

— “She’s what I would call an avant-garde whore,” Mother once said about Madam Ono. “I heard she walks her dog in nothing but her panties and brassiere. Think of the children!

You’re a little older now, sure, that’s no influence for a young woman.”

— The boy fumbled with the key as I yanked my feet out of Mother’s high heels. The room was lined with thick red curtains, just large enough for a modular bathroom, a large bed, and a minifridge. I opened the fridge: beer, chocolate milk, a bottle of red something labeled “Love Power.”

We sat on the bed. He touched my arm and I touched his. His skin was cooler than I expected. Somehow this annoyed me, so I pinched him a little. He moaned.

Touching someone is easy and nice; being touched is a little scary. Like being eaten up, bites being taken out of you. He felt his way around me in the illiterate way one feels their way through an unlit cave, and I held in the urge to urinate.

Mother must be teaching her etiquette class right now. Today’s lesson: “how to eat escargot like a lady.” I always thought escargot looked like fat snot. “Imagine,” she’ll say. “Your future husband is watching. Are you going to use your hands?” A girl who’s a sloppy eater is sloppy in other ways too, she’d tell me. I thought of her middle-aged pupils, their plump bodies swaying with pearls and scarves and a surplus of time. As he touched me I began to imagine myself dangling naked from Mother’s delicate silver fork and tossed into her lipsticked mouth.

— ...continue reading at futurehistoriesmag.org

art | Maggie Brosnan fh 47

RED (OR GREEN?)

by Ne

n a ya Krishn

A boy from Angelville, Missouri, speeds his broken-down navy bicycle through an intersection on South Avenue when suddenly, his small torso is lifted into the sky and thrown to the ground, bloodied by gravity’s forceful throw.

Jerry had too much on his mind to notice the boy that day. The divorce had worn him down over the years. He was being a good father, a good ex, a good officer, and what did he get?

A child who listened religiously to his god-awful ex-wife?

Her restless mission to brainwash his loving girl?

A boss that threatened to take his badge?

Amelia was determined to make her ballet practice on time, but said practice was at nine in the evening. So he laced up his boots, started up the F-150, and wore a smile despite the obvious reluctance she showed as she climbed into the car, a permanent frown etched onto her face. Jerry tried to weave through the discomfort with small talk, but when the curt replies turned to silence, he revved his car’s sputtering engine and listened to the voice of his phone’s GPS. When they reached the intersection at South Avenue, he knew he was just five minutes from the ballet studio. The night’s one saving grace. There was no need to screech the car to a halt, no need to burn asphalt against rubber tires, because in the middle of that deep navy fh 48

night, the traffic light glowed emerald. GO. He was certain. The light was green. So Jerry drove on— there was no boy on a broken-down bike when he made the choice, certainly not, not until the moment when there was a boy on a bike, speeding through the empty lane, not until the moment he was helpless to stop. A body was sent up and pulled down in one swift motion, entangled with the metal of a bike.

It wasn’t Jerry’s fault, though. It could have happened to anyone.

The bike had failed. The boy had fallen.

The light was green. The crosswalk sign had turned from white man to red hand. The boy was nowhere in sight. The boy was nowhere in sight.

A young boy from Angelville, Missouri, drives a shiny, new bicycle through the intersection on South Avenue when suddenly, his small torso is lifted into the sky and pressed down to the ground by the forceful punch of a Ford F-150.

Amelia didn’t even want to drive with her father that day. She loved her dad completely, but she was scared of him, too. He always smelled funny, and he said funny things as well.

Sometimes he’d ask her for money— she thought that was funny because she was only nine— what kind of money did he think she had?

Her dad also always talked bad about her mom, which hurt Amelia a lot— but mom always talked bad about dad, so she convinced herself it was normal.

The car ride began with a question soaked in spite, “How’s your mom? Still forgetting to take you to school, Amelia? You can tell me, you know? I can help you,” her dad began.

Amelia hated silence, but even more so, she hated violence; those words were weapons, so she kept quiet. Eventually, her dad understood, and silence drowned the car.

Maybe it was because it was so quiet that she could notice every murmur, every motion, every bottle of whiskey and vodka inside the four doors. Every pastel house, closed shop, and streetlight outside its windows. Maybe, because her eyes were pressed up against the glass, she noticed a young boy on a bicycle coming down the street at South Avenue. She knew the bike was new because it shined; she spotted him early on because he shined.

As he got closer, she wondered why her father wasn’t stopping the car. The light was red.

He should have stopped by then. The crosswalk had turned from a red hand to a walking man.

The light was red. “STOP! Dad, stop!” Amelia yelled.

The boy came closer. And then, suddenly, he was pushed up and pulled down in one swift motion, his body melting into his glittery bike. It happened so fast, yet excruciatingly slow. Parts of the bikeand the boy’s backpack littered the street. His tiny body wouldn’t move.

The boy seeped red. Amelia screamed. She didn’t stop. ...continue reading at futurehistoriesmag.org

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| Magg Bros ie art