Re:Visions 2024

RE:VISIONS 21ST EDITION

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RE:VISIONS

21ST EDITION - RE:SONANCE

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RE:VISIONS Spring 2024

Editorial Team: Claire McKenna, Allison Srp, Bella Pawloski, Felicity Wong, Katie Clem, and Camila Salinas Design Team: José González and Gwyneth Lannon Marketing Team: Molly O’Toole and Lily Barth Graduate Liaison: Sachie Weber Cover Artwork: “Banana Holder,” CJ Rodgers John Huebl named Re:Visions in 1986.

Re:Visions, New Series began in 2002.

This is Re:Visions, New Series 17, Re:Sonance.

This representative collection of writing by Notre Dame students is published through the Creative Writing Program in the Department of English. Each year, a new editorial board of students solicits and selects manuscripts, and oversees the production of the journal in order to encourage creativity and recognize student writing of notable quality.

Copyright 2024 by Re:Visions.

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LETTERS FROM THE TEAMS: Editorial: Dear wonderful readers and contributors, we would like to extend our deepest gratitude for choosing to read Re:Sonance, our 21st edition. Whether you eagerly waited for this book to be published or found this copy around campus, we would like to let you know that you are the reason why Re:Visions gets to push on every year. Our editors worked diligently to bring you this publication and we are proud of everything that has gone in it. From all the artists to the writers we hope you enjoy all 4 movements within Re:Sonance that are meant to unionize and bring forward a vibrating connection from the page to you! A new school year is upon us and we aspire that this little book of art from fellow peers will bring you joy like it brought us when reading! Thank you again for reading Re:Sonance and we express our appreciation for those who submitted their writing and art to be seen by the world.

Design: We extend our deepest gratitude to you, our cherished readers, and contributors. We must also give our heartfelt thanks to the entire Re:Visions team for rallying amidst tight deadlines. Despite constraints, we’re bursting with pride at this 21st edition in your hands– it’s a testament to our enthusiasm for student art under the dome. We embarked on a lovely journey within Re:Sonance,connecting the dots between submissions, and weaving common themes into these four movements. Your support fuels our passion for creativity and art itself.

Marketing: We are so grateful for the support from the rest of the Re:Visions team and our coordinator Sachie Weber. Through physical flyers and social media promotion, we were able to draw in a large number of submissions from the creative and talented Notre Dame community. The enthusiasm and participation have been incredible to witness, and we are so proud of the Editorial and Design teams for their hard work in meeting deadlines and creating a wonderful 21st edition of Re:Visions. We sincerely hope you enjoy it, and thank you so much for supporting creative writing at Notre Dame.

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TABLE OF CONTENTS Movement I The deficit of grief

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Ari Bond

Habitat

Shane Stanton

Box of Her Meg Beuter

Old Pine Tucked Away Behind the Trader Joe’s on N Eddy Street

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Some Might Call It an Act of God (Or An Ode to My Roommate)

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Garden of Nede

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Shane Stanton

E. E. Sullivan Annie Brown

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Movement II Ode to Armor

Victoria Dominesey

S Ware Rd (I Know) José González

There’s shame in the steam

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Scene at the river on the day we are born

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Unsterblichkeit

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Clare Barloon

At the Show Meg Beuter

Clare Barloon

Will Dwortz

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Movement III Diwali Lights and Predestined Plights Eshaanika Raje

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Point Reyes National Seashore Bildungrsoman 58 Jenkin Benson

Baptism

Clare Barloon

Jan. 7

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A Statement by the Autumn Leaf

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It Doesn’t Snow in Indiana Anymore

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Lanterns

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Molly O’Toole

Clare Barloon

Jenkin Benson

Priscilla Angkasa

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Movement IV Repairs

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Eau de parfum: mémoire en bouteille

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The Nuclear Horizon

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Daniel Lucke

Grace Haak

Pierce Hand

where you begin, where I end

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Babies on Trains

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Artwork

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Contributors

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Believe Chakenya

Shane Stanton

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MOVEMENT I

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The deficit of grief

by Ari Bond

It had been two weeks since my grandmother passed, and I’d finally worked up the energy to get out of bed. The beginning of the summer was characterized by an endless stream of blue skies and happy days. Jay and I bought our first house, close to where we both were going to college. My high school sweetheart transformed into the love of my life. I was a giddy and naive twenty-one year old. Everything was easy. Everything seemed right. I got too comfortable- too used to waking up with a fat smile on my face every morning next to the kindest person I know. And then, within seconds, it felt like my entire world crumbled, worse than thedevastation of any natural disaster imaginable.

Two nights before our flight to Chicago, Jay and I got into a pretty big argument. I was pacing around the house throwing random essential objects into my suitcase, and amidst the chaos, all I remember hearing was a faint voice in the background among the cloudiness of all of my thoughts. I felt some sort of derealization - my conscious mind being separated from the unconscious actions and movements of my body.

“Caroline...Caroline...CAROLINE!” “For fuck’s sake Jay?! What?! What the fuck do you want?!”

“Can you stop fucking pacing for two seconds and just listen to me?!”

“To be honest Jay, no. No, I really don’t have time to hear wha ever meaningless bullshit you’re going to try to say right now. I told you I needed my space. I told you I needed to do things my way. I gave you an out, Jay. You know how I handle news like this. I gave you the opportunity to leave...” I was doing laps around the kitchen. I refused to make eye contact with him. Then, within seconds, his large hands grabbed my shoulders. I violently shook my body to get loose. The constraint made me feel enraged. Moments passed, and I eventually became tired. My muscles loosened within his grasp.

“I just want you to let me in,” he whispers, “ I know I can’t stop you from doing whatever you want to do, grieving however

11 you want to grieve... I just want to be there for you. Let me be there for you.” His hands were still at my sides. I wasn’t looking at him. I couldn’t look at him.

“Please let me go.”

His hands fell back below his sides. Without shifting my gaze, I walked towards the bedroom. I decided I would pack the following morning.

I finally looked up and turned towards him, “We have a flight at 8AM in two days.” He nodded, and I shut the door.

The next day, I dragged myself to the kitchen to find Jay sitting at the table with a cup of coffee and a colorful stack of post-it notes, pens, and the mini journals we kept at our desk for planning. It was clear he was making arrangements of some sort. He whipped his head around, and greeted me with a smile. My eyes met his, and feeling myself on the verge of tears, I quickly glanced away.

“We have to go,” I demanded, regaining my composure.

“I know Caroline,” Jay replied. “I booked us on a flight to Chicago tomorrow.”

Frazzled, I threw about a few days worth of clothes into a duffle bag, along with some other essentials. Reaching for some pairs of socks, my eyes were drawn to the picture frame resting on my dresser of my grandmother and I. Her fluffy brown hair tinted with gray floated just above her thin gold cross necklace. She was wearing the most stunning Persian green dress for mass that Sunday morning. I remember how beautiful the church looked with the sun illuminating through the windows. I put my head down and continued packing.

The 2-hour flight from San Francisco was dangerous. It was 2 hours where my mind was free from distraction, and as a result, I was naturally susceptible to intrusive thoughts. I glanced out the window to observe the careless nature of the light fluffy clouds, and I was taken back to the summer days of my childhood.

After the flight, we turned into my old neighborhood on the outskirts of the city. It was as if I had never left. The perfectly manicured lawns still lined the streets. All the children were outside playing,

12 and suddenly, I was their age again, and I heard my grandmother’s voice coming from the porch calling me to come in for dinner. I rushed to the house. The sun beamed, casting rays on the sofa she used to sit on in the evening, and there wasn’t a cloud in sight. The leaves blew from the trees as the sweet smell of summer filled the air.

“Caroline’s here!!”

My youthful cousins jumped into my arms, pulling me out of my reverie. It took me a minute to settle my nerves. I smiled and hugged them all.

“Ow!” “Oops - sorry guys. I just missed you all so much!” I said, speaking in the most animated voice I could muster.

My cousins’ smiles filled their entire faces. I wondered if they knew that Grandma had passed.

“Where is your mom?” If my cousins were there, then my Aunt Claire must’ve been around somewhere.

“She’s helping set up for lunch. Can we go back and play now? Pleeease?”

“Yeah, sure.”

I made my way into the kitchen. I saw Aunt Claire bringing out a big bowl of pasta salad. She wore a light pink sundress, and she had her hair in a small braid. There was a pair of glossy brown sunglasses on her head. She swiftly traveled through the kitchen, seeming conflicted and slightly panicked. It looked like she had a lot on her mind.

I observed her silently for a moment, and then I asked, “Need some help?”

Aunt Claire abruptly turned towards me. Tears began to fill her eyes. She grinned softly, crossed towards the other side of the kitchen, and hugged me.

“How are you?” she asked.

I went in for another hug. It felt good to be embraced by someone who was feeling what I was feeling - unbalanced. “Where is everyone?” I asked. A few weeks ago, the family - Me, Jay, my mom, Aunt Claire, Uncle Kris, and Elise - planned to get together for lunch at

13 Grandma’s. We thought it would be a good idea to see each other.

“I have a feeling that they’re not coming.”

Her words caused my heart to sink. I was furious. Devastated. How could they not be here? After everything she’s done for us... After everything she’s been through... My thoughts were interrupted by Aunt Claire’s consoling words.

“It’s just too hard, Caroline. Grandma was the glue that held this family together. It’s too painful for everyone to be here without her.”

“How about the spreading of her ashes? She would want everyone there.”

Aunt Claire seemed distraught at the question. “I’m sorry Caroline. I really don’t know.” She quickly changed the subject, “How about Jay? Where is he?”

“Jay went to pick up some stuff I forgot to grab from the house.”

There was a moment of silence before I abruptly left the kitchen. “I need to go for a walk. Be back soon.”

“Caroline...” I was already out of the door.

“It’s ridiculous. I won’t stand it. I will pay for every single flight and make every single drive out there to round up all of the people who were so self obsessed they couldn’t think to show up.”

I probably sounded like I had gone mad. I don’t even want to know what the neighbors thought as I screamed profusely at myself in public. It didn’t matter at the moment. I was on a mission. “I am going to bring this family back together,” I said to none in particular.

I wanted to get in the car right away and drive, but I quickly realized that Jay still had the car. So, I began walking around the neighborhood and before I realized what was happening, I was retracing the walks I had gone on with my grandmother and found myself late into the night on the shores of Lake Michigan...

It was a chilly afternoon, but we found ourselves enchanted by the stillness of the water and the clouds dancing in the sky. We had forced ourselves out of the house, and made the drive up to Michigan Avenue to walk along the beach. We stopped at a Dunkin Donuts for

14 breakfast and coffee, and I couldn’t help but giggle at her directness with the cashier. She was not rude by any means. But friendly would not be the first word to come to mind when describing her interactions with public service workers.

“Hello Ma’am.”

“Hi. I’ll have a coffee. Black. With cream and sugar.”

“Okay amazing. What size?”

“Medium.”

“Awesome. Anything else?”

“Yeah. Hold on. Caroline what do you want?”

We always joked about how she wasn’t a “people person.” Her directness and lack of social skills were difficult to observe when out in public. Looking back, it made me love her even more. She was sure of who she was and she didn’t have to prove it to anyone.

Jay and I left Grandma’s house the next day to start our voyage to Uncle Kris’s house. It was only an hour away. I didn’t have a strategy or plan as to what I was going to say, or how I was going to get him to leave. I didn’t want to appear bitchy or stuck-up or like some irrational and emotional twenty-one year-old who thinks she knows better than anyone and everyone about everything.

Jay must have noticed my uneasiness because he turned and asked, “Is everything okay?”

I turned to face him. He always seemed grounded and level-headed. I hated that I was such an emotional mess in front of him.

One minute, I was crying, the next I was numb and silent.

“Caroline…I said are you okay?”

“Sorry - yeah. I mean … I don’t know… I’m sorry.”

“Sorry for what?”

“You don’t deserve this. This is my mess. My family. You have been nothing but wonderful and understanding, and I have done everything to drive you away.” He looked at me, sighed, and looked back at the road.

With that, the car ride went silent. Eyelids heavy, I let myself fall asleep for the remainder of the trip.

My body somehow intuitively recognized the swervy nature

15 of the roads leading up to my Uncle Kris’s neighborhood. I shifted from the window of the passenger seat, and my eyes peeled open to the sights of mansion-like houses and long stretches of lawns. Feeling an ounce less sleep-deprived, I turned to look at Jay. His gaze was on the navigation system propped on the dashboard.

“We’re turning in now,” Jay calmly stated. “Okay.”

Eventually, our SUV pulled up to the side of the driveway occupied by a plethora of fancy looking cars and minivans.

I gritted my teeth, “There’s no way he’s having a party right now…”

I practically flew out of the front seat and whipped the seat belt to the side of the car. My body was working faster than my mind, but before I could get my hand to reach the car handle, I felt the soft, but firm sensation of another hand on my arm.

“Caroline, please, let’s just take a breath. You have gone through a lot in these past couple of weeks. It’s okay to just take a moment and stop.”

I was initially irritated by Jay’s request, but I owed him my patience. I took a couple of deep breaths and composed myself. I was fighting the urge to pound on the door and scream.

“Okay,” I whispered.

Jay parked the SUV a couple houses away from my uncle’s house.

“She meant a lot to me too, you know,” Jay said after a moment of silence.

“I know,” I whispered. “She loved you so much,” “You are… you are a part of this family. She loved having you around. Every Thanksgiving, she would say, ‘Okay, but what would Jay like me to make?’ or ‘What football game would Jay like to watch?’ And for Christmas… she loved shopping for you. She got so excited about the watch she found for you. Of course she asked for my opinion, but it was really…all her.”

Jay turned towards me, “I miss her.”

I placed my head on Jay’s chest, and I closed my eyes. I listened to his heartbeat, and felt his stomach rise and fall to the pattern of

16 his breaths. His hands stroked the side of my arm, and both of his arms wrapped around mine. I was encapsulated in his body. Eventually, both of our eyes closed and the day passed away.

We were abruptly awoken by the pellet-sized raindrops that began to crash onto the roof of the car. The wind forced the trees to bend 45 degrees. I jumped from within the warm embrace of Jay’s arms, and let out an unsettling yelp as I heard the harsh sounds of the wind along with a loud thump on my window.

“It’s getting pretty bad,” Jay said. “We should either go inside, or find a hotel to sleep at.” I didn’t want to make Jay drive around in this storm.

“Let’s go inside.”

The aggressiveness of the wind picked up, and I was almost too frightened to open my door. I looked up at Jay, and we both nodded.

I shimmied over back to my side of the car, and we both bolted out of the vehicle. Jay and I sprinted towards the front door of Uncle Kris’s house, and I rang the doorbell. The party had died down relatively quickly. The driveway was empty except for their light green minivan.

I called my uncle a few times, but it went straight to voicemail.

Then without a moment’s notice, a petite woman with short blonde hair opened the door. “Hi Elise.”

She rubbed her eyes, and I could tell the image of me was finally settling in. “Oh my gosh, Caroline. Please, come in.”

After an initial moment of awkward silence, Elise and I exchanged a warm embrace. I could feel the weight of all that she had been holding in her chest. She released herself into my cold and damp exterior.

Elise pulled away. “What are you guys doing out here so late?

And out in this storm?”

Jay and I looked at each other. “It’s been a long night,” I added.

“Come on in. I’ll make some coffee and then make up the guest room for you guys. There is no way you are going back out in this storm. We’ll talk in the morning.”

17 Morning came, and Jay and I watched some TV as we waited for Elise and Uncle Kris to wake up. Eventually Elise came down, but my Uncle Kris was nowhere to be found.

“I tried to get him to come downstairs. I really tried… These past couple of weeks he’s barely been in bed when I’ve woken up.”

“Elise, it’s really o-” “And then out of nowhere he just decided that he wanted to have a party. I didn’t know how to stop him. I think he was just trying to find a way to distract himself - ” Elise was choked up and shaken. I could barely make out what she was trying to say.

Jay walked over to her and gave her a hug. She put her head in his chest, and dampened his navy blue t-shirt. I walked over to the bathroom to grab some tissues and to the kitchen for a glass of water. I rubbed her back, and I turned to give her a hug as well.

She lifted her head from my shoulder, “I’m not sure when he’ll be ready… you know… to see everyone.”

“That’s okay,” I assured. “He knows we stopped by. He knows we’re here for him - for both of you.”

We said goodbye to Elise, and Jay and I returned to grandma’s house to speak to Aunt Claire. Arrangements still needed to be made for the funeral, and I didn’t want my Aunt Claire doing it all herself. Jay and I were ready to help. We returned to San Francisco a day after Aunt Claire left Grandma’s, and went back home.

Jay and I were watching a movie on the couch, when suddenly, the knob on the door began to turn. In front of me, were the remains of a woman who looked like she had just been through hell and back.

Hair disheveled. Mascara running. Sweat perspiring in the crevices of her forehead. I got up from my chair, and sunk myself into her. I felt all of the warmth, sadness, and heaviness in her heart all at once. I never felt so relieved to see someone in my life.

My mom doesn’t live in San Francisco, she lives in Evanston, which is about 45 minutes from Grandma’s. She had some things to figure out at work, and she stopped at my grandma’s house before coming here to California. My mom went through Grandma’s house and spent some time with my Aunt Claire to decipher the will.

18 After seeing her, my body loosened, and all of the tightness in my chest dissolved. I let out an exasperated sigh.

“No one was there,” I suddenly claimed.

My mother replied, “I talked to Aunt Claire and Elise. I’m sorry. That all must have been very hard for you.” Her tone was calm and direct, but also sincere.

I was choking on my breath, “It was impossible.”

I went in for another hug, darkening the color of my mother’s navy hoodie with my tears.

“I saw Elise, but not Kris,” I mumbled.

“Kris is taking this extra hard. I spoke to him, and he seems to be doing a lot better.” The reassurance felt nice. I missed Kris, and I wished he didn’t have to feel alone.

My mom, Jay, and I stayed up until 3AM that night discussing the course of action for the next couple of weeks. We decided that we were going to meet a month from today to spread her ashes onto my great grandparents’ grave.

The morning of the funeral arrived with the intrusive sunlight that forced its way into our bedroom window. The birds appeared to be extra talkative that morning, and the cool but slightly humid August breeze squeezed its way through the screen of our window, inviting us to take on what seemed to be an impossible day. It seemed impossible, but yet I was ready; well, as ready as I could have ever been. I made my way to the living room, where I came to find a neatly made couch with the blanket folded up from the night before. My mom was in the kitchen making us omelets and toast (Grandma’s favorite). We planned to leave at 9:30 to arrive at the cemetery at around 11:00. I put on my grandma’s gold cross necklace, and a light green flowy dress with white birkenstock sandals. Jay wore a green collared shirt with light blue jeans and the watch she had gotten him for Christmas. My mom wore a forest green blouse with a white skirt. We got into the car, and Jay put on an oldies playlist for us to listen to on the way there.

Upon arriving at the cemetery, I saw my cousins and Aunt Claire, looking off into the distance.

“I wonder if she told them,” I inquired.

19 My mom replied, “I think she did yesterday.”

We made our way to where my aunt and my cousins were standing. There were no words, just hugs. We sat in the presence of one another for what seemed to be like hours. My cousins, with permanent frowns, had their heads down and were staring at the grass. My aunt had her arms around them, while she calmly looked into the distance.

My mom had held my left hand, while Jay held my right. Eventually, we decided to talk, but it was only to say that we would give Uncle Kris and Elise 30 more minutes to make an appearance, or else we would go on with the ceremony without them.

25 minutes had passed, and my mother pulled the urn out of the box. Suddenly, the silence was disrupted by the sounds of a vehicle nearby. We turned and saw the light green minivan circle around.

“That’s them,” I said.

Uncle Kris stepped outside of the car, holding Elise’s hand.

We watched them cross the firm wet grass to the spot we were standing at. My uncle brushed against my shoulder, and I let my head rest at his side. We all looked at each other, let out a deep breath, and watched the ashes descend towards the earth.

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Habitat

by Shane Stanton Yes, the snow is a white blanket.

But with age, this land’s pure mask grows gray from exhaust.

Dead hickories are doing their best telephone pole impressions and chickadees build their nests in cell towers because grid infrastructure has outpaced land conservation.

You can’t listen to the news anymore.

And the deer stop beside Beware Deer Crossing signs and wait for a break in the cascade of salt-kissed SUVs across fragrant double yellow lines.

You don’t see your place in the family of things.

And back roads driveways are all clear by now except for the resolute icy bit at the bottom that won’t leave until April.

You recall stubborn memories.

And a rabid red fox killed the four chickens next door, and the fox was killed by the greyhound two doors down and the greyhound had to be put down by the vet across the street.

You sink into the world’s absurd corners.

21 Home becomes habit and you notice, rather, offer your attention to the same things each winter.

But, from the front porch window, the neighborhood kids pour into the street and step over the exhaust-stained snow banks to leave their mark on this white blanket.

You want to live where they do and notice what they do not yet know and make your presence felt by the habitat you call home.

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Box of Her

by Meg Beuter

I had never seen father grieve but he shudders, now, at the vacant window as he pulls into the driveway – the tennis ball lolls at him and rolls in idle circles on the stoop. he wheezes, now, at the invented noise of nails in his ear – clip-tick – always too sharp, too long, said mother, we’ll need to sand the floorboards. in his eye, an epiphany of scrapes and shadows catch the souring light. he grimaces, now, at the grime and goop of the sacred snot – evidence of the body marked on every windowsill, soul smeared in

23 an untouchable mess. he weeps, now, at the tall red box of her atop the coffee table – some (in) conspicuous decor – yet he cannot scrub his brain clean, still runs the bath in his dreams.

I suppose love for an animal can melt the wax around a hardened heart.

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Old Pine Tucked Away Behind the Trader Joe’s on N Eddy Street after Robert Bly’s What Things Want,

by Shane Stanton

Your few ambitious limbs that cling to the roof Are the coverlet of where we slept the year away.

The landlord said he’d send someone to trim you, And that your care for us was a “potential hazard.”

Maybe your love language is just physical touch.

We told the landlord, “No, Who knows which of us Deserves it more,” Our hands intertwined.

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Some Might Call It an Act of God (Or an Ode to My Roommate)

by E. E. Sullivan

It turns out that sometimes The best things start with canceled plans.

And a mix up at a dorm event, With wandering around at a tailgate, And cold cans changing hands, With some random mom forcing food onto your plate.

And hockey games and music videos, With giggles that keep your hallway awake.

Sometimes they include peeling paint and a clogged sink, And exactly 100 Star Wars postcards, Three fake plants, two futons, and tons of chocolate pretzels, But only one light-up green dinosaur light.

Sometimes they come in scarves turned into going-out shirts, In clutching hands as you watch Yuzuru Hanyu trip and fall, In tears out in the cold because somehow, someway, You have hit rock bottom.

But they are always the hands that help you up, And the shoulder that you cry on.

They are safety in four walls, And forever in a smile.

Sometimes the best things are not big Or flashy or loud or momentous.

Sometimes they are the family that you find, The family that you create, And sometimes they sneak into your life In the shape of your roommate.

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Garden of Nede

by Annie Brown

My mother found me as a chestnut dangling from a tree and plucked me for a summer salad.

In the kitchen she got the grater and I knew I would be consumed forever.

Now, though, I sit back in the back garden plate untaken dinner remnant home again.

The moon is out the party has gone and here I am.

Half-eaten vestiges of my family’s feast.

It is July, and it is warm.

I can see my tree from here.

I can see the garden the marigolds.

Tomorrow I will be the sparrow’s breakfast.

But it is July, and it is warm.

The moon is out and I sit in the back garden still alive.

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MOVEMENT II

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Ode to Armor

By Victoria Dominesey Delilah was ten years old when she first noticed the body parts growing in her closet. At first, she was concerned that her teenage brother, Jack, was making yet another attempt to involve her in his antics. He and his friends had an affinity for stealing any and everything they could get their grubby hands on, stashing their treasures in Delilah’s room to avoid the unwarranted searches of their parents.

A pair of bronze lips rested on her stained carpet, almost unnoticeable among the rubble of Barbie dolls, small wedge sandals, and Halloween costumes. They looked just like the kind of thing the boys would’ve chipped off a museum statue during their recent field trip.

But, when Delilah asked Jack about it, he informed her he’d played hooky that day. The only lips he had been concerned with were of whoever came before him in the blunt rotation.

“Maybe they came off one of those demented dolls you like to collect,” Jack snickered. But Delilah did not like demented dolls. No, she liked American Girl Dolls. And her collection of those sat proudly on a shelf above her twin-sized bed and most certainly did not have unattachable lips.

She resolved to store the bronze lips in the heel of one of her tennis shoes. Surely, there was the potential that Jack had lied, and they might be worth something to the pawn shop down the road. However, after a few weeks passed, Delilah completely put the lips out of her mind. It wasn’t until she turned thirteen and discovered another body part in her closet that she recalled their existence.

On the evening of her seventh-grade semi-formal, Delilah’s mother granted her permission to wear makeup for the first time. She sat in hushed anticipation at her mom’s vanity, the grin on her face growing wider each time a new product was added. They opted for a golden eyeshadow to complement the ribbon adorning her dress’s waist. Delilah reveled in the experience. She had witnessed her mother painting

31 her face with various pencils and powders and creams almost every morning of her life, and now, she was thrilled to be pretty, too.

“I remember my middle school dance like it was yesterday,” her mom reminisced, pressing a fluffy brush into a soft pink powder and delicately applying it to Delilah’s cheeks.

“I bet you looked beautiful!” Delilah chirped.

“Maybe. I sure didn’t think so,” her mom chuckled. “I vividly remember arguing with your grandma until I was red in the face because she wouldn’t let me wear any makeup even though all of my friends were.”

“Why didn’t she?” Delilah queried, toying with the layers of tulle that made up the hem of her dress.

“Well, at the time, I figured it was because she was old-fashioned,” she explained, interrupting her words to sift through a small bag brimming with lipsticks and glosses. After selecting a pale pink hue, she gently applied the sticky gloss to her daughter’s parted lips.

“But, what was the real reason?” Delilah probed, turning her head and batting her dark lashes tenderly at her mom.

“Nothing you should worry about quite yet,” her mom answered slowly, returning the girl’s stare. After a beat, she fluffed Delilah’s curled hair. “There, you look beautiful!”

The woman watched her daughter beam at the made-up child in the reflection.

“Delilah.”

“Yes?” The two glared at each other—one expectant, the other contended.

“Oh, nothing. Never mind. Just stick with your friends at the dance, okay?”

“Duhhh.”

Her mom was not the only one to take notice of Delilah’s beauty. Later that night, Kenneth, the boy she’d fawned over since they were Taekwondo sparring partners in fourth grade, bravely ventured across the gender-divided gymnasium floor to tell her that she was “hot.” Delilah’s insides erupted with the flutter of a thousand butterflies

32 at this news, and she graciously accepted the offer to be his girlfriend that came a week later.

A month into their relationship—thirty days of brief, bashful “hellos” by the lockers and passing notes in homeroom—Delilah texted Kenneth her usual nightly farewell.

Gn!!

His response was atypical. meet me at the bus loop b4 homeroom. I want to do sumthing new Delilah could hardly sleep that night. A hug? Was it a hug? A kiss? That wouldn’t be new. Not for her, at least. Their whole grade knew how Sammy Brown stole her first kiss from her in fifth grade, pinning her to the ladder of the monkey bars during what was supposed to be a cordial game of freeze tag.

As it turned out, it was neither a hug nor a kiss that Kenneth wanted from Delilah. The next morning, she paced cheerfully along a stretch of sidewalk situated away from classroom windows. With each minute of waiting for her boyfriend, her steps grew less and less spirited until they eventually stopped. She propped her body against the school’s cool brick exterior, anxiously checking how few minutes she had left before she’d have to sprint to beat the tardy bell. A moment before she was to make her way to the building’s entrance, Kenneth approached---and so did his friends.

He strode confidently toward her, a cocky grin etched across his acne-ridden face. Behind him, a menacing cluster of 5’1” boys snickered and exchanged arm punches. Several of them held their phones in front of their scrawny frames. She considered the possibility that Kenneth planned to break up with her, and his friends were poised to play the role of a camera crew documenting her humiliation.

Kenneth hadn’t come to do that either; though, Delilah would wish he had. Rather, upon reaching her, he grabbed her wrist with authority and spun her body around. He lifted her skirt and squeezed her right buttock in one swift motion. Cheers erupted from the group, proud that Kenneth had accomplished his act. Delilah stood frozen, too scared to turn towards them. She heard the tardy bell, followed by the scuffle

🙈😘

33 of shoes racing across the pavement, and cried.

She cried until her head pounded. She cried until all of her mascara streaked down her cheeks, leaving dark twin trails of inky sorrow. She cried until she knew homeroom was over and she wouldn’t have to see Kenneth again that school day.

Nearly half of her grade had seen the video by the time Delilah got home that evening, and there were several angles from which to see it thanks to Kenneth’s friends. Her apology came just as she sat down for dinner. i’m sorry...it was a dare lol!!!

Later, when she reached into her closet to grab a bathrobe, a heavy object bounded down abruptly from the highest shelf. For a moment, Delilah thought the sobs must’ve dehydrated her to a point of delusion. Because on her floor, amidst the worn Converse and rainbow of infinity scarves, she could just make out a bronze right butt cheek.

As she grew older, the corporeal parts in her closet slowly connected. Bits and pieces of the puzzle were absent for periods of time. But, for the most part, a woman’s figure, constructed of pure bronze, secretly assembled itself in the confines of her room.

The tits arrived in a pair. That was nice, at least. For years, the right ass cheek had been left alone, creating a hollow backside that Delilah’s sundresses would fall into if she was not careful when she hung them. Thankfully, the breasts didn’t have to suffer the same lopsided fate. Her first high school boyfriend made sure of that.

“Is it okay if we just make out?” she’d asked, squished against him in the backseat of his dad’s 1959 cherry red Corvette.

“Yeah, that’s chill,” he’d lied.

The eyes also showed up together. Two bronze spheres were gifted to her after Mark Friedman sent all of the girls in their friend group an arguably grotesque photo of his dick the spring of junior year.

The hands materialized a day after one of Jack’s friends asked her for a hand job during his brief lunch break at the auto shop. She feared that turning down the proposition would cause a fit—that he’d reveal to her brother that she’d been seeing him in secret.

34 Feet? Well, that’s an odd story.

When Delilah left for college, she brought the incomplete bronze body with her. She couldn’t risk her parents finding it, inciting a host of questions that she didn’t have the answers to. So, she folded the bronze corpse at the waist and stuffed it into a suitcase, repeating this process anytime she needed to go home for a holiday or break.

The graying didn’t begin until after she graduated. Or, perhaps, that is just when she first started to take notice. Her English degree left her with a lot of free time—free time she used to reflect heavily on herself and the world around her. Each visit to the bathroom sink in the morning was accompanied by a jump scare. Her hands, lips, eyes, arms, chest---all of it. Areas of her body that were once rosy and fleshy now looked as though someone had taken a can of gray spray paint to them. It scared Delilah, initially; doctors had no explanation for it, and, according to them, she was otherwise healthy. She resolved to close her eyes each time she showered or was presented with her reflection. She didn’t like looking at the ghost she’d become.

Despite her pallid appearance, men still craved Delilah’s touch. They loved how she listened to them. They loved how she told them things she’d never told anyone else. Most of all, they loved that she forgave them when they messed up. Time and time again.

At twenty-four, Delilah lived in a borderline squalid apartment that her boyfriend, Brandon’s, parents paid for. They spent their nights getting wine drunk, listening to the music he wrote during the day and revising the bits of Delilah’s poetry that she was willing to share.

Occasionally, he picked out a line or two to feature in the chorus of a song. Brandon assumed the bronze body was just some sculpture that Delilah rescued from the dump to inspire a writing project. Thankfully, he “respected” her creative process enough not to ask many questions.

Delilah loved Brandon. But still, she was scared to have sex with him. She didn’t like the idea of him looking at her naked body— repulsed by the gray that resided in all of the places that should be pink and alive. She was scared, but she wanted to. And she was also scared that he would leave her because he thought she didn’t want to. But

35 Brandon didn’t pressure her. He somehow found a way to accept his celibate status as a 25-year-old man.

One night, after two bottles of pinot grigio split between them, she decided she was ready—that they deserved it. He was ecstatic at her proposition and so was she. Brandon chased her into the bedroom, the two of them giggling like children on the way to Disney World. But, at some point between the stripping of their clothes and his finishing on the stained sheets, she’d begun to think about her grayness again.

It overcame her, swallowing her joy and desire and regurgitating it as a carcass of unpleasant disassociation. She tried to stay turned on, to focus on Brandon, but she couldn’t. Suddenly, she felt hollow, and a part of her yearned to be the bronze figure in the living room.

“That was great. I love you,” he said.

“I love you too,” Delilah agreed, and it was true. But, deep down, she feared that would never be enough.

Delilah’s death occurred 48 hours after Brandon ended things. The entire ordeal blindsided her, yet a part of Delilah chastised itself for ever expecting anything from their relationship other than a disappointing split.

“I just don’t think you’re my person,” he said flatly.

“It took you two years to figure that out?” She futilely demanded an explanation. They sat side by side on the couch like they’d done a thousand times before. Delilah’s body faced him, her eyes pleading, while Brandon remained fixed on the wall. His feet were carefully propped on the coffee table, absurdly conscious not to disturb the arranged tiles of the Scrabble game they had intended to finish later that day.

“I dunno. I feel like we’re not as connected as we should be,” Brandon offered.

“Then let’s go out more, do more, make more memories togeth—” “No. I don’t want to. I don’t want you to change. I just—I just don’t want you anymore.”

The last part, Delilah gathered, was not necessary; it just felt

36 like something he wanted to say. Brandon was careful to avoid the apartment for the next day while she packed her things. This seemed less of a courtesy to her and more of an attempt at avoiding the inconvenience of her devastation. He said she could take her time moving out, but Delilah knew he didn’t mean it. If there was anything she learned from their abrupt breakup, it was to question the truth of any and everything she once believed about him.

On the drive to her parents’ house, where she planned to live temporarily, Delilah’s heart failed. Her dead body veered off the road, hitting no one and nothing aside from a tree. The autopsy revealed a gray, desiccated mass where her heart should have been. The bronze body, sprawled across the backseat among her limited possessions, survived the crash. In fact, it was the crash that brought it to perfection.

Mere seconds after Delilah’s car collided with the tree, a bronze heart affixed itself to the form, consummating the puzzle.

Delilah watched her funeral from afar. Her family and a handful of college friends were the only spectators of the dreary event. It rained that day, which Delilah liked because she thought it was poetic.

It did worry her that the precipitation would rust her new skin, but she wasn’t entirely sure if these fears were rooted in exact science. She knew she couldn’t tell her family that she was alive. It would freak them out too much. Plus, she was unrecognizable now—so much color returned to her complexion.

In her new form, Delilah moved to a new city. She started going by D and got an editorial job at a publishing house. Almost all of her colleagues were women, and she cherished their company. On the rare weekend nights when she wasn’t out with them or struggling to write anything of substance, D busied herself with dating apps, arranging meetings with men who seemed intriguing enough---many of which were fascinated by her bronze body. One particular evening found her seated across from Blake, a blonde, scruffy man whose perpetual smile stretched a bit too wide for her taste. Their online exchanges had bordered on the mundane, but D found him attractive enough. Plus,

37 the prospect of a free meal in her new city, in which it often felt like a financial burden to even breathe, made the evening worthwhile.

“How are you finding the city?” Blake inquired, his grin threatening to consume his face.

“It’s great,” she replied, returning his vacant smile.

The restaurant buzzed with subdued conversations and the clinking of cutlery as D perused the menu, choosing dishes with a nonchalance that hinted at both familiarity and disinterest. After the waiter retreated with their orders, Blake attempted to steer their conversation toward more personal matters.

“What brought you here, again?” he probed.

“Oh, the usual. New job, new opportunities,” she answered vaguely, sipping her wine. She leaned back casually, her eyes wandering around the aged dining room.

The rest of the night unfolded by the guide of Delilah’s cues, and, after a time, the pair found themselves in her apartment. She moved with purpose, leading Blake from one room to another. She felt there was an unspoken agreement between them—a dance in which she set the rhythm. When Blake left her apartment the next morning without saying goodbye, Delilah remained unaffected. The night had been a performance, and she hoped he might be interested in a second show.

As it turned out, he was not.

A few of the first encounters with men that followed evolved into several subsequent evenings together, but, to her surprise, nothing ever lasted. Regardless of how promising things seemed, men always jumped ship around date five. Delilah just wasn’t sensitive enough for them. She wasn’t vulnerable or emotional or available enough.

“I’m dating to marry right now, and I just don’t know if you’d have that motherly touch.”

“I wish I knew you better. It’s so hard to break into there.”

“Look, you’re fun and all, but it’s weird. Even after we watch sad movies, I’ve never seen you cry…”

He’ll never see her cry.

38

S Ware Rd (I Know)

By José González 4 more pieces give me 4 more Reese’s Pieces Red dress is too tight to prude Tight suit is too stiff for food No home to come in to 4ever young, they knew love 4 what it was then: Sharing dead headphones and a playlist of When’s?

They met at the War-hole by chance, and did the furry socks dance.

“Your glasses look good.”

39

There’s shame in the steam

By Clare Barloon

There’s shame in the steam That rises from the drenched Streets of this navy suit city.

Storms come fast in the summer, Drenched and then gone.

Little gets washed away.

From here it swirls under overpasses And parks itself beside grand statues.

You ought to get out now if you can.

The heat makes men act strange And makes dogs howl On nights when satellites look Like stars.

Smoke outside with your friends by a house.

The one with a staircase up the back And chinoiserie.

And feel shame in the steam As new clouds roll in.

Cover your face If only to keep the cigarette lit.

40

At the Show

By Meg Beuter People talk in the theater about the lead man’s coiffed collar and his strong thigh swinging gait and the hair style he borrowed from three decades ago What a dashing boy.

Good taste, that one.

Knows how to twirl a girl.

In the theater, people talk about the girl twirled in her royal blue skirt each crease ironed to perfection but almost burned and the blue matches her veins, ribbons bowed around bone Good God, she looks like she’s been on crack.

I heard she was in the hospital all of last week.

I would never let my daughter go onstage looking like...that.

41 People talk in the theater when the twirled girl goes down and everything glows white so she tightens her grip on the stage tape, fingernails gnashing like teeth and the stage lights race at her as horses would and her hind

legs are too slight to withstand

the illumination of the track

she has never seen a running horse fall Can’t you see where she safety-pinned the elastic of her waistband?

Honestly revolting. It’s like I could count her vertebrae.

Well ladies, it’s high time for intermission. theater in

In theater the the people talk

42

Scene at the river on the day we are born

By Clare Barloon

Our hands dig into wet clay, our bodies move low and slow, bending at the knees like water bugs.

Feet test each step, toes curl around muck and pebbles.

We feel the heat of the sun warm our soles as they plant themselves firmly on flat river rocks.

In the canopy above our heads, Mulberry trees bloom In writhing gossamer: Moth eggs come sickeningly alive.

For the very first time, I cringe and look away.

We eat old roots and tear at ripe fruit.

My hands are dripping with peach blood.

Cannibalism feels like a distinct possibility now.

43

Unsterblichkeit

By Will Dwortz

I cannot see if you are there, cannot hear your breathing I cannot feel your touch my flesh, I feel it falling pulling me down, down to— my mind, my mind is falling too, I think, or trailing upwards and away but I am still material and all material has purpose take from me now, while my spirit lives in them my breastbone for a violin my veins as strings these six fingers are pegs the rest is ash— so much ash so it seems you can awaken my voice in a melody that rings vibrations as blood within my drying arteries and we will live forever

44

MOVEMENT III

45

1

46

Diwali Lights and Predestined Plights

by Eshaanika Raje

The glacial moon shone, with its dim yet eerily ethereal glow illuminating the ebony sky. Tonight, however, it was copiously overshadowed by the myriad of exploding colors coruscating the night sky.

The firecrackers were so intensely dazzling, it appeared as if the moon had gravitated closer to the earth, defying all odds, and overcoming every obstacle, to shine brighter than the sun. No. It’s more like the moon’s transient light was so encompassing it swallowed the night whole and had enough light to wipe out all the darkness.

Swarms of people gathered around the cobblestone street of “Dhobi Gali” that had countless winding turns and alleyways, like moths to the flame, to watch the crackers. The stunning lights glimmered, bouncing off the tiny packets of trash scattered around the road that cast sparkling reflections in every direction. A sense of wonder and awe lingered in the air, as it was then carried by the whistling wind that relinquished this rare semblance of hope to the townspeople, who were thronging in the main street to try and get a glimpse of the crackers. A wealthy family from the nearby ‘Chandni” district, which was known for its opulence, were celebrating Diwali with a tremendous number of firecrackers, prosperity, and happy company – things that were unbeknownst to those living in Dhobi Gali, one of the most impoverished districts in India. Few who resided there had ever seen something as wondrous as firecrackers, and so most people in the crowd were gazing enraptured at the celebration they yearned to take part in, except for one scrawny young boy, dressed like a street urchin, emerged from a dark alleyway. The boy scrambled through the crowd, using his elbows to make way, until he had a clear view of the crackers. He gazed upwards with his eyes wide open, admiring the beauty of his creations lighting up the sky on that holy full moon night. He let out a snicker, shifting his gaze to his bruised palms and blistered fingers, wondering just how

47 many of the crackers were made by his hands. A small smile flickered across his cracked lips. Despite the miserable conditions he worked in to make the crackers, the boy found solace in the fact that unlike all the other pitiful people surrounding him, yearning to partake in the celebrations, he indirectly had. He placed his arms on his lower ribs, protruding through the rags he adorned as clothes, grinning up at the lights glowing down upon him. He imagined that was how Lord Ram stood when he returned to his hometown Ajodhya after defeating the evil Rawan, a demon of a man with 10 heads, while being greeted with hordes of people lighting deeya’s, candles and lanterns to welcome him. “I wonder if Amma was telling the truth when she said we’re descendants of Lord Bharat, Ram’s brother”, the boy muttered out loud, as he started to delve deep into dreams about the origin of Diwali, until a small, shrill voice interrupted his internal monologue.

“Ravi, stop, don’t go so far!” A young girl no more than five or six years old, followed in the boy pursuit. “Come hide with us or Master might see you!”. Ravi looked down at the wrinkles on her forehead, which she was too young to have, but most of the kids from the factory looked and behaved far older than they were. If you put carbon under pressure, it becomes a diamond, but if you exceed a certain threshold, even diamonds can crack. Among the kids who worked at Master’s firecracker factory, most were broken, young souls, pushed beyond the limits of what can be reasonably expected for any human to endure, let alone children. Ravi, however, shined bright like a diamond to most of the children, and over time had earned his position as their unofficial leader. In his capacity as leader, Ravi orchestrated clandestine outings to the districts adjacent to their abode at the carpet factory, to help the kids see life outside the factory.

“Keep your voice down, and follow me”, Ravi said as he grabbed the girl’s hand, dragging her back to the alleyway where the other children from the factory, anxiously awaited their return. Faces as young as infants of four to juveniles of nearly fifteen, stared at Ravi, and Ravi felt his heart warm at the sight of so many little hearts filled with so much worry for him. Over the years, to most of the kids, orphans, wretches, and the sort, Ravi had truly encompassed a father

48 figure. While he was now the oldest, a youth of nearly sixteen, and his fingers were not as nimble or adept at making crackers as the other children, his skin was the toughest, carrying the most whip marks, burns, abrasions. Whatever conceivable injury you could conjure up or whatever suffering you could possibly imagine – Ravi had endured that, and worse.

Originally, Ravi’s older brother was the ‘guardian and leader’ of the kids at the factory but after his unfortunate and untimely passing, Ravi had to step up to fill his brothers’ shoes. If only the other children knew the depth of the agony that ravaged Ravi’s heart every day, as he lay on the stone-cold pavement he called a bed, forcing himself to go into such a deep slumber that he would never wake up. Sometimes, he’d stay up all night, plucking the pus-filled blisters on his fingers to try and numb the pain and grief of losing his brother, but it was too potent, always pushing its way back up to the surface, much like the moon relentlessly pushing away the sun every single night. It was a fight he’d try his best to win every night but sometimes he just wasn’t strong enough.

Despite his helplessness, Ravi kept his afflictions to himself, never seeking outwardly help. He knew if he let all the other children know how he really felt the small flicker of hope that kept them all optimistic, despite living a miserable life, would die out, and even though it was such a small factor, he knew it was the most important.

Just like it’s the small, tiny children who use their tiny fingers to make the monumental, breathtaking firecrackers, which are so powerful they permeate the limitless sky with their astounding lights; and even go as far as to make Master smile, his crooked smile, with teeth like the crescent moon, but more sinister.

Master had bought most of the children from their families for a measly 1000 rupees, but considering the family’s income, it seemed like a fortune and well worth it. But Master was different, he was extravagant for himself yet a miser to the kids. One time, Ravi saw him eat a plateful of rice and lentils, with an unimaginable amount of rice grains, an amount most of those children wouldn’t ever have in their lifetimes. Master spared no expense on the meals, almost banquets, that

49 he’d eat every single day. Yet, each child only got 100 grains of rice per meal.

The children would labor all day and all night for Master, after being sold to him by their families, even in the blistering heat. So naturally, nighttime was their favorite time. The gentle aura of the moonbeams dancing around the makeshift hovel the children called home, made the concrete ground seem like a dance floor and the children would giggle to one another imagining the fun they could have if only they were free. If only. Of course, that exciting version of the concrete would only ever exist deep within the realm of their imagination. Master simply would not tolerate it. “A second spent on anything other than making crackers is a thousand rupees cost and bundles of energy lost!”

The children hated Master, and no one more so than Ravi. He was a cruel man, and the children murmured in muted tones about how Master’s heart had been ripped out of his chest when he was a child, turning him into an unfeeling, bitter man that had never recovered since. But Ravi knew better. Ravi wished to prove them wrong by ripping his heart out himself and holding it in his hand and showing it off to the children - like one would do with a ruby or diamond - to prove that the lack of a heart was not what made him heartless - that was too convenient an excuse and Ravi wouldn’t tolerate that. Ever since that day, Ravi has never been the same, vowing to one day get his revenge on Master.

Despite the fact that most of the young kid’s brains hadn’t even completely developed yet, they were all well aware of one universal truth. The sharp ones deciphered it using their own intuitions, whereas it was drilled into the heads of the others, after formidable encounters with Ravi – it was a mutual understanding that what Master did to Rohan must never be spoken out loud, for fear of Ravi either breaking down into a bundle of tears or unleashing the ravenous, infuriated demon that resided in his broken, almost poisoned heart.

Ravi and Rohan had been sold by their family almost eleven, long years ago. Rohan was seven at the time and Ravi was only five and so they both were unaware of the circumstances they were victims of. All they knew was a wealthy man, who Ravi now knew as Master,

50 had sought them out specifically, traveling all the way to their obscure village, in search of the progeny of the Bharat family. Bharat, the brave brother who accompanied Lord Ram when he defeated Rawan, one of the most sinister men in ancient Indian history, was revered nationwide and some even prophesized the rise of a boy of Bharat’s lineage to take the nation out of the darkness that had been spreading lately. “Master ji, they have blue blood running through their veins, don’t you know?”

Ravi’s mom gushed to the man, who then looked over at the silhouette of two kids peeking out behind the door which their mother had left ajar. Following Master’s gaze, Ravi’s dad beckoned at them to go away, but the boys merely hid themselves better and kept eavesdropping, hearing only bits and pieces.

“Rounding up children…Top class profit…food and boarding… safe and sound…” Master then pulled out a bundle of cash and held out it to his parents. Nearly 2000 rupees for them both! Ravi’s mom was almost giddy with excitement as she snatched the crisp notes out of Master’s hand, that seemed to glow in her trembling fingers.

Ravi’s dad, however, was more skeptical. The placed a firm hand on Master’s shoulder and led him away for a chat – man to man. “I wonder if Appa will beat that man with his cane” Ravi whispered to Rohan, as Rohan frantically shushed him. “Be quiet, Ravi, they’ll hear us.” The two boys crept closer and closer. “Now Master ji, this has nothing to do with all that Kaldeshi propaganda, does it?” The man bellowed, a deep laugh, straight from his belly that echoed malevolently. “Don’t be ridiculous Bharat ji, we …” “Rohan, what are Kaldeshi’s.” Ravi stared up at his big brother, half expecting him to either slap him on the head for being too loud or simply admitting he had no idea, but a shadow fell over Rohan’s face and his eyes darkened. He dragged Ravi away from there and took him to his corner of the hut. “Appa warned me about Kaldeshi’s, Ravi, you must listen carefully. You remember the story Amma told us about Diwali, Lord Ram and Bharat” “Yea, we are babies of Bharat righ-” “Focus Ravi! This all happened centuries ago, but recently, a small group of Rawan supporters have emerged. The Kaldeshi’s.”

And so, Rohan went on to explain all about the rumors float-

51 ing around that the Kaldeshi’s renounced the worship of Ram, spent all their time inducting fools into their cult, and spreading religious propaganda that deemed Rawan as a true God. Some rumors went as far to claim that one Kaldeshi priest, had prophesized of a child, descendent of one of the brothers of Ram, was reborn in this century with the sole purpose of ridding the nation of the evil perpetrated by the Kaldeshi’s.

And so, some said that the Kaldeshi’s were rounding up all possible descendants and slowly killing or torturing them. Some even went as far as to say that it was Master who got the idea to use a cracker factory as a guise to round up and slowly kill off the descendants, and as a result quickly shot up Kaldeshi ranks.

Ever since that day, both children’s lives were forever changed. Hearing that conversation between their dad and Master eventually cost Rohan his life, and it cost Ravi his brother. Ravi started quaking with a fiery wrath whenever he remembered the putrid and sinister reason Master had taken them. Ravi dug his nails into his arm, to contain his wrath as he remembered the day his brother died, after confronting Master about his role as the Kaldeshi’s second in command. Ravi drew blood from his numb arm, as he watched Master, dig a knife into his brother’s gut, and watch Rohan’s lifeless body collapse to the ground. In his head, there was nothing that could justify the death of his brother. Nothing.

Ever since he saw the light of life escape Rohan’s eyes, Ravi had been plotting and scheming of ways to ruin Master’s life and today was the day that he would set his plan into action. It was Diwali, after all, the festival of lights, where picturesque colors adorned the jet-black sky all over the countless vibrant cities in India, while the children at the factory stayed hard at work playing with chemicals to help meet the demand of countless Indians ravenous to take part in this cultural and almost spiritual tradition.

Ravi knew that during peak sales times Master would be far too busy negotiating lower prices with the chemical vendors and denying sneaky customers vying for discounts, to ever notice that he was gone. Ravi knew he had to change the lives of all the children that night, no matter the cost. He had thought of every possible thing that

52 could foil his plan and a way to overcome it. Ravi even went as far as to involve the other children, something he never thought he’d be desperate enough to do but he needed to succeed. Every child had secretly supplied Ravi with a majority of their portion of rice while sustaining themselves on the remaining meager amount, for about a month. The children let their own cracks deepen and allowed the diamonds in their heart to dull, in the hopes that Ravi would shine even brighter than a diamond, or even the brightest cracker in the sky. A tear fell down Ravi’s sunburned, peeling cheeks, expressing his gratitude for them more than his words ever could. Watching their display of affection had fortified his resolve. He knew he could stop Master – he had to. There would be no more casualties, not if Ravi could help it.

The time to act was now.

Ravi would avenge his brother, and save the children, but first he needed to go back to where he watched Rohan’s demise – Master’s house. He snuck out of the children’s sleeping quarters, and took refuge among the shadows of the alleyway, as he made his way back to Dhobi gali. He kept his head down, and when he finally noticed the bare, blistered feet of passersby on the road get replaced by steel-toed boots and red-bottomed heels he knew he was close by. The fabled Chandni district. He tried his best to blend in with the glamourous crowd but the filthy rags he adorned as clothes, and his disheveled appearance gave him away and so he gave up trying to blend in and quickened his pace.

Three very hostile scowls from passerby’s later, Ravi found himself standing in front of Master’s gated mansion.

He took a deep breath as his trembling fingers pushed open the creaking gate. His nimble toes allowed him to tread softer than a cat, as he squeezed through the entrance. He could feel his heartbeat quicken as drops of sweat made their way down his back. The house was breathtaking. Nothing like anything Ravi had ever seen before. The hall had tall, arcaded, French windows that overlooked the courtyard and were left slightly ajar, allowing the cool night breeze to sweep over the room, where the sound of Ravi’s deep, panicked breaths were

53 punctuated by the soft twinkling of the massive chandelier, whose subtle movements were in perfect harmony with the opulent aura of the room. The hall looked more regal than Ravi could’ve possibly imagined with its antique statues, priceless artworks adorned by gilded, intricate carvings, aesthetically designed pillars, and palatial arches that amplified the air of indulgence Ravi often saw reflected in Master’s persona. The plush velvet curtains were tied to either side of the window with golden ropes that allowed the moonbeams to enter the hall and cast shadows that danced around the room, mimicking Ravi’s movements. What appeared to be as many candelabras as there were firecrackers in the night sky covered the sleek wooden tables, giving the room an almost ethereal glow.

Ravi was as awestruck as he was angry. Never making it past the yards of Master’s house, Ravi had never seen the true extent of Master’s affluence until then and was astounded at how poorly Master treated the kids despite having more than enough money to spare. He didn’t need the kids. He didn’t need the measly amounts of money they managed to make when Diwali would come around. Ravi remembered watching Master sneer at Rohan, after Rohan demanded to know the real reason, he tortured and enslaved the kids. Ravi remembered holding his breath, expecting him to go off about the Kaldeshi prophecy his brother had warned them about, but Ravi was utterly shocked by what came out of Master’s mouth next. “Because I can.” Ravi could taste the enamel as he gritted his teeth, but he held back his rage.

He had a mission to complete and so he made his way up the spiral staircase and into Master’s room. He stopped, looking around for a moment. It was a dingy, old space that had the familiar smell of mothballs and must, often found in the old nursing homes Ravi would visit as a young child to hear grand stories of his descendance from Lord Bharat. His grandfather, who suffered from dementia at the time, greatly enjoyed telling his adoring grandchildren these regal stories about their family history but Ravi never paid much attention to them.

“You might be the child of prophecy they talk about these days, Ravi, you know?” his grand dad would say, bearing his crooked, yellow tooth to Ravi. He was a kind man, though withering away, and always

54 praised his grand kids to no end. Ravi wished he hadn’t passed away before their encounter with Master, and maybe he could’ve saved them from the desolate life ahead of them.

Ravi stood in the musty old room, which despite being less glamourous than the hall was still nothing short of luxurious to Ravi, who saw a bed with a frame and fluffy pillows for the first time in his life. He reached for the silky linen sheet, aching to rest on the bed, which he imagined would feel like floating on a cloud when compared to the cold, hard concrete he was accustomed to, but then retracted his hand in a sharp motion. He looked around the room for fear of being caught but the only eyes that followed him were those of the antique portraits, presumably drawn by some famous painter but Ravi didn’t have time to ponder about that. He had a mission to complete and needed to stay focused – there was too much at stake. He quickly grabbed the bundle of keys that hung on the wall, which was usually hanging around Master’s belt, and successfully snuck out of Master’s lair, unnoticed.

He grinned to himself, as he sped towards Dhobi Gali and down the familiar meandering alleyway, towards the children’s ‘sleeping quarters’, almost able to taste his freedom. He maneuvered his way to the back of the hovel, where a large cupboard with deadbolts stood.

He flew through the bundle of keys, trying his luck with every single one. Ravi knew if he was able to get the bundle of cash and contracts of all the kids kept in the cupboard, he would have enough money to take care of all the children and help them run away from their wretched existence of making firecrackers as children and then being left to die as young adults when their fingers were not nimble or small enough to make the crackers skillfully. Ravi knew he was next and refused to let himself or anyone else face the same fate his brother did.

Once he could grab a hold of the contracts all he needed was to return them to the children’s families and show them the lies Master spewed about taking their kids off to a hostel was all a lie. He would snatch off the rose-tinted glasses Master had placed on the eyes of every parent he had sweet talked into sending away their kids and expose all the cruelties and almost genocide Master perpetrated for the good of

55 the Kaldeshi’s.

Finally, one key clicked. Ravi stopped for a moment, feeling his heart thumping loudly, slowly making its way up to his throat, and as he turned the key but as he heard the unfamiliar click of the lock, he was suddenly covered in darkness. As he felt the colossal shadow towering over the cupboard and engulfing Ravi with it, he knew what he was in for. His throat dried up, and barely able to take a gulp, Ravi turned around slowly and sure enough, Master stood there with a sinister grin that sent a chill down Ravi’s spine. “Valiant effort Ravi” Master sputtered, seething with a silent rage, “but it wasn’t enough”.

Ravi closed his eyes and felt his knees start to tremble. But he needed to stay strong and think quickly on his feet otherwise all the sacrifices – the sacrifices the children made and the sacrifices his brother made would all mean nothing. He turned around and forced his eyes to meet Master’s unwavering, infuriated gaze. With a quivering voice, he said “I-I-I know…”. He gulped, taking deep breaths trying to regain his composure. Master lowered his clenched fist, as intrigue washed over him, and he barked at Ravi to spit out an explanation for what he knew.

“I know why you killed my brother. He got too close to the barbaric truth, and you needed to shut him up and finish your twisted duty to the Kaldeshi’s.” Ravi felt a tear slide down his cheek, but he mustered as much forcefulness as he could to squeeze out this last sentence. Standing face to face with the murderer of his brother like this had melted most of the courage Ravi had tried to hold on to, but he stood up straight and forced himself to meet Master’s gaze. A shiver ran down Ravi’s spine as he saw Master’s cold, unfeeling and almost lifeless eyes. Master relaxed his posture as he took a deep breath and then let out a bellowing laugh, just like when they first met, a deep sinister laugh, from his belly. “Ah so you figured it out, did you? Just like your brother, too curious for your own good but now you will suffer the same fate as he did. What a bunch of overzealous rats. All you Bharat boys think you’ll are so powerful and brave that you can fly to the moon and reach for the sun, but you know what happens when you fly too close to the sun?” Ravi braced himself for the strike but

56 discreetly reached into his pockets as Master paused momentarily.

Master donned his sinister grin as he got ready to pummel Ravi’s face into the ground.

“You get burnt.”

Ravi instantaneously ducked down, with reflexes and energy he would’ve never had without the food the children sacrificed for Ravi’s sake, skillfully evading Master’s punches. He reached into the makeshift-pocket he sewed into his pants, threw open his palm aimed at Master’s face, filled with the chemicals and explosives he used to make firecrackers, temporarily blinding Master. He made the most of Master’s incapacitation by grabbing the bundle of cash, what he assumed was the paperwork regarding ownership of the children, and ran as fast as he could, while throwing back a lit matchstick. He heard a tiny explosion but didn’t look back for a second until Master’s screams drowned out into the distance, and until he could hear nothing but his own heartbeat.

He could practically taste his freedom, but then he heard the engine of a car closing in behind him. He could hear the sputters of the engine, getting closer and closer, until he turned around and saw Master’s head sticking out the window, staring with an almost psychotic grin and waving his right arm at Ravi, that was drenched in burn marks, almost disintegrating. “Should’ve gone for the head.” He accelerated sharply. And Ravi leaped to the side, missing the car by a hair. As Ravi tried to pick himself up, Master grabbed him by the scruff of his neck, with his disintegrating hand yanking his hair. Ravi exclaimed in pain. He could hear ringing, which dimmed after a moment, and he heard Master speak. “You know, Ravi, I always had an inkling you were the child of prophecy. At first, I thought it was Rohan, but then when I saw how those wretched weasels treated you, I knew, and still I kept you at the factory, alive, and this is how you repay my kindness?” “Kindness?!” Ravi sputtered, “KINDNESS? You call deceiving our families, killing us, torturing us over some stupid prophecy kind?” Master tightened his grip on Ravi’s hair, but Ravi was unphased.

57 “You think you know everything, don’t you, Master?” Ravi snickered and then spat out some blood from his mouth. “I couldn’t give a crap about your prophecy bullshit. I am not a savior nor a God and I’m definitely not the child of prophecy” Master let out his typical bellowing laugh as he stared at Ravi in disbelief. “You’re going crazy, boy, how dare-“ Ravi swiftly grabbed the knife he saw tucked into Master’s belt around his belly and plunged it into his gut. Ravi grinned; his pearly white teeth now drenched in blood. “H-h-how “, Master sputtered, as the blood seeped out of the belly and the few ounces of life, he had escaped his soulless eyes. “If you put too much pressure on a diamond, it doesn’t just crack, it explodes. I am the monster you created” Ravi said as he twisted the knife deeper. He watched as the knife that was once drenched in Rohan’s blood, was now enveloped by Master’s. “Fitting isn’t it, Master?” “Who… are… you”? Master managed to exhale. Ravi smiled. “I am no longer the sweet, innocent boy you bought years ago.

He died alongside my brother. The darkness you placed in my heart, poisoned every bit of light in me. You, master, are evil and I am Vaisravana, destroyer of evil.”

58

Point Reyes National Seashore Bildungsroman

by Jenkin Benson

18th birthday jagtopping thrack oysterboy sidles all the tuftings the inlet edgehaled near lurch bunchgrasses lurkered like seal souse or scarpdrone outlipped bracken whistling wetage every basalt cavorts augusts he sunflects steepward to drakes estero its isobar spate a flitting swath a spume bulk all fern clump

cliffspurts

and bull kelp full nostrilsaults befrothing a granitic teen

in

59 euglenic supine

inhigh salcanted fogtare an adult straits

60

Baptism

by Clare Barloon Sharpen your knife on the crumbling granite Carve your way back in Through rotting fruit straight to the pit And light the baptismal candles Tucked away for so long Wrapped in spiders nests And plastic storage bins Look how that veil is now Full of holes False pearls and white satin Clawed kindly to shreds Let doors lock And let them stay locked Musty old secrets In labeled boxes Filed neatly in blue sharpie ink Remember the words To the prayers the nun spoke And how she called it ‘The Holy Ghost’ Whisper them now Before prayer cards Set humbly on the Teetering old bedside table Act quickly Before your mother comes back

61 To collect what is only hers Lock the door to the bathroom And don’t open the cupboards Fill the tub Till your cup overfloweth And picture streams on the kitchen walls Bathe in the dark, Candles long burnt out

62

Jan. 7

by Molly O’Toole I found it funny in Prospect Park putting words to this wordless union, platitudinous and other synonyms And whatever you can say about predestination– Wrap it in a dead leaf and keep it in the trail mix bag.

I think I laughed As a Dalmatian nosed at the New Year mud As we trudged pathless through the smokers And the parents who were once the smokers And the kids pulling their arms, begging them to be lighter And still the sun tendrils of that painting Snaked into my chest How a square was a barn A streak of red a death And what is Burlap to be filled with sand, Liquid to become solid. Solid to melt. Water to evaporate Knowing you’re at the beginning, knowing It’s the end too Knowing the well is spiked, Knowing, of course, we all drank from it

63

A Statement by the Autumn Leaf

by Meg Beuter

I squat in my white polyester blend -ed shorts on the dirt, the dirt showered with leaves brown who wink at me, sagely, whispering about the colors they once were.

Who is your father? I ask them, Who is your mother?

Do your ancestors know you have wrinkled and withered and shrunk with your thousands of sisters and brothers?

You are grown, now, and now, dead.

You have seen more days than a snowflake, even than a mayfly. And still you lie next to me in this sodden dirt, and die.

Your streaks of orange and red cry out, I. Me. I will be. I will be.

64

It Doesn’t Snow in Indiana Anymore

by Jenkin Benson

it just succumbs dew point dewcumbing motion smoothed globe all hydrogen chafes billions of pounds of psoriasis then vertical streaking diffraction patterns 1020 joules of ineffable cautery it is january 3rd we’re picnicking we’re chuckling we’re insufferable there’s a moan coming down from the end of the world (michigan) billowing redshifts of uprist radiation in an ictus of aureole heat the microplastics are expurgated from our pores we laminate seething beatification we reach for a condemnable slice of raspberry-flecked gruyere

65

Lanterns

by Priscilla Angkasa Red dragons and yellow lanterns fill the sky My beautiful South China sky I think it was always Mulan, my favorite Disney princess, Of course it was It was always her reflection in the mirror Along with my red hanzi tattoo It was fierce and unwavering, in crimson it thrives, A single word that embodies, a lifetime of strives.

A semblance of who I am beneath the tan skin and wide eyes Ten thousand miles with ten thousand western trials I carry my home with this red hanzi tattoo It’s an almost amber hue With fresh smells of seafood and durian I always hated the smell of durian Gong (gong) hei (xi) fat (fa) choy (chai) we exclaimed in broken mandarin pinyin My favorite holiday I no longer celebrate More red and more yellow took over the dark black sky As dragons with men came to life I hear the familiar and frightening clang of the cymbals and bang of the drums The drums I once feared and now miss dearly

66

MOVEMENT IV

67

68

Repairs

By Daniel Lucke It was one of those places that was always cold. Even when it was warm, and even when it was hot, there were echoes of the cold.

Maybe a cloud would pass overhead and you’d feel it in your forearms, or maybe you’d step under a tree and a chill would rustle your beard.

Or, maybe you’d go all day long thinking it was perfectly pleasant, smiling and walking with your sleeves rolled up, but come sunset, there again were the goosebumps, the visible exhales, and the sharpness of the breeze. Mostly vacant streets diced the autumn forestry, sprinkled with the orange and yellow leaves of a September afternoon. The sun was out, and the breeze was soothing. There were a few houses dotted across Elm Street and a couple dozen more between Canyon and Wilson Drives. Each of them had a yard that might be better described as a field, sprawling for acres into the arboreal orchestra of the Maine hills. There was no big house on the street, no mansions and no runts, but rather a collection of twenty to thirty nearly identical single story buildings, demarcated only by the vibrance, or lack thereof, of the people who dwelled inside. Downtown––and there was a downtown––was the little intersection, beneath the lone city stoplight, where denizens could find the local gas station, a vacant pub, an auto-repair shop, a little grocery store, and a 7/11 which the town’s teenagers had turned to affectionately calling “the mall.”

A car drove through once or twice every hour. Some of them were on their way to the wealthy skiing towns to the north and others were making the haul to the only public school in a 40-mile radius.

And of course, some of the cars passed through simply because they had nowhere else to be. A couple hours back, a gray van cruised by to the score of Led Zeppelin through a deafening speaker system. Eleven minutes ago, a light blue Pontiac Tempest passed by so briskly and quietly, you’d think its driver must’ve been shy. And in thirty-two minutes, the exhaust pipe of the silver Ford Escape belonging to Elliot James will overheat, combust, and his car will break down, slowing first for a

69 few miles down New Hampshire route 9, and eventually directing him off exit 23 into this quaint, forgettable, stoplight-sized town called Oak Bell, Maine. And he will find himself at the fortuitously placed auto-repair shop, leafing through a brochure he’s picked up in the entryway, and pretending to read along as the attendant tells him “it should only be a few minutes.” But, until then, everything is relatively okay for Elliot James as he continues, unaware, in his five-and-a-half-hour drive from Lake Point, Massachusetts to the undersized and overpriced AirBnB he’s rented on Maine’s southeastern coast, so far from anywhere or anyone that surely, if only for a week, he will be able to purge himself of every last thought, regret, and memory of her.

And there it was again, as it had so often re-emerged––that pestilent, persistent, malicious little thought in the back of his head, banging behind his eyelids, and blurring his vision. The same thing would happen, over and over again, for hours now. He would think about anything he wanted to––baseball, for example. And quickly enough baseball would turn into Did the Mets win last night, and then I bet they didn’t, then I’ve gotta get up to a game some day, maybe I could ask for tickets for my birthday, Mom’s always asking me what I want for my birthday, or maybe just a jersey, what are jersey prices like, I think they’re made overseas nowadays, maybe that means they’re cheap, or does that mean they’re more expensive, didn’t I learn this in school or something––until all of a sudden, he was pulled back into that college economics lecture with Dr. Lowell, and there it was again, because of course, she had sat in the third row of that class, dirty blonde hair hanging over hunched shoulders in a bleach-stained sweatshirt, sending text after text about anything at all that wasn’t microeconomics. And the back of his neck would begin to tense, and his throat would swell, his forearms would tingle, his left hand would slip from the steering wheel, and he’d veer into the rumble strip, burrowing and buckling up and down and up and down, before catching his breath, and quietly straightening his car, pretending as ever that nothing had changed.

And maybe the most maddening thing of all was that nothing really had changed. He was on the same interstate he’d been on for 91

70 miles, so why did he feel so damn different with every passing second?

He would swear sometimes that there were mouse traps or maybe land-mines inside his brain, waiting always to catch that first improper thought, and fashion it into a spiral staircase to pull him further and further down. Because even though just thirty seconds ago he was thinking about baseball, now he was thinking about her, and if he had a chief addiction in his twenty-four years of life, it was always thinking about her. Like any addiction, it started small––noticing her in class, remembering her jokes, hoping he’d pass her on the quad. But then, soon enough, they met, and they talked, and they ate, and they talked, and she brushed his shoulder, and he shivered happily, and she blinked three times quickly, and his chest convulsed with joy, and they kissed, and maybe they were even dating, and he hoped they were dating, and before he knew it, his addiction spread until it was the primary occupation of his brain for most of each day and all of each night.

At first, she kept him awake because he was a wide-eyed, pimple-faced eighteen-year-old, and so when his head hit the pillow and his lamp shut off, he would return to the never-ending movie behind his eyes, where he was wistfully and wishfully imagining her––as his girlfriend, as his lover, as his wife, as his best friend, or even just his acquaintance, because all he wanted––all he really ever wanted––was to occupy the same space as her as often as possible, whatever that meant. And over time, it became that he couldn’t sleep because she was there with him, and because he could never sleep with someone else in the bed, but that never bothered him, because despite the lack of room, her hair against his shoulder, or the sweaty warmth she radiated, nothing had ever made him happier than to know that when he would wake up, she would be there beside him. And more recently, he lied awake, because somehow everything had changed, and because now he knew that each morning he would wake up, turn himself over, and she wouldn’t be there, looking back at him with her forgiving, doe eyes.

And because he knew, from the pit in his stomach, that she may never be there again.

Abruptly, his engine light went off on the front of his dashboard, beeping lightly and flashing red above the speedometer, which

71 read 86 mph, jolting him out of his mind and back into his body, if only for a moment. He worried momentarily about his speed, not because it was too fast, but because he remembered that he’d been paying no attention to it at all, and if he got another ticket this year, his insurance premium would skyrocket. And then, he worried because if he was honest with himself, he had no real idea what it meant when that light turned on, but he was fairly sure that it had turned on before, and it hadn’t become an issue yet, and so he carried on with his drive. He wondered where he was supposed to learn about this light, anyway–– was it from his dad, or in a drivers ed class, or had he once known it but then forgotten it, or was it the sort of thing that no one actually knows but just pretends that they know to impress people? And then, he took note, for the first time in at least a half an hour, of the song playing from his carefully collated playlist, and the smooth, heartening melody that came with it. He tried to trace the gentle lyrics, the specific chords of the guitar, and to place the familiar voice, until he remembered that this was an acoustic version of a song he’d loved for years––a song, like one in every third on his playlist, that he had been introduced to by her.

And suddenly, like the idiot he was, he was thinking about her again, about her taste in music, and the way she’d monologue for hours about lyrical significance, and the obscure biography she’d read about the singer, and why indie pop was going to be what everyone was listening to in five years or less, and how they––just them two alone–– will have been the only ones who saw it coming. And he remembered being so entranced by her excitement, by her passion and by the idea that the two of them could be classified as a “they” and that this “they” was separate from rest of the world, that he didn’t much care what any of the songs sounded like, because to him they would always sound like her, and because he knew he wanted this tune to be the backdrop for his entire life. But he gulped at the description of her as a song, because maybe that was too reductive, or maybe just too cliche, and because he always hated when people were described as songs or art or the stars or sunshine, because he knew that metaphors weren’t real, and because he knew that she and them were real, because he wasn’t sure if there was a

72 version of him that could exist in her absence.

And then, as if to prove she were real or just to injure himself, he began ruminating over and over about what it was exactly that made her so compelling in the first place. He was sure that it wasn’t something so simple as the fact that she would burrow her hands inside her long sleeve hoodies when she was nervous, or the way she’d throw her neck backward when she belly laughed at a joke no one else could’ve found funny. He knew it wasn’t her slim, avian frame or her wide-mouthed, eyes-nearly-closed smile. It wasn’t the fact that she always mispronounced the letters “L” and “D” at the ends of words, like how she’d try to say “shoulder” and somehow say “shoder”, and it wasn’t even the fact that whenever someone would point this out to her, she would laugh and laugh and laugh, because she took nothing in this world too seriously, least of all herself. Maybe it was the way she morphed into an older sister whenever they’d see children, or maybe it was the fact that she was the friend her friends called when they were in crisis. Or probably, if he was really honest with himself, the whole charade had more to do with him than it ever did with her. Because, what it probably was––and he was nearly certain of this––was the fact that for over a month now, his grandma’s ring had rested in his back pocket, in anticipation for the day that it would have been hers. And she would have looked so beautiful.

And every so often, he would snap himself out because a semi-truck just veered into his lane, or the car in front of him was moving ten miles per hour beneath the speed limit despite being in the far left lane, and in a small and occasionally even slightly agitated way, he would reinstate a version of peace. But even then, even from his passing air bubble, he was still drowning in the residue of his anxieties and regrets, and so inevitably he would start his mind on something anew––some makeshift lifebuoy––be it something random, like trying to remember which season of American Idol was his mother’s favorite, or something intimate, like the best advice he’d ever heard.

“Be where your feet are. You keep letting your mind go everywhere at once, here and there, past and future. But life demands to be lived one second at a time, one foot in front of the other. So just take a

73 deep breath. And be where your feet are.”

And maybe, just maybe, that advice would have pulled him back behind the steering wheel of that Ford Escape, with sunset in the rearview mirror, two cargo trucks in the lane to his right, and the scenic Maine hills in the distance, if those words hadn’t been hers. Because in truth, those words were not just the words themselves, but the merciful look in her soft brown eyes, the transparency of the mind behind them, and the warmth of the tightly clenching embrace that would follow.

She was so fucking nice. He almost hated how nice she was because it reminded him of how nice he wasn’t. It was like she was in love with every person she met, remembering every name, laughing at every joke, and somehow recalling every little detail of every single one of their lives. She’d ask the kid from Biology class if his nephew’s cough had gotten better, the custodians how their concert went, and every lonely kid in the dining hall if they’d like to sit with us. Maybe her magnanimity had made him feel occasionally small or comparatively less important, but it was always in the most strangely wonderful way. Like he was something as small as a particle, but the whole which subsumed him was her. He remembered how proud he had been to be the one she’d chosen, the one and only person out of all the people who loved her, that she chose to love back, and not just to love in passing but to love each and every day, to give herself to wholeheartedly and forever.

And his mind choked over that last word, forever, and he could’ve sworn he was about to puke. And he began to feel a burning sensation behind his shoulders, and his breaths grew quicker and quicker and quicker, and his balance felt uneasy, and he looked into the rearview mirror, and he wondered if he might pop. And he tried to slow his breathing, scouring his memory for ways to calm himself, hearkening back the advice he’d received to drink a cool glass of water or walk barefoot in grass, and he remembered that that was yet another piece of advice that he’d received from her, and it shouldn’t matter that it was her because the advice was futile to begin with, but it did matter and he didn’t know why, and his breath began to hasten again, and he wondered why she seemed so perfect in his head, why he could find

74 no faults, because he was sure that she had them, because who doesn’t have them, and how else could he possibly explain why they weren’t still together? And so he tried his best to think of the bad times, wanting desperately to feel liberated by the separation, as though he were at the dawn of a new chapter instead of the end of an old book. And so he set his mind on the bad, the inconvenient, the imperfect parts of her, of which he feared there were so few.

She was horrible with directions. She would always insist that she knew the way home, eventually causing them to get terribly lost, and he remembered how angry he might’ve felt if he weren’t always so busy laughing. She couldn’t spell worth a damn either. She must have convinced herself once when she was young that the letter “e” always preceded the letter “i”, because never, no matter how many times she was corrected, would she be able to accurately place those letters in sequence. It perplexed him. She’d spell “fierce” as “feirce”, and “their” as “thier”, and then all of a sudden, she would manage to spell “weird” as “wierd”, and he would have no clue how this time, on the one occasion that it was wrong, she would manage to flip the letters around.

And again, despite his always prickly demeanor, he would find himself laughing because there was something so wonderful about her consistency and something so amusing about the smartest person he knew making a buffoon of herself in everything she wrote. She was so hard to be mad at. Not only because love had made him forgiving, but because somehow his affinity for her had made it so that the sensation of anger pointed in her direction always somehow felt more like guilt directed at himself. The truth was, if he really pressed his mind, she did do things wrong, like anyone else, but always when those feelings of offense would surface inside of him, he would admonish himself, feeling as though he had no right to feel anything but adoration for her. Though he knew she’d caused him pain. Of course, she had. There was no way to care that much for a person, and never feel it expressed as pain. Things as little as disregard and negligence, when coming from her, could level him, could set his mind scrambling, could make him feel like an astronaut in the ether, listening helplessly as the air hisses out of his suit.

And abruptly, he was back on that snowy Monday night, se-

75 nior year, living the most extraordinarily mundane life, amidst the most tumultuous emotions he could muster. He’d had plans that night. Jack wanted to go with him to their favorite pizza place because they held a dollar-a-slice sale on Mondays, and because the pair of them hadn’t seen each other in over a week, and because for two people who used to share a bedroom, that somehow felt terribly strange. On top of that, half the club soccer team was going to a trivia night later on and maybe Jack and he could’ve tagged along after dinner, or maybe he could have just dropped in himself to make an appearance, or who even knows.

Maybe he just could’ve spent the night watching old favorite movies and munching on the pint of Haagen-Dazs that had been stored in his freezer for the better half of the semester. But none of that happened, and if he were honest with himself none of that was ever going to happen because at 1:43 pm, she’d texted him “Do you have dinner plans,” and at 1:43 pm, he’d texted back, “No, what did you have in mind?”

He left class early, he filled up the water bottle she liked to use when she came over, and he even parked his car closer to the apartment on the off chance she wanted to go somewhere other than the dining hall. She didn’t, and they ate, and they laughed, but really it was mostly him laughing, and then they went back to his apartment to watch the next episode of “Dancing with the Stars,” because that’s what they did when what they really wanted was to just occupy the same space for a little while longer. And there, they talked, and they kissed, and she rested her head between his chin and collarbone and squeezed her legs into his and held him lightly, and her dirty blonde hair frizzed up and made his nose feel itchy, but he didn’t say a word because he couldn’t stand the thought of her being anywhere other than exactly where she was.

And then, like it was nothing at all, she got a text from some friend or another that there was some birthday or another, and someone somewhere wanted her to be somewhere other than here, and she had to go, and she was so sorry, and minutes later she was gone, and he was still there. He looked at the screen, still flashing their show, and he took a moment to itch his nose and to drink from the unused water bottle, and he felt something that he didn’t understand and couldn’t easily place. It was the sort of emotion there’s supposed to be a name for, but

76 there isn’t, and it makes you wonder what the whole point of language is anyway.

And he thought about texting Jack, or reaching out to other friends, but he’d told everyone that he was busy, and it was too late now anyway, and all he wanted was to text her or call her or see her or hear her, but it was too soon and too weird for him to reach out again. And he wondered how it was that she would rather have been doing anything than being here with him, and he wondered if there’s something egotistical about thinking that, and he wondered if she ever thought the same thing about him. He wondered if she knew the way that his thoughts would echo her name or how her whims would sway his beliefs, and he wondered if she’d still love him if she knew, or if she’d love him more or less, or whatever else. And she did love him, and he knew that, and it was so difficult to understand why that knowledge didn’t comfort him. And a thought passed through him, and he sat a moment longer in silence, wishing desperately that she might love him the way he loved her.

And a breath later, he’d returned to Maine, his eyes on the road, and he realized that a tear had begun its way down his left cheek, and his lower lip quaked when he tried to take a deep breath. And he blinked again, and his eyes grew even more flooded, but he held back their collapse, as though his pupils were a dam, erected for this purpose. And he wondered if he could bottle these tears, these specific tears, if he could keep them just as they are, trapped atop his sullen eyes, and see the world forever through their lens, coloring his every experience with this particular sadness. If he could just hold them in place, just like this, for the rest of his conscious life. And he wondered if maybe he held this pain so close to his chest, so tightly intertwined with his being, because the pain, though devastating, was the last link he had to her, the final vestige of the woman he’d sworn was his present and his future. And he felt two distinct pinches behind his throat, like a wide mouthed snake had plunged its canines into the nape of his neck.

And he wondered if he might vomit.

And then, the Ford Escape belonging to Elliot James, cruising 86 miles per hour down New Hampshire route 9, jolted back as though

77 he had slammed the brakes, and he heard a loud puffing sound above his back right tire, and the car slowed slightly, and finally his panic felt rational. After a few slowed miles, a small, dirt-covered exit sign showed on the side of the highway, and with it the heaven-sent listing of accommodations in the area, including a gas station––a gas station which he would stop at, and where he would ask the cashier about automotive repair in the area, and where he would receive directions to Oak Bell, Maine, the small, but not yet abandoned town just a dozen miles further up the road, where he would find an innocuous little intersection with a glass-walled auto-repair shop, the same shop where, soon enough, his mind would finally collapse.

He parked his car just in front of the translucent glass walls, past which he could see the bespectacled bearded man in a red work polo, filling out paperwork about God-knows-what. And Elliot James stepped out of his car, and felt the frigid breeze blow between the buttons of his flannel. And he placed his right hand on the rusted door handle, and pulled first before realizing it was a push. And he stepped inside, and explained his car’s dysfunction to the best of his ability. And time began to pass.

And now, Elliot James was there, in a place he didn’t recognize, a city he’d never meant to visit, sitting alone on a thin, uneasy, plastic chair, doubting the man’s promise that their service would be quick and easy, because it had not been easy, not thus far, because they did not have the right light for looking under the car, and because this specific exhaust required examination from beneath the vehicle, and so they would have to lift the machine with another machine and slide underneath, and also at this time, because he was sitting alone, and because the world had fallen silent except for a few muddled nonsense automotive descriptions, which might have sounded like gibberish if they didn’t so much sound like music, he had caught eye of a small fruit fly, which wiggled about on the sashlock of the building’s back window, then danced up to the fan, then scurried and piroutted around him, and flew back behind the desk, and never emerged, and he tried to center his mind, scanning his body from head to foot, feeling his armhair under his sleeves, his belly beneath his belt, his toes within

78 his socks, whatever it took to turn the volume down inside his brain, to hear a tune instead of a clamor, but it felt so wretchedly fruitless, because the truth was he had been hit, and he did think hit was the right term, by a wave, or better yet, a tsunami of thoughts, the sort you don’t always want, because they’re peppered with the little regrets and memories, and Oh My God What If I Don’t Do That On Time, and then the thought that maybe everything is like that now, on a deadline that is, because of course you are aging, and you are changing, and you are growing, or perhaps deteriorating, and so whatever you can do, you must do, before you stop being you, and she never liked it when you changed, and so the goal, if you ever had one, is to be whatever you were, for better or worse, to be you from the past, although he’s the one who fucked it all up to begin with, and maybe you didn’t fuck up, but what else describes a course of actions that take you to the worst place you’ve ever been, and this is all to say that you wish you were anywhere besides where you are, that every little axiom in your head is starting to seem false, and you don’t know who you’re becoming, and you see her angry eyes and you feel every last word as though for the first time, hurling across from you to her and her to you, bubbling out of each of you like daggers into the other, and you wonder which of those words were weapons and which were armor, and how could you even be here, how could it be that the one person you’d let into those locked doors and hidden hallways of your brain could have disappeared and burned it all down, who’d hacked at your scaffolding until you were something totally unalike yourself, more different each day, which is to say you are changing, or deteriorating, and you wonder what she will make of the new you, the changed you, when she sees him down the road somewhere, maybe five years from now, and you cringe at the date, the thought of five years of pavement seeping over your fuck-ups from today, and would it have really been so hard to just give her what she wanted, whatever that was, what was it, and why couldn’t you give it, why couldn’t you change or stay the same or be stronger or weaker, more independent, more subservient, more whatever-the-fuck-sheseeded-you-to-be, because you can be anything, anything at all, except without her, because you never liked yourself till you met her, and you

79 haven’t liked yourself since, and what if this whole damn thing goes back to Your ego?

And the bearded man returns from the garage, and Elliot returns from his mind, and the man says, without irony, “It’ll be a tougher repair than we thought.”

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Eau de parfum: mémoire en bouteille

after Marceline Desbordes-Valmore’s Les Roses de Saadi,

By Grace Haak The remembrance reverberates.

I see a silk sash stuffed with splendor Trinkets collected from a local vendor Knots tied up as if a form of art Thorns pressed up against my heart But for you, I’d pierce my soul.

The recollection resonates.

I feel wind entangle my hair in twists Matted and messy from soft sea mist Dripping and damp from a walk too far Only thought is getting to where you are But for you, I’d run forever.

The reminiscence resounds.

I smell a sweet scent of rose The kind that always tickles my nose Stuck in an overpowering haze A sickly aroma drags me into a daze But for you, I’d plant a garden.

81 Sometimes, when I forget to forget you I leave the sea with crushed petals and stained hands.

The blood on my hands is yours.

I’ll wither and wilt, wondering why you left all your flowers when you said goodbye.

When I knock back my own perfume, the roses re-echo he loves me he loves me not he loves me he loves me not Poor girl. He doesn’t even give you a thought.

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The Nuclear Horizon

By Pierce Hand

I saw it and you saw it too, didn’t you?

Out there past the stars a glint of red or orange “Where the world ends” you said “Where our lives begin” I replied A hellish fire of burning light Touching the ends of the Earth but Wasn’t it something more?

You and I endured the bombs Shrapnel around us dying in a burst of glory As so many had gone around us And our ears ringing, We glanced at the wasteland we rooted our feet to Scarred and scared but alive You first beckoned at it: The nuclear horizon.

To the east and west it lay Devoid of life but impossibly neverending Did God just create the earth?

But darkness was not upon the face of the deep For the light blinded our eyes as it rose A sphere of yellow haze refracting upon everything Extending itself in glimmers and rays from its depths Imperfectly, it shone But was it not perfect bliss and beauty?

Even you noticed.

83 You walked forward, steps hesitant “Do you think I’ll step off the Earth if I keep going?”

I think you asked as you walked toward it The world’s point of no return Where nothing more could be seen and all journeys end So I joined you and and reassured you With a firm no, I lifted your head up And eyes to the sky, you believed me.

“Look at the light. Breathe in the warmth.

Keep walking forward and all will come to pass.

See how the sun still rises As we will too.”

And with that, I took your hand A timid, trembling mix of emotion And you and I We walked into the nuclear horizon.

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where you begin, where I end

By Believe Chakenya

let me exhale in your lungs give you a bit of the life you have given me black eyes keeled over lust of the flesh groaning. the pit in my stomach that butterflies flaps until my heart palpates and burns will you say that my love is not enough like the others? will you say that I have not burned fervently for you?

I swallow my fear you look into me and gnaw my terror to tatters I forget the beast you are how alike we are

85 how my breath beats in tandem with your lungs how you chew my fear before it even growls it’s deeper than finishing your sentence bone of my bone flesh of my flesh you are my Adam every atom we share your exhale is mine your breath is mine. your heart is mine.

I went to consume your being, but could not find where you began.

I cannot find where I end

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Babies on Trains

By Shane Stanton

I want to have the same effect on the world That a baby has with strangers on a train.

To be so perfectly clueless, Smiling at the slightest wave or silly face.

To bring an immense ephemeral joy To the few people around me.

I want to be a brief aside in dinner conversation.

In between spoonfuls of over-steamed peas, Some salary man will adjust his collar And say I saw a cute baby on the train today And the others at the table will smile And their day might get a little brighter Because everyone loves a cute baby on a train.

I don’t want them to remember me tomorrow, I just want to be some source of light for someone, today.

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All artwork was graciously provided by CJ Rodgers. Shown by order of appearance.

Banana Holder

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To be a Billboard and a Siloh

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To be a Motel

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Blaise

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To be a House

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Contributor Bios (in alphabetical order) Annie Brown is a sophomore born in New York and currently living in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. On campus, she’s in the Program of Liberal Studies with minors in French and Journalism, Ethics, & Democracy. Lately, Annie’s been reading Joan Didion, planning her summer road trip, and researching banned books.

She loves great storytelling, Anthony Bourdain: Parts Unknown, and dreaming about her next great meal!

Ari Bond is an only child who grew up in a light blue house on the street of Sulkey Dr. in Grayslake, Illinois. With this being her first publication, she is still in the early stages of exploring the depths and style of her writing. Majoring in psychology and Spanish, she has a profound appreciation for understanding how the emotions of others can be conveyed through different forms of expression. Her biggest role models are her mother and grandmother, whom she lives with in Pleasant Prairie, Wisconsin. In her free time, Ari loves to pick up a good romance novel!

Believe Chakenya is a freshman at Notre Dame studying Neuroscience and Behavior. She loves all things related to creativity, color, and Christianity. She spends her time finding new things to obsess over and new phases to partake in, and her phases and obsessions heavily inspire her work. Her current obsessions are to-do lists, video essays, Pinterest, and love poems. Her work has been featured in The Juggler and Scholastic.

CJ Escobar-Rodgers began as a finance major but realized he enjoyed making PowerPoints more than the research. He began museum work as a handler and researcher studying textiles, probing an affinity for fibers and work inspired by animist ways

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of experiencing. Soon after, CJ’s works were installed in the Psychology Department and in the Main Building. In 2023, he exhibited in IN, IL, MO, RI, and NY, and gained representation in the Midwest Museum of American Art collection. This year, he will have solo shows at Highland Gallery in South Bend and Czong Institute for Contemporary Art in South Korea.

Clare Barloon is a Senior studying Art History, Global Affairs, and French. She is currently preoccupied writing a senior thesis on contemporary art and worrying about the future. She spends her time procrastinating on her work by drawing and writing poetry. Some of her favorite poets include Richard Silken, Fernando Pessoa, and Anne Carson. This is her second time publishing in Re:Visions.

Daniel Lucke is a senior from Atlanta, Georgia. He has also written for The Observer, and has been head writer of the Keenan Revue for three years.

E.E. Sullivan is a junior from Los Angeles studying Anthropology and Chinese Language. She has published poetry in Notre Dame’s The Juggler and draws inspiration from her love of languages, history, and anthropology. Her favorite poets are W.B. Yeats and W.S. Merwin, and she also enjoys science fiction novels and short stories. Beyond poetry, she focuses on writing fantasy and science fiction novels, and she dreams of someday being tapped by Disney to write a Star Wars book.

Eshaanika Raje is an Indian writer. Born and bred in the vibrant city of Mumbai, she navigates the complexities of contemporary India through her fiction. Eshaanika is pursuing a degree in Finance and Applied Math at the University of Notre Dame, but

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has relevant coursework in Fiction and Creative Writing at Notre Dame. Her fiction—largely contemporary and historical—explores life on the margins and spirituality. Inspired by her lineage tracing back to Lord Bharat of Hindu mythology, she intertwines elements of Hindu mythology into her work, weaving a tapestry where individuals in dire circumstances challenge their destinies.

Her dedication to shedding light on societal issues through a blend of reality and fantasy marks her as a compelling voice in contemporary literature.

Grace Haak is a senior neuroscience student who expresses herself best through poetry. She is inspired by narrative medicine, compassion, and memories, and she would describe her work as both angsty and glittery. She loves puns and creating crazy weird imagery. Grace’s work has been featured in Notre Dame’s The Juggler magazine and New York University’s Brio journal.

Jenkin Benson is a 2nd year PhD student at the University of Notre Dame. He principally studies the creative interchange between Welsh and Irish modernists. You can find various links to his poetry at chillsubs.com under the username siencynapbened.

José Alfonso González is a senior at the University of Notre Dame studying English with a Peace Studies minor and a concentration in Creative Writing. His writing is centered around a region of low-income communities, failing immigrant tales, and resistance against Western hegemony. This is his first and final year contributing to Re:Visions, and his first year being a part of the team. He has also been published in the Nepantla Journal under Dominican University.

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Meg Beuter is a senior with majors in American Studies and English and a minor in Education, Schooling, & Society (ESS).

She is originally from Nashville and always misses the Tennessee mountains while she lives in South Bend. She loves to sing with her choir, do yoga, and play cards with her friends. And, of course, she loves to read and write poetry. Her poems have been published in The Juggler and SJPCL Writes, the St. Joseph County Public Library literary journal. She hopes to bring creativity into her classroom as a teacher next year.

Molly O’Toole is a senior from Arlington, MA. She studies English and Peace Studies with a concentration in creative writing.

This is her fourth and final year contributing to Re:Visions, and her first year being a part of the team. She is very grateful for the community that creative writing at ND has given her, and plans to continue writing poems about bodies of water.

Pierce Hand is a sophomore undergraduate student majoring in Science Preprofessional Studies and Spanish but unleashes his creative side singing in the Notre Dame Glee Club and performing musicals with PEMCo. The poetry he writes often comes on a whim, mere combinations of daydreams. Words sprout from his mind and bloom into a perfect title. Perhaps a scene from real life opens his eyes. Whatever it is, his writing is marked by a certain surrealism, peaceful and disconcerting events alike marked by the same tranquil tone. This is his first publication at the college level!

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Priscilla Angkasa is a Science PreProfessional major with a minor in Anthropology from Jakarta, Indonesia. She writes about her experiences as a Southeast Asian diaspora in the United States. She is a senior at the University of Notre Dame and is pursuing a career in Physical Therapy.

Shane Stanton is a senior at the University of Notre Dame majoring in English and Economics with a minor in French and Francophone studies. He likes, among other things, skipping rocks and chewing slowly. His work is conversational and light, mostly dealing with his environment and the people he encounters. These poems are the first to escape his notes app or messy assemblage of Google Docs. He looks forward to the possibility of publishing his work elsewhere.

Victoria Dominesey is a senior at the University of Notre Dame, double majoring in English and FTT with concentrations in creative writing and television. She has lived all over the country while growing up, but her family currently resides in Fredericksburg, Virginia. Victoria is a fiction writer who also loves filmmaking. Her work has been published in two prior editions of Re:Visions.

Will Dwortz is a senior studying English and neuroscience. He writes primarily about memory, dissociation, and self-alienation.

Very few of his poems extend longer than a page and he focuses on brief encounters. He believes that sometimes seeming nonsense is the best way to describe feeling if it can combine connotation in an interesting way. He writes mostly as a tool for reflection and hopes that his poems might provide something for others to reflect upon and add to.

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