sea change
Laurel Moon Fall 2017
sea change
Laurel Moon Magazine Fall 2017
Laurel Moon Magazine Editors-in-Chief Layout Editor Deputy Layout Editor Associate Editors
Anne Kat Alexander Danielle Rock Bianca Gleizer Nicolas LĂŠger Jillian Baker Polina Barker Sophie Fulara Ivy Gao Caroline Greaney Truman Mooney Leah Trachtenberg Nicole Zador
Laurel Moon is Brandeis University’s oldest literary magazine. We are entirely student-run; all editors and contributing writers are Brandeis students. We hold weekly social and editorial meetings in the Brandeis Media Coalition space, and we invite you to stop by! If you are interested in receiving information about any upcoming workshops, meetings, or events, please sign up for our listerv (laurelmoon@lists.brandeis.edu). Copyright 2017 by Laurel Moon Brandeis University English Department PO Box 9110 Waltham, MA 02454-9110 www.laurelmoonmag.com www.instagram.com/laurel_moon_brandeis www.facebook.com/laurelmoonbrandeis Front and back cover photos by Candice Jiang. www.acandicejiang.com www.instagram.com/candidperspectives www.facebook.com/candidperspectives
Editors’ Note An undergraduate magazine stands on shifting sand: every fifth year or thereabouts a wholly new masthead, no editorin-chief holding the reins more than what seems like a moment. Nearly every spring issue, then, marks the end of an era as a portion of the staff graduates. This time, though, it is the fall issue that marks the end of an era. Beginning with our next issue, Spring 2018, Laurel Moon will publish work from undergraduates writing and studying throughout the United States. This issue thus sits on a precipice. Our last chance to publish the best that Brandeis University writers have to offer. This issue rings with the personal, probing the connections between friends, lovers, enemies, family. Stories like “Lord of the Popeyes” and “A Sound Like Twigs Breaking” highlight the potential for pain that comes from interpersonal relationships, but at the same time, poems like “For My Savta, Judith” and “I Tell Him That He’s Drunk When I Tuck Him Into Bed” surface the sometimes loud, often quiet joys of closeness. Meanwhile, poems and stories like “Silt-Water Ocean” and “Cast Off ” feature the entire breadth of the sea. We hope that you enjoy the diversity of expression contained in this slim volume. See you on the other side. Anne Kat Alexander Danielle Rock
Fall 2017 Laurel Moon
Prose A Sound Like Twigs Breaking
Otis Fuqua
9
The Ballad of Buckley the Bear Part I
Otis Fuqua
14
Lord of the Popeyes
Nicole Zador
26
231st Cycle, 42nd Day: Musings
Truman Mooney
32
Poetry Substance, Lacking
Jack Fox
8
Journal Entry #283
Christy Swartz
10
Perihelion
Julia Ryan
11
Between Us
Rebecca Kahn
12
like scarecrows
Andrew Jacobson
13
The Scaffold Scene
Nicolas Léger
16
Child’s Play
Leah Nashel
18
nice, and good, too
Leah Scher
19
Katie
Lauren Puglisi
20
I Tell Him That He’s Drunk When I Tuck Him Into Bed
Nicolas Léger
21
Deserted
Truman Mooney
22
Cast Off
Christy Swartz
23
Cancelled Soliloquy from Hamlet
Leah Nashel
24
For My Savta, Judith
Rebecca Kahn
25
Silt-Water Ocean
Jack Fox
31
offputting things—
Leah Scher
33
Substance, Lacking Jack Fox Shearing smooth clay is a vicious pleasure. I won’t pretend otherwise— the wheel, the wire, the brush, the file, if taken together, take apart the substance of what, formerly, held up a river. You’ve got to carve it apart before you put it together, and even then, a good pot is hewn hollow.
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A Sound Like Twigs Breaking Otis Fuqua I ran into Mateo and Max in the dog field by the river. The only regularly mowed area in Good Hill, the dog field was a place for the dozen or so dogs in town to play, swim, and take monumental dumps to crisp in the sun. They were killing grasshoppers with a large stone when I arrived. I asked if I might join, a salute pressed to my forehead. Mateo lowered himself into a fighting stance and beckoned like he was in a Kung Fu movie, trying his best to sound Chinese. “No. This our land. You must go.” Mateo took a step towards me, swiping the air with an exaggerated chop. Max giggled and sat down, grasshopper tight in his hand. I couldn’t win. Mateo had a good 60 pounds on me, and he knew how to fight. I dropped to my knees, trying to mimic his impression but sounding more like Yoda, hands pressed together in prayer. “Please. General. Allow me to join your army.” Mateo clucked his tongue. “Such cowardice! What army wants soldiers who are scared to fight?” He looked to Max, dragging his grasshopper along the ground like a matchbox car. “Stand and fight.” Mateo smiled at me. “I’ll give you your first swing free.” I’d dreamed of punching Mateo. Dad once told me the way my weight should shift—back to front, twisting at the hip. He also told me where to aim—nose, eyes, and throat. None of it went that way. The big difference was I missed. By a lot. I clubbed the air a few feet to Mateo’s left, arm swung like a log attached at the shoulder. Which set Max cackling like a lunatic, now less interested in the hoppers around him than the one in glasses who couldn’t throw a punch. Even grasshoppers know how to fight. I reeled my arm in for another swing, an afterthought, but Mateo was already on me. A hand on my shoulder, a painful twist, and I was pushed to my knees, on a level with Max. I tried to breathe deep and remember that it was just Mateo, it would be over soon, but instead of letting go Mateo pushed down hard on the back of my neck, toward a less than dry mound of shit. I pushed back, and he pushed harder, individual fibers of past dog-meals coming into view, the stench like a golf ball shoved up my nose. I screamed for him to stop, that it
wasn’t funny, the game was over. Mateo, still playing ninja-master, brought his mouth to my ear and whispered: “Game?” He brought a knee to my upper back, and under his weight I buckled. I raised my head at the last second and locked eyes with Max as my neck sunk into the hot pile of poop. Hotter than expected, almost painful, but it was the smell. It came in through my eyes, mouth, and ears as much as my nose, swelling and churning in my skull until I thought my head would explode and shit would fly everywhere. “You not army material. So sorry.” Mateo made a vaguely Asian-sounding nonsense noise and leapt to Max’s side. I rolled onto my back, the front of my shirt crusty and streaked with whatever liquids dogs don’t digest. “Why did you do that?” Max looked at Mateo like maybe he was wondering the same thing. I repeated myself, louder this time. “Why did you do that?” He didn’t respond. “Why did you do that? Why did you do that?” I kept asking as Mateo wandered to the edge of the field, clicking his tongue. He looked back like he might answer, and took off towards the houses. Max ran after him. I kept asking long after they’d left, tears seeping into my voice until it was just a series of grunts phrased as a question. “Why did you do that?” I remember wading into the river like it was a dream: mud squirming between my toes and clinging to my ankles. Coldness flowing in through the bottoms of my feet, pausing to circle my knees before launching out the top of my head and into the air. A breeze strengthening with every step towards the center, all of it beckoning downstream. I slipped under the surface and wriggled out of my shirt, gray and dinosaur-ed and beyond saving. It looked like some kind of alien flower, bobbing and curling out of sight downstream. I thought maybe if I held my breath long enough, I’d breathe water in and become part of the river. But when my vision began to blur I leapt for the surface, gasping and splashing like a stupid fish with no shirt and no friends. When it was too cold to stay any longer, sky dark and fingers shriveled, I dragged myself out. On the walk home I crushed every grasshopper I saw. ● 9
Journal Entry #283 Christy Swartz Tell me what really happened that night. Tell me which tree you left your heart in, left your backbone in. Tell me why this forest is so dark, with so many tangled roots to trip over. Tell me how far your cries reached— did they even make it past your lips? Tell me about the soft fibers of this dress, your favorite. What did yesterday’s sunset look like to your eyes? I know how much you love staring up at the shades of light. Tell me what color the leaves were when you stumbled in here, they were breathtaking, right? Tell me why it started raining and never stopped. And your reflection in that pool of raindrops, don’t tell me you didn’t notice it… Tell me how you forgot the source of light was hiding inside your clenched fists. Tell me why we are here, enveloped in icy fog and tree bark, and please, let me lead us out.
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Perihelion Julia Ryan The sun lures threads of ivy green shallow-rooted, reaching high, through the thin and silver sheen pervading air from ground to sky That same sun with fierce hot eye taunts the moon’s eternal dance, as rushing rivers shrivel dry and thirst will kill the busy ants No winter winds have gusts so strong, no stars can cast sufficient light, to satisfy those hearts who long to close the distance of their flight Still circles on the loyal moon, and still crawl up the ivy vines, towards light that smiles gold at noon and smiles after blossoms die
11
Between Us Rebecca Kahn Drizzling, dragon-mouthed water fountain sounds the silence quiet hum echoing, thick with the ways my tongue sticks to beginnings of syllables, refusing to fill the space between the back of my throat, the pace of his blinking when we both look away, the gap I could cross with my arms I am unable to breach with words I have said but – cannot know the way I meant them so here, where last year I witnessed a man kneel next to masterpiece and look only at his lover; syncopated his gushing with the dragon’s hum trickling wishing to have and to hold her, next to the nasturtiums, for forever, a lifetime untouchable when we refuse to collapse into anything but here: where marble columns brace our backs and my stomach is overflowing, sick with words for him laying curled and prickly against my uvula, saying nothing I let the water fountain dripping speak for me
12
like scarecrows Andrew Jacobson together we trod through the manure, relished in the odor, drizzle of cow piss sprinkling on the hardened shit. together we laughed as we took those long boots and plastic bags off our dirty feet which smelt worse than the cows. we stargazed on swaying piles of hay, and you would concoct these magnificent creations of characters in the constellations. we scaled that tamarisk tree from where you once dropped your birkenstock sandal. we even huddled atop the bomb shelter, you with one hand on my chest, the other sketching with ink the departing sun. our pulse beat with that of the sky. together we snuck off across the single lane road to the scattered trees. an oasis in the desert, where we got scared shitless by imaginary terrorists. we tramped through the overgrown weeds, you lauding me for my absurd postulations and me lauding you for your lovely manifestations. both of us glimmered by moonlight, and always, somehow, we managed to return with straggling pieces of hay stuck to our butts like scarecrows. on a bed of moss, you told me your fear of returning to Eugene, to B-TEAM. Bella Tala Erica Amanda Molly. B-TEAM. Boys Tiki shots Espressos And Make-up. so i pressed the world of my lips into your forehead and told you that we are what we eat. that we had chugged the wild air and despite being shmacked out of our minds throwing it up would be near impossible
13
The Ballad of Buckley the Bear Part I Otis Fuqua
Hunkered over the bar, lachrymose and dusty from the road, Buckley hummed an old dirge. Something ragged and icy, broken every line by alternating gulps and sighs. Lorie’s reflection bore down on him between the shelves of glasses across from them, and he wished he weren’t so drunk. He stared back a while, but when she turned away he figured he should too. “Yesterday bear made itself at home in our wagon. Just hopped right on up, plunked itself in the middle, and proceeded to lay waste to three weeks’ provisions. Now, Buckley and I here’re well-to-do, won’t be a problem gettin’ more. But this bear. Real fatass.” Lorie stopped and appraised the bartender. Not listening. “Suppose I can’t get too mad, wasn’t lookin’ to kill anything, but it took its damn sweet time chowin’ down. Had itself a day. Left us in the pass with an hour a daylight and a snowstorm inbound and a pair a dreadful perplexed horses besides. Me and him in the same bedroll and we still near froze.” She motioned to the gigantic man at her side. “Point bein’ we’re mighty happy to be here. And keep ‘em comin’ for my husband, plenty to forget since his last drink.” Lorie said, to which the bartender shrugged, nodded, and refilled. “I’d die without you,” Buckley said. It was a thing he always said when he was drunk. “Are you addressin’ me or your glass?” Lorie joked, and when Buckley didn’t laugh she whispered in his ear: “I’d die without you too, Buckley-Bear.” Buckley pulled a tight smile, and with the last of his waking energy, threw his head back and poured the liquor deep into himself, to the warm, sunny place in his belly where yesterday never happened and tomorrow would never come. As he fell asleep, he thought of cool ocean water and mud between his toes. The last thing he saw was a swimming field of purple and brown beneath his face. The bartender called for closing and Lorie found Buckley unrousable. She tried carrying him, a thick arm strapped across her shoulder, wobbling under his weight, but at the door her knees gave out and they crashed to the floor like stones. She cursed herself for her stupidity, Buckley for his, and God for his lack of foresight in the creation of such a man. The bartender 14
helped them to the street, cackling. “Hotel Magnolia’s down that a ways. Get yourself a room and outta town in the morning. No room for thimbleguts here. No, no room. Try Buena Vista. They’ll take anyone. En. Ee. One.” The bartender puffed his cheeks and went back inside muttering “En. Ee. One.” to himself. For miles in every direction, the trees were cloaked in white. In town, thick clumps of snow gathered in sheets on the rooftops, sprinkling themselves over the edges, to the porches and cobblestone below. A powdered mountain formed on Buckley’s back. When kicking and shouting failed to wake him, it occurred to Lorie that he might be dead, and for a fraction of a second she felt relieved—then horrified. Buckley farted, high and plaintive, stark in the quiet of the night, and like dogs to a dinner bell, six grim-looking men appeared at the end of the road. As Lorie would learn, this was a group known, although only to themselves, as the Killin’ Crew. Long, drawn-out meetings were held every night in the saloon, wherein bloody murders were planned and tales of gunfights recounted in tortuous detail. In truth, none of its members had slain more than a rabbit, and even that was the result of a target practice accident. Each earned enough in the mines or the river to carry on mining or panning and drinking between, and in this way the months had already melted to years and the years to a flavorless mush. But there was less gold than there used to be, and where the nuggets turned to dust and the dust had all but vanished, their gory accounts rose to take its place. All they were ever proven capable of killing was time and the occasional mood, but by way of repetition and staunch belief, the Killin’ Crew had come to trust that each of its members possessed both a capacity and penchant for murder. Accuracy was not important to the Killin’ Crew. Lorie knew none of this and took note of the pistols at their hips, a flicker of fear behind her eyes. When they reached her, Lorie was seated on her husband’s back, hand swaying over the colt at her hip. Two fat men in beaver furs planted themselves on either end of Buckley. The remaining four formed a semicircle before Lorie, who thanked the Lord she wasn’t drunk when she realized they were arranged by height. “Hi.” Lorie waved. The Beavers waved back. They paused for a while, considering the woman on the giant, mountains swollen around them like the teeth of a frozen mouth. When they could no longer be contained, the Killin’ Crew exploded with questions.
“Did you kill this man?” “Who’re you?” “You lost?” “Take your hand off your gun.” “Where’re you comin’ from?” “Can I buy you a drink?” “Who’s that?” “What’re you doing?” “You been to Salida before?” “You know how to use that thing?” “He dead?” “You need a drink?” “Got any work?” “Where you headed?” “Need a horse?” “Buy you a drink?” The thunder of a gunshot forced silence. A wiry man in a black Stetson slapped his pistol back into its holster and stepped forward—almost intimidating. Maybe with different friends. “Jesus Christ, boys. Shut the fuck up. You never seen a woman before?” Stetson scratched under his eye and pointed at Buckley. “He dead?” Lorie smiled and shook her head no. “Y’all a dancing troupe?” she asked. The six men blushed like a rose with bearded petals. None of them laughed. “No,” Stetson said. “Lee Brilliant and the Killin’ Crew. We’re outlaws.” “Just the Killin’ Crew,” a man in thick glasses sighed. “He’s not in charge.” Lorie raised her arms and announced her surrender. It sunk in like a pad of butter in a not-quitehot-enough skillet. One by one, brows unfurrowed, eyes widened, and frowns upturned. But before they could break the silence, yee-hawing and slapping each other on the back for their good fortune, Buckley interjected once more—this time farting what Lorie was feeling. It was a hearty sound, a prolonged note of unification that set the crew aquiver with laughter. Lorie slapped Buckley’s meaty behind and rose to her feet, confident that after a year on the run, they had found her ticket. The gang insisted Lorie join them for the nightly meeting, and she agreed on the condition they help move Buckley and some luggage to the Hotel Magnolia, a request obliged before she was even finished making it. A red-panted, adenoidal man hopped into the wagon, and upon doing so found himself in the center of an arsenal large enough to arm an orchestra. Shotguns leaned against one side in ascending order:
single, double-barrel, and sawed-off; rifles on the other: bolt, break, and sniper. Dozens of pistols and revolvers lay in neat square stacks, and towards the driver’s seat the barrel of a rusty Gatling gun stared into Red Pants’ mouth. “Why?” Red Pants managed. “Well, we’re gun salesmen of course!” Lorie chirped. They applauded and believed her at once. If pressed, Lorie would have told them the truth, that she and Buckley had killed as many people as there were guns in the wagon. If they’d pried, she would’ve told them about the platoon they’d ripped off in Virginia, about the small town in Florida they’d wiped off the map. It would’ve been too soon, but she would’ve told them the story behind each gun, because she too loved her stories. And if the Killin’ Crew found the weight of them too much to stand, Lorie would have passed a bullet through each of them and added the Crew to her firearm graveyard. Unfortunately, no one asked. ●
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The Scaffold Scene Nicolas Léger two months past june we watched from across the room a deception of identity i misread where he stood like summer’s cherry blossoms i hit the ground, distracted and amazed, knees scraped and, my blood, the same as his lips – too sweet to praise yet, here is where i confess: my body rots on a scaffold weathered legs decayed if they gave me a voice to speak i’d fight those comments that resist delay of judgement and artistic critique he stands mute like a sculpture labels carved into a glass plaque image not to be ruptured it reads: “traditional garments modern day thoughts traditional fragments of modern day frauds” 16
a piece of art he must be! for a human’s heart could never feel the same as mine, never real though, he refuses to see me, nor does he glance so here is where i confide: my doubt, oh! why does he detach when we have been linked ever since two months past june and a moment long mistaken he does not care and, of this, i am afraid to confess yet, quietly, he must know (same as how he tends to repress): my hands have been stained with paint the color of his skin yet, then, on a fair afternoon i invite i propose: i am hosting an artist’s vigil! won’t he come? his composure stays intact instead of his presence, on a pedestal he decides to stand until i no longer can.
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Child’s Play Leah Nashel So I can’t give her away, my Barbie doll, or let my mother see. She has a dull pink stain between her thighs, faded pigment of a brown Crayola marker that wouldn’t wash away. In vain I scrubbed the color that had pulsed from my marker’s tip as nipple-less, bow-armed, her body received it, pink to complete each breast, brown to cloak the triangle: the lady-parts plastic, manicured, perpetually clean-shaven, now almost soft, sweaty almost, like my hands before they chilled stiff and I tried to wash away the deed, shoulders tensed in case the bathroom door flew open — “Honey, time for dinner. What are you doing with that Barbie in the sink?” — the soap suds turning brown and blush, rusty drops rolling off plastic thighs, catching in the indent of her belly button, leaving traces of desire on imitation flesh. 18
nice, and good, too Leah Scher you have a furnace for a heart. fresh-skinned and wide-eyed and rested, in part, and chiseled, in part, and jerry-built mind that looks into and on with your soft, swollen tongue and your warm, even palms that come seldom and sudden, but timely and felt: of all hands, yours must have the most love i’ve been dealt.
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Katie Lauren Puglisi I remember when we visited the beach collecting shells and pretty rocks and then one day a sand dollar. Your value can only be measured in sand dollars and orangey sunsets that cannot be captured on cameras. I remember when we saved up to buy used books and thrift shop jewelry. We used our pocket change on dinners of rice and beans and spoke to the waiters in our broken Spanish. I remember when you first started dancing and only ate bananas and granola. You don’t have to be thin to make art with your body. To match your movement to music, to become out of synch with reality.
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I remember when we went to your Grandmother’s home in England. Our mornings of scones with jam and clotted cream and in the night we collected lavender and tied handfuls in old handkerchiefs to bring back to the states. Now miles apart no matter how many times I shower I cannot wash away the scent of English lavender.
I Tell Him That He’s Drunk When I Tuck Him Into Bed Nicolas Léger
his eyes are glazed with what’s been burning his throat relaxed into their natural squint unsteady on their desired subject wandering, barely a linger my eyes are dry bored of this (we’re both exhausted but my throat’s too tired to explain why) surely, there was a time when i strained to look at him but his feet are clashing against each other in a stumble his smile is droopy and i’d like to forget this night like he will in the morning no recollection of his head moving closer to mine before it hits the pillow
21
Deserted Truman Mooney
Rain falls in a paper land Remnant of the artist’s work Push back, push back, encroaching sand A single forest, a merry band The final bastion of mud and murk Rain falls in a paper land Held in the palm of a green, green hand Hunters with night black fur still lurk Push back, push back, encroaching sand Red spiders weave strand after strand Blue caterpillars twist and jerk Rain falls in a paper land Beware the blaring heat’s demand The white annihilation’s dirk Push back, push back, encroaching sand Until no creature is left to stand The canvas clean of queer and quirk Rain falls in a paper land Push back, push back, encroaching sand
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Cast Off Christy Swartz I am sailing my own ship, my will twisting around the helm. Sometimes I look out at my surroundings: a world of saltwater. I tend to my sails, admire the sun as it rises and sets. The current pulls me. And there is no one else aboard to constrain my course. But there are ghosts stowed away on my ship. They seep up from between the floorboards, ghosts that lean over my shoulder, grip my shivering hands in theirs, and take the helm. The journey should belong to the captain, but my voyage slips through my fingers and through the palms of the frigid spirits around me. They tell me to weigh anchor, and sometimes I do because being a crew of one is exhausting. Soft words steer into my thoughts. Translucent hands tug at my sails, nudge the rudder, loosen the ropes so my navigation systems get out of sync. Their words lull me to sleep and I wake up, alone, lost at sea, and I must grab the wheel and find my way once again. A fog drifts over the map in my head and I forget my destination. I turn to ask a floating crew member what to do next--but they vanish, and I remember it’s just me, my sails, the wind, the wide sea curving over the edge of the world.
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Cancelled Soliloquy from Hamlet Leah Nashel Flowers bleed transparent on my skin, Innocents killed by seeming innocence And swaddled into garlands where thin necks Choke in knots supporting maiden heads. I know for certain now that I am no one, At least that I have nothing left to say: A blossom flailing on the rank wind’s breath, I’ve caked my fragile shape in river mud, Soiling virtue with still-virtuous hands Designed for gentle work like strangling stems. I wove a blooming circlet for my head Whose blossoms now wilt slowly in the sun, Rough pendant tongues of leaves that graze my brow And petals drying auburn at the tips As I will never dry, not if I let This rashness seize me, lead me towards the cold, Towards water still as unremembered dreams Where, calm at last, I can be free and leave This bitter, biting world, this heavy air, The castle walls that shut me into silence Even from afar. But how to go? Shall I, in slipping, by some misplaced step, By one foot tangled in the muddy ghost Of skirt that drops disheveled from this bodice Whose bones I snapped, one toe that slides too far Across this bank, fall swift into the brook And there thrash fit-like till the terror leaves My limbs, and I float limp like wreaths of violets And tangled wisps of rue that crown my head? Remember me, I want to say. Recall The springtime sister, laughing sunlit daughter, Who skipped at your heels and smiled and obeyed. Look how my pain, once masked, has sent me whirling, Unlacing in a rage my throbbing wrists To bloody cheeks of rue and fennel necks. Garlands of song wrap words I cannot breathe, Until at last, drowned laced with flowers, I leave. 24
For My Savta, Judith Rebecca Kahn My Savta gives the best hugs. She embraces me fleshy, varicose, old age, surrounds me with chicken broth, kreplach, dried onion tears: her special Friday night perfume. The kind of hug where I could melt into the dough of her chest if tomorrow was a promise of time. As if the tumble she took last week was a repeat offense as in, granddaughter, this hug could be her last and you are never home anymore. Judith hacked at the head of Holofernes, sliced tyranny in two, took his heart and held it in her palm, more courageous than any man.
Rebecca went to the well gave herself to a husband she had never seen for the sake of her people, for the sake of my name. Still, Judith is my matriarch. She taught me how to make hamantaschen, high tea, our bodies for sacrifice. This defines we as woman. My Savta has a pacemaker now and I hear about her hospital visits days after they happen. Like my Savta, I am named after a holy woman. Like my Savta, I don’t number my dinners in losses. On Shabbat, we holy women sink into the scent of each other.
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Lord of the Popeyes Nicole Zador
Charles Blau found G-d in the shadowed alleyway behind the Popeyes on 172nd St. He hoped he had made a good impression, but he doubted it as his hands were clammy and his breath carried the stench of bourbon (Maker’s Mark. 8 years old. A present from his daughter on his 50th birthday. A joke at the time, as he didn’t drink anything harder than sweet white wines). Charles was sure G-d wouldn’t appreciate his drunkenness, but G-d appeared to be a little tipsy Himself, so maybe it was sanctioned in a Bible passage Charles did not know. The crumpled sheets of paper lay between them, G-d and him, as they sprawled on the cracked pavement, the red brick of the surrounding buildings oozing the humidity of the night (There were other humid nights, far more pleasant, that arose from memory. Of nude picnics in Central Park with Vivien, when they were both thin and not ashamed if someone happened upon them in their vulnerable state). To make it to the Popeyes, he had had to take a few shots of the liquor, cut with water. It burned as it sluiced down his throat, unsavory and with an acrid smell. But he had made it to the restaurant, his eyes bleary from the alcohol and the tears. His daughter was working there that night. At least, that’s what he had thought. She used to send him her weekly schedule, 26
but Charles hadn’t seen an updated version for the past three weeks. (Michelle was in fact at that very moment with her boyfriend, watching the television flicker with steady eyes, pretending not to notice the hungry look in her partner’s stare.) Charles had hoped he would find her there, so they could talk. Instead, he found G-d. Which, in a way was an improvement and also a devastating disappointment. Charles was sure G-d was a pleasant enough guy to talk to when he wasn’t drunk. Unfortunately, Charles had caught Him at an inopportune moment and the conversation up until this point was like most drunken conversations—amusing, but mainly frustrating, full of garbled words and alternating tones of voice which would reach an occasional peak for no apparent reason. “Why the hell did you give us the freedom to choose?” Charles burst out suddenly, abruptly changing the subject from the intense discussion regarding the benefits of ticks and mosquitoes (even G-d admitted there were none. The existence of these two species was really just His way of getting back at humanity for “being little shits,” His words). G-d looked up from his half empty bottle of whiskey in surprise. “Are you complaining? Are you complaining! That was my greatest gift to you all next to orgasms and you’re complaining?”
“It would have been so much easier, such a better world if you just brainwashed us all into doing good.” “But,” G-d replied in a philosophical sounding whisper as he leaned forward conspiratorially, “would any of you really be doing good if you didn’t have the choice?” “Yes!” Charles exclaimed without a second thought. “We would be unable to do any different!” G-d took a long swig from the bottle, then frowned into the minimal amount of sloshing liquid that remained at the bottom. “I see your point.” “Well,” Charles intoned impatiently, “are you gonna get on it, or what?” “Get on it?” “Yeah, undo our freedom?” “I think I’d need to take a consensus. You are not the representative of the entire human race.” Charles slumped back against the damp bricks, for the first time coming out of his haze of amazement. The grime that caked his pants suddenly filled him with revulsion, and the smell of grease and old fried shrimp invaded his mouth, his nose; it slowly cut off his breath until all he could see or smell or feel was dirt and garbage. And the burning, gnawing feeling that had taken root in his gut. “This.” G-d’s voice slurred slightly. But only slightly. “Is pointless.” Charles looked at the crumpled piece of paper held up in G-d’s too large hands. For a moment, he lost sight of Michelle and what he came there to do, of insects and freedom of choice, and all he could see were the hands of G-d. They were suitably large, with fingers so elongated they could have been painted by El Greco, yet they did not bring to mind a strong protector, harsh punisher, or loving father. Instead, all Charles could think was that the hands, so disproportional, made G-d look like a gawky teenager, not yet grown into himself. The paper, Charles knew, was filled with finely typed lines, his lines which he wrote as he struggled to understand, finally to understand, the language of G-d. “You make a few good points,” G-d continued, either not noticing or ignoring the boring gaze Charles affixed on the soft nail of His left pinky, “but good points aren’t what get you recognition. You either have to tell the people what they want or tell them exactly the opposite. The general public isn’t interested enough in the new groundbreaking discoveries of religion— unless it involves Kool-Aid or psychedelic drugs. Maybe a few circles will be set aflutter, but for the most part…”
Charles blinked, trying to focus. The haziness had settled on him again and his tongue flopped around thickly in his mouth. It reminded him of a big fish, except instead of the fish swallowing him, he had the fish trapped in his mouth. Charles wondered absentmindedly what his fish-tongue had done to deserve the wrath of G-d. “I agree. Garbage. All of it—garbage.” Charles haltingly plucked one of the sheets of paper off the slime-covered asphalt and chucked it at the large, green garbage can, wanting to talk to Michelle while wanting to forget her eyes. The impact of paper to metal ended in a trail of whispers, the crumpled ball falling back down onto the alley’s floor. Charles had worked tirelessly on the words printed on each piece of balled up paper, the ink running down the pages, blending until every syllable was indistinguishable from the other, a language of no vowels or consonants, only strange whisperings with an occasional grunt thrown into the mix. “What is it all for?” Charles asked of no one in particular, he only wanted to force the question out of his throat so he could breathe freely again. “What is what all for, Professor?” G-d queried, His voice laced with traces of boredom. Charles shrugged. “Life.” G-d rolled His bloodshot eyes. “The human race was My solution to that very question. Clearly, it didn’t quite give Me the answers I was looking for.” Charles barely heard G-d’s words and instead remembered the way Vivien had carried away Bond, their shared Bonsai tree, away with utter disdain and disgust plaguing her once mesmerizing lips. He could hear the way Michelle’s voice struck his ear piercingly as she condemned him over the phone. All for nothing. It was all nothing. “Get off your ass,” G-d commanded in His forceful tone, his gray eyes refracting the light from the neon signs of the street splayed outside the mouth of the alleyway. Charles stumbled up obediently, unable to muster up the energy to stay seated. “You really should stop pitying yourself; it’s a very unattractive feature.” Charles, a 57-year-old man with thinning brown hair, a double chin, and a noticeable paunch jutting out from over his belt, was quite used to having “unattractive features” by this point in his life, so he was not overly offended by G-d’s comment. Instead, he simply shrugged and continued to pity himself. “Where are we going?” Charles asked, his 27
confusion all the more complete due to the thin mist of bourbon which had settled over his thoughts. “See, now that is an intelligent question. Or, at the very least, a useful one. We are going to see Michelle.” Charles staggered as his heart plummeted to land somewhere near his right kidney. He needed to find his daughter, needed to see her and explain. Yet, he avoided that meeting because he hated the idea of having to explain his actions. He wished everything could be forgotten, that everything could return to normal while he also wanted to become someone different, someone changed. “How? She’s not working here tonight,” Charles pointed out lamely. “I am aware, believe it or not. One of the benefits of being omnipotent.” “Where is she?” Charles queried with a sinking dread. “At her boyfriend’s house in the Bronx.” That answer did not lessen Charles’ anxiety. “Why are we going to see her?” “Because you need to talk things out with her. Family is important.” Charles blinked, unsure whether to take this statement as sincere or as another example of G-d being a sardonic ass. He did kill His Son after all (according to the Christians, at least, though Charles had his doubts). But G-d’s Will Was Done. Charles was under the impression that G-d would teleport them both there, but instead He hailed a cab. Which in and of itself was a miracle. The cabbie attempted a feeble conversation about the warm weather streak which was strange for midOctober; he claimed it was some act of G-d. That made Charles slightly uncomfortable, and he glanced over at his riding companion to see a similar look of discomfiture along His stern features, bushy eyebrows knotted together, deep lines grimacing. Charles could almost hear His subtly booming voice, edged by the vibrations of a whine, “Why does everyone have to blame everything that happens on Me?” The deepening silence in the back seat ended the meandering chatter and the rest of the drive was completed with all three occupants staring out the various windows. The tall buildings slowly transformed into squat houses with squared in front lawns and wire fences. Charles blinked, his mind blank. What did he even want to say to Michelle? I’m sorry? For what? For working? For finding my passion? Charles, as a Reform Jew, was very wary of 28
religious epiphanies and the people who claimed to experience them. He had been to a church sermon once when he was younger and had wanted to impress a nice Christian girl named Dolores by allowing her to save him. A college-aged man had gotten up to speak before the pastor and proclaimed in a rush of words that seemed to fling themselves out of his throat rather than be simply spoken, that he had been touched by the Holy Spirit. That G-d talked through him. That Jesus was alive and death had no meaning. He stopped speaking to Dolores after that. Charles had been confused; the idea of having such a profound religious experience, such a contact, was foreign to him. His services were filled with mumbled Hebrew prayers he didn’t understand and sermons that had more to do with AA than with anything godly. Charles mainly went out of fascination, to watch as the fellow congregants bowed at the hips, words whispered from rote memory. That was why he became a professor of religion. Not because he was particularly religious, not due to any fondness for the Scriptures, but because of the things it made people do. But some part of him, some small part, always wanted what that man had had; that moment of divine inspiration, a physicality with religion. So when he dreamed of screaming angels (the syllables all wrong, too many vowels, too much air pressed out through the nose) he thought he needed a break. (He also thought maybe this was his contact with something far beyond comprehending.) Night after night the angels, with wings plastered in gold and eyes on the backs of their hands, the angels would scream, and slowly Charles began to understand. They wanted him to write something. To save them. To save G-d. He, Charles Blau, 57-years-old with a brisket gut and myopic vision, would be the one to save G-d. So, he started to write. Scribbling chalky words on every surface he could find. Napkins at restaurants, discarded copies of the New York Times, and, in a stunning homage to Simon and Garfunkle, subway walls. But he had lost track of everything else. That’s the thing they never mentioned about the prophets. They were all lonely, even with G-d by their side. Forgiveness is a strange being; so tenuous and
light, drawn back as soon as it is given, unknowable, unspeakable, held between the constant of the past and the necessity of change in the future. Michelle wasn’t paying any attention to the film noir playing on Stevie’s T.V. While she enjoyed the flickering black and white faces and the fast punches of dialogue on most nights, she couldn’t keep down the foreboding that had built up in her stomach. Which is why Stevie’s hand, which had inched slowly up her left thigh over the past half hour, was so unwelcome. Stevie wasn’t paying any more attention to Humphrey Bogart’s gravelly voice than Michelle, but for a very different reason. The sound of a woman being slapped made Michelle blink slightly; it was funny, in a way. She’d read The Big Sleep in high school and those scenes, with the dramatic silly women, always brought a sarcastic smile to her lips. She couldn’t smile now. All she could see now were her father’s eyes as he yelled about G-d and his angels with eyes on the backs of their hands. Of a language with no consonants, full of air so that talking sounded like breathing. Breathing in the Words of G-d, the divine BREATH OF LIFE! She shuttered. “Are you cold, baby?” came Stevie’s “smooth” voice. His voice was never really smooth, but his current tone implied that he thought he was really putting on the moves. “No.” Michelle smiled tightly back at him. “I’m fine.” She was going to break up with him tonight. Get a fresh start. With everything. Quit working at Popeyes, find something to do with her communications degree. For the first three months after college, she had lived with her parents, crying as quietly as she could, hoping they wouldn’t hear her stifled sobs through the thin plaster of the walls. But they could. She knew they could. Not that they had ever mentioned anything, but she could tell by the pitying puppydog-eyes look they’d both give her the next morning over orange juice and vegetarian omelets. At first, she had looked for jobs in her field: a marketing consultant or account director. A photographer for an independent online paper. A manager at a corner bodega. A sales associate at one of those trending department stores that sell boho
style clothing at bourgeoisie prices, lifestyle included. Finally, she ended up dishing out deep-fried shrimp in brightly colored containers to angry divorced middleaged men with balding heads and sweat stains on their ten-year-old button-down shirts. The knock at the door startled her, but not in the way of true surprise. She had been expecting this. It was the shock of realizing that the dread of anticipation was about to become reality. Charles desperately wanted G-d to blow back the door with the point of an outstretched finger. Some Old Testament style power, some Charlton-HestonBurning-Bush-type-bravado. Instead, G-d knocked softly, politely. “That’s humble of you,” Charles remarked. “I’m not going to wash your feet if that’s what you’re hinting at. That whole ritual is one of the main reasons I despise sandals.” G-d looked pensive as He stroked His clean-shaven face. “Out of all the divinely inspired people who have spread My Word, only one group properly received that message. A strange cult out in the middle of Wyoming. Never wore sandals. Always closed-toed shoes. Granted, they didn’t wear anything else, but I appreciated the effort.” Charles had no words. Less because what G-d had said actually stunned him (he had studied his fair share of cults. He remembered countless nights, sitting by his desk, Vivian leaning over his shoulder to read the online articles with him, her thick brunette hair sweeping down over her shoulders and into his eyes. He didn’t mind the fact that he couldn’t read with the curtain of chestnut blocking his sight, or that he couldn’t think of a bearded man named Abijah living in the backwoods of Idaho with a basement full of ammunition and a houseful of ardent believers with the smell of her strawberry shampoo caressing his eyes, his lips, his fingertips) and more because Michelle had opened the door. Her sleepless eyes blinked out at him. There was no anger, not like the last time when he could practically taste the fire and brimstone she spewed out, her tongue a fire poker, her eyes the same flames that burned Joan of Arc. A killer of all things sacred. The power used to desecrate all things holy. Now, her eyes were dead. Which seemed almost worse. At least when she wanted to destroy hallowed ground there was an admission of its existence. Michelle’s gaze breathed frost. Nothing was precious. Nothing was blessed. 29
“Michelle,” he stuttered, his heart flopping down by his swollen ankles, “I would like you to meet G-d.” The door was slammed in his face. Charles opened the unlocked door, entered the apartment that smelled vaguely of cheap pot and floral air freshener, alone. Michelle whirled around, her hair like her mother’s, her eyes his eyes. “You’re drunk. How pious of you.” “Your present finally came in handy.” He tried to smile. “I just really needed to see you.” “Well, you’re looking at me.” “I’m sorry.” “I’m not the one you need to apologize to.” Charles frowned, his eyes on the ground, the feeling of flesh upon flesh stinging his hand. Vivian’s head snapped back with the strike, face red, graystreaked hair splintering across her forehead. (She looked older than she had those days they looked through the archives of cults, the rituals of the obsessed, laughing at those whose mind religion had ensnared, knowing they were smarter, more grounded. But she still used the same shampoo, fragrant, so thick it smelled like cream feels). The words of G-d were on his lips as he looked down at the lines of his right hand, smudged with pink and anger. Or, more precisely, the words he had written about G-d, to G-d, the words that would save G-d. “But I brought you proof,” his voice sounded weak. “I brought you G-d.” “There is no G-d,” Michelle snarled, a small part of her hating how cliché her words sounded. “No, He’s here with me!” Michelle opened the door, G-d standing on the doormat. “There’s no one here,” she replied. “You just don’t see,” Charles wailed. “Open your mind. Read my work. Then you’ll understand.” It took him several seconds to remember that his countless pages and scribbles were crumpled up on the floor of an alleyway, splotched with day-old grease and breadcrumbs. It took him a second before he remembered that he had admitted his work was useless. Garbage. Nothing. “I need you to leave,” Michelle returned, her eyes still. Charles turned, met G-d’s glassy eyes, and left, quietly clicking the door shut behind him.
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1…2…3…UP! Michelle’s small frame was being lifted up off the
cement sidewalk, her parents’ large hands gripping her slippery child’s fingers tightly, swinging her frame forward, her feet flying through the air. It felt like magic. Like freedom. Even after the bottom of her shoes hit the pavement with a light tap. She remembered the first time she met Stevie over a dating app she had downloaded onto her phone on a whim. They had gone to a quiet, but cheap restaurant with paper napkins and dirty tiled floors. He had made jokes and worn a nice shirt. Michelle didn’t feel in love, but she felt her shoulders slip down her back, her muscles unwinding. She had felt safe and unjudged. She had felt free. Michelle stared blankly at Stevie, wondering if she would ever feel breathless again. Wondering what could possibly be the benefit of adulthood if there was no one strong enough to throw you safely through the air, even if for just a moment. Stevie certainly couldn’t do that, neither could her father. He hadn’t been able to for a long time; she had known his flaws, his limits. But now, it was different. Now, she wasn’t sure if he wouldn’t throw her merely to watch her fall. They were in the darkness of a small patch of grass. (Charles could remember other dark nights, long ago, before the time of angels. Before G-d needed saving. White wine instead of bourbon. Strawberries in cream instead of slimy chicken.) “Why did you let me do it?” “Do what?” “Hit her!” “Free will is my greatest gift. It’s not my fault you’ve turned it into a curse.” “Is there any way I can undo it? Is there any way I can be a better person?” “Time is circular.” “That doesn’t answer my question.” “No.” The sagging leaves whispered sorrowfully. “I tried to stop you. I mean, I would have, if I could.” “Give yourself that power. To stop me.” No. Yes. Alright. ●
Silt-Water Ocean Jack Fox
It was when the reef was turning skull-white, Ash-white, a bloodless, bleached sail white, and It was as I was watching a beached whale grind Itself onto sand, spit spite like teeth, blind and It was frayed nets coming up empty, catching sea and air, So father has no fish today. Small mouths catch prayers— and Mouths prefer fish, and whales their sight, and a reef Color through clean water.
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231st Cycle, 42nd Day: Musings Truman Mooney The seeds of the Popully boil and froth in
their sulfur baths, and second spring is soon to come. The bark of the plum trees just outside my window is stretching, trembling, grasping at the sweet air like the fingertips of a waking child. I can smell doe’s breath, taste the honeycomb cracking apart to dribble down thick nectar. When I am caught in in this spirit of spring, I seem oft to recall my friend Theresa’s choice words on the Yangaran faith... “As life begins anew each solar cycle, the faithful seek to fill themselves with gratitude towards the world around them. This gratitude is believed to manifest physically within the body of the faithful, feeding their mental/emotional self just as food and drink feed one’s physical self.” I cannot claim to be a religious individual, exactly, but bearing witness to the change of seasons, this vibrant energy that pours from the mountains’ lips down through the valleys and forests and plains... Another message came today. I knew its contents, but I read it anyway. It seems as if this quiet life at the edge of civilization’s reach is too soft, too tranquil for someone like me. They want me back. Back in that dreaded night, where rockets and missiles light our way. Back in that maw of endings into which I thrust my sons and daughters, screaming words that mean nothing, that touch nothing. Back in the ranks of sterile bodies and chained beasts, a sea of dead melted to wax, back in the arms of children coated in blood, back under... his light. Fine as my eyes are, I cannot see that beauty the others see in it. Perhaps what they say is true, that I’m too much of a sentimentalist. My heart booms while my brain mumbles, so much so I fail to hear the reason spurring this campaign of righteous men. Mark it not the first of my failings. The Snowbells are flowering well. As of today, a total of 12 heads have sprouted, their cerulean petals opening to the sun. They can’t hope to compete with the Amber Lilies, who’ve managed 80 heads in the same time, but I doubt they ever had a chance to. The Amber Lily’s homeworld is much closer to its sun than the Snowbell’s homeworld, with an ancestry that was 32
accustomed to gorging on excess heat. The latter will always be swept away by the pace of the former, always left to kneel in its shadow. ... It’s his smile. That’s how he caught me. Like a minnow pulled into a waterfall I bend under the force of his words, so sweet is the sap he weaves, so indomitable his soul. Those hands that stroked my shoulder have flattened mountains, those lips that danced beside my ear have kissed stardust, those feet that strolled into my home have crossed flower fields and molten rock in countless worlds. I... I could never have been anything were it not for the belief he had in me. I was just another fool lazing on his hope for the strings of fate to bring me happiness and he... he smiled for me. Took my hand and pulled me to the sky. Me, the pale rock that could only gaze into the brilliance of a star. What right do I hold so tightly that I will not give my head on a plate if he asked for it? Is playing a cog in that cold machine so unthinkable? Is it cowardice that is tearing my breast? ... A bee has found its way onto my desk. In a moment of self-indulgence, I find myself thankful for its simplicity, that I do not suffer the embarrassment of being blindsided in one of my fits. It will be a dreary day when I am taken by this wave of passion before another. This bee that tickles my palm knows nothing of it, naturally. Ahhh... if only I had been born in this simple creature’s body... life and death meaning nothing, content to flutter from flower to flower. Perhaps then my hands would not tremble as he leads me into war. ●
offputting things— Leah Scher
fantasies, cinematic wonders: what you wish had been said that can’t ever be said, what you wish had been done that can never be done; waves of curbed imagination and thoroughly, methodically cracked thoughts, neither said nor done; life as a mosaic you need more than two eyes to see; us as multitudes— you may only use the word “binary;” high, without grasp on time; sober, fair tender memory just flashes of memory of when you misplaced time as one long string, comes in waves like wave after wave after wave of unfelt feeling at once, at twice, when waves of rain melt particles from three dimensions into one, space woven string holding strong woman still so she stops vibrating into / out from all such things, isn’t there already a theory that defines this feeling?
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Two awards are given each spring to undergraduate writers whose work was published that year in Laurel Moon. The Grossbardt Memorial Poetry Prize is awarded to one poem published in Laurel Moon over the course of the school year. Andrew Grossbardt was a poet who passed in the fall of 1979. He studied at Brandeis University and received his Ph.D. posthumously from the University of Utah. His poetry has been published in The New Yorker and in a chapbook entitled The Travellers. For the 2016-2017 academic year, Clayre Benzadón’s piece “Dando una Torta” was chosen for the Grossbardt award. Her work can be read in the Spring 2017 issue of Laurel Moon. Linfei Yang’s piece “Damascus Gate Market October 28th 2016” was chosen as a runner up. His work can be read in the Spring 2017 issue of Laurel Moon. The Dafna Zamarripa-Gesundheit Fiction Prize is awarded to a work of fiction published in Laurel Moon over the course of the academic year. Dafna ZamarripaGesundheit was a student at Brandeis University, a past editor of Laurel Moon and a member of the Creative Writing track who died prematurely at the end of her junior year. The prize, honoring her spirit and memory, is awarded to a piece of extraordinary fiction published in Laurel Moon. For the 2016-2017 academic year, Santiago Montoya’s piece “House to be Demolished” was chosen for the Dafna award. His work can be read in the Fall 2016 issue of Laurel Moon. Noah Harper’s piece “Energy Nuggets” was chosen as a runner up. His work can be read in the Spring 2017 issue of Laurel Moon.