The Tattler
LITERARY ISSUE January 2017
CONTENTS Short Fiction First Place “An Occurrence on 32th Street Involving a Certain Mr. Hughes” by Molly Archung p. 30 Second Place “I Don’t Want to Run Away With You” by Abby Katz p. 11 Third Place “Lover Boy xx” by Indie Stratton p. 37 “Cry” by Harry Sauer p. 6 “Sunday Night” by Micaela Moravek p. 17 “Safe Travels” by Lauren Eng p. 18 “Moon” by Daniel Xu p. 26
Poetry First Place “Error 404” by Alex Clavel p. 14 Second Place “External Internal” by Chloe Wray p. 15 Third Place (Tie) “Elegy” by Aliza Ellner p. 34 Third Place (Tie) “Down and Up” by Emily Hong p. 59 “Gestures” by Julia Luna p. 4 “HER” by Molly Archung p. 9 “H-Courtyard Water Bottle Challenge” by Sterling Williams-Ceci p. 16
“Ode to a Cupcake” “A Needle in the Arm and by Emma Karnes Death on my Mind” p. 23 by Ari Kirshner p. 41 “The Boys I Had Loved” by Emmaliza Pearl “Grandy’s 80thp. 24 Birthday Fiasco” by Wynne Williams-Ceci “Underwater” p. 48 by Lillian Hwang-Geddes p. 24 “Legendary” by James Park “W&W” p. 52 by Emily Hong p. 25
“Giorni da Cane” by Ingrid Comella 2
“The Tedious Villanelle” by Micaela Moravek p. 28 “Wide Eyed” by Julia Luna p. 32 “To My Future Self” by Declan Fearon p. 42 “Time” by Aidan Foley p. 43 “Defining Red” by Emmaliza Pearl p. 44 “Caster Girl” by Emmaliza Pearl p. 45 “Frozen Water” by Eli Gordon p. 46 “Playlist” by Guthrie Kuckes p. 51 “Silence” by Mohannad Abdel-Rehim p. 54 “How When Where What Who” by Emmaliza Pearl p. 56
Third Place “Shrine at Night” by Lauren Eng p. 54 Honorable Mention “Orca” by Zeke Estes p. 5 “Untitled” by Lauren Eng p. 6 “Sick” by Andrey Shakhzadyan p. 14 “External Internal” by Chloe Wray p. 15 “1.35 Panzer 2” by Jefferson Sheng p. 16 “SBD3” by Jefferson Sheng p. 28 “Eye of the Tiger” by Chloe Wray p. 38 “Eagle” by Zeke Estes p. 39 “Tansy” by Lauren Eng p. 56
“Love Letter to a Sailor” by Tucker Loucks p. 60
“#MCM” by Jacob Silcoff p. 57
Visual Art
Music
First Place “David B.” by Zeke Estes p. 53
First Place “Ain’t No Sunshine” by Joanna Strogatz p. 19
Second Place “Gaze” by Jenny Yoon p. 32
Second Place “Bell Weather” by Aidan Peck p. 50
Third Place “Eternal” by Matthew Guo p. 14
“Altar of the Fatherland” by Ingrid Comella p. 12
“Lovesong” by Joanna Strogatz p. 5
“City of Lights” by Lennard Wiesner p. 13
“Ethereal” by Sterling Williams-Ceci p. 5
“Violent Sunset” by Jefferson Sheng p. 17
Photography First Place “Climbing St. Peter’s Basilica” by Ingrid Comella p. 7 Second Place “Leopard Cub” by Lennard Wiesner p. 62 Third Place “.Gazing. Winter” by Jefferson Sheng p. 1 Honorable Mention Giorni da Cane by Ingrid Comella p. 2 Honorable Mention “Angelic Clouds” by Fiona Botz p. 24 Honorable Mention “Trastevere Tabby” by Ingrid Comella p. 47 “Sunshine” by Olivia Lowman p. 8 “Daylight” by Jefferson Sheng p. 8 “Eiffel” by Lennard Wiesner p. 10
“Edge of Sky” by David Sheng p. 18 “Foucault” by David Sheng p. 22 “Street Garden” by Jefferson Sheng p. 23 “Cinnamon” by Freya Ryd p. 25 “The World’s Color” by Tessa Amici p. 26 “Prom Preparations” by Lily Cowen p. 29 “Sun Canada” by Luka Kuzmanovic p. 29 “Senātus Populus que Rōmānus” by Ingrid Comella p. 30 “Ithaca Fall” by Jefferson Sheng p. 35 “Leaves of Fall” by Zoe Gras p. 35 “Heaven” by Olivia Lowman p. 36 “Candy Floss” by Olivia Lowman p. 40
“Piglet’s Corner” by Zeke Estes p. 40 “Endless Possibilities” by Fiona Botz p. 42 “Red and Blue Rule” by Tessa Amici p. 44 “Rust” by Noel Bentley p. 45 “Cornell Drought” by Jefferson Sheng p. 46 “Rapids” by Olivia Lowman p. 47 “Animal Crossing” by Noel Bentley p. 49 “Calm” by Olivia Lowman p. 49 “4 a.m. Sunrise” by Zoe Gras p. 53 “Cornell Heating” by Zeke Estes p. 55 “Snow Day” by Guthrie Kuckes p. 55 “Pond Reflection” by Zeke Estes p. 58 “Serenity” by Fiona Botz p. 60 “Untitled” by James Yoon p. 61
ALL THE NEWS THAT’S FIT TO TATTLE
Staff 2016 – 2017 Editor-in-Chief
Daniel Xu ’17
editor@ihstattler.com
News Editor
James Yoon ’17 news@ihstattler.com
Opinion Editor
Luca Greenspun ’17 opinion@ihstattler.com
Features Editor
James Park ’17
features@ihstattler.com
Literary Editor
Emma Karnes ’17 literary@ihstattler.com
Arts Editor
Amalia Walker ’17 arts@ihstattler.com
Sports Editor
Benjamin Salomon ’17 sports@ihstattler.com
Back Page Editor
Abe Messing ’17 backpage@ihstattler.com
Center Spread Editor
Vaynu Kadiyali ’19 centerspread@ihstattler.com
Copy Editor
Casey Wetherbee ’17 copy@ihstattler.com
Photography Editor
Magda Kossowska ’19 photo@ihstattler.com
Graphics Editor
Olivia Moreland ’17 graphics@ihstattler.com
Layout Editor
Francesca Chu ’18 layout@ihstattler.com
Business and Advertising Manager
Andrew Stover ’17 business@ihstattler.com
Webmaster
Tristan Engst ’17 web@ihstattler.com
Distribution Managers
Thea Clarkberg ’18 Lucy Wang ’18 distribution@ihstattler.com
Social Media Manager
Annika Browning ’17 sm@ihstattler.com
Faculty Advisor
Deborah Lynn
advisor@ihstattler.com
3
GESTURES
By Julia Luna
He was deaf She was not He was mute She was not Yet he fell Love at first sight not by her smooth marble skin nor by her churning brown eyes but rather by her hands He fell into the dizzying spell that was her hands, Her long, pale fingers, speaking to him in the language of hands not of tongues There he stood with a gaping mouth At loss of words But how if your mouth could not make words in the first place? Seeking a response to the unspeakable Unspeakable not only in terms of the unspeakable nature of love but also unspeakable as a consequence of circumstance Yet how unspeakable if it was this modified form of speech that brought not the pen to the paper but rather the hand to the air Tracing smooth, calming curves Like an aerial zen garden With that deliberate delicacy May she pick the red apple of my heart from my bodily tree of knowledge because in this reverse universe Paradise is to be banished forever with her and Hell is a life not having the knowledge of her existence. At that inaudible moment those gesturing hands Pierced farther into his soul than ever before in his silent bubble A muted movie that suddenly stops in molasses time Brilliant red satin flows across the screen
4
LOVESONG By Joanna Strogatz
♫
goo.gl/X44xPV
♫
ETHEREAL
By Sterling Williams-Ceci goo.gl/uacSjq
“Orca” by Zeke Estes5
CRY
By Harry Sauer
Imagine. An ancient nation going to war. All men are sent to fight. A young soldier stops to say goodbye to a girl whom he loves. They talk for a while and she gives him a pendant to protect him on the battlefield. He begins to leave and she sobs into his shoulder pleading for him to stay. He replies and says that he must fight for his king. He gives her a last kiss and she finally relinquishes him. He leaves, walking backward so as to see her for the longest possible time. He disappears from view and she leans on the doorframe and whispers for him to be safe. As the army leaves the protective walls of the city she catches a glimpse of him within the ranks and their eyes meet. She mouths for him to come back and he nods. Days pass without word from him, then weeks, and she starts getting worried. Then the army re-
6
turns. The battle was won and the nation defended. A knock comes at her door and she bounds off her bed to open it. So excited to see her lover once again. She flings the door open and instantly knows something is wrong. Two soldiers stand before her. They are her lover’s friends. One of them reaches out and opens his hand. He speaks three words. “I’m so sorry.” She looks into his face and sees a lone tear running down the man’s cheek. She looks to his palm and sees the pendant. Split in two. She collapses forward and wails as the men catch her. She cries onto their armor and realizes that they are too. They stand for a long time feeling that, even though the battle was won and the nation defended, the world has been cleft in two. Like the pendant.
“Untitled” by Lauren Eng
“Climbing St. Peter’s Basilica” by Ingrid Comella
11
7
“Sunshine” by Olivia Lowman
8
“Daylight” by Jefferson Sheng
HER
By Molly Archung
I fell in love with Beauty the other day, I was on top of the sun’s first ray. My heart thudded faster than its usual pitter-patter, and my mouth was agape, heart full of ache. Since that moment, I would never forget the way She made me feel, and It’s a laugh that I’ll recover from the way She made me reel, head over heels. I tried to capture Her once, put Her in a picture, but She faded and I was left as a wisher. The chase began, and hand to pen, pen to paper, paper in hand I recorded Her most spectacular shows in every distant land. The rain—cold, shimmering, airborne dancing, She was mine, forever enchanting. On a mountain, in the glimmering, glistening, delicate glow. She was mine, blizzard snow. In a book—Exquisite words alluring my eye, compelling, dominant, and mine to glorify. Drop after drop I collected, word after word I read. My passion for Her grew, my hunger not fed. Years after years I chased, but I soon learned that it was all just a waste. She never stayed; the rain put to a stop, the mountain eroded, and the words I forgot. Glimpses of Her I seldom caught in people, but when I did, that was the most evil. I remember his strong back, rippling and tensing, and her slender arms, skin so smooth, loving charms. Time would pass though, and they would go. Taking Her with them, leaving me solo. Her sick game I played, wandering the lands always hopeful, always afraid, always wanting what She gave, like A frozen window pane: one thousand colored crystals glistening only to be slain. My eyes became endless pits of darkness, and the stars laughed Her laugh, all quite heartless, as I withered up and became an empty shell, heartbroken, all alone in a cell. I fell in love with Beauty the other night, I was hanging from the moon’s last light. We had our fun, we had our games, but this is me telling Her I’m free from Her chains. I discovered the secret, I win. It’s endgame. I don’t think I’ll ever be the same. I found the courage, I found the control, I found Her hiding within my soul—the whole entire time, for now I have power over Beauty, and Beauty is now mine.
9
“Eiffel” by Lennard Wiesner 10
I DON’T WANT TO RUN AWAY WITH YOU
2
By Abby Katz
That’s what I tell him, simple as that. They say it’s best to rip the bandage off. “Will you still go?” “I’m not sure.” That’s all he has to say. His eyes remain fixed to the tiled floor, his face obscured by his hair. He won’t look up, not even to examine the plate of rapidly cooling eggs and hash browns in front of him. It’s as if something inside him shut off. The fluorescent light above us flickers. The door swings open with the sound of a bell and a gust of cold wind hits my back. An elderly man in a green trapper hat and an argyle sweater walks in and takes a seat at the counter. I drum my fingers against the table’s surface. His eyes don’t move. The old man orders orange juice and toast, no butter. Just plain toast, yes, that’s right. Whole wheat, please. Yes. A waitress comes by and refills our coffees. Her cheeks are rosy with cold December air and her uniform reeks of tobacco. She doesn’t make small talk, just looks at him, then at me, then at him not looking at me. “You want hot sauce for those?” she asks in a monotone, smacking her chewing gum. For the first time since I told him, he looks up. “Sorry?” “Your eggs. You haven’t eaten anything. You want some Tabasco or something?” “Oh. No, no thank you. They’re fine as is.” She shrugs as she walks away, shooting me a look that’s either pity or mild judgment. Behind her, the man at the counter breaks off a piece of toast and dips it into his orange juice. To his left a young girl scrolls through her facebook feed, absent-mindedly swirling her straw through her hot chocolate. I shift my gaze back to my own table. Eggs and hash browns still untouched. “I’m sorry,” I offer. He’s not looking at the ground any more, but he still won’t quite meet my eyes. A fly lands on the napkin dispenser. “It’s okay.” “It’s a nice idea. Romantic. But you know me, I’m not one for big adventures or wild poetic gestures. I don’t need to live large the way you do. All I really want is—”
11
“I get it.” Now he’s looking directly at me, and I’m not sure I like what I see. “You don’t have to justify yourself. We don’t have to want the same things. I get it.” He pokes at his meal with a fork, shuffling food around the plate. “How are your eggs?” His face is still stony. They’re cold. No, thank you, I have enough salt. I finish my coffee as he continues examining his breakfast carelessly. The old man in argyle, now almost out of orange juice, adjusts his hat. I nod toward the counter. “What’s his story?” “What do you mean?” “You know.” I’m taken aback by this. “Where’s he from? Why is he here? What was he like in his twenties? Where does—” “Those are pretty broad questions.” Fair enough. I look to the man’s left. “What about her? Who’s she been texting this whole time?” The girl hasn’t moved since I first saw her, but the seat next to her is now occupied by a leering man in a grease-stained shirt and a trucker hat old enough to be her father.
“Her mom? Her boyfriend? I don’t know.” “That’s the whole point. You don’t have to know anything, that’s what makes it interesting.” “I’m not exactly in the mood to people-watch right now,” he snaps back. Now it’s my turn to fixate on the specks of dust that pattern the floor. There’s nothing left to say. I’m not sure if it’s guilt or regret or the voice in my head that’s laughing at me for thinking this would be easy, but I feel weighed down, nauseated, unable to move. He slides his hand across the table, a crumpled twenty in his fist. Then reaches for his bag and shrugs on a winter coat. Standing up, he finishes the barely-warm coffee in front of him and shuffles out of the booth. “That should cover everything. The tip too, probably.” He’s looking at me again but it’s different this time. His eyes are still red and damp, but they look far off, wistful. Not piercing, not accusing me of anything. Just—sad. Uncertain. I ask one last time. “Will you still go?” The bell chimes once again as he pulls the door open. “I’ll let you know when I get there.”
“Altar of the Fatherland” by Ingrid Comella 12
13
“City of Lights” by Lennard Wiesner
Error 404: Your haiku could not be found. Try again later.
By Alex Clavel
3
ETERNAL ♫ By Matthew Guo
goo.gl/HJpbW3
14
“Sick” by Andrey Shakhzadyan
1
EXTERNAL 2 INTERNAL By Chloe Wray
sweat, flies swat heat or the weight of a life refrigerator hums murmurs a heart murmur they said was benign sun heats, sun disinfects the sun sheds, the dust layers warm overcast, now cold memories a faded past a future glazed a crinkle, a crumple, a couple of kinks in the plan the weight the buzz the tick benign until the final off tempo beat
“External Internal� by Chloe Wray
15
“1.35 Panzer 2” by Jefferson Sheng
H-COURTYARD
WATER BOTTLE CHALLENGE By Sterling Williams-Ceci H-Courtyard was home of the water bottle flip Where seniors would try to land bottles on their tips But the game needed good grip And their grips started to slip And away went their water bottle challenge - R.I.P.
16
SUNDAY NIGHT By Micaela Moravek
Most Sunday nights are stressful. Everyone is getting ready to go back to work and school, yet no one wants to. Sometimes homework still has to be done; relaxation is impossible. Luckily, not every Sunday night is like this. On occasion, all work is finished. Everyone is showered. The heat is on. These nights are the most rewarding night of the week. I am able to lie in my bed, smelling the calming scent of my berry lotion on my freshly shaven legs. My bedsheets are fresh out of the dryer along with my pajamas, and my mom remembered to use fabric softener. Everyone else is in their rooms too. Lights are off all throughout the house except for the soft white-tinted lights that hang around my window. Sky-blue paint on my walls tint the lights so my whole room is the color of calming ocean waves on a white sandy beach. Sometimes I snuggle with a good book, sometimes I just text my friends. At 10 p.m., all lights go off. Even my window lights. Even the blue glow of my phone. All is calm. All is quiet.
“Violent Sunset� by Jefferson Sheng 17
SAFE TRAVELS By Lauren Eng
Cam stomped into her room, briefly wondering what it would be like to slam a bedroom door for once in her life. The effect wasn’t the same on doors like the front entrance or the patio door, and the thick curtain that screened off her room from the rest of the house gave her no satisfaction. Dropping her backpack on the floor, she flopped on her bed, wishing that she could disappear from this plane of existence and never return for at least a month. She could, it’s just that her brother and maybe her parents would come after her to get her home for dinner on time. The reason for her sulky mood was something that plagued her entire family: opening doors. Strange problem, yes, but it happened to the best of them. It wasn’t a relatively simple problem like pushing a pull door or walking into a very well cleaned glass door. No, those were nice problems to have, in her opinion. Her family’s problem was that they opened doors to other worlds quite frequently. Mornings in the house were the worst. Her parents left at different times, propping the door open after about fifteen minutes of opening and closing the front door, trying to open it to the right world. It was quicker for her parents to leave the house. The older they got, the less worlds were open to them, so opening a door to their world was easy. When the school year started, Cam and her brother traded off on who got door opening duty, waking up half an hour earlier than usual to spend the morning opening and shutting the door. Their parents didn’t leave the door open for them when it got colder because they would spend more money on heating if they did. When Cam spent the morning opening the front door, the process was usually done in pajamas, sometimes while eating breakfast, and always while doing last-minute homework they didn’t finish because they were off adventuring in other worlds. She rolled over in her bed and grabbed a cat plushie, tucking it under her chin. Today could have gone better. She had went through all her normal routines 18
throughout the school day: never going somewhere without a group, slowing her pace so other people would reach a door first, even taking longer routes through the hallways to avoid doorways. But today, her friend she had been walking with, Min, had stopped for a split second to check his phone. She was half a step ahead of him to the door, and opened it—because what else can be done when you’re first to a door? Not opening it would be rude and she didn’t want to be rude to her best friend. So she opened it to strange landscape where all the buildings seemed to be sprouting from trees. That hadn’t been the right world, so she had slammed the door closed and mumbled an excuse about a spider on the door. Min had opened it a split second later, looking at her with a quizzical expression, but didn’t comment. She got home without any difficulties, but proceeded to struggle with the front door for twenty minutes before she got inside. She desperately hoped that Min hadn’t seen anything. He didn’t say anything, but he had always been quiet about everything. Her phone hadn’t buzzed with texts, and she was too scared to check if it was because she never turned it off “do not disturb” mode. It would be too easy to stay on her bed and mope, but she had things to do. Just not homework. Sliding off her bed, she tossed her cat plushie behind her and headed to her closet, snagging the sturdy coat she wore when she went exploring the worlds. It was a sleeveless green jacket with orange accents made from heavy canvas on the exterior, with soft fleece on the interior. After she pulled it on, she buckled a leather belt around her waist, patting the two pouches on it to see if she had left anything in them from the last time she went out. Once, she had made the mistake of taking ingredients from an apothecary back home, and mixed them with liquid flames from a different world, and caused a wonderful explosion in another one that was thankfully sparsely populated. Cam tied her long dark hair into a bun, using multiple hair ties to keep it in place. She found her key-
1
AIN’T NO SUNSHINE By Joanna Strogatz
♫
goo.gl/Hu9Oqu
“Edge of Sky” by David Sheng 19
chain, stuffed it into her pocket and left her room, jumping down a short flight of stairs to the first floor of her home. There wasn’t much of a method to opening a door to another world, no feeling or emotion that she had to dredge up to get what she wanted. The openings were random, though they seemed to stick with categories for each person. Her brother got sciency worlds with bright colors and neon lights. Her little sister was a hero in her own right, going on quests to slay dragons and demons and many other types of evil in her worlds. Cam didn’t go on epic adventures like her sister or improve the lives of people in the worlds she visited like her brother. She simply entered whatever world her doors opened to and wandered. Sometimes the people were friendly, sometimes they were not. Sometimes they were humanoid, sometimes they definitely were not. She never tried to be a hero like the rest of her family but wondered from time to time what it would be like. Her life would probably get a lot busier if her sister’s was anything to go by. She opened the front door. Two tries got her a city with dark skyscrapers, dirty streets, and rather malicious-looking vehicles. She closed it, and opened the door to be blasted with bright neon lights and bustling crowds. Another try led to a serene landscape. The sky of the new world was a soft pink that turned to orange at the snow-capped mountains in the distance. Puffy clouds floated lazily through the air, in shades that matched the sunset. On the lower slope of a mountain in the distance a small castle stood surrounded by sharp, rocky crags. The surrounding area looked deserted, and the small town across from the castle had no smoke rising from the chimneys. Nothing stood out to her as something she should worry about yet, even though the lack of people made her cautious. The door closed behind her with a gentle click as she walked forward onto a dirt path. The further she went the more the world came to life around her. Even though she couldn’t see any people, insects were buzzing in the long grass, birds called out to one another as the flew in elaborate formations through the sky, and in the distance a creature was making lazy circles in the air above her. She continued at a leisurely pace, shoving her hands into her pockets as she went. Having no people around her was nice for a change and she was 20
pretty sure the land around her didn’t have a sentient population for at least a square mile. The air was at a more pleasant temperature than the late autumn chill in her home was. The monotony of the grassy hills started to bore her slightly, though, and she started to hum a song she had heard earlier that day . A large shadow passed over her. Startled, she looked up to see the creature that had been gliding through the sky swooping down on her with a pair of red talons outstretched. It grabbed her by the arms and lifted her into the air. Cam didn’t struggle because falling from the height they had risen to would mean death, but she still couldn’t quell the drop her stomach at seeing the ground so far away. She couldn’t see their destination, only the hills of grass that rolled beneath her. They came upon the castle that she had seen on a distant mountain. The creature deposited her in an overgrown courtyard and curled up into a ball next to her. Cam staggered a few feet away before her knees gave out from underneath her. Heights didn’t usually scare her, but she had never been grabbed by a creature bigger than herself and lifted off the ground. She wasn’t sure if she would want a repeat experience. Once she had recovered enough to stand up, she cast a glance around the courtyard in which she had been dropped. A gnarled tree grew in the center with bright orange leaves that shot off of branches in small puffball formations. The same tall grass that covered the hills surrounding the castle extended up to her waist and made her itch. Vines crawled their way up the castle walls with large amber blossoms drooping from them. Cam turned to inspect the creature behind her now that it didn’t seem to want to take her anywhere else. From head to the tip of its tail it was the size of a school bus. A pair of creamy wings extended were folded neatly against its spine. Mostly a stormy gray in color, with a face that was covered by a skull-like mask, the creature would have intimidated her if not for the tail. It was a mass of swirling fluffy curls every color of the rainbow. A feather ridge along its spine had the same palette, making the creature look like it had an unfortunate accident in a paint shop. When it caught her looking at it, the creature trilled a high note and gestured to the castle doors with one taloned foot. Cam didn’t move to where it pointed, not knowing what could lie in store for her.
There had to be a reason the creature brought her to the castle. It made a disgruntled noise in the back of its throat when she didn’t start towards the door, taking a few steps closer to lean over her. She started to back up until her back bumped up against the smooth stone of the castle. While the creature hadn’t done anything to indicate it might harm her, caution was better than getting raked by the rather impressive set of talons the thing sported. “Hey, you!” Both Cam and the creature swung their heads to find the speaker. She was an older woman clad in a thigh-length tunic, a chainmail shirt underneath. Glossy black locks of hair were pinned neatly at the base of her neck and a rose gold circlet rested on her head. Her skin was a dark tan, golden tones standing out in the setting sun. When neither Cam nor the creature responded, the woman frowned and asked, “Who are you exactly? And how did you get here in the first place? No one comes here anymore.” Her gaze shifted to the creature. “And you! You’re supposed to be searching for my people, not back here!” The creature nudged her a few steps forward with its head and flapped its wings. “She’s not one of them.” The woman said, jerking a thumb at Cam. “She doesn’t even know who I am.” Cam dodged to the side as the creature groaned and flopped over on its side, nearly crushing her. The woman laid a gentle hand on its head and turned to face her. “Who sent you? Was it King Dorian? Or that insufferable northern queen? Oh, I know. It was King Aelano, wasn’t it? He always liked gloating.” “I’m sorry, but I think you’re mistaken. I was just passing through,” Cam said. She knew better than to reveal she had come from another world, since some people would kill for that ability. Telling halftruths was always better. “If I’ve trespassed on your land I apologize.” The woman laughed. “Trespassing isn’t the problem. It’s how you got here that is. My kingdom has been empty for the past thirteen years since my people vanished, and I locked myself in a magical sleep for ten of them. The borders are closed until they return.” “I found a loophole?” Cam said, the statement coming out as more of a question. “But I really don’t know who you are.” “Well then.” She said propping a hand on her
hip, “You’re speaking to Queen Lydia Stidolph, ruler of the blessed hills, wolf of the west, so on and so forth. Just call me Lydia. I’m not much of a queen without anyone to rule,” she said, and then shrugged. “You really must not be from around here if you don’t know that much. Who are you?” “Cam.” She said, not wanting to say much else. She hadn’t met royalty personally in the other worlds she explored—she had always been an observer from the side—but Lydia seemed nice as far as queens went. Then again she had only known her for a minute at most. The rulers of the lands her sister ran through always seemed much worse. Lydia sighed. “Never mind that, come inside. It’ll be nice to talk to someone aside from that cloud-headed fluffball,” she muttered, leveling a glare at the creature that was rolling around on its back in the grass. As she started to walk back inside the castle, she tossed a glance over her shoulder to Cam, “Are you coming?” She hesitated. There was a possibility that she was getting in over her head. Queens and missing people were not things she dealt with normally. Her experience consisted of interacting normal inhabitants, not royals. While Lydia might not be able to make her stay, she could probably make her feel incredibly guilty about leaving her alone. As if she sensed her discomfort, Lydia stuck her head out of the open door. “I won’t hold you to anything until you understand what happened here. You’ll be free to go anytime on my word as queen.” Cam nodded and followed her inside the castle. Inside, the entrance was full of dust, cobwebs, and cream colored feathers strewn around the ground. Far above her head, sunlight trickled through stained glass windows. A few of them had holes through the panes, which local birds had taken advantage of to set up nests along the walls of the room. From behind her, she heard a crunch and a soft whistle, like the air being released from a balloon. The creature had tried to follow them through the door, ripping the hinges off the wall. When it saw her looking at it, it seemed to perk up, lifting its head and whistling at her again. “What are you doing, Cirrulyn?” Lydia muttered under her breath, walking back to the door and wrenching it open wider. “I told you that being indoors isn’t good for your health.” “Its name is Cirrulyn?” Cam asked. “What is it?” “Just your regular cloud demon. He likes hang21
ing around here and I don’t mind as long as he doesn’t make a mess. Like he does when he comes inside.” She said with a pointed look at the demon. “Anyways, he’ll follow us for a ways before he gets bored. Come along now.” Lydia led her to a smaller, less grand room than the entrance. It was clean and well decorated, with potted plants dotting shelves under the windows and on the long table that spanned most of the floor. The queen sat on a plain wooden stool, kicking a chair over to Cam. “Since you’re here and clearly not affected by my borders, what do you plan to do?” “Sightseeing?” She looked taken aback by her answer before a wide grin spread over her face. “You’re not planning on killing me or taking my kingdom by force?”
“Foucault” by David Sheng
22
Cam shook her head. “I really don’t think that’s possible and if it was I wouldn’t do it. I’ll just explore a bit before I go home, that’s all.” “Well then,” Lydia said. “You’re welcome to go where you like, it’s not like I have the manpower to stop you. Cirrulyn might take you places if you ask nicely.” “Uh, thank you.” Lydia waved a hand dismissively. “It’s no problem, and you’re always welcome to come back here. Or ask me for directions. Safe travels.” As Cam walked out of the room, she shot a glance back to look at Lydia and lifted a hand to wave at her. “I’ll come back one day,” she promised. Maybe there was a way she could help her later on, but for now, she had to go home.
“Street Garden” by Jefferson Sheng
ODE TO A CUPCAKE By Emma Karnes
Your velvet flesh, dark against my rose-hued lips strokes my tongue like rain caressing garden soil; like soft dirt I melt into your silken touch, and wash into your sheen of silver foil. Moments in your presence, enkindled embrace, I ponder which virtue has bestowed me blessed, for only a saint could know your shadowed kiss as I have felt its pulse beating through my chest. So though my shirt is dark-stained, my fingers slick, my mind swimming slow in sugar’s murky lake, I desire you with sharp shortness of breath, you relic of lust, sweet chocolate cupcake. 23
“Angelic Clouds” by Fiona Botz
THE BOYS I HAD LOVED
By Emmaliza Pearl
Red burning inside me, Feeling sorry again. Red for your soft tee-shirt That I loved years ago. Red of the one sweatshirt You wore on the first date.
UNDERWATER By Lillian Hwang-Geddes
Underwater Blue all around me Bubbles slowly float to the surface The surface The edge of my world With the sun breaking through the waves The waves The water Cold enveloping everything Everything Is fine Now that I’m here Here In this moment As the sunset shines underwater 24
Red in how he forgot Everything we once had. Red for the leaves that fall When I found you different. Red of the world we joined, A spirit I keep still. Red bleeding out after, And numbness that followed. Red for when you craved me, Just unforgettable. Red of the feeling youth Growing up made sense then, Red burning inside me Until no red can stay.
“Cinnamon” by Freya Ryd
W&W
By Emily Hong
Where is the end To one’s continuous climb Falling from the peak Or unmoving feet on one surface What is the end To one’s continuous climb Where is the bottom Of one’s endless pit The stone engraved with one’s name Or their unmade footsteps in another’s brain What is the bottom Of one’s endless pit
25
MOON By Daniel Xu
Marisa was out drinking at the local bar when she noticed the moon was gone. “The moon is gone,” she said. But she was drinking, so no one took her seriously. “I think I’d notice if the moon were gone,” said the bartender. The bartender wore dark sunglasses and was probably blind. “You can’t pull one over me. I’ll beat you up.” Marisa had, in fact, pulled a lampshade over the bartender only minutes earlier, but the bartender hadn’t noticed because he was blind. He beat up Marisa anyway. “I’m serious,” Marisa said, but nasally, because her nose was broken. “Do any of you see a moon out there?” No one did. “That doesn’t necessarily mean it’s gone,” piped up a middle-aged man in pinstripes. His name was Kipper and he was exactly 1.95 meters tall, but that’s irrelevant to the story. “I’m sure it’ll be back tomorrow. Maybe it’s been borrowed.” “That doesn’t make any sense,” Marisa said. “Why would someone borrow the moon?” “Perhaps it’s being used as a flashlight,” the man replied. In fact, the moon was being used as a flashlight at that very moment. The bartender had run out of drinks, and was scouring his musty, unlit storage room for extras. What better light to follow than the moon’s? 26
“The World’s Color” by Tessa Amici27
THE TEDIOUS VILLANELLE By Micaela Moravek
Do I know how to write a villanelle? I’m not sure if I will figure it out. I cannot tell. Will it make me want to yell? I have not written enough to pout. Do I know how to write a villanelle? Will it sound like a ringing bell? Maybe if I take the correct route? I cannot tell. Will it feel like hell? Maybe if I scream and shout. Do I know how to write a villanelle? Will I crawl into a shell? Maybe if I feel enough doubt. I cannot tell. Maybe this villanelle will excel If you can figure out what it’s about. Do I know how to write a villanelle? I cannot tell.
28
“SBD3” by Jefferson Sheng
“Prom Preparations” by Lily Cowen
“Sun Canada” by Luka Kuzmanovic
29
“Senātus Populus que Rōmānus” by Ingrid Comella
AN OCCURRENCE ON 32ND STREET
INVOLVING A CERTAIN
MR. HUGHES
1
By Molly Archung The scene was simple. There, in one of those random pockets of human civilization, was Ivor Hughes, seated on a cold metal bench with two thousand dollars in his lap. He knew, of course, what he ought to do—what he wanted to do, which was to go home and prepare a proper dinner for his daughter. One that consisted of steak and roasted mushrooms. One that had warm baked potatoes with premium sour 30
cream. One where he would hear his daughter say, “Daddy, I’m full!” for the first time, and one where he would hug her and say back, “It’ll be like this from now on.” However, something rooted Ivor Hughes to the cold metal bench like a plant to the ground. He could not move from it even with all his strength to stand, and that was indeed a problem. Perhaps it was the cold, because indeed the
cold could impair movement, or perhaps it was his lack of sleep. Perhaps it was the homeless man seated next to Mr. Hughes because he actually made quite a good conversation; who, in fact, had nothing that belonged to him save the clothes on his back. He had no money, no education, not even a name (but we shall call him MAN because that was just about all he was). However, he indulged himself in the conundrum of Ivor Hughes because he had nothing else better to do. “I just wish I could explain.” Ivor Hughes lamented, “I wish I could say I’m sorry. I wish I could go back and tell them that I didn’t want to hurt any of them. And of course I didn’t, not like I could anyway.” He chuckled humorlessly. “It’s not their fault they didn’t know that all it did was make shooting sounds. That I got it in the toy section of Walmart.” He cast a glance to MAN and continued to mutter, “Do you know what I mean? Yes, you must know what I mean.” He continued this mumbling, creating incoherent sentences, but he soon began to make sense of himself again, fingering the money on his lap. “I wish I could tell them about my little girl at home. How her smile lights up my day every time I see her. I wish I could make them understand why I had to do this. I just wanted the money, nothing else. I wish they could understand.” He continued to MAN, “I just can’t bear it anymore. The hunger, the thirst, having to listen to, ‘Daddy, I’m hungry’ and not being able to do a thing about it. Having to kill that light in her eyes whenever she sees something she wants. You understand, don’t you?”
At this point in time, MAN grunted, and the situation of Ivor Hughes was made quite obvious. “You have two thousand dollars, Ivor.” MAN said in his husky voice. “Yes, you just stole it. In fact, you just stood up a restaurant in order to get it, if what I have heard is correct, but you have it nevertheless. If I were you, I’d go home and fix a good dinner for your little girl like you want. But here you are talking to me. Stuck to this cold bench. Tell me, what does that say about you?” The white puffs of Mr. Hughes’s breath got more rapid and he tried to rise from the bench, but there seemed to be an invisible force holding Ivor Hughes down until he gave up. “I know… I think I know. Well, obviously that I am guilty. Guilty. But how can I be guilty of trying to do what’s best for my little girl? How can I be guilty of wanting just one moment of happiness in my life?” “No,” said MAN, “you are not guilty of that. You are guilty of putting others in jeopardy for your own selfish reasons. Look at me. I am nothing. My life is meaningless. I am a parasite, leeching off of the working class, or so others tell me. I grovel in the ground for the hope of some spare change to buy food at a vending machine just so that it might just get stuck, and I go the night hungry. I fight for my very existence, and my very existence is a fight. So is yours, and our existences together are not so different, but at least mine has no guilt. You have guilt though, you can feel it, and that is why you are here, unable to move.” With those words, Ivor Hughes felt it. The weight on his chest, his guilt, its immense pressure, increasing until it would completely
crush him. His inability to move, and it all made sense in some peculiar way. Unconsciously, he placed a small stack of money from his lap to the bench, and he felt a tingling in his toes, and realized what he had to do. In little heaps, Mr. Hughes placed all of the two thousand dollars onto the bench, and as the last bill passed through his fingers, he felt as if he were floating, and with no struggle, rose from the cold metal bench and stood for the first time in what had seemed to be years. Overjoyed, he clasped MAN’s arm, “Thank you,” he rejoiced, “you are a good man. I cannot have this money, it seems to burden me, but I think that you should have it; get a decent meal. If I cannot have one, at least you should.” MAN only inclined his head an inch and patted Mr. Hughes on the shoulder before Mr. Hughes disappeared into the night. MAN looked at the money before him, and then scooped it into his arms with a smile and walked for what must have been miles. He finally reached the flashing of red and blue lights as Ivor Hughes reached his home, smiling as well. MAN was still smiling as he was greeted by an officer and cuffed as Mr. Hughes was smiling as he was greeted by the smile of his daughter. “Do you regret doing it?” asked the officer to MAN, believing that it was he who robbed the restaurant. “No,” replied MAN, “I helped a friend today, and in return I will receive shelter and food for life.” And MAN smiled as somewhere Ivor Hughes’ smile grew when he discovered a one hundred dollar bill slipped into his pocket by MAN. 31
WIDE EYED By Julia Luna
Staring into the dark The endless grey multitude of monochromatic Silhouette of a face in the mirror Delicate, white lace Curling into myself under the heavy, ancient, haze I am weightless 32
2
“Gaze” by Jenny Yoon33
3
ELEGY By Aliza Ellner
Little sparrow on the wing In the spring the sky is yours Lift your warbling voice and sing Cherish sweet your precious hours Red cap, black cap, in the sun Tracing circles in the air Dance until the day is done And your lady fair is won With the wind you sport and play Over mountain, field, and stream Flowers bloom along your way But blossoms never long will stay O, hold close your feathered bride Weave your nest among the leaves With your flitting nestlings glide As if the time would always bide But all too soon the winds will blow The flowers fade, sad petals fall And with the coming chill and snow From your summerland you must go Ice has chilled your eyes so bright Stilled the heart within your breast Scarlet crown against the white Never to see the new dawn’s light Little sparrow once so brave Lying on the frozen ground ‘Neath the oak tree’s shadowed clave Falling snow will hide your grave
34
“Ithaca Fall” by Jefferson Sheng
35 “Leaves of Fall” by Zoe Gras
“Heaven” by Olivia Lowman 36
3
LOVER BOY xx
By Indie Stratton As I write this I am listening to Lover Boy’s music on SoundCloud. He’s white and covered in tattoos everywhere, even on the face, the kind of boy who can’t go to school because he’s just that different. He has bright pink hair and calls himself Lil Peep, but there’s nothing lil or sweet about him. Raymond, my lover boy, is different. I’m pretty sure the first time I saw him I thought he was high or extremely socially awkward or slightly retarded—I’m not sure. He has the kind of hair that always looks dirty, regardless of whether it is or not, slightly greenish yellow mixed with dark brown and black at the roots. I couldn’t not look at him. At lunch he ate alone for days. I couldn’t not look at him. He danced in class and wore a yellow Tommy shirt. Every day he was dirty and he was crunchy and he wore one braid in his faded hair; at the end a blue butterfly bead dangled like a cherry on top of a melted ice cream. He was melted into my mind one day at a time. When we started to talk to each other I noticed he only would hold conversation at a surface level. He was utterly low key about himself, always one earbud pushed in, quietly singing. He asked me to give him a tattoo, so for many nights in a row I went to his dorm room, snuck in, closed the door, sat on his bed, and worked. His mattress was covered in a
37
blue sheet with a pattern that reminded me of fish and the ocean and my childhood best friend. We started small; he let me do whatever I wanted and that was fine. He played me his music too, out of his cracked phone, as I worked, spread out on his bed. Concentrated. He called me Star Girl. One evening in his room he played me the song “Teen Romance.” One of the lines went, “Yeah I took a Xan, I hope you understand.” Raymond was like that to me; he seemed like a man three inches from the surface and not yet breathing air, almost sedated when talking to others like he had taken a Xan himself. Who knows—maybe he had. Our conversations were sporadic. One night I looked up from my work and asked him, “Raymond, have you
“Eye of the Tiger” by Chloe Wray
ever been in love?” He looked at me, shocked that I could think the answer could possibly be no. He said of course he had, and well, I believed him. I think I wanted to pull Raymond three inches up to the surface with me. Sometimes it gets cold (lonely) at the top. Another night when we were working we heard a heavy knock at the dorm room door. It was fast and urgent and we heard one of the counselors. They made rounds at night sometimes. I stood up fast, almost spilling the ink, and went to go stand in the closet. I heard him talk to the woman and then she left. I was grinning. I just couldn’t help it. I looked down; his gold chain lay uncoiled, deodorant and mini hotel bottles of shampoo and conditioner scattered. Near my feet were two bottles filled with yellow, stagnant looking liquid. Raymond told me that he peed in them at night because he was afraid of the counselor. I couldn’t blame him; they were bitchy and accusatory. The urine was yellow, too yellow. I looked in his eyes, which were dark, dark with dirty white around the iris. I couldn’t help but look at his upper lip. The hair that grew there was soft still, not prickly. When I thought about him in the part of my brain I use for everyday life, I had no idea why I liked him. I knew he made me feel small (in a good way) and there were things that he did and said that I would think about minutes and hours after they’d happened. I will never forget this moment. There were a few of us in my dorm room one evening. We were playing spin the bottle. The bottle was purple with grey lettering and it used to have my conditioner inside. I thought of all the contents, soupy white warm getting sloshed around inside. There were five of us in the room but only three of us playing. My hands were slightly cold and I really hoped they wouldn’t get clammy the way they sometimes do when I’m excited or slightly nervous. One spin this boy Willem, who was tall with kind of a flattish face, landed
38
on me. A lot of the other boys didn’t like him because girls stuck to him like hot caramel. He would talk to three or four girls at a time but he was nice so he’d get away with it. We stood up and I felt his hips gently pin me against the wall; he kissed me and all I could smell was his cologne. The moment was dark green like pine trees and like green ink that comes in thick glass bottles. Out of the corner of my eye I looked down to see Raymond on the floor looking straight up at me. I met his eyes while Willem kissed me, just for a brief second. What was that look on his face? He looked sad and overwhelmed and scared. Then he laughed. Turned his dirty eyes away from me. I felt like I was saying goodbye to him in a room full of people. It no longer smelled like pine trees or felt like thick bottled ink—it felt runny and like the bottle of leave-in conditioner, just a few white globs remaining at the bottom of the container. I felt like I was the bottle and I was spinning. At lunch I would sit in the cafeteria. I had a table of loud laughing friends, all of whom I liked and was interested in. This was something I’d always wanted at school and at home. But I was three inches under the surface now. I was looking at Raymond, who now had another boy who sat next to him. They didn’t talk, just ate their food. In printmaking class Ray and I would talk, we would laugh, and we would listen to music. He thought the song “That’s Not My Name” was hilarious and wanted to sample it for a song he was going to make. He had a SoundCloud and still I listen to his songs every day. His music gives me the same feeling you would get if you had a lump in your throat but only if that lump moved down to settle on your heart. It was some sort of tension and it was some sort of release altogether. I miss him and I don’t. I’m thinking back to a day in printmaking. We were developing copper etchings. It was raining hard and I had just run upstairs and stood in the rain for a minute. My shirt was wet and I could feel and smell my skin, rain water, salt. To process our plates we had to put them in a hot acid bath and then let them cool and dry in the acid room. The acid room is a closet that is painted white. It is small and dingy and looks like where the janitor would hide and eat his lunch. The walls had red, rusty copper and acid stains. The lights were dim and blue and ultraviolet to keep the cooling plates from drying too fast. In the blue light the grimy
stains on the walls looked to be red and my skin felt settled, almost aged. Our teacher had left Raymond and me alone together in the acid room. I felt the time slow and get mushy and warm. I couldn’t help but look up at his face, his upper lip, hair still soft. The two of us stood in the closet looking at each other until the teacher came back. I wish I had kissed him but I know there’s nothing I can do to go back to that moment now. By the time I had realized, the moment was over, and so was class. The program ended. Raymond went to Florida and I went home. He wrote a song and sent it to me. I knew who it was about. He didn’t need to say anything. He wrote me two more songs and then we lost contact. Before he left he gave me the blue bead that dangled on the braid in his dirty hair. I wore it for two months in my own hair and then put it on my bedside table. I like to think I will see him again but I don’t think that will happen. I know we are further from each other now than the distance between New York and Florida.
“Eagle” by Zeke Estes 39
“Candy Floss” by Olivia Lowman “Piglet’s Corner” by Zeke Estes
40
A NEEDLE IN THE ARM AND DEATH ON MY MIND By Ari Kirshner
I sit in the chair I was directed into, relaxing into it, trying to hide my trepidation. I’ve never done this before, but my whole family assured me it would be quick and painless. The two nurses enter through the room’s single door on my left. One of the nurses approaches me and starts feeling my right arm, searching for the best place to draw the blood samples from. Unfortunately, she seems stumped. The second nurse smoothly descends from her watching point atop a counter. She attaches a tourniquet to the arm the other nurse is studying. Again, nothing is forthcoming. I have to doubt this usually troubles them so much. The second nurse detaches the tourniquet and relocates it to my left arm. She indicates a spot on my arm. “Here will do. I think you should use the blue butterfly.” She retreats to her counter perch. The blue butterfly? I wonder. What could that possibly mean? The nurse instructed to retrieve the “blue butterfly” turns around and shuffles in a drawer behind her, but as she turns, I catch a glance at her ID card. Front Desk Administrator She’s not even a real nurse? I think frantically. But I calm myself down again—everyone has to learn sometime, right? And blood-drawing-induced deaths must be incredibly rare. Anyways, the other nurse must be certified, and she seems to be supervising well. The “nurse” turns back around and the light from the single bulb above us glints off the needle in her hand. She moves towards me and carefully runs a swab down my arm before sticking in the needle. I stare at it, maintaining the same deadpan expression I had worn since I entered the room. The needle was drawing blood through a small clear pipe
that led to a six-inch test tube. I didn’t expect so much blood to be taken. I watch the spot where the needle pokes through my skin. Vaguely I start to feel as though clouds are drifting around and into my head, somehow slowing my thoughts. Huh, weird. The clouds are getting darker and start to feel as if they are collapsing around my skull from all sides, all the clouds trying to push towards my nose and eyes, as if they want to snuff out my senses. Something must be going wrong, but I refuse to let my poise slip as I cling desperately to the last lights remaining in my head. They are all looking at my face now. The color must be becoming a shade akin to the blanched walls surrounding us. The fake nurse finishes filling the test tubes and she swiftly removes the needle and bandages the spot. But the clouds are not receding and suddenly I hear my heartbeat. Usually when I hear my heartbeat it’s as if a large angry man is pounding on my ribcage. Thud! Thud! But now the man seems old and wizened; he simply lifts his cane up to a rib and pads softly a single time. And then. After too many moments. He builds up the courage to knock softly once again. ThereIsNoWayThatIAmGettingEnoughBlood! Am I dying? Did they take so much blood that my heart is simply giving out? I sit, I wait for something to happen, but my inevitable death must be stalling. The clouds begin to recede back to the far reaches of my conscious from whence they came. The real nurse offers me some orange juice. I sip at it hesitantly, feeling my strength return. I realise that I am drenched in sweat, and I hadn’t even noticed my profuse perspiration in the moment. After a few minutes I get up and walk steadily out of the room. 41
TO MY FUTURE SELF By Declan Fearon To my future self, And anyone else really. For anyone it may concern A lesson here for you to learn though this advice is not required It may apply to what transpires It’s seemingly easy to follow But in practice proves a difficult motto Applies to all and pretty slick here it is—don’t be a dick. 42
“Endless Possibilities” by Fiona Botz
TIME By Aidan Foley We never had time for greatness All we had time for was work We never had time to shoot for the stars And now I just live as a clerk We never had time to widen our minds We spent that time toiling away Studying for a test or something like that To score yet another grade “A” We never had time to write poetry Aside from in my English class But then in the end, when I look at my friends It feels like I’m looking through glass 43
DEFINING RED By Emmaliza Pearl
When he dips you in a dance in the elevator, it’s the flower designs on your skirt. When he leans in to whisper in your ear, it’s his smokey voice just saying your name. When you place your palm over his heart, it is the sentence that could never be finished. When you sit together in a chair in the living room, it is the song playing off in the background. The last time he kisses you, then fades away, it’s the color of your breath, and around your eyes. The feeling of when you see him falling in love with a beautiful dancer, and she’s no longer you. It’s your heart falling to your knees, but he’ll never know.
44
“Red and Blue Rule” by Tessa Amici
“Rust� by Noel Bentley
CASTER GIRL By Emmaliza Pearl
Love springs from the autumn air, Girlish smiles and hidden truths, Life feels its own weight underneath Another stolen glance and blank dream. False hopes gleam from white pages, Sweet voice and loose curls released. You may be my only grasp on happiness, But never will you know because you are Also my saddest downfall and lovely end. I see you, through honey skin, gentle lines That you draw on corners of the sheet. When friends hug, and leave, you remain. Truth flies too freely from my lips with you. All, but my longing for your touch, joy, And to be the reason behind your smile. My thoughts of you, a such acquaintance, Are brought with images of white flowers, Along with sunrise, cream-colored curtains When we awake, embraced in lively dreams. 45
“Cornell Drought� by Jefferson Sheng
FROZEN WATER By Eli Gordon
Hockey is the silkiest sport played on planet Earth. Mitts are soft, strides are smooth, hair is flowing, Passes are slick. Two teams march down alternate ends of the rink, Fiercely staring each other down like kangaroos Looking to fight for dominance. Come puck drop, the game is no longer a game, But strictly business, with a big heart. Emotions run wild As nature takes its course. The game is beautifully violent; fighting is real, checking is Vicious, but purposeful. Chirping turns to yelling, but everyone Can die laughing. Blades of steel cut through frozen water in Unfathomable numbers, ripping icy snow, to show A result. An exhilarated puck flies through the nippy air, Off a heated composite blade toward worn twine; The vermillion light is electric. After blood, sweat, and tears, one group Can bask in brief glory; the other can have a Short memory. 46
“Trastevere Tabby” by Ingrid Comella
“Rapids” by Olivia Lowman
47
GRANDY’S 80TH-BIRTHDAY FIASCO By Wynne Williams-Ceci The event my family refers to as “Grandy’s 80th-Birthday Fiasco” all started with the phone call from my uncle, saying he did not think pizza was special enough and that Grandy preferred a restaurant instead. Before anyone in our house could point out that this family gathering included nine young, rambunctious children, my uncle announced that we were going to “Hidden In The Valley,” which my family (being perfectly sensible people) thought was a casual, child-friendly diner. As my mother drove my sister and me there, we prayed this wouldn’t be anything like my grandmother’s 75th-birthday fiasco (another epic story-contest-worthy event). But when my extended family is in the picture, it is unwise to get your hopes up. As we pulled into “Hidden in the Valley,” we realized to our dismay that it definitely was not casual—it was “Hidden in the Valley—Five-Star Restaurant.” Our waitress ambushed us and eyed our group warily, stated that she had been working since 7:00 AM, was staying open between lunch and dinner just for our party of 13 and “wasn’t in the mood for any shenanigans.” I sat down at the fancy table with linens, picked up an engraved-gold-lettered menu and studied the options. A moment later, I looked up to discover that the place was already looking like a train wreck. My cousins had smeared ketchup on the upholstery, and the antique Oriental rug was next. While my sister, my mom and I were giving each other horrified looks, my uncle, aunt, and grandmother sat chatting like it was a daily routine to ruin nice restaurants. The waitress’s eyes bugged out when she saw the mess. She did her best to ignore it, and asked for our order. Each one of my seven cousins looked 48
disdainfully at the menu and asked if they had macaroni and cheese instead. Our waitress was already so tired of us that she wrote down the custom order, knowing our group was now one step closer to leaving. The food took a while to prepare, and my youngest five cousins do not wait well. They started flinging spoonfuls of grape juice at each other and were orbiting the table throwing bits of buttered bread into each other’s hair. I was just about to suggest taking them outside to play when someone started a game of “Who licked me?” Right at that moment the waitress came carrying multiple plates of food. My cousins stared at their gourmet macaroni and cheese and said they preferred Kraft. Our waitress shot us a dirty look and stalked away. Because my uncle thought this event was so far such a huge success, he decided we needed a photo to commemorate it. We filed outside into the lovely garden and asked our waitress to take a family portrait, which she was delighted to do because it meant we were about to drive away. We all squished onto the antique bench in front of the garden but before we could even say cheese, we heard a crack and turned around to see that two of my cousins who had been jumping on the rear of the bench had broken it. The oldest boy threw a piece onto the flowers yelling, “Checkmate!” Everyone stood frozen and the waitress went inside, probably to call security. I took one last look inside, which at this point looked like a Jackson Pollock painting. My mother murmured something about how you “can’t make this stuff up” and we drove off, leaving the people at “Hidden in the Valley” wishing their restaurant really was hidden—at least from our family.
“Animal Crossing” by Noel Bentley
“Calm” by Olivia Lowman 49
BELL WEATHER ♫ 2 By Aidan Peck goo.gl/cTEZSD
“Colosseo” by Ingrid Comella 50
PLAYLIST By Guthrie Kuckes
In Spain, I used to sneak out of the hostel at night, and climb the walls hide in the stairwell of the abandoned schoolhouse, the shouts of my friends, the children, playing hide and seek, far off in the dark until dawn caught me. And then she left me, and I knew I was a child again. Or other times, alone in the common room, I would dance dance because I couldn’t know them and I could dance because I could speak to them, and I was mute. And dance because I didn’t know why, because sometimes you just find yourself crying and that’s just the way it is. And again in Toronto, that night wasted and angry upon a park bench when the music of concert saved me and I danced all night, defeating in her eyes the demons of my mind, and then biking back through traffic as the city unfolded. These same songs, they were there always memories from a year ago, two years ago and yet it seems like my whole life, they resound in my dreams as my heels pound the concrete, as I collapsed, already, having stayed up all night. They are the staff upon which I write the melody of my actions, this counterpoint of my emotions. Though the pitches hang sovereign in the air, regardless it is nice to remember, and I like it. For in this year that was a moment that was a day, I look back, and I see that it was beautiful, that it was worth it. 51
LEGENDARY? By James Park
“Do you ever think about what you’ve done?” I stare at the empty glass in my hand. The bartender approaches silently and fills it up for the fifth time this evening before retreating, his glowing cigar just visible in the shadows. The kid presses on. “Well, do you?” His voice isn’t demanding or accusing, like that of others who have asked the same question before him. A little skeptical, perhaps, as if uncertain whether the old, scrawny man before him was the same individual who changed history decades ago. The shaking arm that lifts the liquor, the dirty beard that sways as I take a deep drink, the worn and ripped sleeve with which I wipe my mouth: on the outside, at least, there is nothing left of the man who once plunged all of society into chaos. I have my fair share of enemies, those who condemn me for my past actions. They curse me for the deaths of their loved ones and the destruction of their homes and claim my pathetic state now to be justice for my countless crimes. Many times I’ve been subject to brutal beatings, or waited for the explosion of a gun to lodge a bullet in my head. But I never react. maybe I simply can’t. Frustrated by my indifference, in the end they merely spit on me and walk away, vowing to undo the change I wrought. And then there are the followers. From all walks of life they come: old veterans, reunited families, passionate devotees. For hours they talk, sharing poignant stories and heartfelt appreciation for the opportunity to start a new life. I never acknowledge the the praise heaped upon me, and their tales are quick to fade from my mind. The gifts they bring 52
languish on the table, to be taken by passing pickpockets or eventually cleared away by the bartender. Despite it all, they thank me and promise to visit again. Sometimes they do. The kid before me, though, is different. There is no antagonism in his eyes, but neither is there adoration. No, his glance is one of pure curiosity, the look of a young child who has only heard of me through passed-down tales. A mind ignorant to the stories of what-could-have-been or what-came-before that has the innocent audacity to come up and ask me if I ever thought back to the day I changed the world. Whether I remember the struggles I faced, the victories that I held so dear, the allies that rose and fell by my side. I sigh and set down the glass. For the first time I lift my head and meet the gaze of the boy, who tilts his head quizzically as he awaits my response. “You ask if I ever think about the past?” I croak, almost surprised at how aged my voice has become. “Son, there is nothing that can keep those memories locked away.” His young face nods, thoughtfully. “Do you regret it?” The sudden shout distracts us. An older woman stands at the entrance, yelling for the boy to get out of there. Sheepishly he dashes off, but not without one last fascinated look and a small wave. The woman glares at me with disgust before the door slams shut. The bartender moves in to pour me another, but I wave him away. In a whisper I speak to the sky, the words barely disturbing the air. “It’s too late for that.”
“4 a.m. Sunrise” by Zoe Gras
“David B.” by Zeke Estes
1
53
SILENCE
By Mohannad Abdel-Rehim
Silence is the night Silence is a ball of secrets locked away from preying ears and judgemental minds Silence is our vivid memories forced to live in the dwelling of our minds Silence is our desires, stuffed away into a Pandora-like box that we constantly wish to open Silence is the deafening beating of our heart, the strenuous pulsating of our veins, and the everlasting push and pull of our lungs Silence is the eyes that tell stories that are never heard Silence is our lives that are a speck of dust in the wind of time Silence is the night
3
54
“Shrine at Night� by Lauren Eng
“Cornell Heating” by Zeke Estes
55 “Snow Day” by Guthrie Kuckes
HOW WHEN WHERE WHAT WHO By Emmaliza Pearl She asks me, a voice smooth as silk, About all the ones I’ve loved before. I sit next to her, hands in hands, And tell her my story like such: I have loved five before, How, When, Where, What, and Who, Each one significant And unique on their own. -How I loved, young and new, Were just naive children. -When I loved, tall and blond, Time flew by far too quick. -Where I loved, tan and cool, Gained strong place in my heart. -What I loved, smart and kind, Such silly devotion. Who I loved, sweet and hot, Cared even afterwards. When I finish it’s just quiet, In that silence she looks at me. Small smile and gold ember eyes, How when where what and who I love.
56
“Tansy” by Lauren Eng
“#MCM” by Jacob Silcoff
1
57
“Pond Reflection” by Zeke Estes
58
DOWN AND UP By Emily Hong
3
Down There’s always more room to move down Further away from the top Where one yearns to be Whilst sinking down Coiled in the dark Further from the light Further from noise But what is the use of brightness If it only blinds one What is the use of noise If it only deafens one What is the use of climbing up If the only way left to go Is down Up When there’s always Why make the choice to stay down Closer to noise to listen Near noise Closer to brightness to see Near light Further from the dark Ripping off barriers Whilst climbing up Where one yearns to escape from Further away from the bottom There’s always more room to move up Up
59
“Serenity” by Fiona Botz
LOVE LETTER TO A SAILOR By Tucker Loucks
In the pale moonlight Of the red and blue seas In the oceans adored And the shores, you’ll find me I’ll be waiting for your arrival Like the mermaid I am And swim to you, my love As fast as I can In the night I wait For your lonely reply To be able to play with you That would be my delight And though you may not believe Or think that I really am true I will be here for you, my love In the coral ocean blue 60
61 “Untitled” by James Yoon
“Leopard Cub” by Lennard Wiesner 62
2
63
LISTEN TO OUR MUSIC SUBMISSIONS
goo.gl/lC7uFk https://soundcloud.com/user-572729643/ sets/literary-issue-2017