Future Histories Issue 10, Spring 2023

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

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

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!

Special Thanks to All Our Content Reviewers!

photo | Isabel Genn

fh 4

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

Penetrable peephole

Reveals a refracted silhouette

A summation of skin

i feel myself

Sinking into fiberglass

Falling out the faucet

Leaking is so cathartic

Inanimacy is so desirable

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

Intimacy

slipping

So easy

im dirty

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

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

If You didn’t already smell like shit

i just want it to be over with

A T T I S C h

by Sarah Stahlman

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

|Maggie

a missive

for the front

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

fh 9

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

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

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

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.

art | Rachel Liang

GRAPES

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?”

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.”

Forgot? I did—

The nature of your voice

To remember, I searched Through stamps you collected, and sculpted out Dongyang wood.

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 Zhang

by Michelle Zhang

A year’s worth of reflection

art | Param Upadhyay

Who Was J. Scrib, Forgotten Thinker of The New Age?

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.

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

BY ELINA GARONE

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

Peach to Phantom Peach to Phantom

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?

by Neya Krishnan

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

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.

Shame is something other people give to you by

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.

Veronica Habashy

art | Maggie Brosnan

by Elina Garone by Elina Garone

La vida de los mitos: el caso de Tateyama, Japón La vida de los mitos: el caso de 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

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.

calloused fingers can be heroes calloused fingers can be heroes

by Neya Krishnan 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

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

by ☆♪ two twirling trinkettes ♡

Cautious, formal, you hide what you feel.

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

These crude beginnings of form with questions of function, 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

The Poet and theArchivist

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”;

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

art|ParamUpadhyay

CallMe

Tomorrow

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

A Retort to the Representative of the Catholic A Retort to the Representative of the Catholic Student Association and to You, Heavenly Father, Student Association and to You, Heavenly Father, WhoMust’ve WhoMust’ve

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,

by Annie Toleos

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

How Vinegar Was Invented How Vinegar Was Invented 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

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.

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–”

“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,” 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.

art | Param Upadhyay

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 unending white wind on the peak of a mountain

my hair blows

below I hear in the mist snores softly scrape-

ing along the door I melt 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 -

everything is there.

cabinet fridge windows

as if magnified by a droplet of water.

in the corner, I see the couch depressed in your shape swelling and dwindlingslowly. 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.

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

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

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 importunar me 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

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.

A Study of Larceny A Study of Larceny

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.

by Mark Oliver Vonnegut by Mark Oliver Vonnegut

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?

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?”

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,

“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?”

photo | Param Upadhyay

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

crash course phonetics crash course phonetics

by Sarah Fung by Sarah Fung

i.

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

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.

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, & dangled like bait–

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, & dangled like bait–

rising tones speared like sunflies on the hook of my name

rising tones speared like sunflies on the hook of my name

iii.

iii.

the phoneme is the smallest unit of perceivable sound

the phoneme is the smallest unit of perceivable sound

breathless, swallowed whispers

breathless, swallowed whispers

writhing behind bared teeth,

silence overflowing where memory drowns

writhing behind bared teeth, silence overflowing where memory drowns

photo | Matilda Yueyang Peng

melon baller melon baller

by Megan Amero by Megan 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

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

make the scoops rounder— like this, see?

Jeans? Jeans?

by Andres F. Arevalo Zea by Andres F. Arevalo Zea

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.

photo & art | Amelia Miller

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.”

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.

(OR GREEN?) RED

by Neya Krishnan

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

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.

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