The Lion's Eye Spring 2020 Issue by Cyclion Bonaparte

Destiny M

erio Val e i ar

The Lionâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Eye

volume 46 :: spring 2020

Curly Hair & Plump Lips destiny valerio

The Lion’s Eye Spring 2020 executive editor issue editor copy editor treasurer secretary publicist faculty advisor

Jamie Csimbok Jessica Shek Filip Maziarz Destiny Valerio Filip Maziarz Destiny Valerio David Venturo

staff :: Cameron Foster, Gianna Tyahla, Caroline Geoghegan, Angie Tamayo, Kevyn Teape

“Lock up your libraries if you like; but there is no gate, no lock, no bolt that you can set upon the freedom of my mind.” — Virginia Woolf, A Room of One's Own

contents poetry and prose jamie csimbok

The First Look

alley franke

Mr. Sketch

kevyn teape

My Fingers

cameron foster

Eyes Dimming

filip maziarz

One Year Later

cameron foster

The People We Call Exes

richard chachowski jack sofka jessica shek

14-16 17 18-21

Moon Over Soho Alternative Nation GRAND

jack sofka

The Seventh Seal

morgan mccauley

Dear my anxiety, Thank You Kylie Jenner

angie tamayo

24-25

alley franke

Tornado

26-27

Loquita

valentina zapata minji kim

Ode to My Name

angie tamayo

To My Mother: You Can Just Be

ambar grullon

James Dabs on a Pogo Stick

ambar grullon

Papi Turns Down the Radio

destiny valerio

32-33

The Unicorn Floaty

shea keenan

34-35

The Super Circle

shea keenan

36-37

The Creep

lysa legros

a lonely zombie

valentina zapata

A Tragedy in a BODEGA

anisa lateef

Twilight Boy

valentina zapata

How to Guide on Grief

gabriella son

How My Grandfather Went Missing

contents poetry and prose jamie csimbok

44-45

When You Escaped Communist Romania, the History Escaped into Me

anisa lateef

Passport Stamps

anisa lateef

Two Hazel Globes

filip maziarz

experiments with intimacy

lysa legros

Hopeless Romantic

david pridmore anthony berg

50-51

Spring Cleaning

Intercom Poem

dominique perrotta

52-54

Exit 6B

dominique perrotta

54-55

January 13th

dominique perrotta

56-57

Last Sunday of September

valentina zapata

Who Holds the Key

anonymous

The Swollen Mornings

lysa legros

a divine suicide

lysa legros

62-63

the birth of a narcissist

rebecca webb

64-65

The Pit

cameron foster

Little World // No More

angie tamayo

Unlucky Few

rebecca webb

Trip to Nowhere

“Fantasy is hardly an escape from reality. It's a way of understanding it.” — Lloyd Alexander 5

contents art and photography The Rainbow Within

destiny valerio

(cover)

destiny valerio

(masthead)

gianna tyahla

It's a Golden Day

gianna tyahla

Vibrance

anthony berg

Blemish

destiny valerio

I can’t wait to see mom

anthony berg

Mr. Handsome

gianna tyahla

Catching Dreams

anthony berg

Odd Exoplanet

rebecca webb

“When the sun shines, everything

Curly Hair & Plump Lips

glows” shwetha raju

(back cover)

Flora

“Deep within every crisis is an opportunity for something beautiful.” — Kate McGahan

Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s A Golden Day gianna tyahla 7

the first look

a note from the executive editor Thank you all for your continued support in Lion’s Eye. I know this semester has not been ideal, but we continue to go on. You continued to submit to us and amaze us with your talent, and I hope you will continue to do so in the future. While the future is unsure and even a little bit confusing, I hope we can look to poetry, stories, art and photography to remind us of the beauty of every day. Art is an expression and extension of ourselves. To be able to release my emotions and uncertainties on paper is something I will be eternally grateful for especially during these unprecedented times. To read your work and look at your art while in quarantine helped bring color into my life. I hope this magazine brings some into yours. I would like to take this time to remind everyone to stay safe and practice social distancing. Even as businesses continue to open, we have to continue to educate ourselves about what is happening in the state, in the country and in the world. It is okay to be upset about the things we had to miss. It is okay to be upset about the things we are going to have to miss. Just please do not forget the reason why we have to miss these things. Throughout this past year, my Executive Board has been extremely helpful in putting out our magazines. When times got rough, I knew I could count on them to fill in when I could not. Jessica Shek, our Issue Editor, put together this beautiful magazine. Filip Maziarz, our Copy Editor and Secretary, is to be the next Executive Editor. I believe he is perfect for the job. Finally, Destiny Valerio, the Treasurer and Publicist, did a great job of promoting our meetings and handling communication with SFB. I would like to thank them for their continued hard work in keeping Lion’s Eye alive. I know that Lion’s Eye is in safe hands. As a senior, I appreciate everything the school has done to try and compensate for the loss of our final semester. We never got to walk out of our final classes, Funival, senior trips, or an in-person graduation. Despite all this, I am glad to help create this issue of Lion’s Eye. With it being online, it is easier to share your accomplishments with your friends, family, etc. Thank you to our seniors who submitted; at Lion’s Eye we wish you well in the future. With this, I bid you farewell and present to you The Lion’s Eye Spring 2020 issue. Thank you,

Jamie Csimbok Jamie Csimbok Executive Editor

Vibrance gianna tyahla

alley franke

Mr. Sketch the brown one is cinnamon – i hold the felt tip up to my nose every time i need to color in another chocolate chip light blue is fruit punch – i check out a book whose colors are similar, in a library secluded somewhere in the back of the school (in the folds of my memory) one smells like licorice – the black one i need to outline cities and shapes, and my nose wrinkles (frowning, smiling) as i think of my grandpa, the only person who ever actually liked the bitter candy, who taught me how to color within the lines i draw magenta hearts and years (lifetimes) later, they still smell like raspberries

kevyn teape

My Fingers I guess I could start by saying sorry. When we met I had a vision of cabaret: Wondrous poetic verse sprang from my vocal chords to form new pleasantly sounding melodies designed for your ears only. When we got serious I brought the aurora: A viscous serenade of colorful joy bubbled from inside my heart engulfing you within its protection. When we were perfect I ignited the flames: A passion so feverish spread from my cells and locked itself together with your soul as we kissed and interlocked fingers. I’m so sorry. I was so carelessly in love I allowed myself to forget that my fingers are dangerous weapons, innately programmed to destroy everything they touch.

cameron foster

Eyes Dimming Do you ever feel as if the color of your eyes dim? Not in fact, but in feeling In a moment’s gaze, your blue could blaze Reflect in the sunlight like crystalline pieces of icy sky But then you’re shot With your latest mishap, your lost chance at love, Your fear of eternal numbing And your eyes drain from cerulean to teal As quickly as a switch gets flipped, as fast as the heart sinks Your blue is now grey, but not the grey that looks good on that mannequin on display But the kind that illustrates that burgeoning darkness Looming over the plastic man who was once real and not threatened with decay The grey marks the threshold between who you thought you were and where you want to stay And who you really are and where you are actually going This is all found in the eye dimming.

filip maziarz

One Year Later the wind has since then been kinder to me; now, gentle, you reside in my strange heart. we’ve talked in my head and under your tree, but never closer than six feet apart. i’ve never been great at this long distance stuff but with you it’s always been worth the pain; you discovered too soon that living is tough— you know, these days i often feel the same. but with time the seasons have fully turned back to the planet where all growing slows. no time left to mourn, now; all mourning’s adjourned; with you at your river, a different wind blows. what has passed is past and so ever shall stay, but your eyes remain with me, i remember them: grey.

cameron foster

The People We Call Exes Exes are the people we no longer wish to continue on with To call someone ex is to label them with a glossy red cross-out with a connotation of termination to a fantastical romance and a denotation of condemnation that this person has run their course with us Can we concede to say they are more than a burnt out candle wick, more than a red crossout, more than the third to last letter in the alphabet of human connection? The utterance of ex punctuates the air, hammers the nail in deeper, drips with passive venom, making way for drunken solitary nights for us to bombard them with 37 texts and a dreary-eye-filled FaceTime call Ex is regret embedded deep, attempted burial of a face we used to dream of waking up to here everafter Regret of missing this soul that harmed us, made us feel wonderful then overwhelmed us, robbed us of what it means to have an us To our friends, exes are evil creatures to be thrown in the fiery bowels of shunning, people you can bad mouth and speak ill of to be able to lift your head up a little higher, see a little clearer, breathe a little easier Exes give us the power to recover, the power we so desperately need to cling to just to be better But they were also once our teachers before they were branded the second to last runner-up letter, our guides to new destinations and experiences before they were stamped with the fat red cross-out They opened us up like surgeons and filled us with euphoria, with unparalleled joy and thrills beyond the original imagination Us was more luminous and neon than Exes, but the crimes and sins write over the intended program and flip the script What they have done, did, when their touch of ecstasy burns, sends chills over your skin, that is when they become the monsters we envisioned them to be When they become Exes and the good skin they once wore falls to the knee.

blemish anthony berg 13

richard chachowski

Moon Over Soho Little girl pulled out of river. Takes police two hours to identify, read the print from her bloated red fingers, match the swelling rotted face with a name. Meghan O’Shantz, aged nine. O’Shantz’s people get a hold of me within the hour. “Talbot,” he says, “I want you to find the fucks who did this—who”--he breathes hard, trying to find the words--“wh-who did this to my little girl.” He uses his index finger, stabbing the air in my direction. Every word makes the finger shake and tremble as voice wavers, tears ringing his eyes. “You find these little fucks. You make ‘em fuckin disappear, you understand me?” Sure, I tell him. And I go. One of O’Shantz’s guys stops me in the hall. Says he thinks it was Iranians. Or Bolivians. Maybe Pakistanis. Only savages do these kinds of things, he tells me. # Dog carcass found in some old lady’s backyard. Mauled to death. Savage bite marks. Claw slashes. Old lady found dead, too. Killed in bed. The police pictures show single white sheet torn apart, lying over a shriveled red and white thing with a mane of fluffy white hair, like poodle’s fur. Right arm and legs both missing. Fingers, too. Only evidence police pulled are paw prints, five or six at least, all over the place. Grey and black fur left behind too. Newspapers say it was coyotes escaped from a zoo, grown into a feral pack over the years. The police make no official comment. # Funeral held in pouring rain. Cold and wet, like rest of country. Cars full of men and women in black suits and dresses with dark veils steer off cobbled streets into colorless country. Funerals. Don’t understand them. Got hungry. Got bored. Got paid. Didn’t get too close to the cars. Decided it best to keep distance. Passed a drive-through. Quick snack. Not enough. Hungry for more. Stopped another two times. Had the time. Funeral was slow. Didn’t go into church. Wasn’t paid to. Sat on hill while cars pulled past black gate into land ruled by old tombs. Watched for a while. Listened to the procession (I got good ears). Heard the priest. Heard O’Shantz, holding his wife, blubbering like a baby as they held each other hand-in-hand. Heard her saying, “She wasn’t involved, David, she wasn’t involved, she wasn’t involved.” No one else hears. Not even O’Shantz. He’s crying and whimpering too much to hear. He had come dressed in a white tuxedo. Thought that odd.

Men all around him. Not paying much attention. Hands crossed in front of them, sunglasses on, scanning the hills, the graves, everything, jumping when a bush trembled or tree branch swayed. One of them saw me, whispered to his partner. Not much else happened. Boring work, but I was there for a reason. Eventually got tired. Laid back on the wet grass. Cold mud clung to back of my coat and sleeves. Rain washed down my face, wetting my hair. Didn’t care much. It was cool. Refreshing. Opened my mouth and drank until my head fell back and I was asleep. Noise from below wakes me up. Crying. Screaming. I sat up, looked down and saw them. Five dark shapes gliding between graves, knocking tombstones over with throws of their hips. O’Shantz’ guys pull automatic pistols from jackets, rifles from cars. Start raining lead onto the shapes. Does little damage--the shapes too fast. They stand in tight formation around O’Shantz, his wife, the dead girl in the box being lowered into the earth. The shadows circle around them, closing in. I stand, stretch my arms. Roll my neck around. Listen to joints pop. Rain’s stopped, but everywhere is still damp. Small water drops roll off grass. I unbutton my shirt. Take off my jacket. Take off my shoes. Undo my pants. Slip off jewelry, rings, necklace. Everything. Open my mouth to yawn, teeth draw themselves out. Blink, and eyes turn to yellow slits. Crane my head back, skull shifting and reshaping, dark and silver fur spreading everywhere. Claws extend. Back hunches forward until I’m on all fours. I look up into the night through my new eyes and howl. From the bottom of the hill, fighting slows and freezes. The men and the dogs they’re fighting that call themselves wolves-they all look up the hill towards me. Everything is still. I climb off my hill. And I run. And soon, I’m there. Everything’s stuck in place, frozen except for O’Shantz and his men, all running around, retreating back to their cars. One wolf drops the guy he’s been chewing on when he sees me pad up. “Howdy,” I say. “You must be the boys I’ve read so much about. Twenty-seven kills. Pretty impressive.” He laughs, chewing. “Thanks, old timer,” he says, and already I notice the pack’s no longer still, but have begun moving, slowly circling. “Unfortunately, we ain’t accepting new members today.” “Oh, I didn’t come for that,” I say. “Actually, I’ve come to rip your head off.” The leader, the one I’m talking to, makes a sound like a laugh, and already I see a shape moving from the corner of my eye. Done enough reading on these guys to know their MO. They probably started off small-stray cats and dogs--until they worked themselves up to snatching kids, breaking into old ladies’ homes, rushing a few bums and derelicts and lone hookers in alleyways. The only reason they’re probably here is because of how impressed with themselves they were after reading all the articles about the disappearances they were causing. Figured they might as well get paid to take out the right people to whoever was willing to pay to see a few people disappear--O’Shantz, for instance. But these guys are sloppy, reckless, no scent of strategy about them other than relying on brute strength.

Catch the first one in my mouth when he comes charging me. Doesn’t realize how much larger I am, how much quicker. Shake him once between my jaws. Damp fur and splintered bone fly through air, land with loud squelching sounds on wet ground. The ground’s slick everywhere. The others are busy trying to run, sliding and falling in mud. I keep still and wait, listening. Sound is everywhere. Loud and unending. Screaming and shouting and running feet and far off birds. That post-rain smell still hangs around, wetting the air. Another one charges from behind. I lash back, catch him underneath mane of hair at neck. Hear him choke, blood bubbling in his throat as he goes leaping away. The men--O’Shantz’s guys who haven’t gotten away--don’t recognize me. Fear taking over, they fire wildly. Iron pours into me. Don’t feel it much. The little wolf in charge, the one who spoke to me, moves toward them, making what sounds like a laugh as it plunges through the air. I meet him in time. Catch him halfway. Jaws close around skull, one canine tooth slicing into his eye. Warmness fills my mouth, leaks onto ground. Taste is surprisingly sweet. Like eggs dusted with cinnamon. Not unpleasant at all. His little laugh dies immediately. He whimpers and panics. He tries pulling back. I don’t let go. Jump up, front paws balancing on back of his neck. I pull up and back. Hear a tear. Another one charges. I wheel back and spring up, colliding with him midair. Claws bury into fur. Yellow teeth snap closed on ear. I tear. He gets a good grip on one leg, squeezes. It’s a good fight. A fair one. But it doesn’t last long. The other two are already running while this last one I’m going at is starting to tire. Won’t last much longer. I work him around, not ending it just yet. It’s a long time till morning. I could use the exercise.

jack sofka

Alternative Nation Oh, American blood! spilling onto the sidewalks. American saliva! clogging the gutters of a million homes. American cum! oozing through fences and down Santa Monica. American children; fluids lodging in their ears. All of California drowns, and I fumble an apology. Oh, Alternative Nation! Did you survive your own ambitions? Did you even survive your own prescriptions? Alternative Nation: The once-proud arbiter of The Format War! Now only a landfill.

jessica shek

GRAND

*trigger warning*

My grandmother rests in one lung, my mother in the other. Irremovable.

My Mother Her Father Her Mother Her eyes were glazed with his gold and green. Her hair curled his curl. If he had been born lighter, let his nappy hair grow and yawn down the shoulders that was her. Her nose and the maw of her lip, wide (it would widen still later). If her skin were darker and her head shaved, you couldn’t tell the difference. It was the sameness that was painful. He was gone but his story stayed. Visible. Talking, walking, pulling at the hem of her mother’s dress, crying and rubbing her face and batting her eyes. Daughter. He said he would come back but didn’t. He was gone but never left. His daughter looked for him, his wife looked for him. They do not find him, but they still look. Outside of the orphanage, his wife’s eyes stared out, high, and above-- she did not feel her daughter holding her hand as they stand in front of the orphanage. Her mother’s veined hand, the Buddhist bracelet her mother’s mother had given her jangled and clinked with her gilded bands. She didn’t want to go. Tears leaping down her face, she grabbed her mother’s bracelet, wrapped her fingers around the beads and the beads span and her fingers slipped and she watched her mother’s back as she walked away and shrunk like a picture. The matron pulled her indoors, led her to her classroom. She peered in bewildered. Everyone looked like her.

Their children Their children Their children Their children Their children

The American involvement fought to stop the spread of Communism and fought to secure Democracy in Vietnam. The war lasted 20 years and is still considered controversial. The American involvement was fought to stop the spread of Communism and fought to secure Democracy in Vietnam. The war lasted 20 years and is still considered controversial. The American involvement did not stay to raise the children they left behind and fought to secure a womanâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s body, love and leave, a hundred times over. The war has lasted 64 years and is still happening in my motherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s body. Bastard Abomination Amerasian Bitch Mutt Bui Doi Dust Trash Tens of thousands, estimated total unknown.

After the orphanage, my mother lived with her grandmother lived with her aunt, on the farm, for sometime in the city, with her mother, briefly, brokenly, love and living is staggered, given in few places, taken in all that comes.

The uncle and his two sons. Offered her love in their hand, they knew she wanted love, and when they exposed her skin, fear holed up inside her body, fear she did not understand, will try to understand, will try to face. This is my mother. For her cousin, it was worse. They took something from her that she can never get back, that she can try, has tried to find, has searched. She has found a husband and three children. She has found a home and a job. But sometimes, she finds herself sobbing, the tears do not trickle, her face floods without destination, pooling around a memory that she herself canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t see anymore, because fathoming would be walking back there, their hands, the taking, the push. Her husband wonders why she cries. She does not know why. This is my aunt. Something she thought she could have. Underneath the palm tree. This is my great aunt. (She gave him her jewel, but this was her only value, and after it was gone, he deserted her, and everyone knew, and no one would touch her. A stranger comes into town, someone to take her away, she does not tell him what she has lost, he believes her, marries her, until the truth arises, and he, tricked, beats the heart out of her body. Her children do not have this manâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s blood, their father is anonymous. Her children carry memories of pain, pain without origin. her children are a reflection of her love, love undeterred.)

Years later, they become Americans. They become nameless nail technicians, an engineer, a realtor. Histories are erased, pains edited or buried.

My great aunt stirs a pot for us. Her beauty is sheltered by service, dampened by lessons, many of them, her beauty is curbed, wrangled, domesticated. Stifled. My aunts join her in the kitchen, chopping vegetables, preparing aluminum trays. The uncles in the living room watch tv, drink Heineken. Children on the floor, children on the stairs, in their mothers’ arms. Conversations swirl in the air with the smell of hot food. I help my grandmother walk to the table, carry her slightly. Over time, her weight will press more and more onto me. From cane, to walker, until she can only sit. I’ll need another person’s help, my sister or my mother, together we will negotiate paths, keep her moving long after she has lost the will to.

Chim Lạc Fly away, fly away with him and him and him and him She does not know how not to move. She grew like a plant, walked like an animal, and ate poison everyday. Did she forget that she has a little girl? In her daughter’s mouth is mother, love, stay. Her daughter is passed from hand to hand to hand, She is put into a place of no belonging, but she knows she belongs to someone, She feeds herself the words she wants to hear until she is old enough. Taking turns carrying a burden, now it’s hers. Her father is dead, and now her mother crawls on the floor, moans on the couch, wails for oxy in her hand, waiting to fly away with him again.

jack sofka

The Seventh Seal I. And when He opened the seventh seal, there was silence in heaven for half an hour. But how long is half an hour to someone who only existed in the blink of an eye? Yes, we had seen the blackening of the sun. We watched the red horse, elephant, and donkey. First there was no clean water, no food, and we watched our own kill one another. And lo, there was a great earthquake, the rising of the seas, every mountain and island moving out of their places. And lo, we felt the silence of God. (father) II. In middle america: an old man waits for his end. The flyover states had been long forgotten. The farmer extends his arms to the sky, but he barely reaches his fingertips above the tallest stalks of dead corn. Past the broken fingers of oak and dogwood, there is a fever in the air. It ravages through soot and leaves like a rattlesnake, looking for a host. The farmer pushes his hands towards God, harder, and harder, finally dislocating his arms from his shoulders with a syncopated, musical crack. He pushes on, and his feet finally leave the ground. At last, he flies like birds once had. He is born again, and escapes beyond the clouds. (son) III. The rest of us die like pigs. In New York, we loot, we fight for extra days before the inevitable, but weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re never violent. It is hot. It is very fucking hot. In L.A., they flee on private jets, but they know as damn well as we do that those planes will never fly them to salvation. No, the rest of us die like humans. For in our final days, we will never stop creating. Forever our own agents. We feel the silence of God, but weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve felt it for some time now. So we make our own fucking noise. (spirit).

I hate our reunions No one else could see you How could they? You form in the corner of the room Your being seeps from the ceiling You arise You open your eyes

morgan mccauley

Dear my anxiety,

I hate your eyes I say that eyes Can tell me a lot about someone Your eyes are black Like a violent sea Wicked and cruel And you came to drown me You take slow steps My breathing is more panicked You know this Before I can run You stand over me Some of your being falls on to my shoulders You pull me in The waves Burying me alive I open my eyes I am shaking on the floor I have no breath People around me Trying to comfort and hug me From behind I push them away In fear that they will Suck me in In fear I will be lost at sea again Until we meet again, Yours truly 23

angie tamayo

Thank You Kylie Jenner When I look at you I feel like a failure Because you got all the Latina curves I was told I’m suppose to have Because your waist is pinched at the exact right spot that gives you an hourglass figure The one I’ve been working so hard for You embody everything that society expects me to become And when I fall short it’s no ones fault but my own I guess we can forget about the multimillion dollar diet industry Constantly trying to sell me a new fix that will transform my body to look like yours A magic pill, or a shake, or a program that helps me lose X amount of lbs in a month We can forget about the multimillion dollar weight loss industry That screams in my head like the chanting of a cult that once I get this body I’ll be happy with myself Maybe that’s why I obsessively plan out how many hours i’ll be at the gym that week 7 hours a week if I go once a day Why I keep count of the calories in the back of my head when I eat Less than 1200 to lose two pounds Why I change my outfit ten times until I decide that no matter what I wear I will never look a fraction as good as you I hate myself for putting you on this pedestal knowing very well that you are the accumulation of a personal chef, a private trainer, plastic surgery, and most of all the privilege that you have to attain all of these resources at the palm of your hand I’ve been told through loud and clear messages that my body will be at its best when it looks like yours So I’ve wrapped myself in lies that I will finally be happy and my life will fall into place when I am of certain weight and appearance That my problems along with my fat will just melt away And I truly wish it were that easy Because all I’ve ever wanted is to be noticed when I walk into a room Or wear a tank top in the summer without questioning if my stomach bulges out But at this point I am tired of thinking of myself in numbers From the number on the scale to have many months I have until “beach body” becomes a trend on instagram To how many weeks I have to get rid of the extra jiggle around my thighs and waist -which is so common and yet must never be seen by society Thank you Kylie Jenner for creating this image of what a woman must look like while promoting products that you claim helps everyone reach their body goals -- news flash: it doesn’t 24

And when it fails (and it will fail), when the whole system fails and crumbles to its essence of lies, thank you for making me believe itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s something that I did wrong and now I have to start the whole cycle over again Thank you for creating a lifestyle and benefiting off of insecurities and failure-based diets on countless impressionable young women to have the body youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve bought even if it means putting ourselves through hell.

alley franke

Tornado the air is dry and desperate; old cellar doors creak and groan and tornadoes ravage empty fields these places already feel like distant memories the roads smell like fresh paint yellow and bold, and in my dream last night we parked in a tow-zone held hands as we ran into the sea; and the song on the radio has the perfect harmony: we might sing it if Time worked differently iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll let the clouds carry me away; wrap myself in bed sheets that are cold and empty fight my own heart until morning

valentina zapata

Loquita Como un Jarra de arcilla, I pour out Desperate and flowing showing how deep the river in me runs But my mother pulls out a cork and shoves it into my open bleeding wound, forcing the tears to dry themselves out “Estas actuando loca” I scream into my palms and out flies a bird, painted silvery blue and dotted with flowers, squawking a song of pain and pleading Just wishing to be heard It lands in the hands of my father but he suffocates its song, before it has a chance to reach his ears “Para con tus locuras” The day I was born, bajo una maizeta luna They found me unruly, too picante for their liking So they took my browning manos tied them up with canas de azucar and shoved me in a mud-caked caja Until I learn how to behave They hate that they cannot chain me or break my broken mind into pedacitos they can cover with pasta and glue back together into a pretty mosaico But my soul was born to not listen, my body was born to repent. Every inch of it My aunt pulls at the springs on my head, trying to break their pattern and turn them into something you could walk on without getting stuck on a bump of a loop or a twisting tangle “Te ves loquita con tu pelo así”

Loca Locuras Loquita Loca Loca LOCA I beg for pebbles of forgiveness and purity A chance to escape the prison of “female insanity” But am turned away by the Gods of my cultura who have destined me to an eternity of always being the loca -v.z.

minji kim

Ode to My Name When I was little I hated my name I wanted to be like all the other girls I didn’t want to be the odd one out I couldn’t change the color of my skin Or the shape of my eyes But I could change my name I am older now and I realize My identity belongs in the five letters That my mother calls me by My name The one that rolls off her tongue Even though it doesn’t off of mine I stand as a reminder I am my mother’s daughter And I don’t hate my name anymore

angie tamayo

To My Mother: You Can Just Be My mom puts up this icy exterior. A brick wall that can’t be shaken or broken or burned. But I think it’s only to protect us, me and my brother. I think if we weren’t a factor in her decision to be strong, she would crumble to the ground by the slightest wind. She’s strong when she needs to be and sometimes I hate the fact she needs to be strong at all. Being strong has related to the idea of being put through and surviving abusive, toxic, or tragic situations. But why must women be put through hell to be considered resilient? Why must they be tested to the brink of tears to prove an opinion based idea of being tough? To flip the question around, what about the women who aren’t put through the ringer? Are they not considered courageous, fierce, forceful? Do they seem weak because their life seems perfect and no hardships have come their way to test their true durability? Women aren’t a trial experiment to see how many obstacles they can go through without breaking or asking for help. They aren’t guinea pigs in a societal cage of submission and misogyny. My mother didn’t need to go through relocation and the abandonment of family, an abusive relationship, a war with society to protect her innocent kids from reality, or the straggling seeming-impossible battle of gaining citizenship to feel normal and worthy to live in a country. Yet, when my mother needs to bring out the bear inside of her, she does, no moment of hesitation either. Which breaks my heart because when does she get to feel vulnerable and weak? When can she take a moment to melt the icy exterior away and just be instead of being on alert all the time? Sometimes I wish I could burn down her walls of protection so she can process her emotions as she should - yet when that happens, I’m left with a mother who’s crying on the kitchen counter and my inner child doesn’t know how to put her back together.

I canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t wait to see mom destiny valerio

ambar grullon

James Dabs On a Pogo Stick James dabs on a pogo stick— And by that, I mean Papi bought him a pogo stick for his birthday. James immediately dabbed. “He’s a boy and he has too much energy,” Papi says to Mami. It’s August and the kitchen windows are open. We can still hear the ping-ping-ping Of that pogo stick Across the street. Perhaps the best boys in the world are the ones Who know nothing but fun. Perhaps all Papi wants is a boy who can play, Even when his toys are gone. I’m pretending to read on the couch, Because we’re renovating And we’re sweating money And there’s nothing like money Raining on a birthday. Mami wipes our new marble countertop. She knows that my father finds love in the things he should not buy— The cake, the house, us, Her ring— I sink into the couch, Bracing myself for a secondhand scolding. Ping-ping-ping. Although this is a lifetime she can no longer afford, She continues cleaning.

ambar grullon

Papi Turns Down The Radio Papi turns down the radio. We are driving to Cherry Hill and it is the First New Years’ Eve I will spend without my family. Mami insisted that Papi would drive me, So as to remind me of what I’ll be missing tonight. Maybe this is the reason he and I sit in silence— Parental jealousy, Children donning new faces at home, Children finding themselves In other parents’ homes— And maybe it’s the reason I am sitting So close to the window, One hand gripping the seatbelt, The other on the door handle. “I think,” he starts and then He stops. I imagine this is what he’ll tell me: “Sometimes, I think I want to take you riding again. You remember? Texas? We’d ride my 1989 Kawasaki Ninja anywhere and Blur. But you complained that your ankles chafed near the exhaust pipe, So we’d ride bicycles instead. Remember when it rained? Remember when we were biking through Reliant Park And it rained? And your pants were slipping as we turned around? And you had to scream which directions to take because I was wearing my glasses And it was foggy and I didn’t even think we should stop. Do you remember that?” And I want to tell him that I do, I remember all the way to my pruney fingers. Instead, He turns up the radio.

destiny valerio

The Unicorn Floaty Little girls want these for no other reason but to float while bouncing inside until their played out. It looks like a mix of a Loch Ness monster with a rainbow horse head and one huge stake drove into the middle. It has no mouth to speak or scream, only eyes to watch its powerless-self float back and forth in the pool. Slower and slower each time. When there is no little girl around and no one has bothered to put it away, what does it do? It could just float in the pool being nothing more than what it is, plastic garbage for kids to call a toy. Maybe it likes being alone to let the sun sit on its face while the nice summer breeze comes in. It has a day to relax from all the playful abuse. But what if it’s raining or storming? Maybe the harsh drops of rain started bouncing around in its plastic and leaves cover its black factory paint eyes and bleached neck. It waits, hoping that a branch will come in to pop it away from this agony. or maybe the branch squishes it down to the depths of the pool, giving it the gift of silence. Maybe the girls show mercy and take it inside. They make it a makeshift sleepover bed as they saw on Pinterest. The unicorn floaty becomes crushed by the weight of five random girls sleeping and snoring like diseased gremlins. They rise from their slumber; the unicorn floaty dies of boredom. Literally by slowly deflating day by day. If it’s a unicorn floaty only for cups, then it’s probably being used to hold something. Most likely for the broke girls who can’t afford a jewelry box. Maybe it’s holding a bunch of sharp earrings or crystal necklaces. It stares out the window, wanting to float again. Maybe, the unicorn floaty is thinking if they got one of the sharp jewelry to just prick them, they could learn to float in a different way. Maybe it’s planning to escape. If it’s outside at the right moment when the wind picks up it could soar away. It can be itself. Whatever a unicorn floaty might think that can be.

Maybe it gets found by a handsome Latino like those novellas. They journey together from seas to beaches. The unicorn floaty is finally with someone who knows the desires and wants of being able to leave. But, it wonders, if this could ever last. If this handsome man will soon just bounce around in them and then leave them in the pool too. I know one thing unicorn floaty desires: One day it will pop from all the floating, bouncing, and crushing so it no longer has to feel this abuse and power over it. It doesn’t need to float people back and forth, it doesn’t need to wait for anyone to get back, or to hope that no one will ever want to use it again. If it popped it’s just popped. It wants to be nothing more, but nonexistent, not real. A fantasy. Like Unicorns should be. However, it doesn’t get any of that. It’s stored away in a dusty shed until it needs to be used, and when summer is gone, it gets deflated, no longer moving to feel, just watching the walls of an empty box. Well, not really because it contains a floaty, but that’s how anything feels when alone and they realize there will never be a Latin lover to take them away. Instead, it waits in fear and anguish for next summer to come. Eager for the day that the little girls have grown up and won’t ever want to play with the unicorn floaty again.

shea keenan

The Super Circle I feel a warmth in my stomach as I drift through the memories of when we were together. I remember the green tables with the umbrella’s at Sal’s Pizzeria, and sneaking through the backroads when we were out later than we should’ve been. Maybe we were just stupid teenagers, but we had each other. As long as we were together, we didn’t have to be alone with ourselves. There were six of us, but I was always closest with Rachel. When Max was holding the conversation hostage, I could always lean back and see how she was doing. Rachel was quiet, and I was never much of a talker, so it was nice for us to be in our own personal bubble. It was also something to tell myself that, even if I wasn’t the bright light leading our ship through the dark, I was at least a rowman. And so, as friends tend to do, we found ourselves closer than we expected. We were in my room at half past two. A little drunk, a little tired, but at the same time more alive than we’d ever been before. The walls were shadowy, and the dim brightness of our phones created a small circle of light where we huddled together, shoulder to shoulder. Max led the conversation as always. His voice had its usual loud and commanding tone, but he stumbled across his words, bogged down by the alcohol and his own uncertainties. He talked about his fears of letting down his family, and of going off to college. Even though we were all going to the same university, I could understand where he was coming from. The thought of leaving home was frightening, but as long as we had each other, I knew we’d be ok. As I looked at Max then, I knew he was scared, but I also knew that he had always been our light. I couldn’t imagine a world where he didn’t turn out fine. Max finally stopped talking, and almost as though we were playing a game and his turn was over, we turned to the person on his right: Rachel. Quiet, polite, and with few hobbies, she had always seemed to be more willing to simply latch onto our ship and see where it took her than to try and push it in any particular direction. At the same time, her lack of interest intrigued me. We were close, but I had to wonder, how much did I really know about my friend? She started talking. I felt my heart pounding as I leaned forward, eyes locked onto her as she raised her hands and cupped them into a small bowl in front of her. “My parents always told me to never show anyone, not a single soul. They said it would only cause trouble for us, but...you guys mean everything to me. I don’t want to keep hiding this from you.” She closed her eyes and slowly exhaled as a small, shimmering light slowly began to appear inside her palms. The light grew, illuminating the room and sending a wave of heat licking and snapping against my face. Suddenly Rachel smacked her hands, crushing the light and reopening her eyes as she looked from one shocked face to the next. I fell back into a seated position, blinking slowly as I tried to understand what I’d just witnessed. Maybe forty seconds passed of nothing but the sound of a car passing until Sean finally decided to open his mouth. “Actually… I’ve got something kind of like that,” he said, moving into a kneeling position. Poking his fingers out like guns, a small amount of liquid slowly began to spurt out of the tips, splattering into a puddle on my rug. “I always thought I was the only one,” Sean continued. “I can do a lot more water than that, but…” 34

“That’s amazing!” Rachel practically screeched, frantically slide-crawling over to him. “Where does it come from? Is it cold? Did you tell your parents about it?” As Rachel barraged Sean with questions, Zeke coughed next to me. “Uh, this may be a little weird, but…” and with that vines erupted from underneath his sleeves, bouncing and quivering through the air like tentacles. Soon Nancy and Ryan were standing up too, a small flame appearing in her hands and a strange black liquid seeping from his. They all beamed at their newfound realization. Their gifts were free at last to be shared, and for a time they were content to simply enjoy their little miracle. Of course, being the good friend she is, Rachel eventually turned to me. “Hey Liam, what’s your…..” I stared back at her, slowly shaking my head back and forth, lips tight. For a moment we were like that, once again locked into our own personal bubble. Then, without warning it popped, the energy between us dissipating as Sean tapped her on the shoulder, asking if she could demonstrate one more time. It was ok for a little while. We all managed to move into college together, hanging out like we always did. The big change was Rachel. No longer was she the quiet, reserved girl at the back of the group. Now she was a second light, a high beam next to Sean to lead us forward. I tried hard to be happy for her, to know that she was better off, but all I could think of whenever Rachel and Sean had a vice grip on the conversation was how lonely it was. No personal bubble could help me escape now. I started seeing them less and less. Now I just wave on my way to the cafeteria. I think they’re happier now that they’re finally free to be themselves. I guess if they can all be themselves now, they don’t need me anymore. After all, I’m not special. I was never scared to hide anything, but I guess that’s where I went wrong. Being yourself only works if you’re a light. No one wants to hang around a rowman.

shea keenan

The Creep The dining hall is a swirling galaxy of energy and I am its Sun. I bounce from one person to the next, making jokes and laughing, ensuring that my many planets are properly entertained. Waiters with cheese and cups of wine swirl around us, little meteors of servitude. I am speaking to a woman, several years younger than me with heavy makeup and long blonde hair. I’ve long since lost track of the conversation, resorting to nods and simple responses until I see a chance to usher her off to a younger friend of mine, allowing me the chance to quickly walk to the bathroom. As I round the corner I see it. Even hunched over, it’s still large enough to fill most of the hallway. Distorted beyond what I could call human, the fingers are long and gnarled, colored a pale green and scabbed at the knuckles. A ripped brown jacket covers most of its body, but what catches my eyes most is the gas mask with a long, torn tube running down from its base. I back away slowly, moving my heels one delicate inch at a time until a sudden pressure on my shoulder causes me to whip around. “You alright?” Kevin asks, a questioning look on his face. I fumble for words, pointing down the hall as I try to warn him of the creature. He looks to where I’m pointing before looking back at me. “What are you doing?” he asks. I turn my head. It’s gone; no footprints, no noise, just an empty hallway. I look back to my friend. “Th-there was something there. A monster….I don’t know. I don’t know where it went.” He continues to stare at me. “I don’t see anything. How many drinks have you had?” he asks, a slight smirk on his face. I try to squeeze out a grin, still not convinced but for now willing to move on. I had taken plenty of celebratory shots, after all. Maybe I was seeing things. Out of the corner of my eye I spot a large man stumbling towards me. His shaggy brown hair is greasy and unkempt and his dress shirt is partially untucked. The smell of cigars and alcohol is pungent within five feet of his being, a fact not lost on the woman standing next to him. I assume her to be the designated driver, a decision she looks to be regretting as her nose is wrinkled in disgust at the man’s aura. “Looks like it’s time for me to head home, I’m afraid,” he mutters, each word stumbling into the next. I wrap my arm around him, gently leading him towards the dessert table. “Don’t say that,” I begin, allowing the recent encounter to drift away as I speak in a gentle, encouraging voice. “There’s still plenty of party left. Here, why don’t you take some cookies and I’ll go grab you some punch.” I grasp the ladle in my left hand as I look down into the sloshing red liquid. It’s there. The cold bug-like eyes staring back at me until I shove the entire bowl off the counter, swinging the ladle like a bludgeon over my head. There’s nothing. Nothing but the sounds of the fat man yelling in shock at my outburst. I try to compose myself, apologizing and claiming that I’d slipped until I see the young blonde woman from earlier heading to the door. I sprint to the opening, shoving myself between her and the exit. 36

“Hey, what’re you do---” “No need to leave yet!” I cut her off. “The night’s still young, desserts are still coming out, and the next DJ’s almost...” the statement dies in my throat. All around me I can feel the gradual setting of the Sun. People are leaving; some hanging onto friends for support while others make their own way out. Slowly, the hall is turning bare. A shiver goes up my spine. I see it. The masked eyes peer around an open doorway, scabbed fingers wrapped around the wall. The creature gently caresses the frame, sliding its long indexes up and down until suddenly it’s gone, noiselessly slipping into the darkness. I don’t move as the woman pushes past me. The fat man follows soon after while I continue to stand, mute. Looking outside I see their figures, just shadows in the night. I’ve long forgotten their names. I step forward, heavy footfalls bringing me towards the doorway. I pass the recently built stage and reach over, pulling free one of the many metal rods that compose its base. I am the last one here, the only person left to deal with this monster. No one was willing to stay. It has to be this way, it has to be me. “What are you doing?” Kevin asks, giving me that same questioning look as he stands there with a cup in his hand. I hadn’t noticed him. I look down at my weapon. “There’s a monster in the hallway. It’s been stalking me for the last ten minutes, so I’m gonna go kill it with this.” I wiggle the metal so he understands. For a moment he just looks at me. Then, rolling his eyes, he takes one last sip, puts down the cup and grabs a second metal rod from the stage. “Alright then, let’s do it.” I stare at him, then nod. Together we head forth into the hallway, metal rods at the ready. It’s empty. We creep slowly, circling the entire building twice but find nothing. I check the men’s bathroom while he checks the women’s. Not a single green finger was seen, nor did we find a single torn piece of the jacket. I told him I guess it must have gotten away. He agreed. We shoved a few cookies into our pockets before heading home.

Mr. Handsome anthony berg

lysa legros

a lonely zombie The zombie flicks did tell us that zombies ate brains – but they never told us why. They never described the way our first awakening was a bruised fruit cracking open to expose a hollow center. Sometimes it’s hard to remember that first emptiness, the wind passing through our rotting maws. Back then there was no “us,” only something a little less than “I.” (An old rusty Ford pickup truck – the blurred heart of a couple’s dark silhouettes, he leans down to taste.) But for the brief technicolor moments, the plum red, the soft fur of peaches, the squash of strawberries past our gums, the emptiness was filled, and we knew, and we felt, and we sobbed in the tattered, smoking aftermath.

valentina zapata

A Tragedy in a BODEGA I grew up on a street adjacent to a street adjacent to a store that someone was murdered in. I stared at the the rows and rows of blood red maraschino cherries, matching perfectly with the dried blood specks on the floors beside it. The bright yellow bananas hanging from the ceilings rivaled the neon tape that wrapped around the bodega that fragrant September day. A 6th grader behind me chewed on Bismol Pink bubblegum cracking it through the air, sounding like the bullets that must have cut through that manâ&#x20AC;şs head. The babies wailed behind me, screeching for justice. But their cries compared little to that of the now widow throwing her pained passion over the crimson crime scene. I grew up on a street adjacent to a street adjacent to a store Where Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m not allowed to go no more, because they fear that Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll become another faded news article on another water stained, struggling newsstand lamenting on about the vivid shame, Of another brown tragedy in another bodega in the Bronx. But I still go

anisa lateef

Twilight Boy to live between the Sad sun hours Sad scared hours Sad son hours Sad bro hours Sad boy hours Sad student hours Sad roommate hours Sad man hours Sad lover hours Sad spouse hours Sad dad hours Sad self hours Sad moon hours compact in the cubby between twilight and sunrise: an oaky armoire rocking glass tears & ceramic palpitations an accumulation of reality too vulnerable to breathe much life into chordae tendineae wrestled in testosterone. invisible dominos. unstrikable bullies. so he contracts in his wrist flicks head ticks, neck twists eye flutters, mouth muscles shoulder shmushes, neck kisses handshakes iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m okays. Silent boy cycle. Sorry boy cycle.

valentina zapata

How To Guide on Grief I envy those who have attended funerals. Those who have been able to walk up to a casket and say goodbye to the paper pale face of someone they loved. Who have been able to cry over a story some tio tells over a grave or laugh through tears over a memory shared in some titi’s spiced kitchen. My parents never let me or my siblings attend any funerals growing up, They said it wasn’t a place for children. One time my friends sat down with me and counted the number of funerals she has been to. She got up to 30 before I made her stop “What's wrong?” she asked with eyebrows furred. “I just can't imagine experiencing that much grief ” The first funeral I had been allowed to attend was during my junior year of highschool, when a classmate died in an auto accident. When I walked up to the casket, I had to be carried along by my best friend so that I wouldnt pass out After the service, I could not stop talking about his family and the pain they were experiencing, so foreignly raw and permanent. I came home to the news of death. I've never learned how to comfort through death. How to close the book and put it back on the shelf, knowing I can open it again when my heart allows. I don't know the words or touches to use that don't taste like pity in your mouth or how to take a hand and heal the scars. They talk of death, of losing those they love and I cover my ears, unable to cope with the sounds of ghosts that live in our heads. Grief feels hot and sticky, like a summer skin a size too small and I feel claustrophobic when it dares to get too close with its touch. My bisabuelas corpse still sits in my closet, haunting me and smelling like vaporu y Manzanita. She waits patiently for me to tell her goodbye but I shut the door closed every time. My friends always say the reason I’m so scared of death is because I never went to funerals “You haven›t learned how to say goodbye” they say and I protest “But I let myself cry; I let myself feel sadness”. They shake their heads sadly “No Valentina, you’ve never learned how to say goodbye” I wish I had been able to attend my abuelo’s funeral

gabriella son

How My Grandfather Went Missing Your wife nags you for the twentieth time one Sunday morning to fix the half-lit TV screen, so the grandkids can watch their dancing robot cartoons. Life for the past fifty-two years with her has only magnified your wishing that she turn into a ghost. You can’t even escape her at nights because there she is lying next to you in bed, even if it’s just her wrinkled backside that watches you fall asleep. It’s days like this you need a smoke to literally blow off the steam, and so once the family is distracted with brunch, you slip out of the house. But once you step outside you remember there isn’t any other house you can temporarily run away to, or even permanently call home, in this scrambling, half-lit city, in this whole wide world—even your own. And that’s when you realize these smoke breaks aren’t how you’re going to find, after eighty-two years, the meaning of life. You want someone who will talk with you in bed. You want someone who will watch over your ghost. And as you ponder this meaning of life, you think you are seeing a ghost when you run into Joe, your Vietnam comrade, navigating his way through the city smoke; next it’s Carrie, your high school sweetheart—and then suddenly life has spark again, life has joy, so you hit up your favorite tapas house in town, everything’s on me you cheer. The three of you drink until the stars in the sky are half-lit, then you and your comrade book a nearby motel to take the girl to bed. While you were sleeping with these people from your past, hopping from one public bed to another, Grandma was sorry and tried so hard to find you through the asthmatic smoke: She would wander the sidewalks until the streetlights were half-lit, then she would come home to light her rainbow candles and pray about you to every ghost. The rest of the family would suspiciously circle around house after house in the neighborhood, each person calling dibs on a car window to search for any sign of your life. After that, nobody knew how to continue living their life. It felt wrong to walk by your perfectly-made side of the bed. It felt wrong to even breathe inside this house, and suck in the last fragments of you for ourselves. The house reeked of lily wreaths and incense smoke on the day we finally decided to celebrate you becoming a ghost— And then during the eulogies, a policeman called, saying your cellphone’s GPS was now half-lit. When we finally found the right house—behind a deserted tapas bar—the closest sign of life was a half-lit cigarette atop its own bed of ashes. In the wisps of rising smoke, I swear I saw your ghost 43

jamie csimbok

When You Escaped Communist Romania, the History Escaped into Me I never got to ask how you and Pop first met. You never got to tell me he was your second husband, the first was behind The Curtain, a face lost in the shadow of what you had to leave behind. I never got to ask why you collected so much gold jewelry that you just kept in your closet. I would only ever see you wear your gold cross. You never got to tell me that jewelry gave your family food. A gold necklace was extra flour, a chicken, a bargaining chip. Survival. I never got to ask what it was like on that farm in Transylvania, where your best friend was a goat you had to eat because there was nothing else. You never got to tell me of the fear, traveling like runoff down the streets, of the bombings from the Allies, bombings of the fascist fist that was choking your country free of fathers and brothers as you were left at that little convent at 5 years old, waiting for your family to return. They did. And the chokehold disappeared. Only for everyone to drown in red. Red, red, Soviet red. I never got to tell you that those mountains call to me, the Carpathians, I see the Black Sea in my dreams. Begging me to see your memories, So I might better understand This trail I walk on called a legacy.

Bucharest is a blank space in my mind, the itch that I’m forgetting something, begging me to remember the place I have yet been. And yet, I feel the relief of the revolution That broke a madman’s hold. I feel the hatred for Antonescu, for Ceausescu Those who would oppress my people. The documentaries I watch are the source Of what I feel to be my history. Now, you are gone and I remain grasping At a space in my mind I feel the answers are, But there is a lock And you were the one holding the key.

anisa lateef

Passport Stamps her spirit is an enchanted oasis dressed in blankets of marigolds and papayas a flutter of those charcoal eyelashes bloom around two coconut shells both floating through dollops of fresh coconut cream. she’s Bali blanketed in stardust his spirit is an unmapped silo a self awaringly foreign Russian dot filled with a navy blue sort of lonely. he’s Tegyulte sweatered in pure existence an island like Bali & a town like Tegyulte. that’s the story. .

anisa lateef

Two Hazel Globes Solemn face, head propped up by your palm, lids shut slumbering west in my direction as if on cue your spidey senses activate to showcase two tawny gems complimented by a shy smirk and for a minute, the two of us were transported to our own telenovela, the kind where my character skips across a forest and riverbed barefoot before stopping to twirl in a sunflower field dressed in her borrowed paint-stained overalls, and there he is, your character, in a lavender button down lined with linen and shipwrecked saltwater laying at the bottom of the hill. My character drizzles a handful of golden sunflower petals over your characterâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s comaed face, and his eyes open to reveal what can only be described as sunfilled caramel drizzled marbles that glisten with a glossy coat of topaz familiarity. The streaks of sunlight reflect the pigment in his pupils just enough to stop all sense of time. Life is anchored to the glitter in the irises. So an ode to your hazel jewels: if they are any indication to the shine of glow of your soul may you continue to warm the earth like an environmentally considerate bonfire that doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t ruin the ozone layer.

filip maziarz

experiments with intimacy lip of the trail over the underbite of the woods: the boy and the girl huddle below, and watch the liquid backbone’s flow— close enough to see the void beneath flesh urging their souls to let them go: “we could still lean further...” but seeing and moving no deeper no more. spring frogs sing highly in a marsh close by; near, but far for them to hear. their heads stay close; they whisper and water, eyes unturned and unreflected by the muddy depths beneath their feet— two never meeting, a pair, another. “who are we to you, speaker?” nobody, really; just a friend and a friend of theirs, maybe.

lysa legros

Hopeless Romantic Rachel was as much a romantic as she was a cook. Of course, most people weren’t aware that she was the former, she was too quiet, and too reserved for most to get a thorough reading of her. Her peers thought she was nice, maybe a little nerdy. They could identify her by a soft voice that easily evaporated into the air around her, a pair of braids on the sides of her head, a blue book bag. Oh, and her cooking, we can’t forget the double-fudge brownies she made for the Freshman Valentine’s Day Bakesale – the ones that sold out within fifteen minutes of the final bell. She saved a couple of corner pieces in a pink lunch box for herself and Devin. Devin was on the track team, he was tall and lanky – bony, but in a smooth way that was sort of hard to put into words – she liked how he was like a river when he walked and a current when he ran. (And she especially liked how when he laughed it was a full-body phenomenon: head thrown back or curled forward into his hands, shoulders quaking – she appreciated that he was loud enough for two.) She waited for him in the common area. Her blue bag was on one of the rounded corner chunks of a rearrangeable table. Her head was tilted down so only the peaks of her horns could be seen. He saunters in all his fluid glory, each step gracefully leading to the next. He waves, she waves back. He apologizes for being late. She smiles and asks him if he’d like a brownie – practice must have been hard. She likes that she doesn’t have to repeat herself. She likes that he says yes. And she likes that he sighs when he bites into the chocolate crust. She digs into her own treat. She’s content that regardless of how he felt about her, at that moment they both experienced the same thing.

Catching Dreams gianna tyahla 49

david pridmore

Spring Cleaning Elijah inhaled his last peace for the day, before nervously ashing his cigarette against the red maple he had propped himself up against. Before heading back to the church, he paused to take in his surroundings. Genesis had won again this year, for the winter had fully thawed and all that stood before Elijah was life. As he looked around at the perennials, making their annual return, he remembered a time before every plant had a name and a reason for existing. The light breeze carried avian hymns that made the air even warmer. It was the type of day to plant anything but your mother. Today hurt deeply because life was everything to Elijah. If Zach heard the wind knock over the garbage can, he merely heard the burden of having to pick it up. To Elijah, this was a conflict between man’s waste and nature’s retaliation against it. He’d sit in his room and muse over the wind’s passive-aggressive action, wondering which side of the campaign he wanted to be on. Zach would already be done cleaning up the mess before Elijah ever decided where to pledge his allegiance. He finally headed inside, readying himself for condolences and hugs from “friends” and “family” who felt like strangers. When he walked in, he and Zach immediately locked eyes. They drifted toward one another to check in. “How you doing man” Elijah spoke in a low comforting voice, a voice that made it easy to forget that this was also his mother’s funeral. He had the rare ability to lock in with the person standing before him and put them at ease. Elijah wasn’t as smart as his brother, but he had a presence that was as apparent in a room as the furniture that occupied it. Zach smiled and blinked hard enough to catch a tear that tried to escape his glossy eye. “You know I hate this kind of shit.” he whispered in a cracked voice that tried, but failed, to sound more upset at the social inconvenience of the day than the finality of the ceremony. “you holding up?”. Elijah pulled his suit jacked to the side, revealing a flask in his handkerchief pocket. He patted it twice, the way a proud owner might pat the head of his dog and threw a sideways wink at his brother. Zach tried to hold back his laughter, but Eli presenting his flask as though it was a rec soccer participation trophy was too much for his defenses. The laughter came out like a spitting faucet and the tears followed suit, he only realized he was crying when the saltwater caught the corner of his mouth. The tears proved productive, Zach regained his voice and composure when he asked, “Did you say goodbye to Mom yet?”. Elijah was hoping that no one would notice that he had been avoiding the casket since they had arrived. “It’s your last chance to see her Eli.”. Elijah nodded and began to work his way down the aisle, keeping his head low to avoid any sympathetic eye contact. The mortician had done his job. Elijah’s mother was smiling and looked mostly herself. He leaned over the casket to take one final look at the woman who had raised him. At first glance, she looked so lifelike, more put together than she ever looked after inheriting the job of raising two boys alone. He got closer to look at the woman who resembled the one who used to lull him to sleep. He closed his eyes and tried his best to hear her song, but it was gone. He tried to hear the words “Go to sleep my baby child” but it was his voice, not hers. He bent down to try and listen, believing for a moment that if he leaned in close enough, he may be able to hear the last bit 50

of song she had to offer him. Still silent; he opened his eyes. A closer look assured Elijah that his mother was gone. Unease shot through his spine when he saw the uneven lumps in her throat, where cotton balls had been jammed down her esophagus, to give the allusion that she could hold her own head up, they bulged through her thin, decaying skin. The paper skin that covered this taxidermy matriarch threatened to crack or cut at the lightest touch. Elijah forgot that he had leaned in to hear her song and realized that he was halfway in the coffin himself. That the woman who used to absently threaten him by saying “I brought you into this world and I can take you out” could pull him into the coffin and make good on her word if she could find the strength. He pulled his head out of the coffin, taking in a diver’s breathe, to make sure he did not drown in his delusion.

anthony berg

Intercom Poem When you feel useless next to those new machines, think of earlier workers whose big, swinging picks broke the rock of actual mountains faster than any automaton could. Think of the big stones carved out— the immortal sculptures of handsome John Henry in the lobby, who, daring to race his robotic replacement, instead of whining, actually won— whose statue is seen on the factory floor now, at intervals. Entertain it: a worker like yourself. Forget his name—remember only how he continues only ever harder in his pressing-on despite the threshing metal arms of automation splitting rocks beside him, threatening to swallow him up. Think of the muscular monolith, the man whose story always ends the same way— whose statue always shows him with the thresher, appearing, somehow, to work so closely together, and with such perfect complacency, that the two might not be competitors at all, but colleagues digging tunnels for the boss.

Exit 6B Good Morning The bland mustard of the Cheerios billboard stung my eyes like chlorine would from swimming too long in the public pool. No, it was not a good morning. Not. At. All. Mornings don’t normally start at 1am right as you’re closing up shop after a full night of inventory. They normally don’t start with a panicked phone call from your older brother rambling on about how it was an accident, the argument got out of hand, that he didn’t mean it, it was just a slip of his hand. But Joe never mentions what “it” was. You’re normally not speeding down tight suburban streets at 1:30 in the morning screaming your little brother’s name in hopes of hearing anything other than the echo of your own voice. Normally, you don’t corner him, terrified like a deer in the headlights, in the town nextdoor, wearing only the basketball shorts and old Yankees tee he used to sleep in; no shoes. They were probably still at home, where he normally was at 2am instead of outside on a random street in the middle of a misty fall night. The shrill screech of my voice still rang in my ears when I screamed for him to “get your ass in the car!” before the wheels of the Honda skidded on the damp pavement and I headed for the highway. I sounded like mom. All I wanted to do was yell every imaginable cliche at him. Charlie, what were you thinking? You’re more responsible than this. Why would you run away? You could’ve gotten hurt. Why didn’t you come to me? But the words caught in my throat, turning to something like thick peanut butter on a dog’s tongue when I saw his eyes, glazed over like two green marbles stuck in the grainy sand that was his skin, and he begged “please don’t take me back yet.” I’d never thought I would hear my little brother beg. Not an actual plea. If anything it would have been for me to lend him money to go to the movies or for me not to snitch on him for taking one of Joe’s beers without asking. Some innocent teenager mistakes any kid would beg you to do. Not beg for me to not go home. That was supposed to be our safe zone. It’s 2:27 now. Charlie’s still not looking at me, face pressed against the foggy passenger window. He’s got my Homegoods fleece on, the sleeves only going down to his lanky forearms, but still warming him up more than his thin ‘pajamas’. His reflection still had little balls of tears in the corners of his eyes, face foggy in the clouded glass, but his left cheek was still more red than his right, clearly not from the cold. I didn’t want to probe him though. It was ok. Route 18 was a long road and we weren’t going home until he was comfortable or I was out of gas. Still, 15 exits was a long time to go without any noise other than the gargle from the heat and the occasional bump from a pothole. Linkin Park wasn’t helping lighten the already dismal mood. But something stupid runs through my cluttered file cabinet of thoughts and my arm reaches to roll down all the windows, the gust of wind slapping us in the face. It didn’t help that the car was going 75, now 80, on an open highway, but that was the point. His confused gaze popped into the corner of my rear-view mirror. I stick my head out and scream. Not a panicked scream like something out of a Hitchcock film or a cliche monster movie. No, it was something more guttural and savage. More so like Braveheart when he uses the last breath in his lungs to push out his final cry for FREEEDOOMMMMM. But it’s cut off when I feel his cut palms against

my forearm, yanking me back in and swerving the car into the next lane in the process. I clip my head on the side of the window but pay it no mind, only giving it a slight tsk. I’ve got his attention. “Are you out of your fucking mind!?” he yells with a slap to my shoulder. “Maybe.” I rub the bump on the side of my temple. “That wasn’t funny!” His legs go back on the cloth seat but he’s facing forward now. I smirk. “Aren’t you going to ask why I did it?” A forced sigh passes his lips, “why’d you do it?”, his tone is sarcastic. “Dad used to do it with me when I got in fights with mom,” Silence falls over the car again, the clicking of the old engine heard clearly in the brief silence, “It’s funny. I used to look at him with the same face when he tried to get me to do it. He was right though. It works.” “What screaming out your problems?” “Yeap,” I make sure to pop the p, “won’t know until you try it.” We pass exit 6B, Coldplay switches to the Chilli Peppers, and he keeps glancing at the side of my face while we keep driving. It gets to the point where I can see his feet, or maybe his hands shake until finally he shoves his head out the side window and screams, voice cracking from the fast wind being shoved in his mouth. It’s long and high, more so a howl than a cry. If he were a cartoon his uvula would be the size of his head and would be screaming right along with him, like a knight charging off to battle. He’s out there for minutes before he reels himself in, face blood red and eyes on fire. Little puffs of angry breaths quickly turn into a soft giggle. And then he’s laughing, tears streaming down his face while his face contorts through so many expressions like his limbic system was on fire. “There ya go!” I give him a little chuckle to help lighten the mood. He lets go of a tight breath, wiping his face on his sleeve. “Feel better?” “Yeah,” he sniffles, “I probably look like a crackhead.” I smile. “I guess we’re just a pair of crackheads in a clown car.” He laughs, whether it was at the horrible joke or just the stress of the situation, it didn’t matter. I joined along, both of us chuckling to each other in the middle of the night on a Tuesday. Nothing mattered at the time. Just me and him and the little bout of happiness we found in a shitty moment, our noses scrunched while our eyes squinted from our ridiculous smiles. I don’t see the deer. Or the local paper the next morning the next morning, either. Joe does. The man who refused to read the news just so he wouldn’t be like dad bought a paper and kept it. It’s stored in a box in the bedroom closet, next to the issue about Mom and Dad’s crash. 2 Parents Dead After Multi-car Crash on Avenue A and JFK Blvd! And now we got our edition: Deer Accident Totals Car! 53

Made it on the front page, and with that comes a picture of the accident. Can’t blame the reporter though, it was an interesting picture: Mom’s old Honda with half a deer hanging through the windshield, hood smashed in and along with the bumper too. But if you look hard enough, in the upper left corner, you can see the blurry outline of Joe crushing Charlie and I in a bone-breaking hug.

- dominique perrotta

January 13th That day if our positions were switched would our fates be different. With me in the back of the ambulance Dead And you experiencing a whole different kind of death on the basement couch, Lips chapped from minutes of hanging wide, Eyes burning from confused tears of a story your mother still refuses to tell. All you need to know is I’m dead. No need to know about now staining the moss carpets of the bedroom or the clear crack in the doorframe from when it was torn off, policeman’s boot imprinted in the grain. Quiet your curiosities and just except that one gone. No need to answer the unanswered questions. I’m gone That’s all. But it’s not me.

I’m not the one haunting a crumbling household, the rooms forever dull even on a bright day I’m not the one cold in the back of an ambulance, my breath having left minutes before the defibrillator hit my empty chest. I’m not the coughing up blood in my locked bedroom, my why pounding on the cedar door with her terrified hands. I’m not the one forcing their daughter to lie to theirs, leaving this gaping hole in her heart over the grandfather plucked out of her life, Body cold, Hands shaking, Face soaked, Eyes burning, Throat closed, Mind wandering, Searching, Wondering ‘Did I kiss you before I left?’ ‘Did I properly say goodbye after we chatted’ ‘Did he know I loved him’ ‘Why does this hurt so bad!’

That was you.

- dominique perrotta

Last Sunday of September It starts with a smile my brother’s chapped lips pulling higher to show off the uncommon sight of his pearly whites while my fingers weave poorly pulled braids into his long mop each unraveling the farther I work my fingers “Too bad” he says glancing at me through the bathroom mirror “I bet I could have rocked it” The smile rises to a grin, wind whizzing past the open windows as “Don’t stop me now” blasts, the car bumping to the bass, our voices howling at every “I’m having a good time” like wolves howl at the moon, Yes, we see you little man in the Prius to our right Keep glaring; you’re not throwing off our groove. A grin leads to gut-wrenching laughter, my face frowning for the first few seconds of his amusement, But I join the contagious sound, ignoring the mocha puddle soaking through the white of my Chuck Taylors and the giggling tweens loitering on Wawa’s curb. It’s fine, it’s only a dollar latte. The shoes I can replace, the moment was irreplaceable. It ends with a frown. The day came to an end with the sun setting on the last Sunday of September. The twinkle in his hazel eyes fading, when we pull up the pebble driveway, blue suitcase clear through my rearview mirror; he knows the fun is over. My lips struggle to pull into a false grin as I open my arms. But he unbuckles his seatbelt. “I’ll try to come home next month” I bargain; he sees right through me.

- dominique perrotta 56

What My Grandma Tries to Tell Me I have a million things running through my head, Moving faster than I can write or type or read or write… Did I say that already? I’m sorry my memory is a little foggy, you know with that “little friend” up in my head But when I open my mouth my words just seem to evaporate like that, leaving me parched. Silent. Making me wonder… oh, dear, what was I saying again? Oh, they all sound so beautiful when they’re up there, like that scene in that Doris Day film, Or maybe it was Ingrid Bergman or the other one, The name escapes my mind. It sounds so much better up there, moving a mile a minute, but slipping through my fingers every time I struggle to catch them before they’re gone for good. I want, no beg, to write them down or tell someone. But then I open my mouth and it’s not the voice I remember. It’s not laced with power and cannot keep a city’s attention with a sentence. No, it is meek and scattered, a high-pitched whine that slips on its own tongue. Oh, It’s so much better up there, where I can run through marvelous plots and arguments and wonderful stories from a time before. But then my hands starts to cramp, and I again lose my grasp on that confident voice, the one that, in my head, sounds so PERFECT I want to scream. But my thoughts blur again from the rush and I stop.... Who are you?

- dominique perrotta

They say the one way To access your own brain Is by finding the key So you’ll go looking for it You’ll search in the cupboards that have become closets to broken china dreams and mismatched spoon-fuls of sugar But find nothing there

valentina zapata

Who Holds The Key

You’ll turn your bedroom Into the sight of a hurricane Ravaging it to an island of ruins In which they will go and search for survivors But no one will turn up You’ll dig up the earth From which you were reborn And turn your nails into red crescent moons Hoping the bones you grasp will turn to brass But yet nothing will appear And it’ll drive you crazy So you’ll put yourself in therapy And start speaking Freudian Thinking maybe you placed it In the landfill of your mind by mistake But it won’t be there

And she’ll ask you why you need it, And you’ll talk about how the smell of Axe spray makes you cry and the thought of being touched makes you vomit And the idea of not knowing why makes you want to scream So you will go looking for the key. And when you go looking for it In a tin of loose threads or A cup blackened with soot It will hit you that maybe you always meant For it to be misplaced. 58

anonymous

The Swollen Mornings

the swollen mornings begin with swollen nights, sane evenings that imperceptibly change (not as the conversations change but as time passes) the delirious hours, always three or more sometimes five, the last time was five and a half all of us, talking to our own men, in our own rooms on our own phones.

my mother cries OUT I WANT OUT in her heart & in her blood & in her cells but what she says to him is: Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m sorry nestled in her wide and empty bed, wrapped in soft blankets murmuring into the receiver my sister cries to her best friend, scaring him with her rawness, telling him about the boy (not man) who stole her body one night, her voice and her skin now trying to regrow a warmth it can no longer find. and I am crying too, my eyelids at work, muscles generating the river that flows in and on and out of all of us I am talking to my man, trying to remember his sweetness, and superimposing that image onto the silence, hoping this is enough. my grandmother, withered but alive, is the only one without swollen mornings, her man (men) are dead. She sits on the couch in the basement and eats there and sleeps there, watching the television gesticulate. but sometimes she hears the crying, the tears dripping down the walls, down through floorboards to her ceiling. her eyes well up, glazing red and she says, to one of us or all of us or to God, nothing. 59

lysa legros

a divine suicide the world ends on a tuesday. god examines his calendar, his script of stars and moons set in patterns that only he can understand and ponders his plans, his art – this thing man calls “life.” he was careful when he created the world to leave room for surprises, free will, souls and personality, the quirks of a work allowed to breathe; for the beauty of a piece lies in its unexpected dimensions, the curl a pen leaves in the wake of a wrist’s involuntary twitch. but there are beautiful accidents and there are mistakes, and his world, his art, is collapsing in on itself. there is a dull cacophony of prayers set to the key of angels’ banging on his office door. he decides the world ends tomorrow. and so, it will. he tears the calendar apart, planets collide and combust, chemicals mix and dissolve, until there is nothing but galactic dust. and so, it does. (callouses burst, his hands covered in red ichor and scarlet plasma) and so, rests the tattered remains of a tuesday long gone, drowned by the armageddon’s harsh winter and swallowed by the apocalypse’s fire and brimstone. the once tuesday is a dark, charred pit of sludge and ash. (a laugh is chopped into wet coughs) a blackened feather drifts past. there’s no sun, no moon, no stars. (no …?) just a cradle of dark and wet, and the understanding as the caliginous tide that spears him from within meets the murky beyond, that he is trapped in the fatal womb of his own corpse. (and so, it did.)

Odd Exoplanet anthony berg 61

lysa legros

the birth of narcissist every now and then, strips of my soul will pull loose from my knotted spine – i. when I was five, my cousins came over to visit. mom offered them my new sketchbook. i had it for weeks and had never used it. boy cousin crafted autumn airplanes, girl cousin made cinderella’s dress a cotton-candy billow. the first chance i had i snatched what was left of my book. dad was always nice to me, but that day, he told me i was spoiled. it’s funny how i only care about my things when other people want them. (i don’t remember what i did with the scraps.) ii. an english major – i tear into myself – i cut through layers of skin iron plasma

scatters

across the page pulpy redness, fatty yellows cling to a bronze tip nestled between layers of bone, I find the and carefully laid across a page.

that is soon s h r e d d ed

art

in another room my mom lies on her bed. her feet hurt â&#x20AC;&#x201C; the souls are glossy and amber with sores actors mime to the tune of a laugh track. i reread the lines of dripping cursive i keep taking and taking and taking

without giving back.

this cold womb draws tight around me. (i think i know now why mom never bought me the yogurt i wanted) â&#x20AC;&#x201C;my spirit continues to ooze out, over shaking ink-stained hands onto blue carpeted floors.

rebecca webb

The Pit I am aware of what you think of me. Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m some girl who lost control.

A car in the heavy snow,

A rollercoaster that spun too fast,

A wall broken by small cracks.

But

I am not some girl. I am anything but what you want me to be. Standards. Standards. Standards. They were never meant for me. I never lost myself in the pit of your hatred. That pit is what destroys you. You are stuck there, stuck in chronic hostility. I feel sorry you think so lowly of yourself. You let self-hatred drive your emotions towards others. everything I love about myself, -Cracks-Scars-Bruises-Illnesseswas once an opportunity for self-hatred. I had to climb out of my pit. It wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t easy.

I’m more than just some girl. . . . I am aware of what you think of me, And yet I choose to live like the only opinion that matters is my own.

rebecca webb

Forgetting Wasteful thinking: Spilled over the edges, the words try to make their way to a better place It doesn’t have a place here. The attempts to make our worlds collide only ruin you

It isn’t worth it.

Let go of the waste Don’t let your mind become ensnared by poetic thoughts It will not make up for the destruction Your beautiful words now came from the same mouth that caused destruction then

It is a waste.

You have forgotten. Once you speak, the words are engraved in time Wasteful thinking is forgetting.

cameron foster

Little World // No More It was a place of solace, of harmony. A place where all the happy endings could live out their afters. A place where you could dream and explore, feel protected and loved. It was simply our LITTLE WORLD The younger years were the best. The World fully alive, vibrant. Warm, cloaked in a metaphysical fabric. I was never alone, you were always there by my side, assuring me that whatever harm may come will go away if I cross over into the World. I never thought I could be told NO when weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re inside, but then the other one came along. I was kicked out. Exiled. I was not allowed back in as my place was filled. Stolen. How could you cast me out like that? I thought you loved me as I have loved you. The answer is clearly no. And as my love for you ends, our World dies, crumbles, vanishes into nothing MORE than a husk. Goodbye, little World. Goodbye sanctuary. And goodbye to you.

angie tamayo

Unlucky Few Note: It feels like I’m never going to get “there” There noun 1. a place of security 2. a fictional place of success 3. one word meaning “I made it” 4. the place of privilege 5. a time of luck 6. the end goal; what it’s all been for error 7. an unreachable place because “there” is always moving and it was never meant to be achieved by someone like me “There” is a house. Not a shitty apartment. It’s a car or at least a driver’s license. Its not wondering how to pay bills at fourteen. It’s protection from ICE. It’s blending into a community. It’s not being screamed at “build the wall” “alien” “illegal immigrant” “undocumented” all just different forms of saying I don’t belong here. So where do i go? Where is my “there”? It’s a place we left everything behind for, but it doesn’t exist. It’s unreachable. One is only born into “there”. We are the unlucky few who weren’t.

rebecca webb

Trip to Nowhere I sat at my desk making a list of things I wanted to do The clicking noise of my pen penetrated my brain, Like a sharp claw scraping against rock solid cement I could only hear little noises because of the stillness Outside where the streets were empty, The asphalt darker because no cars had touched it in weeks I stopped making my list so I could take a walk and In my front lawn I saw a woman run at the sight of me She must have saw; I had no mask on I didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t need one for my lonesome walk, I had faith in that Some people thought I was crazy, Insisting on staying six feet away I was in no way trying to socialize If distancing was required, I was going to listen Some people just got scared too quickly I headed back to my house, Cramped in a tiny room with just two windows, The half blank page still in the same position As I lowered my body to sit, I caught the glimpse Of a few dark clouds through the window I let out a sigh, one of anguish I knew from that moment distancing would be Longer than I thought. I felt the world growing Darker and I tried to forget for a minute I directed my attention back to my list The new normal was living day by day, Writing the things I wished to accomplish No sense in wasting the time God has given No sense in worrying about this trip to nowhere Nowhere is better than you think

“When the sun shines, everything glows” rebecca webb

the last look

Dear Reader,

a note from the issue editor

In my second (and last) semester as issue editor, I never thought we'd been in this situation. Putting up an online magazine so you all can see TCNJ's best literary and artistic talent, on your laptop screen, stuck at home. Evicted from our dorms early, and, for some of us, trying to finish our last year of college online... it all feels like a strange dream. In spite of the obstacles, the Lion's Eye staff has pulled through, holding our critiques online, and getting reinstated as a club this semester. Earlier, we were worried if people would still submit. But,we received so many submissions, a flood of truly phenomenal work, that I'm happy to say this magazine is the longest we've had in years. To the staff, thank you for your dedication to this club, for sticking with us, and making sure we didn't give up on what we started. Thanks to Angie, Caroline, Cameron, and Gianna, who showed up to our glitchy Google meets every Wednesday. Thanks to Filip, whose organization I rely on, and who always treated me as a friend. Thanks to Destiny, who never let this change of setting affect her passionate work in this club. And finally, thanks to Jamie, for keeping us all together, for her patience, and for her kindness, finally making it through college and choosing to spend her last days of school working on this little magazine with us. To the writers, I want to say thank you, for taking artistic risks, for your razor-sharp language, and your origionality. When club after club stopped meeting, events ceased, and college felt canceled, you made this magazine happen. As I handled each piece, I keep seeing a recurring theme in so many of them: grief. During such morbid circumstances, I can't be surprised. When I read these pieces, I see a student body that is coping through words, trying to make sense of our situation, and doing that through every paragraph, every verse. And it's this, the very act of writing, of creating, that is one constant solace in a sea of uncertainty. Sitting at home in my bedroom, I too find that I'm writing again. Sometimes, I'm transporting myself to another time, another place, with different circumstances. Sometimes, I can find the courage to write about our world right now. This is a magazine that will go down in Lion's Eye history. But not because of the problems we had to overcome, collectively as a community of artists. But because of the writing we created, in spite of it. Stay safe, and always keep writing, painting, drawing, photographing, and keep imagining,

Jessica Shek, Issue Editor 70

ABOUT US ::

The Lion’s Eye is published biannually by the students of The College of New Jersey with funding from the Student Finance Board. The magazine provides an outlet for creative expression, publishing student short fiction, poetry, prose, photography, illustrations, graphic art, and more. To learn more about The Lion’s Eye visit our Facebook page, TCNJ Lion’s Eye Literary Magazine. The Lion’s Eye is co-sponsored by the Alpha Epsilon Alpha chapter of Sigma Tau Delta, the National English Honor Society, at The College of New Jersey.

SUBMISSIONS ::

Although the deadline for our next issue has not yet been decided, submissions are currently being accepted. Please send all submissions via e-mail to tcnjlionseye@gmail.com.

PRINTER ::

Bill’s Printing Service - 2829 South Broad Street - Trenton, NJ - 08610

Please kindly pass this magazine on or recycle it.