HELICON LITERARY MAGAZINE
Northwestern University • Winter 2012
EDITOR’S LETTER One afternoon, in true literary fashion, I tripped down to the Northwestern Archives in the basement of Deering Library. The considerate Janet Olson provided me with a stack of magazines to sift through as I sought to learn more about Helicon’s predecessors. Northwestern has gone through no less than a dozen literary magazines, starting with The Tripod, a dual newspaper and magazine in 1871 that published articles on topics ranging from engineering to plagiarism to Walt Whitman. It was followed by The Vidette, a rather dry publication whose writers were somewhat obsessed with Tennyson. The Northwestern, started in 1881, later changed its focus to news and its name to The Daily. In 1916, the editor of The Candle articulated the need for a separate publication focusing on literature and arts that did not intersect with what he termed “petty news.” While The Candle only lasted for two years, it was Northwestern’s first exclusively literary magazine. The Scrawl came next, which lasted for four years; then The Manuscript, which lasted for five. The Purple Parrot, published from 1923-1950, enjoyed long-range success by focusing on humor and colorful graphics. (Unfortunately, “humor” in the 1920s was very different than it is today, and most of the jokes were lost on me…) The Gadfly, the socialist literary magazine, was published for only one year in 1933; The Pegasus lasted for three years; and the last literary magazine (before Helicon) was The Profile, which lasted for 10. Why bother with this history of literary magazines? Well, for one thing, it allows me to assert that Helicon is Northwestern’s longest-running literary publication. We’ve been around since 1979, which makes us practically middle-aged. This longevity, while undoubtedly something to be proud of, nevertheless begs the question: Why Helicon? A combination of factors has allowed Helicon to persist long after the flames of other magazines like The Candle have died out. For one thing, unlike the editors of The Tripod, we are no longer plagued by roaming cows on campus—which, apparently, was a terrible problem back in the late 1800s. More importantly, Helicon enjoys tremendous support from the Office of Residential Colleges and their director, Nancy Anderson. This issue would not have been possible without our faculty adviser, Steve Duke, or the wonderful folks at Printing Arts. Nor can we forget the lightening speed and endless patience of our Chief Designer, Mackenzie, or the hard work of our editorial board and general staff. In the end, though, it is the Northwestern undergraduates themselves who keep Helicon alive and in print. As long as there are students who produce excellent prose, literature, films, music, and art, Helicon will be there to publish them. Your dedicated EIC, Alina Dunbar
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EDITOR IN CHIEF Alina Dunbar MANAGING EDITOR Ryan Jenkins OPERATIONS MANAGER Minna Zhou POETRY Editor: Ben Weinstein Daniel Cohen Veronica Benduski Jen Curtis Hilary Flynn Matt Levin Hilary Rasch ART Editor: Jasmine Jennings Sara Cohen Kira Cozzolino Alex Lordahl Irene Kearney Claire Potter Vasiliki Valkanas PROSE Editor: George Elkind Shelby Kling Sam Raim Charles Rollett Arabella Watters Corinne White Alexandra Zaretsky FACULTY ADVISOR Steve Duke
ABOUT THE MAGAZINE Helicon was the brainchild of three students in Mary Kinzie’s 1979 poetry sequence. Lisa Getter, Christina Calvit, and Michael Steele wanted to provide Northwestern with a regularly published literary magazine that could showcase the artistic work of the student body. Helicon began and still resides in Chapin, the Humanities Residential College, and is funded by the Residential College Program through the Office of the Provost. The first issue appeared in the Spring of 1980, and included contributions from Northwestern faculty including Joseph Epstein and Mary Kinzie. The works published herein are the sole property of the writers and artists who created them. No work may be used without the explicit permission of the author or artist.
DESIGN Chief designer: Mackenzie McCluer Cover illustrator: Vasiliki Valkanas Alex Lordahl Emily Park Ian Robinson MUSIC & MULTIMEDIA Editor: John Rossiter Lara Saldanha Amanda Scherker Hayley Stevens Jordan Thomas Marcus Ybarra-Whittemore
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PROSE 8 21 26 35 41 ** ** **
Forget-Me-Node by Lizi Jones Emerson Stevens’s Brain by Stuart Babcock Skinned by Chloe Cole Reading The Homeless by Abigail Jenkins The Travelers by Allison Manley * In The Conservatory by Laura Jok The Girl With The Suitcase by Allison Manley The Last Thing Fried by Ezra Olson
MUSIC 16 18 ** ** ** ** ** **
Superimpose by Patrick O’Malley * You Seem So Real by Fleur de Lune * Oración Para Servico by Sasha Bayan / Aurelia Quickstep by Sasha Bayan/Aurelia Solitude (Duke Ellington arr.) by Jeremy Levine Turbulence by Laura Moreno Pecks of Light That Open Pomegranate Stars by Matt Yetter The Wait by Zamin
* These pieces are excerpted here and available in full at www.nuhelicon.com. ** These pieces are available at www.nuhelicon.com.
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ART & FILM 6 12 13 14 17 18 20 24 34 38 40 ** ** **
Cantaloupe by Emily McCall Strata 7 by Stephanie Shapiro The Seagull (Costume Designs) by Maggie Fish and Will Wilhelm Praha by Spenser Gabin * Buy Buy Bambi by Jason Pan * Breakaway by Emily McCall Through The Looking Glass by Joyce Chen Project 0 by Charles Agbaje * Zach Galifianakis by Lynne Carty Surprised by Hayley MacMillian Untitled by Allison Schloss Him by Crystal Kim Untitled by Emily McCall Strata 9 by Stephanie Shapiro
POETRY 7 11 19 37 36
to the firefly by Laura Whittenburg Flicker by Alison Watts The Dollhouse by Sarah Davidson Devil At The Crossroads by Joshua Kopel earl grey by Laura Whittenburg
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by Emily McCall
CANTALOUPE
by Laura Whittenburg
TO THE FIREFLY your midair won’t last. straining away shrinks twigs, leaves: it gives you somewhere but not settling, so stop— float back down. rest your tired wings. heed not the small philosopher in the shadows— or his jam jar.
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FORGETME-NODE by Lizi Jones
It was worrisome, she realized, that he had worked his way into her subconscious. That she found she reflexively used his idioms without a thought to their origin; that she had slowly incorporated his stories, triumphs, and injuries into her own experiential repertoire; that those freshly sprouted passions she enthusiastically cultivated had in fact taken root with his help; hell, that she had been halfway through assembling her Halloween costume before recalling he had been the same thing the year before, 800 miles east and just as silent on the wires.
The part of her mind whose negligence had so often allowed her to dwell on him flexed its muscles admirably in the months after the blackout. From the moment she received with incredulity the last feeble spurt of electrons through the atmosphere between them, and just as quickly wiped clean the pixels that bore his name, the Forget-Me-Node had functioned at peak capacity. It forcibly slammed the lid on the box containing His memory each time the nimble fingers of her self-pity traced and pried its edges, slapping the wrists of her ramshackle coping mechanisms for knowing better than to poke around. From deep within the thickets of her memory it stood vigil over her mind’s meandering, erecting a sturdy fence and pacing the perimeter to prevent her passage. It weathered her persistence with steady competence, sternly prohibiting her from overstepping her bounds and awarding praise when she learned to avoid the forbidden territory on her own. For months, the box’s fortifications were impenetrable, the Node’s measures militant, and the memory of Him kept safely, comfortably, and happily at bay. She moved away. The footpaths that traced the forbidden fence narrowed, - 8 -
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the daisy-chains and tendrils of passing thought she afforded the box’s contents disintegrated and blew away. The sentinel Node aged, walking its route by habit now, no longer guarding the fence with such assured purpose. The resilient, capering charge it had so delighted in protecting was grown and far off, discovering and experiencing and forging new paths, stringing new chains as she traveled.
Halloween passed, the lines remained untouched, and she returned back east. In her house there resided a white door she had come to avoid almost instinctually: a door that led back to before He had become part of her subconscious, back to before the Forget-Me-Node, back to Him and all she had learned to forget. She stood speculatively before the thing now, eyeing wood grain that flowed beneath smooth white paint, intrigued by the double-image that floated before her. In the time elapsed since the blackout it appeared the white door, hanging in this lonely wing of the house leaking a strip of light over her toes, had merged in her mind’s eye with the lid of that awful box sequestered deep in the recesses of her mind. She considered them both skeptically, her hand poised on the doorknob to His memory.
She entertained the thought of returning to the old wood where the box lay hidden, of treading lush undergrowth and soft needles once more, hoping to greet the guardian of that hurt in the heart of the forest and thank it for its service. Her resolve solidified by the time and distance she had spent away, she set off to find the Node once more. She threaded her way with practiced movements along familiar pathways, hopping synaptic stepping stones with measured bounds, finding worn handholds in the notched branches, smoothly avoiding the sharp points that made her wince. It did not take long for the path to darken. Her memory tensed when she neared the shadows of the forbidden thicket, and her progress stalled for a moment. Pausing in a clearing, she pulled a dried daisy from an envelope tucked within her layers. Her mind eyed petals she had spent afternoons plucking wistfully on His behalf while her Forget-Me-Node’s gaze roved. After a time, the nimble fingers cradling its brittle form spread, loosing the scraps of the fortunetelling blossom to the breeze. She moved onward deliberately. - 9 -
FORGET-ME-NODE • LIZI JONES
Arriving at that old place, she found the once-tidy fence unkempt and decayed. She grew uneasy as she eyed the abandoned fortifications, and for the first time the thought of facing what lay beyond them without protection occurred to her. She blanched, but pressed forward, picking her way through prying brambles and tangled recollections. The air chilled rapidly as she drew nearer to the old forbidden box. With each step closer, the certainty she had so painstakingly wrought in the time since leaving slipped faster from her grasp. She called out for the Forget-Me-Node in alarm, summoning her faithful sentinel with mounting panic, raising her voice to the stiffening breeze to call her warrior to her side. But the Node was nowhere to be found—indeed, its precious charge had healed and forgotten, the antagonist subdued, the tour of duty long since completed, hadn’t it? The wind snaked beneath her collar and cut close to her skin, wringing out shivers and shudders and making her fingers shake. It cruelly tugged at her tresses, scattering her solidarity and flinging her fortitude to the elements. It flattened the creaking ribs of the derelict fence with sordid satisfaction, teasing the lip of that horrible box before her. She cast desperately about for the guardian that had kept her safe, all that time forcibly quelling the box’s contents into submission; teaching her to forget, teaching her how to become whole without the box, its contents, or its legacy—so she thought. She stumbled toward the smooth edges of the thing against her will, averting her eyes and bracing for an impact. The wind gave a final vindictive blast that ripped the lid open and threw her shaking form forward, crushing her into the hateful box and knocking all breath from her lungs. She slumped inside as the world around her spiraled upward, hurtling out of her grasp with an urgent roar.
This has been an excerpt of Lizi Jones’s “Forget-Me-Node.” To read the rest, visit www.nuhelicon.com.
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by Alison Watts
FLICKER
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by Stephanie Shapiro
STRATA 7
by Maggie Fish and Will Wlhelm
THE SEAGULL (COSTUME DESIGNS)
SUPERIMPOSE by Patrick O’Malley
To hear the piece, visit www.nuhelicon.com.
BUY BUY BAMBI by Jason Pan To view the film, visit www.nuhelicon.com.
PRAHA by Spencer Gabin
To view the film, visit www.nuhelicon.com.
YOU SEEM SO REAL by Fleur de Lune To hear the piece, visit www.nuhelicon.com.
by Emily McCall
BREAKAWAY
by Sarah Davidson
THE DOLLHOUSE The veins across her aging hands Made tiny risen rivers, blue. When I was small I laughed at them Although they were the givers, true Of casseroles in flowered bowls, Of books we read ‘til they wore thin, Of love so hard and fast and full It grabbed and held and locked us in. In a dollhouse world her hands played God; They spelled out loopy spelling words. They dealt out decks of playing cards And sewed and knit and darned and purled. When I held them so tight in mine Their skin spotted and paper thin I’d trace once and again their lines And I’d push those blue rivers in.
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EMERSON STEVENS’S BRAIN by Stuart Babcock
Emerson Stevens was a dreamer in the way that some men are alcoholics: he could not help but get drunk on the whims of his thoughts. In a time where men aim to control their thoughts, it could only be said that Emerson Stevens’s thoughts controlled him. Indeed, he was far less interested in people than the fantastic ideas that his mind could create. He once told me that he was closer to his ideas because they do not change; new ideas are born of old ones, but those old ideas are static like a fond memory. One fragment of his mind that drifted into his awareness could quickly become the focus of his formidable intellect for weeks on end. When we still conversed, he would bring the latest fancy of his brain to the fore, and would not settle until its contents had been fully explored, declared, refuted, and then left in the same state that they had come in. Over the past few months, I have perused the hundreds of pages that he left behind in various journals. To attack everything that he thought, created over the course of many years, is not the purpose of this story. I will attempt to recreate the final months of Emerson’s life using the material from what I believe to be his final journal. Beginning a little over halfway through this journal, the writing becomes erratic. The letters, previously drawn with great precision and uniformity, are quickly transmogrified into a seething mess of wavering lines and flustered forms. Beautiful to see despite its chaos, or perhaps because of it, they appear indicative of a change in Emerson’s brain. I recall his love of Arabic calligraphy for its visual aesthetics. He did not read Arabic, and I see his own writing at this time as the way he saw those foreign characters: incomprehensible, but created with great purpose. Through the mess of dark ink I found the center of his syntactical matrix. It was a quote from Aristotle’s Poetics that I cannot quite
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EMERSON STEVENS’S BRAIN • STUART BABCOCK
remember, but it concerned the relation between an eye for metaphor and the capacity for genius. The next several pages are a series of charts containing increasingly disparate elements. The very first chart has on its x-axis “mind” while the y-axis has “body.” These charts grow more complex as the pages go by. One juxtaposes the elements “idealism,” “freedom,” and “creation” with “rage,” “love,” and “guilt.” Others are far less straightforward, pitting “string viruses” against “string theory” and “the integers” against “psychology.” The entries in these charts appear to delineate relations between any two of the given entities. The end of this section has a last one-by-one chart, contrasting “me/subject” and “world/object.” It has, as may or may not be expected, a blank entry. Other charts are found sporadically throughout the rest of the journal, though they dissipate sharply after one particularly aggressive entry many pages later. This entry must have been written in the final weeks of Emerson Stevens’s life, for it concerned the idea most central to his end. About a quarter of the way down the page on the left-hand side is written, quite simply, “To connect everything is to become infinite; to do so one must become everything.” After a few more brief notes on this topic, his journals evolve into disjointed thoughts from different temporal spaces. After a few half-used pages of unintelligible ramblings and small, ornate drawings lies Emerson’s final entry. I have never seen such detail from my friend. There is a reminiscence of his older, neater writing, but the precision is so great that there appears something divine in it. He had written the sacred syllable Om, crafted with a degree of artistry that few mortal hands could achieve. I do not believe that Emerson spoke with anyone during this time in his life. While I have little to no evidence to suggest that this was the case, there is an impulse deeper than reason that compels me to believe it is so. Solitude was the preferred manifestation of his nature, and on such an endeavor I have no doubt that he wanted only his own company. I had thought for a while that Emerson Stevens had gone on some sort of great self-actualizing quest in search of this sought-after genius, consuming himself in the process. However, about five months after he disappeared, his body was found in a nearby forest. The layers of snow had preserved the site as he left it. He had secluded himself with a scant provision of rice and beans, a shelter made from an old tarp and dead branches, and a raincoat. His lack of supplies seems to indicate that he knew he would not be around for much - 21 -
EMERSON STEVENS’S BRAIN • STUART BABCOCK
longer. When the cadaver was examined, the authorities found that the skull was hollow. They found no signs of head trauma on the corpse. His official cause of death was starvation. The body weighed only seventy-eight pounds at the time of its discovery. These proceedings did not particularly surprise me. Emerson Stevens was a strange man, and I had always known that he would meet his end in an even stranger way. He was destined to die as a poetic figure, just as I was destined with the task of telling his story. I use the word death now, but I do not actually believe that Emerson Stevens died. I came to this conclusion after reading a noteworthy article on the electrical activity of the brain in the spring of this past year. When one thinks, that thought stimulates signals through certain neural pathways. More complex thoughts stimulate a greater number of pathways, and also increase the brain’s electrical activity. Hypothetically, if one could think every thought at once, all axons firing in simultaneous ecstasy, then I can only imagine that the brain, if it could be viewed at such a moment, would be pure light in its emanation and in its essence. Such energy concentrated in such a small space could only cause its dissolution; the force would simply be too great. In a moment, the soul would be poured out in the light and join that realm only occupied by angels, ideas, and vapors. Who is to say that the eternal mind of the universe is naught but the unity of all things? I, for one, am not so bold to say that it is not. ■
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by Stephanie Shapiro
THROUGH THE LOOKING GLASS
PROJECT 0 by Charles Agbaje To read the rest, visit www.nuhelicon.com.
SKINNED by Chloe Cole
All you want is to see your face. You’re supposed to listen to the man’s stern voice, but the table top before you is a mirror, a frozen lake of a mirror, and you want to see your face. You will have to lean forward and he will know you aren’t listening. He talks at you about how your friends are here, how their love is present, how you should accept the positive energy. You want to wipe his words off your forehead.
Two months before the cancellation, before your eighteenth birthday, you couldn’t get enough of mirrors. You looked different in every mirror. No one noticed, except Kevin. You thought his name was Kevin, this guy you met at the network producer’s party. The producer’s house was perched between the Hills, like a birdhouse, a house for colorful, screechy birds. The music was so loud you thought the house was going to squirm off its perch and somersault down into the valley. You went to the bathroom where you could place a hand on each wall and brace yourself. When you looked, your arms twitched, shimmering, covered with violet and azure feathers. Kevin followed you. He told you to look in the mirror. You didn’t want to at first. Then, you did. You told him you looked different than you remembered. He made you look away and back. He blinked. Then, he opened his eyes really wide. He said he saw what you saw. He kept pointing to the mirror and asking you who it was. You shouted the truth, you weren’t sure. He thought that was a good answer. He couldn’t keep his hands off your waist the rest of the night.
You delivered, and they laughed. They threw their mouths open so wide their jaws unhinged and they couldn’t control their faces. They were laughing - 26 -
SKINNED • CHLOE COLE
but they were also yelling. A dark sea of heads bobbing, yelling at you. The searchlight, emanating from the dark, finding you, filled you up. You had to hold yourself together so you didn’t burst with light. This happened for an eternity. You tumbled through the routine. Line. Laughter. Line. Laughter. The clapping meant it was done. Then, the cool dark of offstage, the director with notes, patting you on the back. Each touch left a mark, your skin freckled with handprints. Backstage, they said different words to you, but they meant the same thing: you were keeping everyone afloat out there.
“Are you with us?” the stern man asks. Jo stuffs a hand into her mouth. You can tell she is laughing. So you start to laugh. It’s funny, right? It’s funny. “Where else would I be?” you wheeze. You see how this makes Jo keel over. You keel, too, folding yourself in half. “I don’t see what’s so funny.” You can see what’s funny. You can taste its taffy taste on your tongue. Funny always tastes like taffy. You’ve forgotten why. You want to ask the man who he is, who the hell he thinks he is. But then he might ask you who you are and who everyone in this cramped Holiday Inn room is, and you’re not sure. On the couch, there’s Xavier, your manager, Nina, your new assistant who says you’re “besties,” and Jo who does your makeup, or she used to. Pete and Lara sit on the bed, behind the man. They’re friends or friends of friends. They’re somebody’s cousins. They’re a good time. Your mother isn’t here. You check. No, your mother isn’t here. When was your mother last here? Who invited this guy? You want to say that. Pete and Lara would eat it up. The stern man stares at you. He’s asked you a question. “What should I say?” you ask. “It’s not important what you should say,” the stern man corrects you. “It’s important you say what you want to say.” Jo stops laughing. You suck your lips in, biting them. They tingle if you hold them like this. The air is very heavy now, thick like icing. You wish the world were the place it was a minute ago. You decide to pull a face. - 27 -
SKINNED • CHLOE COLE
“What is that, Heather? A punchline?” Your face is putty. You can make it stick however you want if you push it around.
Taffy. Taffy on your tongue. Your mother bought you taffy in large plastic bags. Bought by the handful. It was your favorite. It was her favorite so it was your favorite. The best part of auditions was leaving the big rooms with the black eye camera and the crisp scripts and crawling afterwards into the station wagon, sniffing that taffy. The two of you would drive to the outdoor market in the wide, old car. You would run amongst the barrels, and you got to pick out as much taffy as you wanted. As you drove away from the market, your mother would glance sideways at you, peeling her eyes off the road. Sometimes, she would take a hand off the wheel and place it on your head. That was a good sign. “Look at you, kiddo,” she’d say. You would try to imagine what she was seeing. “You know what you are?” she’d chirp. “You’re a star.” Then, she would press the gas and the two of you would fly.
“I’m shy. People don’t believe it, but I’m a shy person,” you told the woman with the hairspray scent. The lights were bright, but you didn’t squint. The people in the dark on the other side of the lights stayed quiet. They never said anything, but they decided what you did. “But you’re an actress,” she countered. “That’s not me,” you explained. You put your hands on your cheeks like you were blushing, but you weren’t. Your cheeks were cold. “That’s a character I put on.” “Oh, is it?” she smiled. “If you were to meet me, you’d be surprised by how shy I am. People always are.” You nodded. She nodded. “You heard it from Heather Morgan’s mouth: she is shy. Thank you for joining us, Heather,” the woman said to the camera. You looked at the camera - 28 -
SKINNED • CHLOE COLE
and tried to see yourself in it. After the director told you they were in commercial, the woman touched your knee. “I was your biggest fan,” she said. “I watched every episode of your show.” She might have said this to every guest, but it didn’t matter. You placed your hand on her hand. You made her feel like you thought you were the only one. “Are you going to reinvent yourself?” She leaned towards you. “Have you been watching other child stars’ careers? Seems difficult to shed that squeaky clean image.” “I’m trying to find myself,” you said. Sometimes, at parties, you found yourself after a couple drinks. You were a space on the couch, the men with the gold watches that gave you goosebumps when the bands knocked your thigh and the wet, sour breath, talking in your ear, pushing your hair aside. You peered into the men’s faces every time, and you knew from their answers they weren’t familiar with the show. You were just young, and you smelled new. And though you were clever, you looked eager, which people said about you as though it were an insult, but it only ever brought you good things. You made sure your eyes blinked slowly. They showed you the mirror, flicked the rolled up bills from their pockets and gave you the stuff. Taking in as much as you could, extending your fresh lungs, you were their pretty doll for the night, and that was just playing another part. That’s what you were: the playing of a part. “That’s the most important thing in this business,” the woman said. “Be true to yourself.” You were shuffled to the make up room. No one helped you remove the clay-like liquid they used to cover you up. You wiped and wiped, dropping the orange cotton swabs to the floor, keeping your eyes on the mirror. Before you finished, Jo walked in. She came to you and enveloped you in her arms. “Hang in there. Growing up is hard to do,” she cooed. You didn’t feel like you were growing. You were nineteen. Your skin didn’t fit right. You were shrinking and fading.
Your mother and you watched the first episode when it aired. You held the popcorn bowl in your lap, crossing your legs around it. She didn’t make popcorn very often. It wasn’t good for eleven year olds, she told you. She didn’t laugh, her eyes tracking you on the screen. You wanted to jump - 29 -
SKINNED • CHLOE COLE
up before the screen, with your arms spread wide, and bellow: “I’m right here, Mom, I’m right here!” But you let her watch you, mouthing the lines. The credits rolled. Her eyes scanned them for a second. Once she saw your name, she relaxed, wrapping her arms around you. She kissed you on the cheek. “You nailed it, Heather,” she beamed. She stood up in front of you. “Do you know what that means? Nailed it?” You told her you did. You didn’t really know, but you felt solid and upright, like a nail. “Who’s my little star?” She tickled you. You turned into a fit of giggles for her.
Xavier handed you his cellphone. His other hand gave you a thumbs up. “Hi, Heather, big fan.” “Thanks.” “You might not have heard of me. My name’s -- ” “Xavier told me.” “Did he? Alright. Did he tell you about my offer?” The voice went up at the end. You told him Xavier didn’t, although Xavier had dropped some hints that morning when he woke you up, shoving the curtains to the sides of the window, tossing sunlight into the room. He told you today was a good day. You covered your eyes with your arm. Consumed by a black-and-white movie on TV, you couldn’t sleep last night. You liked when your room was dark. You could pretend life was black and white. He brought you a cup of coffee from the coffeehouse down the street, which he hadn’t done for several months. He hadn’t done this since you moved out of your apartment and into the Holiday Inn. You couldn’t stay in the apartment anymore. It smelled like dandruff, like flakes of old skin. “So, I’ll send you the script,” the voice finished. You told him you would like that. Xavier raised his eyebrows as he listened to your reactions. “One more thing,” the voice paused. “There’s a scene that requires nudity. I think the script earns it. Xavier and I can talk about it more later.” You said nothing. The voice said goodbye and hung up. “You know who just called?” Xavier picked up your t-shirt, your favorite one. It was the one from the San Diego Zoo, a cartoon parrot resting on the “D.” You went with your mother when you were thirteen, when people recognized you in public, when they approached you, calling you Amanda, Heather, - 30 -
SKINNED • CHLOE COLE
Amanda. Yesterday, you tried it on before the mirror. It fit. Just like the last time and the time before that. He placed the shirt on top of the dresser. “You know who that was?” You told him you didn’t. He stopped at the foot of your bed. “The future,” he answered.
People say important things to you over the phone. The cancellation call caught you just out of the shower. It was through Xavier. They called him first. He was furious. He huffed into the phone after he told you. “We’ll be fine,” Xavier spat. “You’re no longer Amanda, girl-next-door. That’s not who you are anymore.” He hung up, saying he had to start damage control. After you hung up, you remembered. You wanted to call Xavier back. It was your birthday. You stared at the phone in your limp hand. You were turning eighteen, your skin itching and tearing, as you watched the phone, and your fingers wouldn’t dial. You sucked in air, breathing your new apartment’s scent. You had triumphantly moved out of your house. Your mother’s house, Xavier called it. You could afford your own apartment so why not, why the hell not. You couldn’t call her. The last time you saw her, she was in the bathroom, bent over the sink, rinsing her face. You told her everything was packed. She wiped her face clean, straightening, making eye contact in the reflection. “Okay, honey,” she said. She told you she loved you. She understood why you needed to go, why you needed to spread your wings, you had outgrown her. You understood how this networking thing worked, and she didn’t. She said you could call her if you needed anything. She meant it, but you couldn’t call her. She might be asleep. She slept through everything, through the sound of you stumbling into the house at four a.m., pouring what felt like your insides inside out into the sink, the interior of your skull searing, threatening to ignite. Look at me, you thought as you left her there by herself in the bathroom in her house. Look at me. I am about to disappear.
It was dark. Then, abrupt brightness like an eye opening, and you were at - 31 -
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the center, the pupil. “What did you say, young lady?” Dad asked. His name was Greg. Or Tim. It wasn’t in the script. You didn’t learn it. “I said I have a boyfriend.” You placed a hand on your hip like they told you. “Do you mean a boy friend or a boyfriend?” “You know what I mean, Dad.” Dad took a deep breath. You knew what was coming, but you felt your throat tense as the room inhaled. “My little girl is growing up.” The audience released an “Aw”, purring together, their warm words surrounding you. You stepped towards him. He gathered you into a hug. The director told you to pretend you were hugging your father. You told him okay. You didn’t have a father. Your mother wouldn’t talk about him. But you had watched Annie enough times to know what he meant. “Cut!” A voice trumpeted from beyond the light. You dropped into abrupt darkness again.
“Is this an intervention?” Pete speaks. He looks at the man. When the man glances at him, Pete won’t look him in the eye. “It’s just, Heather doesn’t even do that many drugs. I mean – ” Lara looks at you apologetically. You watch the man. Pete and Lara’s voices tremble because they’re freaked out. They freak out easily. “I was called to initiate an open discussion.” The stern man handles the questions comfortably. He puts a hand on the table. “It was clear that Heather needed some help. Heather, are you ready to accept help?” “Listen,” Xavier raises a hand before the man. He approaches the table. You look into Xavier’s eyes. “Do you feel cornered? That wasn’t my intent. I wanted a wake up call.” Xavier puts on the voice he uses only in important meetings with executives, the meetings when he stops you outside the office doors to remind you that you’re not allowed to speak. “You’re in a downward spiral. When was the last time you left the room?” Xavier walks away and then back to the table. You let yourself be silent. You know this one. “It’s not a bad path. It’s just not the right one.” What a phrase, you think. Way to go, Xavier. - 32 -
SKINNED • CHLOE COLE
“Are you ready?” Xavier called from outside the trailer door. You pressed your pointer finger against your lips, winking at Pete and Lara. They liked this face. Lara clapped. Pete tipped over, burying his head into the couch cushion, shivering with laughter. Xavier couldn’t know they were there. You called them an hour ago, and they brought you what they had left. You needed it. You didn’t like how the robe scratched your breasts, and you wondered who had worn it before you. After you breathed it in, you were putty. You wanted hands on you, whispering to you, pushing you. Xavier barged through the door. His hands clamped around your head, a vice. “Heather?” Xavier tried to sound concerned. Everything smelled like taffy. You might be made of taffy. You looked down. Your fingers softened, dripping towards the floor. “Who is Heather?” you cracked. Lara howled. Pete stared at Xavier. Xavier shook you. He swore. Pete and Lara were scared suddenly. Their eyes couldn’t move. You were taffy. Xavier and the director and the producer, they could stretch and pull you. Whatever worked for the scene. You would stick. You asked Xavier if he wanted you to take off your robe now. You were ready. He told you to shut up. To sit down and shut up. He had to take care of you before the director found out. Don’t let go of me. Your legs dissolved, bringing you wet to the floor. You melted, a colorful puddle.
“Do you want our help?” the stern man asks. You give a fast nod. “You can start movies again,” Xavier offers. He wants you to do movies. You can see that look in his eye. He’s hungry. He has ideas. He’s going to start pacing. “I didn’t want to do the nude scene,” you start. “It’s a step in the right direction that you’re accepting help.” The man talks over you. You like the word “direction,” the fact that he chose this word. You give - 33 -
SKINNED • CHLOE COLE
him a hopeful look. You pretend you’re not filled with the desire to look at the mirror. You pretend you didn’t spend last night out, at some party, speaking to Leiv, you think his name was Leiv. He’d heard of your show. You went to the bathroom. When you came back, Leiv was gone. You spent the rest of the night fluttering around the room, trying to reflect yourself into someone, something, to remember what you look like. “We’re doing this because we care,” the man says. You ask him where in the script it says that. You look at him as you say this, and you wonder if he is going to cry. All you want is a face. ■
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by Lynne Carty
ZACH GALIFIANAKIS
by Laura Whittenburg
EARL GREY your tapdancing touch punctures heaviest silences with lively staccato with you is life in acoustic: mending lies in the beautiful nevermind of your ebb and flow windswept by your steady i marvel as your melody softens darkening nightsky; sipping earl grey, you give me slingshot and show how to shoot down stars
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by Joshua Kopel
DEVIL AT THE CROSSROADS The Devil was a’waitin’, like he tends To be. Some say he lives at the crossroads, That making pacts is how he meets his ends. And so to Satan I went singing odes And hymnals ‘bout the Lord’s near boundless grace, Humbly requesting help for my debut. Of course! Just need your guitar for a space, As such things are my sole saintly purview! I gave Felice over, and watched Satan chew Some belladonna, play some atonal chords. Music was my savior, showed me what I’d rue, The deal something I could never afford. I smiled and went to tune my old guitar; Georgia’s last I heard’a Mister Morningstar.
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READING THE HOMELESS by Abigail Jenkins
…and it’s just six pages of this sort of badly written novel about how his dreams died with his coffee and he dumped it all out and how you never eat poptarts because they aren’t whole grains and remember to floss because dentists are judgmental and you’ll never get a date with a girl if she can eat your dinner from the spaces in your teeth… I’m not totally sure I understood it, but I started flossing, the boy said. and his friend looked at him sort of funny, like you look at people when they don’t feel the cold in the room when the silence gets unbearable and they stay smiling and saying racist things. I don’t even like breakfast, the boy said. and you should have seen the face on the hungry bastard when I told him. and his friend grinned at him, but falsely, like you grin at people when they tell you they’ll shoplift you a birthday present if you want, but otherwise you won’t get anything for the trouble of getting older because it’s a difficult economy and anyway, your heart is more likely to be beating next year than it is to stop in this one. he asked me for change for the read, and I told him… I told him, aren’t we all looking for change? and left the pages at his feet. It wasn’t art, the boy said. and his friend shrugged at him, like you shrug at people who feign interest in lonely, mad homeless men writing books about their frozen thoughts and trying to sell them for change when the soup kitchens are too full in the city and the winter is creeping like icy fingers to throttle and frost the outsides and insides of cardboard boxes and people. don’t forget my show on Tuesday, the boy said. and his friend nodded at him, like you nod when you’re lying about seeing an art exhibit on compassion. ■ - 38 -
by Hayley MacMillian
SURPRISE
by Allison Schloss
UNTITLED
THE TRAVELERS by Allison Manley
Everyone was thinking about the future. The government had always urged its citizens to look into the matter, even before the trains, and the FANTT, and of course, before hibernation. But even after the media showered advertisements that showed the world how these new trains made time travel possible, the idea did not strongly influence the middle class. That was the case, until the Device Announcement came. It happened while Leslie and Jacob were in their living room, which was comfortably furnished by the money from Jacob’s high-level teaching position. (Their earnings were slightly augmented from Leslie’s job as a secretary in another academic department.) Jacob had been reading Rand (he taught the new Classics). Leslie sat next to him, reading a film magazine. She read each magazine from cover to cover at least twice; Jacob, who had never read such a magazine before, claimed that Hollywood was insignificant. She never bothered to argue. As she read, her free hand reached behind Jacob’s neck and lightly scratched the area where his hair met the nape. She was so surprised when he craned his head to meet her fingers that she wasn’t sure he had done it. The moment was interrupted when a Screen appeared three and a half feet in front of Leslie’s face. A similar screen appeared in front of the rest of the country, including Jacob. Leslie’s flashed purple, then green, then red, which to Leslie signaled that a Device Announcement – as opposed to a mandatory advertisement or Family Notice – was about to begin. As with all Device Announcements (of which Leslie had only seen fifty), the President appeared, smiling in his neon-white political office. “Hi!” he
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THE TRAVELERS • ALISON MANLEY
commanded. As usual, his eyes looked above the camera. “You will know by now of the trains. Recent riots have led Your Representatives to believe that one major complaint about these trains is that they are too expensive for the average American.” Leslie nodded, and the screen moved up and down in response. FANTT The purple word replaced the face on the Screen, and the voice continued. “Your Representatives have created a solution: the FANTT. Through this subsidy, You, middle-class citizen, will be able to travel on the trains free of charge!” The Screen flashed a new coinage: Financial Assistance for New Train Traveling Leslie let out an audible “ooo.” “Press the purple button on your home iGovern for more information. We highly encourage citizens to apply for this new subsidy! After certain applications are accepted, we will pick the winners randomly – it’s free to apply! It could be you!” IT COULD BE YOU! IT COULD BE YOU! IT COULD BE YOU! “Interesting,” Leslie mumbled as the screen vanished. “Jacob, what do you say? Should we apply?” Even before his own screen went away, Jacob had started to reach for his book. “What are the chances of us even getting it? I think it would be a waste of time.” “There’s still a chance, though. They said that it was free. It wouldn’t hurt, would it?” Jacob appeared to be reading. “Honey?” “No, it wouldn’t hurt, but it still might be a waste of time.” Leslie approached the iGovern, which was located across the room, and pressed the purple button. “You’re doing it now?” Jacob asked. “Why not? We’re not busy.” “You’re not.” Jacob raised his book a few inches. The screen on the wall flashed purple. “Fine. I’ll just look at it myself.” The - 42 -
THE TRAVELERS • ALISON MANLEY
President was right – the idea of train travel had no appeal to Leslie before, but now, with the hope that a vacation into the future could happen, Leslie considered that she and Jacob might enjoy it. It was exciting, somewhat new – new to the less-than-billionaires, at least, and they were far from being billionaires – and most importantly, Jacob might like it. A list of options came up on the screen, asking what topic interested Leslie. She found the FANTT option and touched the screen. The application appeared, and Leslie scrolled through it to read the rules and conditions. ______________________________________________________________ FANTT APPLICATION Sponsored by the Department of Travel Controlled by the Commission to Approve Travelers (CAT) Thank you for your interest in time travel! We wish you luck in your application process. Please respond to the following questions. Your answers will be reviewed by the CAT; the CAT will advance 15% of applicants to the next round, in which applicants will be picked at random. Only middle to low income families will be considered. One dozen families will be picked from each state; each member of your household must complete the application to be considered for the FANTT. If you win, you will be able to pick from two exciting travel options: a three-day trip (taking you a year into the future) or a two-week trip (taking you ten years into the future). Before submitting the application, please state your full name for security purposes. 1. How old were you when you first fell in love? 2. What was the worst pain you ever felt? 3. Do you feel that fluorescent lighting makes you look worse than natural lighting? (Please do not explain.) 4. What is your favorite recreational drug? 5. Would you breed more children if your government asked it of you? 6. How many religions did you reject before converting to American Atheism? 7. (Respond to this question in no less than 765 words. The iGovern will count for you.) Please describe how this trip will benefit you and your family. _______________________________________________________________
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THE TRAVELERS • ALISON MANLEY
“Looks like a quick application,” Leslie said to Jacob. “I’m sorry?” “The application. It doesn’t look like it would take a lot of time at all, actually.” “Hm.” His nose dived back in the book reader, and Leslie considered how little of his face she could see. Would she see more of his face if they took the train? Leslie considered the first and last questions of the application. “Wouldn’t you like a little vacation?” “Of course. Who wouldn’t?” “Let’s fill it out. We would probably learn a few things about each other. Like, for instance, I don’t know your favorite drug.” Jacob didn’t reply. “Rand will still be there when we’re done.” Jacob exhaled through his nose and turned off the book reader. He set it down roughly, then smiled and said, “You’re so hopeful. It’s cute.” He stood up, and gave the book a second thought; he picked it up again, and as he passed Leslie, he gave her a short pat on the head. “It’s a quick application. Surely you can spare five minutes for this, even if it is puerile.” The word seemed to catch Jacob by surprise. From the other room, he said, “Just let me take a shower, all right, hon? Can I do that first?” “Of course. Take your time.”
They began the application the next week. Jacob had a deadline for a paper, and he prioritized his time accordingly. Leslie remembered when they were at school, and when he had assignments due, he would finish them before they went on any dates… What discipline, Leslie remembered thinking. What ambition. She nourished the ambition then, and she told Jacob how he could be the best new Classics scholar in the world. No one else was encouraging him, but there was no one to discourage him; likewise, Leslie had no one in her life that she could give encouragement to. If there had been anyone to notice their budding relationship, they would have called it a perfect match. “What’s that little note there?” Jacob asked. They had pulled up chairs in front of the iGovern and were looking at the Additional Information for the - 44 -
THE TRAVELERS • ALISON MANLEY
FANTT. “‘For the moment, it is a one-time subsidy, but if the Department of Travel procures more funding, then we plan on offering the FANTT every decade.’” No sarcastic comment followed; a good sign. “Sounds luxurious,” Leslie said. “I suppose. The ride itself seems a little dull, other than the luxury and laziness involved, but when people came back, they would have so much to catch up on.” He shrugged. “It’s pretty exciting, thinking that one day, you’re living a normal life, and the next day, you’re behind the times, a stranger for no reason.” You’d be a living Classic, Leslie almost told him. They spent the rest of the day working on answering the questions to the application. Leslie discussed “laziness” in her answer to the last question; after all, laziness was one of the Great American Virtues (provided, of course, that you were well-off enough to be lazy). If Jacob were right, Leslie reasoned, then this trip could afford them more laziness than just that given to them on the train. At one point, Jacob asked what he would do about work when he got back. “I don’t know,” Leslie responded. “But there would be a lot of press, and whatever you wanted to do when you got back, you could probably do it. People would know your name, especially since you study the Classics; the past seems particularly relevant to the trains.” “The new Classics, Leslie, the new Classics. What do you mean by press? Interviews?” Leslie nodded. “Probably not that many, though. There will be a lot of other people on the train, and it says here that there have already been a lot of people on it.” “But people get a lot of money in interviews, right? Maybe that would be enough for us to stop working.” “That would be a lot of interviews. It wouldn’t be worth it.” Jacob admired the screen. “We can worry about it once we get it,” Leslie said. “If we get it.”
This has been an excerpt of Alison Manley’s “The Travelers.” To read the rest, visit www.nuhelicon.com.
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CONTRIBUTOR BIOS CHARLES AGBAJE, a senior studying Radio/Television/Film, launched the blog centralcitytower.com in the winter of his sophomore year and with that founded the independent entertainment studio Central City Tower. Since then the adventure of making comics has been just as interesting as the stories within them. THE AURELIA TRIO was formed in the fall of 2010 by three Northwestern students: Sasha Bayan, Alexander Hunt, and Sam Suggs. Their musical journey has taken them from thought-provoking settings of originals and arrangements as a trio to fiery Latin tunes as a nine- to thirteen-piece ensemble. STUART BABCOCK is a sophomore in the Weinberg College of Arts and Sciences and the Bienen School of Music, where he is studying Mathematics and Music Theory, respectively. This is his first foray into fiction, and he hopes to write more in the near future. LYNNE CARTY is a sophomore majoring in Journalism and Art Theory and Practice. She would like to thank her mom for art lessons and helping her become one of Blick Art’s most frequent customers. JOYCE CHEN is a junior majoring in Economics and minoring in Psychology and Business Institutions. She is in the NU Photo Club and plays club tennis. She enjoys cooking healthy food, doing logic puzzles, and learning about people’s lives, so follow her on Twitter at @JoyceChennis. CHLOE COLE is a junior Creative Writing Fiction major and Philosophy minor, which means she likes asking lots of questions and not having to answer them. Outside of the classroom, she is co-head writer of NSTV and president of Comedy Forum. (It’s acceptable and fun to brag about yourself in third person.) When she isn’t writing, she watches unhealthy amounts of standup comedy and works at Disneyland. FLEUR DE LUNE brings together trumpet, harmonium, upright bass, hand percussion, and vocal soundscapes to make flow deep. Music written by Eric Seligman. fleurdelune.bandcamp.com SPENSER GABIN is a junior RTVF major and a Psychology minor. Although he’s most naturally interested in cinematography, he’s not certain what part of filmmaking he wants to pursue professionally, assuming that he can find a job in the industry. He’s also fascinated by psychology, specifically the ideas of Freud and Jung. ABI JENKINS is a sophomore RTVF major from Rugby, N.D., where in a graduating class of 52 she was voted “most likely to become famous” – a crowning achievement in her life. When not writing poetry or avoiding homework, she can be found telling clever anecdotes about blizzards and cow-tipping. LIZI JONES is a senior with interests in English literature, classical studies and medicine. LAURA JOK is a senior Creative Writing major in Fiction and Linguistics minor. When Laura is not overanalyzing fictional situations, she is overanalyzing real ones. JOSH KOPEL is a sophomore studying Journalism. He hopes to travel the world writing about interesting people and places, and writes short fiction and poetry in his spare time. JEREMY LEVINE is a junior in the Bienen School of Music studying jazz piano. He has been playing piano since he was three, starting with classical piano, then switching to jazz at the age of 13. He is currently a member of the Northwestern jazz big band and combo, as well as Bassel and the Supernaturals. - 46 -
HAYLEY MACMILLEN is a senior, Philosophy major and aspiring journalist who only realized the last part recently and so is running around acquiring writing, video and photography skills as quickly as possible before she graduates. MAGGIE MAE FISH is a sophomore in Theater and Film Studies. She’d rather be foolish in love than well versed in war. ALLISON MANLEY is majoring in Creative Writing and minoring in Religious Studies. She was born in Georgia, but unfortunately she has no baby or toddler memories of living in the South, as she moved to Chicago when she was one year old. She likes perfume, but dislikes wrists. EMILY MCCALL is a junior Economics and Spanish double major who hails from San Francisco. When she isn’t backpacking through South America or mourning the end of 24, she spends her time taking and developing B&W photos. LAURA MORENO is a Weinberg sophomore studying English. Above anything, music is what she is most passionate about, and she trusts that it will always be a part of her life. She plays the ukulele and the drums. EZRA OLSON is a sophomore English major at Northwestern University. He was born and raised in suburban Milwaukee. PATRICK O’MALLEY is a senior majoring in Music Composition. His works include pieces for large orchestras, chamber ensembles, and solo and duo performers. The piece “Superimpose” won Northwestern’s Student Composition Competition for 2011, and Patrick has received premiers across the U.S. as well as in France. JASON PAN is a Communication junior. ALLISON SCHLOSS is a freshman in the McCormick School of Engineering studying Materials Science. She is a member of A&O and hopes to have an opportunity to pursue art more during her time here at Northwestern. STEPHANIE SHAPIRO is a Weinberg freshman. ALISON “ALI” WATTS just graduated cum laude from Northwestern with a major in Psychology and minor in English Literature. Now, she’s an artsy nerdy publishing intern in Southern California, with a love of reading, writing, learning, drawing, photography, fashion, graphic design, and cutting her pancakes into squares. LAURA WHITTENBURG is a Biology major who fell in love with literature somewhere between the pages of Harry Potter and His Dark Materials. A freshman from Louisville, Kentucky, she knows the right answer is always tea and fervently believes in the combined magic of fairytale stories, hot chocolate, and snowflakes. MATT YETTER is a senior studying Music Composition and Computer Science, and can’t turn off the radio in his head. Someone please send help. ZAMIN’s sound comes from blending classical instruments with a modern take on Hindustani vocals. “Zamin” itself means “earth” in Hindi, and “The Wait” is sung in Urdu. Current members include Zeshan Bagewadi, Charlotte Malin, Genevieve Guimond, Josh Fink, Eric Seligman, and Dave Eisenreich. - 47 -
M A K E A R T. S H A R E A R T.