LQ spring + fall 2015 by Leland Quarterly

spring & fall 2015 featuring joshua de leon | sierra freeman | vivian xiao | christina herrera

quarterly VOLUME 10, ISSUE 1: Spring & Fall 2015 Editors-in-Chief: Amy Chen + Abigail Flowers Financial Manager

Associate Editors

Magellan Pfluke

Amy Chen Zhanpei Fang

Managing Editor

Abigail Flowers

Annie Graham

Claire Francis Umutcan Golbasi

Prose & Poetry Editor

Alexandra Gray

Nate Hansen Rachel Jorgensen

Layout Editor

Grace Kearney

Brian Ngo

Anika Kim Ava Lindstrom

Design Team

Simar Malhotra

Adriana Barreau

Kristin McIntire

Juliana Chang

Brian Ngo

Amy Chen

Magellan Pfluke

Brian Ngo

Kunal Sangani

Silu Tang

Louise Stewart

Amy Abigail we need to get a Editor’s Note done -----

Abigail welp. what even do we write. “Hey we like writing you like writing here you go” ----------

Amy I think last year for winter issue kunal and brian literally found writing from 8th grade and just put excerpts on it ------------------------------

Amy oh yeah -------

Amy lol idk about two issues of that in a row ---------------------------------

Amy lol beats me ---------Amy We could just put this email chain ---------------------------4

Abigail Like their own writing? -------------------

Abigail omg. I mean we could do that. I still have some of my 7th grade poetry. -------------------------

Abigail oh shit is that in a row. um. dude wtf are editor notes supposed to look like --------

Prose “Waking Up Flowers” by Lucy Li on 5 “Catch” by Joshua De Leon on 7 “Sunburned” by Julia Martins on 19 “The Color of Hope” by Cristina Herrera on 23 “The Raccoon On the I-5” by Sierra Freeman on 41 “Ash Your Cigarette” by Cody Laux on 43 “Lobster Racing in July” by Alex Dunne on 48 “Think Like a Desingner” by Sarah Kahn on 51

Poetry

“Mitosis” by Gillie Collins on 13 “Disenchanted” by Claire Francis on 17 “The Chinese Linguist Returns Home to Nanjing” by Brian Ngo on 21 “Calling Your Name in the Suburbs at Sunset” by Tyler Dunston on 37 “The Choreographer” by Joshua De Leon on 40 “Leaving Song” by Juliana Chang on 42 “Yes, Chef ” by Clare Flanagan on 49 “Acheron” by Amanda Hayes on 57

Art

Photography

Vivian Xiao on cover, inside, 14, 39, 49, 59 Sophia Xiao on 16 Claudia Hanley on 19 Tyler Dynston on 36 Cora Cliburn on 56

Or Gozal on 6 Julia Rosedale on 29 Sophia Xiao on 38

Leland Quarterly | Spring & Fall 2015

Waking Up Flowers Lucy Li

The dough dozes, ready to be stretched and rolled into hua juan, or flower rolls. My grandmother’s nails clink against the metal bowl as her fingers hug up the sticky white mound. Plumes of flour dust the air as she pounds the mass into the wooden pastry board. Her rough, veined hands smooth the dough in a bright lump, a newborn baby cradled in leather. The rolling pin clatters as my grandmother’s skinny arms brew a storm of wood against wood, flattening out the dough into a soft sheet. Unlike my mother, who sneezes at the sight of flour, my grandmother pushes on with silent satisfaction. Her slippers shuffle in and out of the pantry, and she holds a careful grip on the bottle of oil. Gold pools onto the dough, and my grandmother folds the corners in and out, until the entire sheet shines. She rubs in ground spices and she sighs in their scent. The light dims outside, sharpening my grandmother’s uneven silhouette in the doorway. A disproportionately huge knife slices the thin layer of dough, and eventually the sheet unzips into strips. Outside the rain prevents my grandmother from tending to her green onions and chives, but in the kitchen, she grows a different sort of garden. One by one, each spongy white ribbon that stripes across the board is folded into snug flowers. Blooming with spices instead of pollen, their oily surfaces gleam. My grandmother turns on the stove and tucks the flower rolls into a metal tower. They fall back to sleep in a bed of steam.

Or Gozal

Leland Quarterly | Spring & Fall 2015

C a t c h

Joshua De Leon

Author’s note: For decades Cuba, under the combined pressure of a strict regime and a long-standing US embargo, developed as a paradox: a beautiful country with a faulty economy, remarkable healthcare but a history of governmental human rights violations. Freedom House, a human rights and democracy advocacy NGO, last year assigned Cuba a “Freedom Score” situated between Russia and North Korea—not good company for personal liberty. Athletes, along with the vaunted Cuban cigar, are perhaps the most visible export for the average American, as Cuban baseball stars in particular have electrified Major League Baseball. Their path to the US, however, is fraught with challenges; defecting is no small order. This story focuses not on professional sports glory but rather on the moments that come before and the choices that come with them. The effects of the recent push to normalize America-Cuba relations remain unclear, but this much is certain: for ballplayers and boxers, runners and jumpers, sooner rather than later, a change will come.

Shadows lengthened across the baseball diamond, forming grotesque shapes upon the caramel dirt, as a hulking bear of a man stepped to the cracked plate. His brandished bat cast a shadow of its own. The scoreboard behind the outfield wall flickered in the fading light, the score—2-0—and the inning—bottom of the ninth, two outs—just visible. I adjusted my chipped catcher’s mask and met the gaze of the figure on the pitcher’s mound. Eyes shrouded by his red and blue cap, he nodded and rolled the baseball in his palm. 18-and-a-half meters away and he still looked tall. 7

Catch | Joshua De Leon

I crossed my fingers and dropped the first sign, a fastball on the outside corner, and he nodded again. The pitch struck my glove, my arm never having to move. Strike one. The batter still stood, unflinching, and I signaled for a throw at the same target—this time a deceptive changeup. A whoosh of wind flicked my face as the bat hacked the air, missing the ball entirely. The Grizzly stared at his bat as if it had wronged him. I tossed the ball back to the mound and returned to my crouch behind home base. Marquise knew what to do next. I placed the last sign, a defiant middle finger pointed down to the earth, and Marquise nodded again and tipped his cap, straightening and stretching his arms. He entered his windup—a smooth, quick motion—before exploding forward and hurling his signature blistering, breaking cut fastball. The batter pulled back his forearms and took a booming swing. I stood, the baseball firmly in my mitt, and strode past the frozen batter to the center of the infield, where Marquise raised his fist above a slanted smile. Strike three, game over, and the scoreboard sputtered a zero on the final frame before a bulb burnt out and the numbers went dark. “Aye, bonco, that’s how we end it,” he said, and I grinned behind my facemask. As we approached the dugout, Amador boomed “Arrechea! You’re so lights out you made the lights go out.” The bustling walrus of a team manager clapped Marquise on his shoulder. “You’re an honor to Cuba.” The last streaks of red faded to amber on the horizon as Marquise and I walked from the field along Via Sevilla to the main streets. Already the daytime vendors were collecting their goods, pots and pendants clanking and streams of chatter caroming about the cobblestone roads. Our feet were bare—our only pairs of cleats safely in hand—and dust swirled up from beneath us, chasing away our uniforms’ remaining white. Marquise spied a pouf of raven hair adjusting a sign in the windows of Valerio’s Bakery. The woman made eye contact, and he beamed that big angled smile of his. “Ay bombón, when did God Almighty start letting His angels out?” She flashed an exaggerated wink and an array of obscene gestures and sidled out of sight into the shop. “I think I know where to buy pan cubano from now on,” Marquise chuckled. “I bet she has a movie star name. Like Michelle. Or Audrey.” “Or Maria, like everyone else you flirt your food from,” I said. He shrugged. “I like that name, too.” By now we’d reached the crossroads, east of the city and west of the athlete housing a mile down the path. “Think the bread girl will recognize me if I order something without my uniform?” “I didn’t realize you ever took those rags off.” He laughed, but a shadow crossed his face. “These rags, José. Not even our names on these jerseys.” He tugged at the 8

Leland Quarterly | Spring & Fall 2015

greys of his shirt, branded with nothing but a looping Cuba Fénix. “And this number isn’t mine, you know? When I’m done, someone else gets 40 on his back.” Marquise’s face tilted upward, streetlights drawing odd lines on his profile. “That’s baseball, Marquise. Hell, that’s life.” His shoulders bounced, and he returned to full laugh as he draped his arm across my back. “Speaking of living, bonco. You joining the team tonight?” “Well…” “Well?” I shrugged out from under his arm. “I’ll be there. Just have to drop by home first.” “That’s my man, José. Now hurry up. You’re a catcher, but that doesn’t mean you gotta be slow.” Daylight exhaled its last breath, and the warmth lingered as the paved road gave way to gravel path. Framed by pale-trunked palm trees, the player cottages rested nondescript in the darkness. I drew out my key ring, spinning it in circles around my finger as I made my way to my shanty, and unlocked the door. The room was dim. I dropped my gear under the shelf, where photographs of my parents and brother mugged back at me, and stripped off my uniform. I felt lighter, the grime of today’s game finally shed.

“When I’m done, somebody else gets 40 on his back.” “That’s baseball, Marquise. Hell, that’s life.” “You’re not going to make me smell that all night, are you?” A honeyed voice greeted me. A fingertip whispered along my back, and I turned to meet her teardrop eyes. “That’s my natural cologne, Yoani. Like a fine aromatic wine.” “Mmm,” she tossed back her waterfall of ebony hair and pressed her nose against my arm. “Notes of pine tar, sticks, dirt, and sweat. Ah, mi amor, it’s ravishing!” Yoani ensnared my wrists in her hands and pulled me backwards onto the bed. She pecked a kiss on my nose and slid her palm down my chest, drumming my ribs like piano keys. “Are you ticklish without your armor?” “It’s catcher’s gear.” I covered her hand with mine. “And I have a catch right here.” “God José, I thought I’m the one who watches too many cheesy American romances.” I kissed her. 9

Catch | Joshua De Leon

“Do you want to be in one? I can be your Leonardo,” I said and kissed her again. “Oh, Leonardo, you do make a girl weak at the knees,” she said in English. “How’s my American accent?” “Sounds like a starlet.” She stuck her tongue out and then laughed as she hugged me closer. “Yoani,” I said. “Is there anything you want me to bring back from town?” Her embrace loosened. “From town?” “I promised the team I’d join them at the cantina tonight.” “Promised the team, or promised the great Marquise Arrechea?” Acid soured her honey tone. “I’d take you, but you know you can’t drink now, and if they ask why you won’t, we can’t just tell them that—” Her bright white teeth were hidden now. “Go ahead, José Villa. I need to rest anyway.” “If you want me to stay I can.” “No, it’s alright.” She paused, her face inscrutable. “It’s alright.” I kissed her again, and we lay unmoving for a few minutes before I rose and began to dress. “I won’t be long.” “It’s alright.” As I opened the door, she sat up. “José.” “Si.” “If I could drink wine.” A kaleidoscope of lights wheeled through the blackness, and muffled beats throbbed as I neared El Pastor Cantina. I brushed back my hair and entered a throng of bodies spinning to kinetic Cubatón music. A discus of hazy green and crimson light blasted throughout the bar, along with swarming voices hoarse from laughter and liquor. “Bonco!” A throaty shout pulled me to an island of threadbare couches near the bartender. Marquise was splayed like the picture of cool on the furthest divan. He raised a glass, untangling his arm from the shoulders of an alluring woman with dangling earrings, and stumbled to full height. “My catcher is here! Now we have the entire starting lineup.” Bolting down the contents of his cup, he grabbed a clean one from the table and filled them both, spilling as he poured from a bottle of English-labeled whiskey. The first baseman, awkward in an ill-fitting polo, and the lanky, tank-topped left-fielder joined us in a toast to the Fenix. Interspersed throughout the cantina, the rest of the team danced or drank or flirted or tried to flirt, sometimes all at 10

Leland Quarterly | Spring & Fall 2015

once. Marquise took a final heroic swig and excused himself to the dance floor, nearly forgetting his date before turning back for her with a rakish smile. Just as on the baseball diamond, Marquise glided on the dance floor, twirling his companion with a grace belying his physique. The pulsing beat of the Cubatón vibrated down to my toes, and beads of alcohol shuddered on my tongue. I downed a few more drinks. The music peaked and faded into the applause of the inebriated crowd. As the next song’s opening chords struck the walls, Marquise made his way back to our table, his date now happily in the company of the centerfielder. Marquise gestured for me to follow him into an adjoining hall. “Bonco, you got my back, right?” “Yeah, I’m your catcher—” “Exactamente!” The sweat on his forehead glistened under the shifting lights.“You’re my catcher, José. Imagine catching for me, but where the scoreboards always work. “Imagine the cheering. The fans.” He cupped his hands around his mouth, rocking back and forth, and imitated the roar of a crowd. The din of the party made him sound dissonant, and the darkness of the hall left him slightly out of focus. “Marquise, what are you saying?” “You know the stories, bonco. The Americans? They want tough Cubanos like us. They’ll pay, they’ll pay so much.” “Marquise-” “What if we got out of here? What if we left?” His voice lowered as he stooped nearer to me. “I’ve been talking to a guy. We could go by boat, dodge the patrols. We could do it. I’ve been talking to people. We could do it, bonco.” Marquise was animated, swaying not to the Cubatón but to the turning wheels in his mind. “Marquise.” “Si?” I drew a deep breath. All my senses were firing, the chill of my glass and the miasma of alcohol and heated bodies nearby a whirlwind. “No.” Marquise blinked. “I can’t, compadre. The scouts, they’d all want you. They don’t want a slaphitting catcher—” “I can make them take you with me! A package deal or no deal. I need you calling my pitches, catching my pitches.” “You know that would never work. And either way, I can’t leave. I have to stay in Cuba.” He frowned, uncomprehending. “My life is here, but yours?” I gestured to the ceiling, to the sky. “It’s up there. You’re a star, brother. I’m stuck down here.” “Your life doesn’t have to be here!” His eyes shone strangely, as if he were about to cry. “We can get our names on the back of our jerseys,” he said. “We can 11

Catch | Joshua De Leon

be somebody.” My throat lumped. “All my somebodies are here in Cuba, Marquise.” He gazed at me, suddenly seeming very tired. But the instant passed, and he plastered on his crooked smile. “Come drink Cuba libre with me, bonco?” “Sounds perfect, bonco.” The tightness inside started to loosen as Marquise bounded through the bar, gathering the rest of the team as he went. “Let’s drink, all you assholes! To the best damn team on this godforsaken island.” Before I opened my door, I looked up. The alcohol sat warm in my stomach, and stars glimmered through the palm leaves. I shrugged off my shirt in the humid darkness and slid under the covers of my bed. She was there, beautiful in the half-light, breathing steadily, occasionally sputtering a muted snore. Yoani adjusted drowsily as I snuggled in beside her. Amid the blackness I could pick out her ivory smile. // The morning sun beat back the shadows on the damp grass. I kneeled on the greenery, my knees too worn to settle into my long-familiar crouch, and I readied my fraying catcher’s glove. A dozen meters away, the pitcher launched into his windup and hummed a strike into my mitt. I stepped to my feet and rolled the baseball in my palm. “You’re so strong already, mi hijo.” A bell sounded from the nearby house, followed by a honeyed call. Chéano beamed as he picked up the extra baseballs. “You remind me of a friend I used to have, a long time ago,” I said. “We’ll play catch again tomorrow?” “Si, papá. I can try out my curveball! And my cutter.” I rubbed my palm over the stitching on the back of his shirt—a block-lettered “VILLA” in all capitals. As we walked to the house, my gaze wandered to the skies. When I looked back down, I found Chéano looking up at me.

Leland Quarterly | Spring & Fall 2015

Mitosis Gillie Collins

I want you to know how it felt to hold another life there, under a toy microscope, stranded in the light. In third grade, I wondered if it hurt, our relentless desire: all of us lined up in goggles, squeezing pipets and dragging each slide closer, the flagella beating away… I was not the first to chase and classify: animal or plant.

II.

Euglena gracilis was a rumor Ernst Haeckel started. The sun is everywhere, pouring down like a flood on your cheek in the garden. You are asleep on a hammock between the flower beds. My job is to wake you but I can’t. A small vein runs across your forehead, a slight sweat. I follow. Here, the wish to love means plundering each moment for a fact, more lasting—

your eyes out of nowhere blink back.

Vivian Xiao

Leland Quarterly | Spring & Fall 2015

III.

My memory clicks into focus slowly. I watch a cell divide evenly, a pair of eyespots but one membrane, each nucleus dyed red. I count two bodies, firmly separate— the bear-trap of digestion and little hairs on the skin like oars—but what I want is convergence, the time your sock ended up in my laundry and everything I owned turned pink.

IV.

It’s hard to trace the inheritance of a single trait like stubbornness: the way I bent my spine to watch you sleep, a pillar of blood and bone and tissue, my pathetic nervous hands. When did that begin? I look up from the Euglena to discover the shelves about me cluttered with strange names for the same thing: you, you you.

Sophia Xiao

Leland Quarterly | Spring & Fall 2015

Disenchanted Claire Francis

It’s funny what you end up remembering from childhood once you’re jaded and mortgaged and supple-skinned. Memory gnaws on your finely lined edges, white polaroid borders rubbed indistinct by a nostalgic thumb. Your tongue is wistful against your cheek, knotted knuckles scrubbed raw by thoughtless sand. Your father’s face is an Impressionist’s finger-smudge, imprecise and distorted behind flapping, metallic flags. You bob between carnival caravans like a pinball, a glass butterfly dwarfed among balloons. His calloused hand flits from your wrist, sucked into the public’s mouth. The watery paint on your overalls has crystalized into glittering candy floss. A train tunnel’s muddy ribcage kisses your spine with chips of stone, a damp braid snarled and stiff from the rain. Thick plumes of eyeliner daub your cheeks like war paint, an accidental portrait in stubborn monochrome. Labored eyes smear your fingers into blobs and no one questions who you are. Ghostly paths of cigarette smoke leak from blurry brickwork like mold, easy enough to choke on if you aren’t prepared. The soupy gaslight of an antiquated bar veils the back of your eyelids, with plum cushions vomiting stuffing and accented voices lingering around your throat like a necklace of snakes. Crooning jazz clings to your shoulders like funeral dress.

Disenchanted | Claire Francis

Your motherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s earring dangles from your ring finger, a two-bit bauble with glass pearls and burnished metal, rust hemming the clasp. Your face is bloated by the finish and warped by the bulge of patchy fix-ups, half-breaths tied up with its tangled wires. Sheâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d wanted to be buried with it. The brain litters its sewers with sunlit nights and mirror shards. Your dream-catcher fingers whittle your hours to toothy points, sharp enough to carve misremembered nicknames into your palms like regretted tattoos. Your mouth coils along the brink of a dying plea, wrinkling ashes that spill from a small, clenched fist. Puppeteer string threads your frostbitten skin through hair like skeleton lace, blood pooling in heels and fingernails like unfortunate bruises. The air is brittle in your lungs, lullaby lyrics gruff and off-key and missing words like a gap-toothed grin.

Leland Quarterly | Spring & Fall 2015

Claudia Hanley

Sunburned Julia Martins

I have been awake since before the sun rose. Or am I the sun? It is hard to tell sometimes. Before, I used to dream that I was the sun and he was the sky, he was a perfect balance to my heat and turmoil, able to hold it all in and dilute me until I was manageable. Today, I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t want to be manageable. 19

Sunburned | Julia Martins

I can hear him as he walks into the kitchen, though he doesn’t speak when he sees me there. I don’t know what I look like from behind, if I am dark or shining with the brilliance of anger. The light wooden table in front of me has been white washed. I can barely stand to look at the reflection. I don’t look away. He walks closer, slowly in that way of his, as if he’s evaluating every movement. I don’t want him to speak. There is no sound in space. “Good morning sweetheart.” I am not sweetheart. I am light. I am fury. I am rage. He presses his mouth lightly to my hair, which must look white in the light. I wonder if it burns him. If it does, he does not let on. Maybe it doesn’t – that’s what the sky is for, for containing sunlight. “Couldn’t sleep?” his voice is light, too, matching my own blaze – but today I will not let it wash me out. I will condense on one single point. It is said that focused sunlight can start a fire – and right now, I want to burn the house down. “Not after you forgot our daughter at the supermarket for ten minutes, no.” The words are quiet. They are scalding, a slow sizzle that embeds itself into my memory - a permanent brand I can never forget. Macie. She is the moon. She is everything I’m not: sweetness and weightless laughter and cold, pale, smooth skin. Without her, I’m floating alone. He pretends my words are lost in space. Some part of his body shifts behind me, but I do not turn. The sun cannot move, all else must orbit around it. “Should I take Macie to the park today? I know you’re so busy with work, honey.” I burn and burn and burn as I sit there. Today, I do not want to be surrounded by sky. Today is a day for the sun and the moon, an endless love story, unimpeded. “I took the day off. You’re not taking her anywhere.” I am smoldering. My hair burns where it touches the back of my neck. I balance it on the top of my head, a halo made of light and air and white fire. Let it be a symbol. It is my passion, my freedom. Maybe I’ll arrange Macie’s hair in the same way, and for one day, the sun and the moon will match. The sky is determined to get in the way. The sky is always there, it doesn’t understand. He never understands. “I was thinking it would be nice to take her to the park. She hasn’t been to the park in a few days now. I’m sure she misses the sandbox.” He eases away, a step, and then another. Yes, leave. I’m scorching, you’re not welcome here. I burn so brightly I can barely speak. He takes two more steps. I speak slowly, deliberately, shoving embers out with my words, “I will decide what to do with her. I am her mother.” He freezes. I blaze - crackle. I wonder if my heat is hurting him. I cannot stay in the kitchen. I will burn the house down. He whispers into the space between us, the endless space which is cold and soundless and dark, “I love you.” His words hang in the sky for all to see, white announcements that take so long to spell, you have to sound them out – the first letter evaporates by the time the last one appears. 20

Leland Quarterly | Spring & Fall 2015

The Chinese Linguist Returns Home to Nanjing Brian Ngo

I. Boom, and the House of Hell strikes the seam of the globe, releasing the anguished gasp of glass that falls upon the homes like morning mist. Eying up and eyed by the blazing walls, wives, on their backs, part and sprawl; Impaledâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; where man first formed like a potent pearl: cracked, formed, and then unfurled.

The Chinese Linguist Returns Home to Nanjing | Brian Ngo

II. The linguist, abroad, returns home to the hundred-year horror: of children rendered into jigsaw piece kits filling in the half-buried pits, of a city no longer citied but a meathouse of shapes and flesh. Burnt—ash; Flayed—remains; He sees their gall, and every language falls out of him like moonlight mauled by blackout. He was once told that Chinese and Japanese were sister languages (as a matter of fact). But as this man sees his mother, his baby brother, smeared into the streets like streaks of rubber— He gives up the study of languages, for the words have fallen out— they are now like a sharpenelled sigh to some forgotten bang or whine.

Leland Quarterly | Spring & Fall 2015

The Color of Hope Cristina Herrera

* * * Ibone was trying to lose herself in the darkness outside when she saw their figures against the streetlight, running towards the bus. When the thugs jumped on, she decided to keep looking out the drop-stained window. “Everyone hush! You,” said one of them, “keep driving and drop us at the next stop.” Ibone heard people in the crowded bus shuffling their belongings closer to their bodies. “Don’t look at their faces, child,” whispered the old lady sitting next to her, scooting closer. Ibone nodded, knowing that it wouldn’t make any difference. Those who had been upright, careful not to touch each other, bundled closer together despite the humid heat that clung to their skin. As the thugs walked down the aisle, holding onto the dirty red seats, Ibone felt the thin roll of bills she had hidden in her bra burning against the bottom curve of her breast. The few she had hidden for them to find were already soaked with sweat in her left shoe. It was the 15th, she thought, how predictable they were. Ibone tried to ignore the sound of their voices as they demanded seat by seat that the passengers take off their shoes and empty their pockets and bags. “Oh Lord,” gasped the old lady when a hand slammed against the seat in front of them. The old lady brought her own trembling hand to her mouth and kept her head down. Ibone stared at the thug’s hand, disgusted by its filth. The hands were greasy, lines of dirt under bitten nails. It struck her how young his skin looked, and she couldn’t help but glance up at his face. She felt her mouth drop open, and the boy froze as much as the moving bus allowed him to freeze. They looked at each other without blinking. Like animals that sense the emotion of others, some turned instinctively to look at them. “Hey! Move, you!” yelled the leader from the front of the bus. “All clear here,” said the boy with a husky voice and continued to the next seat. 23

The Color of Hope | Cristina Herrera

Ibone looked back out the window, seeing nothing but the boy’s face in her mind. The bus jerked to a stop. Ibone resisted the urge to peek up at the boy to see if he had looked at her before getting off with the rest of the gang. She felt occasional eyes on her while people waddled and bumped into each other as they tried to get off. She held tightly onto her purse and stared ahead. “You take care of yourself, child,” said the old lady. Ibone nodded and walked firmly towards her barrio. On her way there, she passed by his house, brick-walled and unpainted like hers. Both their mothers used to sit in plastic basket chairs outside that house, watching them as kids laughing naked under the afternoon sun. They would stand in the plastic water bucket her mother washed clothes in, their round bellies glistening under the cool water of the patio’s hose. Ibone was two years older than him, which didn’t bother either of them until they got to middle school. There, their age difference gave Eddie a reputation. Whenever boys his age saw them together, they smiled slyly and patted him on the shoulder: as if they shared a secret understanding with him she wasn’t meant to understand. When she noticed these glances, she asked Eddie to stay away from her while they were in school. *** When Ibone was three houses away from hers, little Evelyn’s high-pitched giggling broke the memory of the boys’ chuckles. The moon made the tin roof shimmer. The bare brick walls were blackened by darkness, made darker than the surrounding ebony sky. It smelled of pan-fried flour. As Ibone opened the wooden door, she saw her mother, Matilde, at the stove under the bare light bulb. Her own child, three-year-old Evelyn, skipped on the dirt floor in a semi-circle around Matilde’s legs. “Mami!” Evelyn screamed and ran to throw herself at Ibone’s legs. Ibone picked her up, kissed her, and fastened her onto her hip. Ibone kissed Matilde’s sweaty cheek. Pa was sitting at the plastic table, his crutches against the brick wall. She kissed her father’s forehead, the brown skin wrinkling under her lips as he looked up at her. She set Evelyn down and she went right on skipping around Matilde. The little one had a white tank top that drew tight over her swollen, empty stomach. Ibone opened the fridge: an open can of sardines, a plastic container of flour, mangos that she and Ma had picked up on the way from work, and a plastic pitcher of water. She closed the fridge, let herself fall into the plastic chair across from her father, and leaned tiredly against the wall. “Stop skipping will ya?” she barked at little Evelyn while she brought her index finger and thumb to massage her temples. “You showered already and you’re lifting dirt off the floor.” “We’ll get some porcelain on it soon, Ibone, you let me get well,” said Pa, “God willing.” 24

Leland Quarterly | Spring & Fall 2015

“Have you seen your fridge?” she asked. Pa pressed his lips together and looked down at the table. Little Evelyn walked over to take her grandfather’s face between her little dimply hands. After hesitating, she kissed his nose and giggled, letting go. Ibone didn’t know what to make of her sometimes. Then she thought of Eddie. “I’m not hungry, Ma,” Ibone said as she got up. “What do you mean you’re not hungry? You’ve been working all day–”, but Ibone was already in her room. She crawled into bed and placed her shoes neatly on the floor to avoid lifting any dirt. Then she took out a rusting tin box from under the bed. On the lid there was a smiling clown holding onto three balloons: yellow, blue, and red. His face powdered white, his nose red. She opened the tin box and took out the Discman her parents gave her for her fifteenth birthday. The blue foam that once covered the headphones was discolored and missing at parts. She put them on, the plastic biting against her ears, and listened to the music she knew by memory. She found comfort in the folkloric music of Tío Simón because it evoked a country she never got to meet: the country that existed while her parents grew up. It didn’t exist there where she lived, in the outskirts of the city, but in the plains, where people awoke before sunrise to the smell of coffee. Where they milked the anxious cows and let them roam free. The sound of horse hooves on the wet ground. Long-legged birds taking off over green savannas against the setting sun. The high-pitched singing of frogs at twilight. The sensation of cold virgin water glistening over the warm mosquito bites on their skin and through every strand of their hair until it made it sleek. Going early to bed lulled by the curtains pouring from the sky and the rumblings of the heavens. The smell of wet earth. The smell of life. Ibone’s favorite song was about the haunting of the motherland; the love that awakens with memory and yearns to gallop back to those plains like an untamed beast. Amidst the rasping notes of the cuatro, the tunes of the mandolin, and the dancing, dry beans of the maracas, came the melancholic, high-pitched, lament of Tío Simon’s voice:

Light of dawn, let me borrow your brightness to illuminate the steps of my lover who is leaving. If you encounter any hardships, there, far away from my solitude, ask the light of dawn to bring you back again; ask the light of dawn to bring you back again. 25

The Color of Hope | Cristina Herrera

Ibone opened her eyes and took out the only picture she kept in her tin box. She looked at his amber eyes. He must have been about fourteen then. A baseball cap front-side facing back, his brown sun-bleached hair sticking out at the base of his neck and out the red semicircle of his cap. His wide smile. The dimple on the right corner of his mouth. She rubbed her thumb over his image. Today she had seen him after three years. Eddie belonged to this world now; a world so far away from the one she missed without knowing. A world where murders were just an increasing number; where women like herself left before sunrise to work under someone else’s eyes and prayed that their children made it safely to school and stayed there; where they waited for the 1st and the 15th of every month to attempt to put food in their mouths. They both belonged to this world, Eddie and herself. They had both heard their mothers’ sobs, as sound carries easily through those poorly built walls. They had been listening to Tío Simón the day Eddie told Ibone he was joining the gang. As usual, she had waited for him at her house afterschool. Ma and Pa did not come back from work until six. She opened the door and Eddie began kissing her, taking her face in his hands and playing with her tongue while he shut the door with his foot behind them. The heat trapped underneath the tin roof and between the brick walls made them sweat. He moved her towards her bed, where he lay her down and showed her with his hands and lips that he had been thinking the same thing she had during the brief hours they were apart. But Ibone was always the one to stop. She was eighteen and wanted to be a dentist, one of the few professions by which a woman could earn a living without as much underestimation. She didn’t want anything to get in her way. So they lay in bed together, Ibone’s Discman between them, volume turned up so the music would be audible enough for both to hear. “I’m joining them, Ibone,” Eddie said and Ibone stopped breathing, “just wanted you to know.” She kept her eyes closed. She could feel Eddie’s eyes on her and heard his finger drawing circles on the warm sheet. She turned around slowly and hit the stop button of her Discman, the play button popped up with a click. She could not help thinking that it was all rather predictable. “I don’t understand.” “I’m joining them. The gang.” Ibone looked up at him then, feeling something boiling inside her that hungered to spill out either as biting words or as tears. “I’m gonna be careful, no stupid shit,” he said. Ibone turned back to face the roof, bringing her hands to cover her nose. “I have to help my Ma,” he said. “Why don’t you work, maybe?” “You know they don’t pay enough.” “Maybe if you studied and got a decent job–” “They take advantage of you–” Ibone hid her face under her hands. She heard him speak softly, the softness moving something in her that made her eyes itch and her throat dry into a clump. “I promise, Ibi, I promise I won’t be stupid,” he said, “I’ll protect you all.” She 26

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felt his hands start to slip around her waist and she broke way, pushing him back. “Don’t touch me!” she yelled and got out of bed. Eddie lay frozen there, perched on his elbow, staring at her empty space on the bed. “Leave,” she said standing at the foot of the bed. He did not move. “Leave!” the desperation and the impotence were cracking her dry throat. Eddie got up slowly, his face emotionless. He stood in front of her, searching her eyes. “You have the most honest eyes I’ve ever seen,” he finally said. Then he reached to touch her cheekbone and she swiped his finger instinctively to the side before it reached her. She saw something move in his amber eyes before he turned and left, leaving her standing there. She reached up to touch where his finger had aimed, and only then she realized she was crying. *** Matilde caught her with the photograph mid-air. She held it there, thinking that if she didn’t show embarrassment her mother wouldn’t think much of it. Matilde sat at the foot of her bed and caressed Ibone’s leg. Ibone took her headphones off and let her hand drop on her stomach. They were silent until little Evelyn came running into the room and threw herself dramatically against the bed. “Let me see, Mami!” she said, tugging at the tin box. Ibone instinctively held it firmly closed, the tin bending under her thumbs and startling little Evelyn. “Time for bed, niña,” she said. Little Evelyn buried her face in her grandmother’s lap and Matilde started running her fingers through her dark, partly dry hair. The image of the white, empty fridge flashed into Ibone’s mind. “Tomorrow we’re seeing your father,” Ibone announced as she slipped the tin can under her bed. She heard the pause in the room. “What?” Ibone said. Matilde’s disapproving face disappeared when little Evelyn looked up at her. Matilde smiled down at the little girl, but Evelyn remained hesitant. *** Ibone woke up to the popping of the tin roof under the rising sun. Little Evelyn clung to her waist, her face resting against her chest. A string of saliva slowly falling from her parted mouth formed a dark circle on Ibone’s white blouse. “Little one, wake-up now,” whispered Ibone. She didn’t want Matilde to see them before they left. She smiled as she saw her daughter battling against the weight of her eyelids and caressed her little arm. “I don’t wanna get up, Mamma,” yawned Evelyn loudly as she stretched dramatically. “Shh!” said Ibone viciously, pressing her index finger against her mouth. It made no difference. She heard the springs of her parents’ mattress crunching in the next room. When she was finished getting Evelyn into her newest yellow dress, she heard 27

The Color of Hope | Cristina Herrera

the crackling of frying oil in the kitchen. “Ma! You’re gonna make the child smell like oil!” she moaned. “She has to eat something, Ibone,” Matilde answered over the frying. Ibone drew open the cloth curtain over the glassless window. Pa had fixed bars on the windows when his osteoporosis was not as severe: an attempt to make breaking in through the windows harder. The rusting made Ibone question how much force the bars could resist. After breakfast, mother and daughter started down the street. Evelyn waved back at Matilde with a wide smile, her pigtails brushing against her cheeks. It would be a twenty-minute walk to Greg’s house in the other barrio. Maybe by then the sun would burn out the smell of oil off their clothes. Ibone did not recur to perfume: that would be going too far. She felt followed all the way there. It was not just the customary eyes of men sitting outside their little shacks in plastic chairs drinking beer. The ones in the bodegas at the corners either whistled to anyone with slightly rounded hips or muttered some obscene flirtatious remark under their breath. She had learned to let those slip by when she was alone, but she felt insulted by their disrespect for the child’s presence; the presence of that still incorrupt being. Evelyn would look up at them and they would smile, waving with their fingers. Ibone tugged her harder along and quickened her pace. But Ibone felt the weight of other eyes. They were heavier and constant. She looked over her shoulder several times to see if she could catch anybody, but refrained from doing this too often, not wanting to seem scared in front of whoever was watching. It was as if the sky itself was slowly sitting on her shoulders. The day’s hot breath brushed constantly against her neck. She was resisting the urge to shout out to God, demanding Him to tell her what He wanted, when she saw Greg’s house. “Is it this one, Mami?” asked little Evelyn. The high-pitched bell of her voice startled Ibone. She had not realized that the girl had not said a word the entire trip. Evelyn dragged her feet, trying to keep up with her mother’s pace. Her little eyebrows were wet with sweat and her cheeks flushed. Ibone picked her up and carried her against her hip the rest of the way, “Yes, my little one.” Cars passed slowly and seldom through those crooked streets. The sound of frying stoves bumped against echoes of people shouting at each other. Ibone knew the house without ever having been there. Not because of the old, brick-colored car parked outside, but because of the white paint that coated its walls. It was one of the few houses that was painted. Ibone knocked firmly on the door. The sound echoed through the house. She heard the springs of a bed and the airy brush of a curtain she failed to see. Little Evelyn clung to her mother’s shoulder and rested her head on it while she sucked her thumb. Ibone knocked firmly on the door again. “I know you’re in there, Greg!” she yelled, failing to soften the edges of her words. 28

Leland Quarterly | Spring & Fall 2015

Julia Rosedale 29

The Color of Hope | Cristina Herrera

The door opened instantly then, almost cutting her last word off. There stood a shirtless man in his jeans. His belly was slightly smaller than that of other men his age. The receding hairline of his dark hair and his brown skin, toughened by the layers of sun, were the only signs of aging. The rest he inflicted on every young girl he slept with, Ibone thought, just as he inflicted suffering. He smiled his gallant smile and stepped barefoot onto the pavement, closing the door behind him. “Hellou,” he said pleasantly as he tried to poke his finger at little Evelyn’s ribs. The girl barely budged. He kissed Ibone on the cheek while he caressed her shoulder. She remained unmoved. “What a pleasure to see these beauties.” Ibone looked around and said, “This is a nice place you have.” “Well, yes, my dear. You know,” he winked at her, “years of hard work.” “The white must get dirty pretty quickly, splattered with mud from all the rain,” Ibone said. Greg laughed, amused. “We can’t afford to get petty, can we?” Ibone did not respond. He shot a look at the window and then leaned in closer. He reached to hold her chin, but she moved her face away. “We need the money, Greg,” she said. He darted his eyes at Evelyn and then back. Then he talked in a little voice towards the child. “Daddy went to visit Evelyn last month, don’t Mami remember?” Little Evelyn looked down at the floor. “That was the month before, Greg.” The smile on Greg’s face started to dissipate. He walked slowly further out from his house, his hands in his back pockets. “Oh, Ibone, sweetheart…” he sighed, “it’s hard on all of us.” Ibone tightened her jaw. Greg hesitated. “You know we need it, Greg,” she said. “I don’t have your money right now, sweetheart,” he said. “Really? With your painted house and your car you don’t have the money?” “Ana’s father’s dying, Ibone,” he said lowering his voice, “I’m taking her to Colombia to see him.” “Oh… now everything makes sense.” “Ibone, don’t be like that.” “You’ve cheated on her ever since you live with her, so don’t lie to me.” Greg shot a glance at the window and seized her shoulders, “Shut up!” he whispered forcefully, shaking her briskly, “Shut up! You don’t know shit, you!” Little Evelyn started crying into her mother’s neck. Ibone was paralyzed. Greg’s eyes darted over her shoulder and caught something that made him release her and clear his throat. “What? You brought your little friend to look after you?” he sneered under his breath. She turned around and saw Eddie staring at Greg, hands clutching the fence around the house. He met her eyes and they softened. Ibone turned around to look at the slight pulsing of blood at the base of Greg’s throat. Greg started to walk around her, prompting her to say, “Fine, we’ll manage without you.” She felt the emptiness of embarrassment blow through her ribs as she pic30

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tured herself from Eddie’s eyes, standing there at the foot of Gregorio’s house with her child crying against her shoulder. She brushed little Evelyn’s hair and whispered into her ear: “Hush baby, it’s ok. We’re leaving now.” Greg came back to face her, sly smile on his face again. “Forget about seeing us again, Greg,” she said and turned to leave. She heard him laugh and then felt his fingers pressing against the skin of her arm. “Come here baby, why so upset?” he was dragging Ibone closer despite her resistance. She could feel Evelyn’s little hand clawed to her shirt. “Let go, Greg.” “You know it aint my fault babe, you know they’re screwing with all of us.” His strong arms pulled her in as he leaned his face closer to hers. She looked away and searched the sidewalk where Eddie stood, but he wasn’t there. Then she heard his voice so close to her that it made everything inside her grow still. “You let her go,” he said. Greg looked up and his smile disappeared. He hesitated and then released her, lifting his hands up chest level as if he was being robbed. Eddie’s face was solid: a control too smooth to not seem on the brink of explosion. “Let’s go,” Eddie said without taking his eyes off Greg. Ibone started walking down the street and soon heard Eddie’s steps on the rocky pavement behind her. When they were a few houses away, they heard Gregorio shouting loud enough so his whole barrio could hear: “What’re you gonna do, huh? Your little friend will give you money?” They kept walking. “Well that’s my child,” he shouted, “and my child aint gonna be eating with stolen money!” Ibone glanced over at Eddie. His expression had not changed. He stared stoically ahead; as he had when his middle school friends slapped him on the shoulder in congratulations; as he had the time she told him to leave. They walked in silence. Ibone felt Evelyn slowly relax in her arms. Suddenly she giggled, making Ibone turn and catch Eddie in the midst of an impersonation of her angry, marching self. He stopped immediately then, and looked at her with his sad eyes. It was silent the rest of the way home. No men whistled or said anything. Ibone could feel their eyes on them, but whenever she looked up, they looked quickly away. Eddie gave her a tight grin. The sky turned a melancholic blue in the twilight. People sheltered themselves in their little houses. Matilde stood in the warm light of the open doorway, squinting to make out the person who was walking beside them. Little Evelyn, now walking besides Ibone, let go of her hand and ran towards Matilde. Matilde’s eyes widened in realization just before Evelyn ran into her arms. “’Night, Mrs. Izaguirre,” nodded Eddie. “God bless you, Eddie,” she said and glanced at Ibone, “I’m sorry, I left the food cooking,” She turned around and took little Evelyn with her. Eddie leaned his hand against the brick wall and Ibone looked down at the few 31

The Color of Hope | Cristina Herrera

strings of grass that grew on the hardened earth. “You shouldn’t have taken Evelyn with you,” he said. Ibone crossed her arms over her chest. She felt him walk closer, bending his neck, trying to find her gaze. When he took his hand to her chin, she turned away. She could feel his eyes searching her face as his hand dropped limp at his side. “I can help, Ibone,” he said. “You were about to yesterday,” she said, remembering that he stole from the people on her bus. He snorted with disbelief, letting his shoulders hang. “You never change, do you?” he said. Neither do you, she thought. Eddie came closer and pressed his forehead against hers. She tried hard to keep breathing smoothly, but her nostrils quivered. He held her face on either side and pressed his lips against her forehead before releasing her. Ibone had forgotten how the peculiar color of his eyes made her stop breathing. She swallowed and broke his gaze. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his sweater, pulled the hood over his cap, and turned to leave. Ibone wanted to tell him to be careful. She wanted to tell him that she knew Greg paid his barrio’s gang to protect his white house, his car, and his ego. But the words did not take off from her tongue, and Eddie had already disappeared into the darkness. Then again, she thought, he probably knew this. *** Ibone lay in bed staring at the roof that popped and cracked under the pouring rain. Little Evelyn laid her head on Ibone’s chest and walked her fingers on Ibone’s stomach. “Baby,” Ibone said, going through Evelyn’s hair, trying to make her look up. “Hmm?” Evelyn kept playing with her fingers. “I’m sorry, baby.” Evelyn nodded. Ibone first thought that, if Pa had known her intentions, he probably would have thought God was punishing her when she became pregnant with Evelyn. She decided to sleep with Greg not long after Eddie joined the gang. She did it out of resentment, thinking that she would stop belonging to Eddie in others’ eyes if she did. But instead, Pa said that children were a gift from God. He said this even when they were already struggling to feed themselves, just as he said that God would protect Eddie when he joined the gang when the increasing murder rate proved the contrary. Ibone was frequently frustrated by her father’s faith. But more than by his faith, she was exhausted by his hope. Ibone at first did think it her punishment: being forced to work full shifts wrapping gifts at a gift shop, the limitations placed on her intention to become a dentist… But now she understood that the real torture was there, in seeing her daughter sleeping on her chest. Sometimes the thought of this little creature being hers made her want to hug Evelyn so hard that she would become part of her again and live safely in her womb. Her upper lip still had the trace of that little circle that 32

Leland Quarterly | Spring & Fall 2015

formed when she breastfed her. Her cheeks were plump and she smelled of young sweat, dirt, and baby powder. This was torture, seeing her swollen stomach, thinking that she had brought another one into this world to suffer.

But now she understood that the real torture was there, in seeing her daughter sleeping on her chest. In the barrios it was always scary when it rained. It was not the popping of the tin roofs that caused the fear. People felt fear because the noise disabled them from hearing other sounds, such as the splash of dark boots on the mud. It was hard to see past the grey curtains of wet beads. Hard to look out into the darkness and distinguish a dark, moving figure from the imagination of a frightened soul. Ibone pulled the cloth over the glassless window and lay back down. She hugged Evelyn closer and shut her eyes tight, as if voluntary blindness would form a protective veil around them. She tried to convince herself that it was nothing. It was then that she thought she heard the front door creak open. The rain was pounding louder on the mud, as if she could hear it through an open door. She could even make out the cries of frogs. She held Evelyn tighter. Sweat was now a thin coat between their flesh. The back of her eyelids turned orange and she knew the light bulb had been flicked on before a guttural voice croaked: “Get up!” Ibone slowly pulled off the covers from over her head with trembling hands. Evelyn’s eyes darted around confusedly as they sat up in bed. A gun. Pointed at them by a man with a hoodie, dressed in black. Other black figures walked past her door to her parent’s room. “Get up!” the voice yelled over the popping tin roof. Ibone did so automatically. Her white blouse did not reach halfway down her thighs. The man’s eyes darted quickly at her crotch and back at her face. She grinded her teeth and pulled little Evelyn in front of her. Evelyn hugged her and buried her face against her stomach. “To the corner!” he yelled then. The small eye of the gun followed them to the corner. “Move!” she heard another man say in the next room. Against the pouring rain, she heard the slow creaking of her father’s crutches. Matilde came in with a solemn face. Then came her father, looking down to avoid tripping over his own trembling feet. They all crowded in the corner while the men went around dismantling the four-room house. Through the rain and the intermittent clash of thunder they caught the sound of the strings of the mattress, the roll of drawers, and the dry thud of things falling on the dirt floor. Back in Ibone’s room, they pulled the mattress off the bedframe. They inspected all the corners of the frame, pulled off the white, hand-washed sheets 33

The Color of Hope | Cristina Herrera

and threw them on the dirt floor, trampling them with their muddy boots. They searched every one of Ibone’s shoes, and every pocket of the little clothes she had. She held her breath when one of the dark figures took her tin box from under the bedframe. The man hesitated when he opened the box and then shoved it against the leader’s arm. He took the box. Ibone searched his eyes for any reaction while thinking that she should have buried Eddie’s photograph under the Discman. The man looked up at Ibone, then at little Evelyn hugging her legs. He seemed curious. But when he looked back up at Ibone, there was hatred in his eyes greater than both of them. “Pssst!” the leader called. The man left. Ibone instinctively pulled little Evelyn behind her and retreated closer against the corner. Not long after, Ibone saw a shadow move in the doorframe. Light delineated a gun pointed at the leader and slender arms hidden by a baggy grey sweater. Ibone felt cold. The air was harder to breathe: thin and coming forcefully through her nostrils. She recognized the amber eyes sheltered by the shadow the sweater’s hood cast on his face. The world closed in on her quickly, her premonition a dry cloth being shoved down her throat. But Eddie did not take his eyes off the leader. Eddie advanced and the leader grew aware of his presence. His widened eyes darted between Eddie and Ibone, his gun still pointed at her. But before he could think of doing anything, Ibone caught the glimmer of light against black metal behind Eddie’s back. She saw Eddie’s eyes widen briefly, when she imagined the gun pressed against the back of his head. Then, without hesitation, the holder of the gun pulled the trigger. The sound made her blink and pull Evelyn further behind her back. Matilde cried in horror. Eddie’s eyes grew dull and he fell face down against the dirt floor, the hard surface scraping his skin. The leader kept the gun pointed at her while the rest of the thugs retreated. Matilde began to cry. Pa shook his head slowly at the floor. Then, the leader followed the others without putting his gun down, looking at Eddie from the tip of his nose to make sure he wouldn’t trip on him. *** Ibone sat on the corner of her bare mattress looking out the window, staring past the rusting iron bars at the sad whiteness of dawn. It was still raining, but in little slow drops that fell from the sky just as she thought they would stop; one here, one there, as if they skipped from one place to another. Not one thought had entered her head. She pushed out the echoes, the memories of cries. She pushed out the image of the still body she and Ma had wrapped in the trampled sheets of her bed to carry it to its mother under the rain. She pushed them all out while she watched the rain as she had since midnight, with no thoughts, until it occurred to her that the light of dawn resembled that of a cloudy day. Then, she couldn’t keep the words from singing in her head:

Ask the light of dawn 34

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to bring you back again Ask the light of dawn to bring you back again… She looked away then, to shake the words out of her head, but her eyes landed on the dark silhouette of sweat and blood that still dampened the dirt floor. She heard her father’s crutches creaking in the hallway. The water in her eyes made the trees outside start to crystalize as her father shuffled closer. The strings of the mattress creaked under his weight as he sat down next to her. He let his bony hand fall on her back. Against his hand’s stillness, Ibone noticed she was shaking. She remembered how seldom Eddie smiled, but how breathing was easier whenever he did. She felt Pa’s arms wrap around her. She buried her face in his shoulder and Pa let her cry as he stroked her hair and rocked her back and forth in his arms. “Shh, my baby,” he lulled her, “shh, my child.” Somehow his sweat still smelled of wood when his health had kept him from work long ago. His brown skin was soft though it looked like waxed paper, tight over his bones. “Why, Pa?” she asked him. Pa was still and silent. Rain fell slowly and lightly on the tin roof. “I don’t know, baby,” he said and resumed his rocking. Ibone shook her head against his shoulder, “It will never end, Pa.” Drops fell until the grey outside gave way to green. They fell until they stopped, and Pa stopped his rocking and Ibone felt she had forgotten what she’d said. “We always learn, Ibone,” Pa answered then, “We always learn to live through our suffering.”

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Calling Your Name in the Suburbs at Sunset Tyler Dunston “Three times enfolded nothing, as the wraith Slipped through my fingers, bodiless as wind, Or like a flitting dream.” -Virgil

I was Aeneas that day, blindfolded calling out your name to the walls of my former city, bulwarks crumbling into ash beneath sulfur-skies and white lightning suddenly a stranger in my fallen city the crumbling ruins of my suburban home—oh but I had returned; I was calling out your name heedless of the fire-glowing bronze of the enemy eyes smeared with soot, I refused to return, refused to relinquish the tears that clung to my worn skin like Christmas, that red woolen scarf of yours always sending static shocks through your spine each notch felt a spark—from your neck to your tailbone—how often my hand would trace the static pathway of your crimson scarf, the static of my salt tears to come—when at last

your ghost appeared to me, telling me to turn back; when at last—after a long journey through my old neighborhood, so familiar and so faraway, so heartbreakingly foreign to me now— I reached the end of the cul-de-sac, the one where we used to ride our bikes (first with and then without training wheels), finally returning from Troy to discover tender-age cows grazing in the fields and your name faintly echoing over the ruins over the dead, bronze grass 37

Sophia Xiao

Leland Quarterly | Spring & Fall 2015

Vivian Xiao

The Choreographer | Joshua De Leon

The Choreographer Joshua De Leon This is my swingtime ragtime shuffle-and-spin slice of the American pie Gyrating to the silken tempo Of brass and wire and plucking hand Give me the lights Give me the gloss Give me the slam-bam-look-at-me-maâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;am Give me it all. Sprinkle the fire on my shivering palms Watch me spark Like an errant fuse Dance Like a dandelion blown Like a wish not granted. This is my rhythm and blues, my tempo misused, my cold-blooded hot hand as a flash-in-the-pan Trembling just to stay in motion Give me a chance.

Leland Quarterly | Spring & Fall 2015

Dear Raccoon On the I-5, I’m sorry that I hit you, and I feel that I must explain. Have you ever experienced loss, raccoon? (Before today, I mean.) Maybe you’ve hid a stash of food somewhere before and when you came back you could still smell the berries but they were gone so you know that sick, heavy feeling in your stomach that I’m talking about. Do raccoons even stash things? Maybe I’m thinking of squirrels. I wonder if you had a little raccoon family. Perhaps I took you from them tonight, if you’re the kind of animal that hangs around your family and doesn’t just run them off or try to eat them. If you haven’t tried to eat them, good on you. I’ve wanted to devour my kids before, rip them limb from limb and shake them before putting them back together. Did you love your wife? I know I’m sounding absurd, but I like to think you had a tiny raccoon spouse. I met mine at the grocery store. She came to my checkout line twice in one week and bought lettuce both times. So, did you love your wife out of the need for sustaining your race of furry bandits, or did you love her, really love her? Did you sometimes wake up next to her and just stare at the hair covering her face and the drool pooling on the pillow and did you ever stay very still, because if you moved quickly she might disappear like a mirage in a desert that you never deserved in the first place? In some ways I hope you had a raccoon wife. In some ways I don’t. Anyway, you just froze there and I didn’t know what to do. I was already going so fast. I’m usually very conscious of the speed limit but tonight I was just upset. You know how the mind wanders. I really am sorry. I barely even felt it when you made contact with the car (or I made contact with you, rather). You didn’t even try to run. Maybe it’s a little of both of our faults. Your eyes were like lazers, and I couldn’t be sure whether it was the reflection of my headlights against your pupils or if the light was yours. I don’t know why you didn’t move. Maybe you didn’t want to. In any case, I apologize.

Sierra Freeman

Leaving Song | Juliana Chang

Leaving Song Juliana Chang

I rearrange the living room. Then the kitchen drawers. I go by color schemes, ignore anything you might’ve picked. I clean the cupboard from head to toe. I throw out everything purple. The walls have started to hold themselves up now, which is a relief. Yesterday I said I think I’ll fix the AC. At night, I sit at the dining room table and read. No music. Tomorrow I’ll go by width and height. Then texture. Then function. Maybe start all over after that. I tell myself it’s not because exits are the only dance moves you ever learned. Not because these rooms have grown too small to hold both of us. I tell myself the sofa will be on the left maybe I should do the forks next.

Leland Quarterly | Spring & Fall 2015

Ash Your Cigarette Cody Laux

“Don’t fall into my trap.” - Gabriel García Márquez Her Doc Martens were stuck to the floor, and so she couldn’t lift her legs quickly enough in order to step in tune to the fast-paced beat. All around her was a bobbing blur. The sharp reek of body odor interbred with saccharine perfumes and musky cologne, invasive scents travelling in a cloud above the twisting and gyrating mass of compressed bodies revealed and concealed and revealed by the flash of a strobe. Though she couldn’t force her heavy limbs into action, the constant pressure of jolting bodies and the steady stream of jabbing elbows jostled her in a way that made it look as if she was purposefully moving to the beat. Clementine could not determine whether or not the blossoms of sweat under her arms and along her back were composed of her own bodily fluids or those of the frenzied dancers pressing in on her from all angles. Hands came down from above, gesticulating enthusiasm to a DJ that Clementine could not see. Feet stomped on hers as they fumbled along with the heavy bass. Hips and endless ass swiveled in ebb and flow and dragged Clementine back and forth along a floor that was coated in cheap champagne, beer, glitter, and discarded chewing gum. She flung her hands to the sky, grasping for cool air as her mind grasped for directionality. She was a submarine in a sea of ecstatic dancers, her arms a periscope. Clementine was dizzy. Time to break free. She pushed her way in one general direction, though the rough and rippling crowd threw her off a linear course. With great determination she parted the dayglo sea in a zig-zag formation. Clementine stood on the outskirts, marveling at the mass, an exquisite reptile zoo, an intoxicated tapestry reconfiguring its stitches endlessly in time to a manic rhythm. She wiped her brows and blinked repeatedly so as to clear the stinging sweat from her eyes. Giving one final push to break free from the crowd, Clementine overshot and collided with another figure. He stood with his back to the wall, near the door to the smoking section. He was black leather jacket, neglected scruff, blazing eyes, cool solitude in a room of people. His eyes burnt into her as she steadied herself, and hers met his briefly before she escaped the heavy humid air of the glamour grotto for a smoke. Crisp, cold air tickled the red of Clementine’s cheeks until the blush calmed 43

Ash Your Cigarette | Cody Laux

and her curly, moist hair began to freeze. She stuffed her hands in her jacket pockets. She was immediately relieved to find a warm place to stash them as they searched for her pack of cigarettes. Just one left. She reluctantly removed her hands from the jacket and forced them back into the brisk air, placing a cigarette between her lips. Her right hand dove down into its pocket, again, deep. It searched for the cherry red lighter that must have dropped to the floor somewhere in the electronic bat country whose heavy bass could still be heard through its brick walls. A bald man with a tattoo of the iron cross on the patch of skull just above his cerebellum noticed the shivering girl with the unlit cigarette hanging from her pouted lips and cut through the crowd at her. “Need a light?” “Sure, thanks.” Clementine cringed, lamenting the sort of attention she was granted at cheap clubs. She clasped the end of her cigarette and stretched her neck towards the possibly anti-Semitic man in the denim jacket. “No problem, sugar.” Clementine inspected his stubby fingers as he outstretched his lit white Bic. There was a tan line where his wedding ring would normally rest and cracks along his cuticles. “Come here often, lady?” Clementine rolled her eyes and turned away. She squinted her eyes in disdain and scanned the crowd of other smokers. The man in black leather and handsome scruff was amongst the rabble. His blazing eyes locked hers for several seconds and then she looked down at her Docs, which had acquired new scuffs as a result of the dance floor brutality. She tucked her right hand in her back pocket and was reminded of the contents stowed away in her jeans. Tucked into the left buttpocket was an epinephrine auto-injector, which she brought out in the off chance that she’d encounter a stray peanut on the sticky dance floor while demonstrating her fancy footwork. In the other pocket, on her right side, was the button that had fallen off of her suede overcoat and two condoms. She fingered the button while using the other hand to hold the cigarette near to her rosy face. The button reminded her that she needed to acquaint herself with the art of sewing. How many club goers could have more eccentric possessions on their persons on a night like tonight? Clementine scanned the crowd and imagined what other items populated pockets on this evening. The things they carried were largely determined by what they expected to reap from interactions with those they were sexually attracted to that night. Among the necessities or near necessities were condoms, breath mints, compact mirrors, chap-stick, pocket packs of tissues, tubes of lipstick, glow sticks, Vic’s vapor rub, concealed flasks of vodka or cheap gin, loose change, combs, petite containers of perfume, pre-rolled joints, chewing gum, baggies of MDMA, toothpicks, pocket knifes, filters, pepper spray, smart phones, capsules of Rohipnol, tampons, reading glasses, passports, extra hair ties, deodorant, razor blades, scrap paper, house keys, student IDs, duck tape, bottles of water, dental floss, rolling papers, wedding rings, loose tobacco, and snuffers lightly dusted in Ketamine. Together, these items took up the entire pocket space allotted to a single pair of men’s jeans or about half of 44

Leland Quarterly | Spring & Fall 2015

the compartment space of a women’s handbag. Brian Jennings, a prematurely balding man with an industrial bar in one ear kept a pair of hand cuffs in his back pocket, hoping that one of the squirming, tattooed women in the crowd would be interested in making use of them later. He would be disappointed to find no one that he felt like leaving with, and went home alone, then placed the handcuffs in his bedside drawer. Nicole Scott had an oily complexion—dermatologists had told her this would benefit her later in life as it would slow the development of wrinkles and fine lines—but at the moment this caused her great self consciousness, so in her back pocket she carried a pack of oil blotting sheets that she excused herself to the bathroom to clumsily use behind the cover of a rickety stall door in twenty minute intervals. Jake Lombardi carried in between his thumb and forefinger a small pill that he hoped to dissolve in the drink of any attractive vulnerable young lady he could corner near the bar. Anna Besser, a girl with a half shaved head, kept a lollipop and her grandfather’s pocket watch in the interior pocket of her grandfather’s well-worn leather coat. The lollipop was meant to remind her not to grind her teeth whilst deep in the throes of a roll, and the watch a totem that she couldn’t leave home without. What Clementine did not imagine and could not know what that the gentleman behind the scruff had exactly thirty-three cents in his pocket. He could not leave home without that exact amount of change, which he thoroughly counted every several hours of every day. It was a tick of his, along with always having to check that the oven was off before stepping through his front door. He counted out the change and approached the cute girl in the suede overcoat that had caught his eye during the earliest throws of the night. “You should ash your cigarette.” She looked down at her smoke and realized that it had been neglected as she had imagined the contents of the pockets belonging to the crowd around her. The lipstick caked butt wasn’t so far from the burning tip at this point—more than half of the stick was now composed of combusted material. She lightly tapped the cigarette and relieved it of its ashes, looking down at her polished nails, as she was still too shy to make eye contact with him. The cold had numbed her fingers, and in her shy state of clumsiness she dropped the roach. She fumbled to catch it and it landed in her hand. The lit tip sizzled into her palm. She swore and flung the cigarette into the smoke enveloped crowd that they stood on the perimeter of. “Are you okay? I’ve got something for that. That is going to bloody hurt tomorrow though.” A mechanical engineer, the man in the leather jacket also carried antibacterial ointment in his pocket. This wasn’t a daily necessity, just something he had forgotten to empty into his toolbox before setting out for the night. “Stretch out your hand.” Clementine presented him with her palm, now featuring a circular grey scorch mark just below her thumb. His bright eyes stared into hers as he softly rubbed the ointment along the burn. “Let’s dance.” Clementine smiled and led the way. 45

Ash Your Cigarette | Cody Laux

The two re-entered the madhouse. All hopes of verbal communication between the two were dashed by the fury of the feverish sound the DJ was unleashing above the writhing mass of dancing bodies. All hopes of penetrating the mass were also futile, and so the man in the leather jacket led Clementine to the wall he had previously stood with his back to. He pressed Clementine against the wall, a mirrored surface, and he began to kiss her with a fervor not that matched the crazed movements of the mass unfolding before them. Both sets of their feet stuck to the floor. Scruff and the smell of leather overwhelmed Clementine as he led her through their salival exchange. The buckles on his jacket jangled as he pulled her by her hand through the cold streets on the way to his apartment.

The smell of sex, whiskey, leather, citrus, and sweat filled the room They clumsily pulled off one another’s clothes. The smell of sex, whiskey, leather, citrus, and sweat filled the room as they twisted beneath his sheets. The rhythm of their copulation transformed into a rhythm of steady breathing as the two fell asleep, pressed against one another. Clementine was the big spoon. They smiled as they slept, completely satisfied with each other’s performance and with their own performances. Fulfillment and wholeness fueled their pleasant dreams. The two lay tessellated, the moonlight filtering in through his blinds and bathing their nude forms. Sloppy kisses and scratchy scruff slowly traced their way along Clementine’s body until she gently roused from her slumber. He handed her a mug of coffee that gently insinuated that the two should begin their respective days. “How is it that I make my way out of here, again?” “You needn’t worry about that. I’ll walk you home. Wouldn’t want you to take the walk of shame in front of the construction workers outside, they’d have quite the time teasing you… Anyway, your bedraggled state is due to me, so I will deliver you home.” Clementine blushed and sipped her coffee. “If you insist.” She awkwardly pulled on her now wrinkled outfit and he clumsily began dressing as well, starting with the socks. He slyly checked the oven while she buttoned her jacket. He accompanied her on her walk home, his arm in hers. The two walked along the cobblestone streets, enjoying the early winter air and soaking up the dim December sun. The two were filled with a feeling of absolute ecstasy. Within their chests, their hearts throbbed as if still set in tune to the manic beat of the night before. Clementine’s burn throbbed with joy. The two walked in silence as they tried to steady their breathing on the walk home. Each of corner of their lips slyly turned upward, and they stared at their feet at they walked. Outside of 65 High Street, Clementine ascended her front stairs. She leaned 46

Leland Quarterly | Spring & Fall 2015

back to kiss the man in the leather jacket goodbye. “What is your name?” “Clementine. And yours?” “Mark. I’ll have to commit yours to memory.” She buzzed her way into the building and backed in through the red, wood door. He wouldn’t let go of her hand, and pulled her close once more, kissing her outstretched palm just above the burn. At that, she turned around and entered the house, closing the door behind her. Clementine leaned against the door, her heart brimming with bliss. She felt was in love. How odd. She had only learned his name just now. Mark pressed his back against the opposite side of the door. He fingered the button that he had taken from her back pocket sometime during the night before. He felt he must be in love, or something of the sort. Was it Clementine? Yes, that was the name. He would never forget. He repeated the name over and over as he walked back home to reunite with his welcoming bed.

Lobster Running in July | Alex Dunne

Lobster Racing in July Alex Dunne

Four lobsters on a bright white porch, scrambling for shade. A pair of boat shoes dry beside the faded welcome mat. Early evening and the sun burns like a candle on the horizon. Streaks of pink, orange, and yellow pierce through the sapphire sky. It was the summer we raced lobsters on my grandma’s front porch—the same year I learned about Jesus, how he died as a sacrifice for the sins of man. My stomach churned when we sang, nails in your hands, nails in your feet, they show me how much you love me, and I pictured blood oozing from swollen veins. There were four of us and four of them. Mine was the biggest. I named him Lenny, Lenny the lobster. Go Lenny, go, I cheered, clapping my hands and shooing him along. Grandma cheered too, waving a trail of tobacco through the Hamptons humidity. After the race my dad grabbed the lobsters by their tails and carried them upside-down to a pot in the kitchen. I watched him plunge their squirming brown bodies into the boiling water. I cried when I heard them scream. I thought of how their final moments were spent suspended in air, watching the sun-streaked porch turn to black and white checkered tile. “It’s okay,” dad said, “they die instantly.” But I had witnessed a murder and it wasn’t okay. I cried and I did not stop until the table was set and my nostrils filled with the scent of oven-baked bread and roasted garlic. Grandma thanked God for the gifts of his bounty, then we tore into our lobsters. They tasted like Long Island sunshine. I dipped a chunk of soft white meat into warm, melted butter, and not once did I feel sorry for the lobsters we raced on my grandma’s front porch, with a stomach for a grave. Later that night, I told my mom I wanted to be cremated. I expected her to open her eyes real big and tell me not to talk like that, but instead she said, “Cremation is selfish. People need a place to mourn.” I didn’t know how to mourn. I didn’t even know how to drive, I was barely fifteen when it happened. I dressed in all black and painted my face with makeup I’d swiped from grandma’s vanity—peach rouge and kohl liner and a shiny tube of Chanel red. I would curl up in the corner of my parent’s bathroom with an old photo album open on my lap, my bare feet pressed against the cold marble floor. I feasted on memories of the Hamptons in July: a sunflower-crusted white picket fence; the sea, a bed of mixed greens, cobalt, and midnight blue; sundry shells sautéed in salt and sand, with slow-cooked smiles—tender, warm, ambrosial. My stomach groaned. I remembered the mornings spent nibbling on apple fritters, cruller, and chocolate éclairs, leaving a trail of crumbs as I pranced around the kitchen and into the living room. I used to leave chocolaty smudges on the underbelly of my grandma’s turtle figurines; it comforted me to think that proof of my presence would remain long after I departed. “Its okay,” dad had said, “she lived a full life.” But I had witnessed a murder and it wasn’t okay. 48

Leland Quarterly | Spring & Fall 2015

Yes, Chef Clare Flanagan

I started out scared of him he’d jump from behind corners, sauce-stained and smiling wild. stacks of plates in hand, I’d stand and shake until he told me don’t be afraid, I’m only trying to crack your shell and by the way could we get married after work? but I just laughed because I knew he’d already wed the salt butter lemon and sweat of his twelve-hour days, the sunlight sourness of the pickled cabbage he’d slip me mid-shift and the spray of oil from hellish pan, familiar as the voice of a friend. each night he lit a firecracker chain of craft blanched caramelized deglazed and set his beating heart on a plate then he asked me if I liked it. I said I’d never had anything better it tasted like never having to clock out drive back late at night a half-raw parboiled soul that falls asleep listening to fights. sometimes I had to stay in the back basement room with the lockers the linens I waited with him one night he untied his boots he looked me in the eye he asked me if I liked myself I said I don’t think so he said he couldn’t find a reason why I still remember what he taught me how butter can make anything better, how salt on sizzling onion draws the sugar out and how to laugh to hold a cigarette how to say yes it sure has been awhile but the same sun rose over us this morning and if he asked me if I liked being alive I’d say I think so 49

Yes, Chef | Clare Flanagan

Vivian Xiao

Leland Quarterly | Spring & Fall 2015

Think Like a Designer Sarah Kahn -----------------

You’re on a mission. The Designers created it for you. You scour the fraternity row in search of your friends. No luck. So you venture deeper into the night, down previously unexplored streets and alien neighbourhoods. You approach a white Victorian-style house and knock. A kind-eyed British lady answers the door, informing you that your friends are not there, but that you could check the house around back. You thank her and slip through the side gate. You climb a stairway of what appears to be a separate residence, and knock. No answer. So you scale the stair railing and lift yourself onto the roof. This is quite a feat, considering you are wearing that thrifted jean skirt Mom brought home from Palm Springs. Fortunately, your Sk8-Hi suede vans have good traction. You sit with your legs pushed out in front of you. Update Snapchat story. …Some time later, you find yourself wandering around campus, hypnotised and hunting for clues. Lampposts light the way. You survey your surroundings. Keep Out. Danger. Caution. STOP. These PSAs don’t apply to you. It’s merely a ploy by The Designers to assess who has the gumption to look beyond these arbitrary social constructs. So you explore these forbidden sites and GO whenever the street tells you STOP. “and insanity the difference is like that between waking and dreaming; only that in insanity the dream falls within the waking limits.1 ” …Some time later, you find yourself in psychology lecture. Of course, the lecture is on altruism. The Designers are testing you. Every mention of the word altruism has a soporific effect. Oh, those clever Designers. They know that Ayn Rand’s The Fountainhead was pivotal to your high school years. You bolt from class, outsmarting them in their first challenge. It is your first quick getaway. Kim Possible-style. And it is exhilarating. __________________________ 1 Reference to Hegel’s Philosophy of Mind: Berthold-Bond, Daniel. “Hegel, Nietzsche, and Freud on Madness and the Unconscious.” The Journal of Speculative Philosophy 5.3 (1991): 193-213. [JSTOR]

Think Like a Designer | Sarah Kahn

You march out of class and away from university grounds, flirting with the curb like a funambulist. Balance is essential and The Designers want you ready. Cars zoom by, but they don’t intimidate you. You’re invincible. So you follow a footpath into the greenery opposite the road. It’s like one immense campsite. The Designers litter the terrain with knick knacks. To any common person, the landscape is unremarkable. You smirk. Those sly Designers. You know that orange plastic cone is there just for you. The scattered juice boxes and used napkins is their way of communicating with you, urging you forward. Teaching you a lesson. As a Designer, you must transcend the boundaries of status quo, but you also have a responsibility to lead others in the right direction. Clean up the litter. Bring the cone. Kick it like a soccer ball. Test your skill against nature. Kick it through the tree branch. Kick it as far as you can. And you kick it all the way back to your dorm. “…the mind severs its connections with reality—becomes ‘self supporting and independent’ of the ‘threads…of interconnection between [the] self and the…external world’—and adopts an essentially new form of discourse, displacing the centrality of the reality principle and the ‘laws of the ego’ by a more primitive language of fantasy.2 ” Skateboard. That’s what you need. You enter the dorm. “Hey Joe! Can I borrow your skateboard?!” You’re exasperated. “Sure?” Joe gives you a quizzical look. Then he hands you his skateboard. And you’re off! You skate down the street towards the swimming pool and baseball fields. Update Snapchat story. The sun is beaming and you’re bumping 50 Cent and Nate Dogg. Volume on high. You feel this T-shaped balloon filling inside you. It starts at the top of your ribs and ripples outward across your chest. Pure euphoria. You tie your black NorthFace windbreaker around your waist. You’re wearing a black sports bra and black pants. Because The Designers wear black. The music is dynamite to your brain. You skate faster. You find a big hill and skate down it, relishing in your speed and self-love. You do this a couple more times and get bored. There is a tractor and a mound of sand behind a nearby home plate. You skate into the mound. Update Snapchat story. You’re hungry. When did you last eat? You’re starving. You abandon the swimming pool and baseball fields for chicken fingers and waffle fries. You arrive at the campus eatery. They ask for your student ID. Apparently, you don’t have it. Or your backpack. Or that black Northface windbreaker. Apparently, you don’t have __________________________ 2

Reference to Hegel’s Philosophy of Mind: Berthold-Bond, Daniel. 52

Leland Quarterly | Spring & Fall 2015

anything except your phone and ear buds. The Designers. You turn away, dejected and hungry. You find it strange that The Designers made food a challenge. They must be upping the stakes. You start for the door when two RAs stop you. They ask how you are and why they haven’t seen you around the dorm lately. You tell them that you are very busy and about your chicken finger debacle. They buy you chicken fingers and waffle fries. After devouring the meal, they tell you that they are worried about you and think that you should check into the university hospital. The Designers have just provided you with your next task. You enter the hospital waiting room and admire the very convincing set design. It’s crowded with people all piled into chairs and huddled together in bulbous clusters. A man emerges from the double doors to the right of the reception desk. He approaches you, grinning. Looking down at you with blue eyes and a handsome face. “Are you getting your MFA?” “No—I—er—studying philosophy.” “You know, I have a daughter your age.” He leads you into an immaculate, white room and disappears. There is small trash bin with a biohazard sticker on the lid. You smile to yourself, acknowledging The Designers’ presence. You peek inside the bin and its disappointingly empty. You wait. There’s a small whiteboard on the wall so you take up doodling. And Wait. You’re bored so you leave. You slip out the backdoor exit unnoticed and cruise around campus in search of the next correspondence between you and The Designers. A campus police officer finds you and escorts you back to the hospital. A group of medical personnel is waiting when you arrive for the second time that day. This is surprising. Your parents are here. You’re annoyed and confused. You turn to run and dad catches you and pulls you into a strong hug. “Get off me!” You cry and kick him away. Constraint is an unbearable thought. You awaken to find yourself being unloaded from a medical vehicle. Men escort you into an inpatient facility in the fog city of San Francisco. There, a nurse hands you a folded stack. One pair of blue pants and one blue shirt. This is your uniform. All piercings are removed from your ears. The nurse hands you a menu. Circle your meal choices for the day. Scrambled eggs. Cheese burger. Lasagna. She tours you around the facility. You note all the exit signs. You note the cement wall enclosing the outdoor patio. And you note the patio furniture; the stacking of which would be a ladder up the wall. There are maybe six or seven patient rooms including that place you call the Panopticon Room—a hexagonal chamber with a solitary bed in the centre. With a window on every wall, leering is encouraged. Doctors can probe without touching. 53

Think Like a Designer | Sarah Kahn

You imagine this as an electroshock therapy room with repugnant yellow wallpaper. Your room is slightly less dramatic. Two beds, two chairs, no roommate, and no lock. You meet Lisa in the television room. She is a hip, hip lady and recovering alcoholic. You imagine that Lisa is the creative director of Burton Snowboards. She has short, spiky red hair and a voice like scraping rocks. You paint your nails together. Your nails are painted the color of concrete because that’s how this place makes you feel. Like hardened concrete. Totally inert. That’s why you build forts out of the mattresses in your room and draw lotus flowers on your blue pants and make collages out of magazines and used breakfast items you find in the television room. You’re a designer and as such, you are constantly making things. They don’t understand. You like Lisa because she is the only person that takes you seriously. Lisa is real. And she gets that you’re real too. You have a real conversation with Lisa—about where you come from, your family, why you are here, plans for getting out. No one else asks you these things. They don’t think you are capable of relating to them. So they just give you pills and retreat back into the hole they crawled out of. They’re the mad ones. Treating you like you aren’t real. Like you don’t understand what its like to be normal. You were normal once, but then The Designers challenged you to be extraordinary. They don’t like extraordinary people here. They like to straighten you out. So they wash your blue pants with the lotus flowers and throw away the orange peel crowning the dixi cup of prune juice on top of your fashion collage, completely desecrating your artistic statement on the inherent cynicism of today’s youth as a result of pop culture propagated through media. They don’t understand you, so they give you pills. Pills on pills on pills on pills. Every day the pills change. One day it’s two blue circles. The next day it’s an orange square and a white tablet. The pills make you hungry. You’re always hungry. But Nurse Janice says you are only allowed to eat at the specified meal times. But its the pills! The pills make you hungry! Nurse Janice says you can only eat when you hear the bell signalling the arrival of the meal cart. What about a little Scooby Snack? Nurse Janice says you need to learn to eat when everyone else eats. And be social with the others. But you’re not like the others. You don’t belong here and The Designers are silent. Only you can get yourself out. The Designers are silent. So you get yourself out. With some considerable theatrics on your part, they release you. Among your returned items is a pamphlet entitled: Patient’s Rights. Now that your rights are properly returned, you can reintegrate into the big bad world out there. You see, rights 54

Leland Quarterly | Spring & Fall 2015

are only granted to those on the outside. In the big bad world. Out. there. Mom is quiet on the drive home. You think about that rotting plant in your house. It looks kind of gnarly with its curled, brown leaves and festering yellow goop pooling at the roots. Perhaps it is diseased. You still water it out of habit but you’re not so hopeful it will ever be beautiful again. That wilted little thing. As the months pass, you fall hard from the mania. You fall so hard that you land in a crater and stay there for a while. At first, you think this is a hoax. A hoax orchestrated by The Designers and a little help from your friends. But mom looks really sad and she is no actress. And The Designers stop leaving you clues. And your friends never jump out and yell “Surprise!” So you start to question whether you had it inside out the whole time. Your grasp on reality was never something you questioned before. And you question everything. You pride yourself on this ability to separate truth and reason from fiction and emotion. You aren’t like most girls. You keep your passions in check and directed. But you allowed The Designers to seduce you. That’s not you. You tell yourself over and over again. That’s not you. That’s not you. The doctors say you are manic. That’s not you. Bipolar? That’s not you either. You are normal. You have always been normal. A socially-accepted, normal girl. That’s you. But they say that your thoughts and actions are not normal. So they want to help you. Help you get healthy and by healthy they mean normal.

That’s not you. You tell yourself over and over again. That’s not you. That’s not you. “Health as such does not exist. It is your goal that determines what health ought to mean even for your body…The concept of normal health…must be given up 3 ” Summer is dragging. They prescribe the standard medication for people like you. But it doesn’t work. They prescribe you therapy. But that doesn’t work. You are losing hope. You are nostalgic for that time before The Designers. When who you thought you were coincided with who you actually were. Now you can’t seem to fit the two together. Incongruous. Present you is raggedly detached from past you. So you sink backwards, backwards. Into nostalgia. While the fragments of you float __________________________ 3

Nietzche quote: Berthold-Bond, Daniel.

Think Like a Designer | Sarah Kahn

further and further apart in space. All the while, mom reaches higher and higher. She wants to put you back together. So she gets you out of the house. You do menial tasks in dad’s office. You are helping the family business, he says. You do this for a while. You take a sculpture class. You make things. And The Designers are silent. And it seems like maybe gravity is pulling the fractured pieces of you back together. It’s September. And you’re back on campus. You attend frat parties on the row. You eat chicken fingers and waffle fries. You live with girls that become your best friends. And you study philosophy. It’s all very normal. And you walk past the Design School and smile to yourself. You think about the designers inside. Making things. You wonder if they know about you. If they know how they infiltrated your mind. You decide that they don’t know about you. How could they? After all, they are just designers.

Cora Cliburn 56

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A c h e r o n Amanda Hayes

You seem startled. Did you think this would be some flippant stroll, some riverside soiree? Death is no theme park (although you see, the entrance policy’s not so far away). Amazing what a little metal does— a silver coin that shines as it decays, the blackened chamber of a loaded gun. You’re here, of course: no use to drag your toes, to focus on the past. What’s done is done. And Death, despite my warning, has its pros: a family dog, some pomegranate seeds, a member-list that grows and grows and grows, and as a rule, top-notch security. And then there are the rivers: some demur, but I delight in their intensity— this river’s waters, startling, azure, and Phlegethon, which blazes bright to here. The other rivers are as grand, I’m sure. —me? Yes, I’ve been waiting on these banks for years. Now, now. Don’t make a face like someone’s died. What use are bloating, ineffective tears? You sit and bide your time on either side. At least out here I do something worthwhile: I welcome all you young things—look! Your ride is here to take you—feign a smile; pay the ferryman. Prepare to stay awhile. 57

CONTRIBUTORS JULIANA CHANG is a freshman from Taipei, Taiwan. CORA CLIBURN is a freshman from Santa Fe, NM. GILLIE COLLINS is a senior from New York, NY. ALEX DUNNE is a fifth year from San Clemente, CA. TYLER DUNSTON is a sophomore from Chattanooga, TN. CLARE FLANAGAN is a sophomore from Minneapolis, MN. CLAIRE FRANCIS is a freshman from Denver, CO. SIERRA FREENAN is a coterm from Manteca, CA. OR GOZAL is a senior from many places around the world. CLAUDIA HANLEY is a freshman from Summit, NJ. AMANDA HAYES is a freshman from Arlington, VA. CRISTINA HERRERA is a senior from Valencia, Venezuela. CODY LAUX is a graduate from Boulder, CO. JOSHUA DE LEON is a junior from Long Beach, CA. LUCY LI is a sophomore from St. Paul, MN. SARAH KAHN is a junior from Santa Ana, CA. JULIA MARTINS is a junior from Windermere, FL. BRIAN NGO is a sophomore from Tustin, CA. JULIA ROSEDALE is a sophomore from Philadelphia, PA. SOPHIA XIAO is a sophomore from Sunnyvale, CA. VIVIAN XIAO is a freshman from Hong Kong.

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