FH Fall 2021 Issue 7

future histories literary magazine

issue 7

prose poetry photography non-fiction art

I I U R H U T O E T T R S U I U F I T S R U O E F RI T R S I U O T H UT O E F T Dear Readers,

Since our first issue in 2017, Future Histories has sought to publish the best writing and artwork that the Tufts community has to offer, and to reshape the Western literary canon to include marginalized and underrepresented voices.

The magazine started off small: printed and assembled in Tisch Library.

Four years and seven issues later, we are pleased to continue publishing our community’s creative works, now distributed in glossy hard copy!

Due to COVID, our magazine production was halted for a semester, but this didn’t stop our team from showcasing the talent of Tufts students in print. It’s hard enough to assemble a magazine from the ground up––it took resilience on the part of Future Histories to do so virtually during a pandemic. Given all of the challenges we’ve faced over the past year and a half, it has truly been a pleasure and privilege to (safely) return to in-person content review and staff meetings this semester. We value being able to nurture a positive and inclusive atmosphere while maintaining our high quality of work.

We would be remiss not to acknowledge everyone who has made the publication of this issue possible: our designers, copy editors, writer liaisons, social media & outreach coordinator, treasurer, online editor, those who submitted to our magazine, and our content reviewers. Thank you to our dedicated team who shared their talents with this magazine, and helped launch our inaugural HallowZine on top of the Fall 2021 issue. You have all been an absolute delight to work and doodle alongside.

To those who submitted art and writing, we appreciate the energy and time you put into crafting beautiful, thought-provoking pieces of literature and art. We hope you send in more of your work for upcoming issues of Future Histories. To our content reviewers, thank you for taking time out of your Tuesday nights to join us in Eaton 206 and spiral into discussions about culde-sacs and folk stories.

We thank you, reader, for taking the time to read our latest issue. Enjoy!

Your co-chairs, Juli and Matthew

U E I E R R OR O T

MATTHEW MCGOVERN

CO-CHAIR, WRITER LIASON

JULI LIN

TU FU

CO-CHAIR, ONLINE EDITOR

COPY EDITORS

HEAD OF ART AND DESIGN

DESIGN TEAM

NUHA SHAIKH MOUMINA KHAN JAY GUO GAIA SANTORO LECCHINI EMMA STOUT MELANIE LITWIN LAUREN FISCHER RACHEL LIANG ALICE FANG

SOCIAL MEDIA & OUTREACH

ISABELLA GISMUNDO-HOOK

ASSISTANT WRITER LIASON

JASON EVERS

ASSISTANT ONLINE EDITOR

MADISON RED

FEATURED ARTISTS: Rachel Liang

Zoe Coyle Christy Yee

Madison Red

Olivia Cohen

Michelle Zhang

Newt Gordon-Rein

`

Kiara Reagan

CONTENT REVIEW TEAM:

Nuha Shaikh

Jason Evers

Gabby Begleiter

Clara Davis

Newt Gordon-Rein

Meghan Davis

Moumina Khan

Matthew McGovern

Jay Guo

Spencer Vernier Sophie Fishman

collage art | Olivia Cohen cover art (front & back) | Christy Yee

Aileen Guo Gaia Santoro Lecchini

TABLE OF CONTENTS pedigree of a lion cub

by Ariel Zedric

06 20

Two Body Problem

by Aileen Guo

a triumph

by Juli Lin

08 22

consequence of substantial pain

by Joy Mutanu Maina

Lichen

by Nuha Shaikh

09 23

Inheritance of a Solvent Spring

by Joy Mutanu Maina

Persimmons

by William Zhuang

10 24

Moose Sightings

by Kiara Reagan

a long winter’s fireplace

by Spencer Vernier

11 26

Deep Sleprivation

by Aileen Guo

Torch

by Nuha Shaikh

12 27

Do you think the wind goes to sleep?

by Joy Mutanu Maina

Burned So Beautiful

by Jay Guo

13 28

Pause

by Sarah Goldstein

Ella

by Rossiel Reyes

14 29

5 Instances of Fish

by Aileen Guo

We Ask for Only One

by Gaia Santoro Lecchini

16 30

Artisan

by Jay Guo

runaway: an interlude

by Ariel Zedric

17 32

Everest

by Hannah Wang

chang’e

by Juli Lin

18 34

On the Supposed Existence of Ghosts

by Newt Gordon-Rein

pedigree of a lion cub CW: violence and blood

by Ariel Zedric

art | Zoe Coyle

fh 6

I. born with an umbilical cord necklace, she is greeted with frowns at skin peeling with jaundice. her first memories are pearls on a dead woman and the snap of a casket. she grows alongside the lilies in the windowsill of her mother’s cement apartment. two years later, railroad tracks dent the driver’s side of her father’s car. she waits there until the lights come with metallic skin and lips sewn shut. the last in a family line of tragedy infested blood, left out to dry on gravel road without being taught how to bite II. the girl tries hard to stay out of trouble—hunters chase her into bathrooms with rat infestations, to broken sewers littered with face-down copper coins. they stick their guns in her mouth and she begs them not to fire, not understanding they’ve handed her their only weapon. they get off on her mercy. freshly weaned off cheap beer, she learns to deadbolt the door and lay honey out for ants tracked in on shit stomped boots. she sharpens her claws on threadbare carpets and smiles a cheshire grin, this is how you keep the men coming back home III. she reeks of mold, it’s hereditary. decays like yellow grass, out of season to live; itches the flees feasting on her flesh; knows there is something missing. no longer hunted, but still in danger. no longer bothered, but with nowhere to go. this is what happens to wild animals when they stop running. travelling for days beneath the sweltering sun, ignoring the speed limit. she sees a horizon, sitting atop gravestones, and bounds towards the cement front door, ignoring the field cacti that draw blood. curling up, with her chin tucked to her chest, she sleeps softly on a bed of lilies and forgets to wake up

fh 7

a triumph

by Juli Lin

CW: vague mentions of blood and weapons before the sun drags its glare over the ochre water of the river and the heavy leaves sway and sigh healing

bananas, ripe on the tree with their starchy flesh, wait hidden amongst waxy fronds and drops of sugarcane run down tributaries

the lazy river wanders through dialects, the shallows come alive and echoes of laughter linger dust clouds rise then sink into deep-set crosshatches, a vast grey expanse

humanity the clang of swords on shields and the blunt blow of a staff flat-bottomed feet turned sticky red crushing all in its wake grey are the warm-blooded tanks of Carthaginian generals and kings of Thailand long gone

eight tons of muscle and thick bone armoured in leather, larger than life and louder too, triumphant brass reverberating through the froth of the river, the thunder of heavy soles reenervating memory

loam yields to concrete infested with bamboo cages brushes held in dry cracked trunks smearing paint on stretched canvas constant heaviness on sloping backs, neon signs, blinding snapshots, in the name of discipline comes the cold blade of the bull-hook

art | Rachel Liang

fh 8

Lichen

by Nuha Shaikh

art | Michelle Zhang

cryptobiotic, look at us living and hiding in plain sight we slowly hold fast to cool stone scaffolding small foliage, see us algae and fungi share our one body, see us teach the simple things: how to give and take, remake, what it means to be pale green and gray, to save until the rain comes back, see me wait and drink the air, see me full for many days, see me make light into food, see me feed myself so good, see me generous and clean, see me weather rock away, centuries into slow soil, see me make room for more green, other growing little bodies see me give and then give back, see me flat and convoluted, speckled old growth curling dainty with our silken hyphae hair, we are tellers of the air, our isidia crystal columned, spread our memory with the wind, so we live, live on, and live; see us give.

fh 9

Persimmons

by William Zhuang In the waiting room I watch the space Be washed over by the light of a late Spring evening mixed with waves of Silence that spoke tender and slow My name will soon be called To be stripped bare of defense And I promise myself Not to be colored in shame For this is the remedy I must trust Pouring all of me into a stranger Leaving me the bitter and dry core Of a persimmon unripe My mother once taught me To place a batch of persimmons with apples to ripen faster Into capsules of autumn The past summer’s death Barely acknowledged

And how I wished to cheat My way out of time To keep within me the nectar’s richness To become the sweetness That seeped onto my fingers Or dripped off my chin Yet when it comes to me She is always convinced to wait To look no further than within And savor the days remembered For their sullen aftertaste Like a child I would grimace, shying away The tang within me puckered Still I trust this waiting room like a batch of apples Where I deserve to bloom and ripen Before soreness softens And love begins anew

art | Zoe Coyle

fh 10

by Spencer Vernier love is relentless i think as i sit with shivering legs nearly about to shatter and as she sits in wicker park hiding between the dimly lit tables meeting cold stares among friends soon to be abandoned we, the two of us share a common aching we stretch our limbs out into thin, empty air and think of the fleeting moments in which together skin touches a warm expanse rises heat flows from the breast and a long winter’s fireplace resides in the heart

fh 11

art | Madison Red

TORCH

by Nuha Shaikh

Touch me quiet in the night, your hand on my shoulder, the faintest brush of your lips on my palm.

Over the garden wall, quickly, with the Lady Moon as our only witness. Artemis would have loved you, bold and virtuous, a blaze in the night, leading me to brighter days.

Rely on me, and I will you. We’ll go farther than far away, until ships carry word of worn-through shoes and a mirror house, shattered yet standing, the water silent and finally still.

Close your eyes, I’ll help you over the creek, knee-deep. I know you fear drowning, of ending up pale blue, transformed into something weightless. I will be your eyes, you need not ask.

How fast can you run, my hero? I’ll tell you stories long enough to forget our parents’ morals, until dawn breaks and our bed sheets go cold in the dark, until my words have led us to a different land, where the night is rich and alight with two new stars; where when we jump, we float, we fly, and two hands catch us from the sky.

art | Rachel Liang

fh 12

BURNED SO BEAUTIFUL

by Jay Guo

A thousand footsteps, Gray slacks, oxfords, high-heels.

A thousand candles burn, and rain beats gently over.

A thousand prayers, hands quiet, breaths misty in the twilight air.

Did I do good?

A thousand breaths.

Glowing little briquette, it’s a miracle that I made it this far.

Crumbling briquette, I breathe better splayed beside you.

A thousand streaks— the searing afterglow of starlight and reckless teartracks.

I sang for you, once.

A thousand words.

Will you applaud for me still?

A thousand little candles.

Yes.

art | Rachel Liang

Yes, you did well. fh 13

Ella

by Rossiel Reyes

Ella no ha sabido paz en las noches. El tiempo donde la mente debe de andar por los mundos de los sueños, ella los pasa desvelada, sus ojos mirando hacia arriba. Los ronquidos de su mama llenan el silencio de la noche; los ruidos no son la única razón por su insomnio, pero la acompañan en su solitud.

Ella voltea hacia su hermana quien duerme suavemente con los labios ligeramente apartados. En la oscuridad del cuarto, no la puede ver, pero ella conoce los hábitos de su hermana. Su hermana menor quien no sabe la verdad. Pero en la noche ella le cuenta lo que en el día no tiene el coraje para decirle, sus ojos cerrados mirándola atentamente y sus sueños escuchando lo que ella le dice.

Ella estira sus manos y encuentra la de su mama en su lado derecha y el de su hermana en la izquierda. En sus manos ella contiene dos manos que cuentan diferentes historias.

La mano de su mama está llena de callos, llena de días largos de trabajo, llena de sacrificios diarios para poder alimentar a su familia. La mano de su hermana esta suave y liza. Joven, que, aunque ya ha visto y experimentado tragedias, no han tenido que ver la verdadera dificultad de la vida. Debajo de sus dedos, ella siente ambas manos; una generación las separa, pero sus similitudes las une esta noche.

Ella se moja los labios, su boca seca tiene el sabor metálico de la sangre. Se había mordido los labios por la ansiedad de la noche. De las verdades que se han hablado y escuchado en la oscuridad. De la realidad que llena su mente y sin la distracción de la vida del día para poder no pensar en él.

Ella se queda acostada en la noche pensando sobre el día que viene. Entre dos cuerpos cálidos, bajo los sarapes del invierno, ella vive otra noche en la cual no vienen los sueños Ella cierra los ojos y aprieta las manos de su mama y su hermana, tal vez ella nunca tendrá paz, pero al menos ellas sí la tienen.

art | Rachel Liang fh 14

fh 15

Given the chance, You, I, Me, Us, We! Could amount to Greatness.

But the ones with glaring, the glaring, glazed glazed eyes, eyes, They who gave us our names, Find such choices of Change, such chivalry of Championing chance, Expensive and endangering A threat to all they know.

Instead they bottle their alma maters, Badges of decadence decadence, Of demanding dreams, dreams And leave them to decant A soft smell of passion unspent.

Careening towards conclusion, Craning our heads up in hope of being heard, Craving the life so callously claimed, we cry A mixture of mirth and despair.

To forget us tied tirelessly To the time warped post–– post— You, I, Me, Us, We–– We— Would be but the bane Of our brilliant brains!

WE

ASK FOR ONLY

ONE

by Gaia Santoro Lecchini

art | Christy Yee fh 16

runaway: an interlude

by Ariel Zedric empty, hollow streets criss-cross town while missing person posters fight staples dug into soggy, infested wood posts. at the end of the block, a single house stands, porch sagging beneath gutters of guilt. the weeds creep past the paint-chipped shudders, crawl down its throat towards the bedroom, drown the toys in dirt. in another world, the owners still sat with their ankles crossed politely at the kitchen table, waiting for the phone to ring. but here the elements have faded the number from the bottom of the posters—no one left to call. this was what happened to love, when it had nowhere to go. i’ve been gone for a while—off in search of myself i suppose— letting the runoff from my life sat in an empty house fermenting in the memories i left. with the love i couldn’t hold. i don’t think i’ll ever return. even if i did it’d be impossible to make a living amongst all that filth.

art | Zoe Coyle fh 17

chang’e

by Juli Lin

sweltering out of nowhere the unceasing burn of ten suns shade no longer a respite spring one day and hell the next no rice to be harvested, men and children dropping dead or delirious with sunstroke a man as resolute and unwavering as the nine flint arrowheads tucked behind his shoulder takes his bow aims

nine eight seven six

five four three two until all is right coolness washes over the land he’s given medals, honor and glory but nothing can outshine the elixir only one vial gifted when they make two

over meals of braised meat and steaming rice, and quiet conversation at night in a bed drenched in moonlight her red robes folded neatly next to his navy ones on the dresser he looks at chang’e brushes a tender thumb over her brow bone considers each dainty hair to be immortal, alone for millenia or to live out the rest of his days happily with his wife by his side?

the latter, he easily decides,

resolute as always.

content. until one cool autumn evening he comes back, sees her drifting away towards the moon vial cracked and empty next to the unmade bed he doesn’t let the wound sink in he aims at the moon at her if he’s as good as they say she might come hurtling back down to earth.

one two three four

five six seven eight nine all of them miss fh 18

art | Rachel Liang the moon gains a new shadow his bow remains dormant he places a bowl of braised meat and rice on the doorstep in the morning feeds her untouched meal to the dogs rinses the bowl does it again the next day fh 19

Two-Body Problem

by Aileen Guo

CW: vague mentions of blood

art | Kiara Reagan fh 20

Mother, I have given you my eyes My ears My brain.

In my head I am whatever I want to be But I can’t get out.

Mother, you and I are ingrown It is not your malice that kills me.

We each hold one of my lungs.

In one is all I used to be.

In the other is all that I am All that I have.

My ribs are pried apart but mother, I can’t breathe without you.

Mother, some days I begrudge that I learned to breathe Out of water But not out of your arms.

I synchronized my breaths to be an inverse of yours.

Your parasite Your afterimage Your flower Your spring.

The child that is you lives inside me But neither of us knows how I grow.

In my head there is only me And also you.

You are the first word And the last.

bleeding.

Will you, mother?

Will you keep me in a jar?

Mother, where do my thoughts go When they disappear inside you?

All that I am was yours But still, I ask for it back.

All that I am was never mine But still, I want it from you.

When I was young you sounded Smelled Looked Like my future.

Now there is nothing I am more afraid to imagine than your mind.

Is warm honey tea love, mother?

Is a secret? Is a threat?

Is a song? Is a memory?

Am I absolved of my donor?

Are you absolved of me?

There is no me without you.

There is no me except without you.

Is blood love? Is blood poison?

Mother, there is only one organ I can’t name because you would take it from me.

You need my other lung but I need it too.

Tell me there was no other way, Mother.

Tell me there were no other words.

If we are excised I will never stop

fh 21

consequence of substantial pain

by Joy Mutanu Maina Greetings, little egg How are you I haven’t been taking care of you For a while now Lots of folks along the way Helped whether they wanted to or not I’m left with glorious ruins For now we wait at the table Patiently wondering how long ago first was Soup like rivers stripped at the bottom we wait Getting precious stone and valley ready Proof of jesus, singing melanin harmonies Upwelling from beneath boom a chain becomes Us It’s time to make the time Now it’s The Handmaid’s Tale crimson red with letterin’ On the field of even more guessing Who’s here pressing for power Saying we don’t know what to expect, we’ll need some help And damn the rings shine like they do like “just sittin’ here foolin’ around” (Knowles, 1:34) Carrying firsts of firsts of firsts Isn’t this normal?

Rich with expectancy To become a person able to hold you as long as you need And learn to bear letting you go Until we meet Love, Mamma

art | Zoe Coyle fh 22 fh 22

INHERITANCE OF A SOLVENT SPRING If you are alone but also lonely Remember the sky Remember its immense love for your skin Hedges of afflictions eclipsed

BY Joy Mutanu Maina

A shot of wind chased down New ripple with each ray Beams through trees seeing acres away Wakes and rises to the beat of the same drum Scenes of ancients, myths, and greats up above Making space for sister moon to show her orbit for the night Remember the rainbows and their shards of color Bursting into open air Craning necks alerted at the galor Father hungry with heat

grabs a hold of droplets In turn, feeding green with bountiful showers Mother sprouts with laughter Full of joy and harvest for her children Now they can play unabandoned, unabashed Remember that all that you are Is the essence of this union You are found in night sky Whole and complete in rivers Chosen by the land Claimed by the Origin.

art | Rachel Liang fh 21 23 fh

e s o o M tings Sigh art | Zoe Coyle

by Kiara Reagan CW: blood, gore

I heard at work today that moose are being driven mad by deer ticks.

“I saw a moose on my drive this morning, walked right in front of the truck,” Peter was telling everybody as they mulled over the coffee machine.

“Incredible! I haven’t seen one in, ah, must be two years now,” Maggie replied.

“Numbers are way down, the ticks’re killin’ them.”

“Sucking them dry?”

“Nope, drivin’ ‘em mad. Moose can’t stand the feeling of all the ticks gorging themselves green, so they run. They just run and run and run ‘til they die.”

I chime in, “I saw a couple deer last night.”

“Aw, yeah, they’re all over though,” Maggie said, dismissing it.

I had seen the ticks at summer camp one year, when I was maybe twelve, in the pelt of moose collected by a park ranger as part of a population survey. Each one was marked with a pin and the moose looked like it was getting its entire body relaxed through acupuncture. Conrad, a counselor with curly red hair and clean brown eyes, showed me this. He led moose watches in the fall and demonstrated a moose call for us. When it was thundering, I sat at a table in the cafeteria with him and we drew on copy paper. He was drawing a life-like little bird on a branch, using a magazine cut-out as a reference.

fh 24

“Did you draw this girl with the bow and arrow?” He asked, and I nodded my head. “That’s incredible.” I felt a rush of bubbles in my stomach.

I thought about him on the way home from work. I always thought about him when I drove through Franconia, even though it had been six years since I’d last gone to camp. I turned off Main Street onto 116, going five over because I was afraid I would be late to meet up with Mark. We would meet up alone tonight for the first time in weeks; he would always bring other friends along, like I wasn’t interesting enough to hang out with alone.

Yesterday I left and he didn’t even notice. Everyone was invested in Josh’s story: his dog had gotten kicked to death by a moose in his backyard.

When I got home I called my mom to tell her about it and she said, “Ah, that’s boys for you.” Silence lingered on the phone line as she found something of interest to talk about. “Did you see that your cousin hit a moose? His car is totaled, entirely crushed; your aunt was telling me. . .”

Towards the end of 116 I passed the moose crossing sign and I let out a sigh. My mom always saw moose here during her commute and I had never. I kept my eyes peeled around the curves as the pines turned to swamp. I slowed into the curves. Mark could wait. It would be worth it if I brought him a good story.

A tree rose to the left of the road as I came around a corner. No, not a big tree. A brown horse. Not a brown horse, a moose.

I pulled over onto the narrow shoulder and left my blinker on as I took a picture (good stories require proof). It was grainy, and barely recognizable through the car window, so I rolled it down. Still, I was seeing the moose from the back and its head wasn’t visible. I needed it to look at me, so I opened the door and stepped out. It raised its head. It had a seventy-inch spread and six brow tines on each antler.

I knew not to get close to moose because they could be aggressive if frightened, but one step wouldn’t hurt, so I took it.

I thought back to Peter at work:

“I saw a moose on my drive this morning, walked right in front of the truck.” My mother had seen moose too.

Mark hunted, I was sure he had seen a moose.

Conrad led moose-watches, it was his job to see moose. I was sure he had seen a hundred. But I was also sure none of them had touched a moose; none of them had ever stroked the matted fur, the wet nose, or the velvety antlers.

I took another step forward with my face flushing. I continued to step, heel to toe, quietly and slowly. The moose snorted wet drops from its nostrils and shook its head.

...continue reading on futurehistoriesmag.org fh 25

DEEP SLEPRIVATION The lights are too dull and the words are too bright.

My mind desperately wishes to escape, Peeling at the edges from reality Like a sticker soaked in Chinkiang vinegar.

Trying to switch channels from vision, In focus, a camera zoomed in too far, Into my brain like a worm through the ear.

The little voices in my head ignore me And chatter to each other.

I wish I was angled differently.

Pendulum neck. Reverse window eyes Stuck on the way up, not down. Down.

Need to lock to keep wall-crawlers out but When did it get so stuffy in here?

Good night good night good night.

Midnight is midday is dusk is noon.

Sun is the Earth and Earth is the moon.

Leaving too soon.

Leaving alone.

Talk to me, summon me back, Demand me to think and I will breathe.

I am not me.

I’m floating. I’m sinking.

Sweet dreams, fish.

by Aileen Guo

art | Rachel Liang fh 26

your Name blows breath’s final besos a strange love affair when the sun beams too bright spirit tells the last season to take rest, beckoning the new One

hatch near the small box called memory free, choice, Dignity an arrow free relentless and soaring to its home refined like a steel river and iridescent through the pain

bright rays of radiance piercing through pigmented leaves your Name shatters glass like a Love that’s been sealed

Do you think the wind goes to sleep?

Does it know the difference between night and day? yawn with the rest of us as the sun rises and get warm and cozy by a fire for the night?

your Name is like big oceans waves breaks stubborn wood but bends often

Or does it stay up all night a Rebel surrounded by sounds that repeat conformity Over acceptance Cricket Cricket

Feels like Drops of Love and care hoodie this hoodie that yesterday said Hello Aunty! I know that’s right domes call back and wars have to Heal hell is alive but there is an escape

ar

w Ne | t

tG

Do you think the wind goes to sleep?

-Rein n o ord

by Joy Mutanu Maina

fh 27

Pause

by Sarah Goldstein

do you feel the world humming? shivers, shiver, life is short the ocean’s waves sport decay decay so light, so pretty On the second day, God separated the skies and the seas, but Night fuses them back together. sky and sea, sea and sky perhaps they have longed for one another ancient lovers, shivers, shiver the certain aching relief of rain returned to water On the sixth day, God constructed humans to forever change the Earth: ancient lovers may reunite for the heavens are shifting and hell waits for no one. so they say we are made of stars and perhaps we are doomed as stars far and flickering, long dead (shivers, shiver) as waves continue the rumble, does the world feel your humming?

art | Christy Yee

fh 28

5 Instances of Fish

by Aileen Guo In the middle of the night, the chopping Of what must be Fish On the cutting board.

My grandfather with his butcher knife.

Years later, I learn He never stayed up late.

Soaked in vinegar.

Handed a bowl of small raw fish and A pair of scissors.

Stab through the hole in the belly Tear them open And rip out the innards.

It is messy. Slippery.

The blood on my hands makes me hungry.

I’m still waiting for another chance.

I wondered why The crab was blue.

I discovered a lie: They’re only red When cooked through.

In China, the fish on the platter of ice Flops.

I poke it again and again To see if it’s still alive.

A plastic bag of shrimp Bought cheap.

art | Kiara Reagan

fh 29

a s I t r A uo G y a J by

Don’t say you know how to love a man, how to kiss against the hard sinews of his neck and feel his sweat-slicked ribs against your palms.

How to live in an apartment you feel your way through in the darkness, the shape of it worn and beautiful— until you find him hunched and sheet-tangled, face gaunt in moonlight.

How to watch your father die, clutch his bony fingers the way you couldn’t as a child; cry, and love a man for loving your father’s broken body the same way that you did.

fh 30

n a

How to return home, fever running; be soothed by his weight over yours, his stubble scraped gently against your cheek Blood never cooling, and be kissed firm across the crooked knuckles you used to fight with.

How to burn and free fall in the night, breath raw and heaving, the enormous pressure of your wrists against your eyelids; Run and run and don’t ever answer your mother’s calls, How to sit skinny and pathetic and trembling in the night; feel a dirty gritty wetness at your palms like there’d be blood on them if you looked; learn to hold and bear these beautiful hands, your father’s hands, the ones you Love so hard with—

art | Michelle Zhang fh 31

there’s a melancholic stillness about the thinning air— it whispers in the wind and among the rocks, telling tales of how these bones once fell and how the world went on all the same. it’s the top of the conquered world where angels ought to fly, but all that’s lingering on those jagged lines are quiet souls left to their own despair.

by Hannah Wang

EVEREST EVEREST

here lies no one, is what the coldness says when tired gazes are passed around, and echoes of distant desires evanesce into bitter frost. there is an eternity of loss to be spent in as many nameless graves. this is not human triumph; this is the cemetery where insanity is bred. so the abandoned sleep obliviously, for in their memory the world keeps turning and the snow still falls.

art | Madison Red

fh 32

art | Madison Red fh 33

On the Supposed Existence of Ghosts

By Newt Gordon-Rein

fh 34

art | Rachel Liang If I have a ghost, it only manifests itself in automatic soap dispensers and the occasional flicking on or off of streetlights above me.

In ninth grade, I asked my bio teacher what the root word for cold was and he made sure to tell me that COLD DOES NOT EXIST COLD IS MERELY THE ABSENCE OF HEAT, which barely makes sense because heat is just the fastness of particles, a gradation with no start or end, and now that I think about it, I wonder if he would have said something similar about hot.

Ghosts seem a lot like God to me. They are both suspiciously human-shaped. They are both in the air. They both live off of the hopeful minds of mortals.

It turns out that our bodies are really bad at listening to science, and even though cold is not a scientifically helpful descriptor, we still feel it. Your four square yards of skin hold secrets on secrets.

The band Mother Mother wrote a song called Ghosting. It is a mildly allegorical tale from the perspective of a jilted ghost. The youth of the internet have picked it up and flung it out to land on all the ears of the world.

I wrote at the end of a heartfelt letter thanking my bio teacher for the class he taught, P.S. the root word for cold is krypto ☺.

I still don’t believe in canonical ghosts, but I do find it interesting to think of ghosting as an action, as the state of being a thing left behind.

Language is a human science: the way we see and interact with and hold down the parts of the world we think we can explain. Thus, we have words for things that do not exist, like cold or sad or God or ghost. In sticks and spaces, and between our mouths and ears, we make the abstract into something real.

Darker bricks shadow a wall where an adjacent building once stood. An image is repeated in raindrops. One ripped-out page of a book on how to manage your money rests in the gutter. To all these things, I bear witness. In my head, I call them ghosts.

Streetlight miracles may be a function of chance, and the soap dispenser motion sensor in my dormitory bathroom is probably just broken, but the fact remains that the persistence of these peculiarities makes me feel less alone. And if, on some level, feeling is being, then perhaps I do have a ghost. Perhaps his name is Charles. Perhaps he is often cold.

fh 35