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www.spectrum.neu.edu

Fall 2016

SPECTRUM Literary Arts Magazine


STAFF:

CONTENTS

Editor-in-Chief            Elke Thoms Layout & Design Editor         Natalya Jean Financial Manager            Kaley Bachelder Secretary                Andrew Madanjian Advertising Manager           Remenna Xu

Bittersweet  Sam Penney      4         Fog in Dingle  Emily Mui  

Annotations Sharon Zhu            26 On Black Basalm  Stephen Hurley

An intersection of sorts       6 Melissa Fitzgerald 8 rings, 8 legs, infinite possibilities  Monica Keszler    

A Collection of Young Emotion,    28 Part III  Sam Penney Ornate Archway Leila Habib                   

Drinkers  J. F. Connolly            8 Arthur’s Seat  Georgeanne Oliver

Haiku #1 Edward Nardi       30 Livelihood  Liza Ashley 

hunger  Natalya Jean         10 Feather  Miyuki Blois  

Telepathy Melissa Fitzgerald       32 Fire on Third Cliff  Gabe Goodman

Ocean  Miyuki Blois                 

Ode to Cookies  Nicole Sojkowski  Joey Justine Newman     

GENERAL MEMBERS: Felicity Henson, Stephen Hurley, Emily Mui, Kate O’Brien, Abdul Padela, Natalia Queenan, Christine Rowley, Haniyyah Tobarri

CONTACT: Office                234 Curry Student Center Email                 spectrum.magazine@gmail.com Mailbox                434 Curry Student Center Website               www.spectrum.neu.edu Facebook               fb.com/spectrumneu Twitter/Instagram           @NUSpectrum Cover art adapted from “Spectrum” by Samanjate Sood. Title page art adapted from “Orange Rose” by Sam Penney. No part of this publication may be reproduced without the permission of Spectrum Literary Arts Magazine and/or respective authors. Spectrum Literary Arts Magazine reserves the right to edit submissions for layout, grammar, spelling, and punctuation unless otherwise indicated by the author. Any references to people living or dead are purely coincidental except in the case of public figures. The views and opinions represented in this media do not necessarily reflect those of Northeastern University or the staff of Spectrum Literary Arts Magazine.

Copyright© Spectrum Literary Arts Magazine and respective authors. All rights reserved.

             

12

34

Hope  Felicity Henson        14 Green Fairytale  Emily Mui            

hardee’s Kaylee Stewart       36 Approaching Granada Storm  Leila Habib        

Synesthesia  H. C. Moore       16 The Funnies  Justine Newman               

Twenty-Two Stories  Callie Marsalisi   38 She the Desert, and I the City She Ran From Monica Keszler       

up in a tree, late Fall  Rick Faletto   18 Deep in the Clouds  Natalie Hoch 

Spectacle Natalia Queenan     40 Ocean State  Remenna Xu 

Bedroom View  Elke Thoms    City Lights  Samanjate Sood

20

Hannaford Brothers  Michael Brown  42                

22

Cardiac J. F. Connolly        44 Orange Rose  Sam Penney

Haiku for Sleepless Nights Felicity Henson Misty Irish Midnights  Kristina Hagman    

   

love song to a Legend      Hamza Maanane Vitality  Liza Ashley  

  

                 24

Diary Entering Gabe Goodman   46 Venice Blue  Georgeanne Oliver               


STAFF:

CONTENTS

Editor-in-Chief            Elke Thoms Layout & Design Editor         Natalya Jean Financial Manager            Kaley Bachelder Secretary                Andrew Madanjian Advertising Manager           Remenna Xu

Bittersweet  Sam Penney      4         Fog in Dingle  Emily Mui  

Annotations Sharon Zhu            26 On Black Basalm  Stephen Hurley

An intersection of sorts       6 Melissa Fitzgerald 8 rings, 8 legs, infinite possibilities  Monica Keszler    

A Collection of Young Emotion,    28 Part III  Sam Penney Ornate Archway Leila Habib                   

Drinkers  J. F. Connolly            8 Arthur’s Seat  Georgeanne Oliver

Haiku #1 Edward Nardi       30 Livelihood  Liza Ashley 

hunger  Natalya Jean         10 Feather  Miyuki Blois  

Telepathy Melissa Fitzgerald       32 Fire on Third Cliff  Gabe Goodman

Ocean  Miyuki Blois                 

Ode to Cookies  Nicole Sojkowski  Joey Justine Newman     

GENERAL MEMBERS: Felicity Henson, Stephen Hurley, Emily Mui, Kate O’Brien, Abdul Padela, Natalia Queenan, Christine Rowley, Haniyyah Tobarri

CONTACT: Office                234 Curry Student Center Email                 spectrum.magazine@gmail.com Mailbox                434 Curry Student Center Website               www.spectrum.neu.edu Facebook               fb.com/spectrumneu Twitter/Instagram           @NUSpectrum Cover art adapted from “Spectrum” by Samanjate Sood. Title page art adapted from “Orange Rose” by Sam Penney. No part of this publication may be reproduced without the permission of Spectrum Literary Arts Magazine and/or respective authors. Spectrum Literary Arts Magazine reserves the right to edit submissions for layout, grammar, spelling, and punctuation unless otherwise indicated by the author. Any references to people living or dead are purely coincidental except in the case of public figures. The views and opinions represented in this media do not necessarily reflect those of Northeastern University or the staff of Spectrum Literary Arts Magazine.

Copyright© Spectrum Literary Arts Magazine and respective authors. All rights reserved.

             

12

34

Hope  Felicity Henson        14 Green Fairytale  Emily Mui            

hardee’s Kaylee Stewart       36 Approaching Granada Storm  Leila Habib        

Synesthesia  H. C. Moore       16 The Funnies  Justine Newman               

Twenty-Two Stories  Callie Marsalisi   38 She the Desert, and I the City She Ran From Monica Keszler       

up in a tree, late Fall  Rick Faletto   18 Deep in the Clouds  Natalie Hoch 

Spectacle Natalia Queenan     40 Ocean State  Remenna Xu 

Bedroom View  Elke Thoms    City Lights  Samanjate Sood

20

Hannaford Brothers  Michael Brown  42                

22

Cardiac J. F. Connolly        44 Orange Rose  Sam Penney

Haiku for Sleepless Nights Felicity Henson Misty Irish Midnights  Kristina Hagman    

   

love song to a Legend      Hamza Maanane Vitality  Liza Ashley  

  

                 24

Diary Entering Gabe Goodman   46 Venice Blue  Georgeanne Oliver               


4 Bittersweet | Sam Penney Bittersweet. My favorite taste of memory. Stirred into my morning coffee, It expands the view out my window To include all the days I’ve woken up Sprawled across the yawning horizon. The tranquility of it all is offset terribly By a muffled thump. It almost seems regular, Each wave sending thoughts of blue, Pastel pink and gold, Days where youth reigned. I am still young, I think between sips. The body stirs itself in an old way The sourness of “regret” without grey hair Reaching out in all directions but forward The tongue knows what it wants. Another sip of coffee.

Fog in Dingle | Emily Mui


4 Bittersweet | Sam Penney Bittersweet. My favorite taste of memory. Stirred into my morning coffee, It expands the view out my window To include all the days I’ve woken up Sprawled across the yawning horizon. The tranquility of it all is offset terribly By a muffled thump. It almost seems regular, Each wave sending thoughts of blue, Pastel pink and gold, Days where youth reigned. I am still young, I think between sips. The body stirs itself in an old way The sourness of “regret” without grey hair Reaching out in all directions but forward The tongue knows what it wants. Another sip of coffee.

Fog in Dingle | Emily Mui


6 8 rings, 8 legs, infinite possibilities Monica Keszler

An intersection of sorts | Melissa Fitzgerald It’s another Valentine’s Day, and I think I’m on the verge of becoming real cynical, the particularly bitter brew that causes early wrinkles when all that ugly inside shit worms its way outside, loud and half-done and (surprisingly) permanent. The dreaded night of I dragged myself to a poetry reading as a favor to a friend. There in the row before us I saw an old couple with matching bald spots turn to each other at the exact same moment and chuckle, their noses an intersection where I think there’s love. I’m still not sure, but I think.


6 8 rings, 8 legs, infinite possibilities Monica Keszler

An intersection of sorts | Melissa Fitzgerald It’s another Valentine’s Day, and I think I’m on the verge of becoming real cynical, the particularly bitter brew that causes early wrinkles when all that ugly inside shit worms its way outside, loud and half-done and (surprisingly) permanent. The dreaded night of I dragged myself to a poetry reading as a favor to a friend. There in the row before us I saw an old couple with matching bald spots turn to each other at the exact same moment and chuckle, their noses an intersection where I think there’s love. I’m still not sure, but I think.


8 Drinkers | J. F. Connolly

Arthur’s Seat | Georgeanne Oliver

We loved each other: winter afternoons, the late light a pale hurt that dizzied the room, we took in Chianti and Cabernet, Burgundy and Bordeaux, bourbon and rye. Our glasses shrined the fireplace mantel. They were statues at our altar. We poured. We talked. We laughed. We drank ourselves to sleep. In summer, vodka and tonic, rum and Coke: we could hear the lazy planes overhead and we learned how night rises. We were poor. We worked to sit and drink and talk and tell each other that we were all there was to the world. We cooked. We ate. We ached our way through every week to drink again. We blacked out. We drank to remember seaside days of icy beer, bottle after bottle, empty promises no one believed. Between drinks, we kissed like beggars We cried. Childless, we wanted for nothing. We held each other and cradled the bottles. Breathless and tipsy, we never dropped a single one.


8 Drinkers | J. F. Connolly

Arthur’s Seat | Georgeanne Oliver

We loved each other: winter afternoons, the late light a pale hurt that dizzied the room, we took in Chianti and Cabernet, Burgundy and Bordeaux, bourbon and rye. Our glasses shrined the fireplace mantel. They were statues at our altar. We poured. We talked. We laughed. We drank ourselves to sleep. In summer, vodka and tonic, rum and Coke: we could hear the lazy planes overhead and we learned how night rises. We were poor. We worked to sit and drink and talk and tell each other that we were all there was to the world. We cooked. We ate. We ached our way through every week to drink again. We blacked out. We drank to remember seaside days of icy beer, bottle after bottle, empty promises no one believed. Between drinks, we kissed like beggars We cried. Childless, we wanted for nothing. We held each other and cradled the bottles. Breathless and tipsy, we never dropped a single one.


10 Feather | Miyuki Blois

hunched double forehead crushed to my knees i feel it she said, “you will devour yourself” a body without food can’t last for long young ears, listening hard i believed her my spine always first to succumb ripped from my skeleton cruel acid eroding soft ligament a vacuum of space and blood and stars and bone grows at my center i fall inwards

hunger | Natalya Jean


10 Feather | Miyuki Blois

hunched double forehead crushed to my knees i feel it she said, “you will devour yourself” a body without food can’t last for long young ears, listening hard i believed her my spine always first to succumb ripped from my skeleton cruel acid eroding soft ligament a vacuum of space and blood and stars and bone grows at my center i fall inwards

hunger | Natalya Jean


12

Ocean Miyuki Blois


12

Ocean Miyuki Blois


14 Green Fairytale | Emily Mui Hope | Felicity Henson if I didn’t believe in happy endings in fairies or aliens or God don’t think that I would smile at you don’t think that I could laugh don’t think that I’d be here at all


14 Green Fairytale | Emily Mui Hope | Felicity Henson if I didn’t believe in happy endings in fairies or aliens or God don’t think that I would smile at you don’t think that I could laugh don’t think that I’d be here at all


16 Synesthesia | H. C. Moore   I think the first time I realized I was in a bind was the day she sounded indigo.   Nothing had ever been indigo to me before. There were plenty of blues; electric, cobalt, sky. There were plenty of purples; violet, lilac, lavender. But never indigo, never a wash of pristine blue-purple that thrummed like electricity in my veins. There she was, though, with a voice lilting like bells against a backdrop of growing twilight.   It was a problem.   It was a problem because she was gray. Not to me, never to me, but to herself. She was a gray spectre with soft smiles that never met her eyes and a sadness she wore like armor. There was no color in her world, no room for anything inside the colorless prison she intended for herself. She was my euphoria, and her own dirge.   And I had no way to express the kaleidoscope to her. I inspired no splashes of color. For all the music she summoned in others, we were never anything more than note-less choirs shifting beneath her monochromatic dreamscape. She packed our songs, and our colors, and our sunshine in boxes. She set those boxes down in cubicles carved out in the apartment complex of her heart. She was welcoming to us all, but allotted everyone the same amount of space. She dealt in compartments, not penthouse suites.   She was warm to me, though.   I learned to exploit her sarcastic nature just to see the indigo wash over my mind. She mocked my dramatics and laughed at my jokes, and I smiled like a court fool, like any fool who desires their monarch. She came to trust me enough that I felt I could call her by name, which made her eyes glimmer with something akin to acceptance. The glimmer dimmed whenever I called her beautiful. It went out when I said “I love you.” There wasn’t enough summer in her for sentiment; she was all cold moonlight in winter.   But the sun is closest to the Earth in winter, so if I could not warm her, it was enough when she let me near.   When I spoke my affections one too many times, she took it upon herself to silence me. Indigo became intermingled with whorls of red when I felt her lips. Veins of white spread their fingers through the growing mosaic like spidersilk when I could taste her tongue. The kaleidoscope exploded like sunbursts when she did not stop. There was a knot in my chest when I could see her eyes reflecting the sunshine back at me like unmelting snow reflects back at the sky. She did not melt completely, but wherever she allowed me purchase, the rich texture of sleeping earth shot the newness of springtime to my core.   I thought I was in a bind the day she sounded indigo, but I was ensnared the day she tasted of starlight.   She spoke my name after that, a sound all bound up in fractals of colored light and the scent of pine wood crackling in a fire. And although she never said she loved me, she gave me the best she could offer:   “I trust you.”   And that had to be enough, because she was indigo. No one else could ever be indigo.

The Funnies | Justine Newman


16 Synesthesia | H. C. Moore   I think the first time I realized I was in a bind was the day she sounded indigo.   Nothing had ever been indigo to me before. There were plenty of blues; electric, cobalt, sky. There were plenty of purples; violet, lilac, lavender. But never indigo, never a wash of pristine blue-purple that thrummed like electricity in my veins. There she was, though, with a voice lilting like bells against a backdrop of growing twilight.   It was a problem.   It was a problem because she was gray. Not to me, never to me, but to herself. She was a gray spectre with soft smiles that never met her eyes and a sadness she wore like armor. There was no color in her world, no room for anything inside the colorless prison she intended for herself. She was my euphoria, and her own dirge.   And I had no way to express the kaleidoscope to her. I inspired no splashes of color. For all the music she summoned in others, we were never anything more than note-less choirs shifting beneath her monochromatic dreamscape. She packed our songs, and our colors, and our sunshine in boxes. She set those boxes down in cubicles carved out in the apartment complex of her heart. She was welcoming to us all, but allotted everyone the same amount of space. She dealt in compartments, not penthouse suites.   She was warm to me, though.   I learned to exploit her sarcastic nature just to see the indigo wash over my mind. She mocked my dramatics and laughed at my jokes, and I smiled like a court fool, like any fool who desires their monarch. She came to trust me enough that I felt I could call her by name, which made her eyes glimmer with something akin to acceptance. The glimmer dimmed whenever I called her beautiful. It went out when I said “I love you.” There wasn’t enough summer in her for sentiment; she was all cold moonlight in winter.   But the sun is closest to the Earth in winter, so if I could not warm her, it was enough when she let me near.   When I spoke my affections one too many times, she took it upon herself to silence me. Indigo became intermingled with whorls of red when I felt her lips. Veins of white spread their fingers through the growing mosaic like spidersilk when I could taste her tongue. The kaleidoscope exploded like sunbursts when she did not stop. There was a knot in my chest when I could see her eyes reflecting the sunshine back at me like unmelting snow reflects back at the sky. She did not melt completely, but wherever she allowed me purchase, the rich texture of sleeping earth shot the newness of springtime to my core.   I thought I was in a bind the day she sounded indigo, but I was ensnared the day she tasted of starlight.   She spoke my name after that, a sound all bound up in fractals of colored light and the scent of pine wood crackling in a fire. And although she never said she loved me, she gave me the best she could offer:   “I trust you.”   And that had to be enough, because she was indigo. No one else could ever be indigo.

The Funnies | Justine Newman


Deep in the Clouds | Natalie Hoch

up in a tree, late Fall | Rick Faletto

18

a fluffed rug of green pine resting on orange-gray stone chips, calling calm soft from their distant, lichenous source. and the yellow leaves brush with each inhale, brush their painting into the breeze. audibly, like a hawk’s cry colors a canyon wild.   gently, like the smoothness of bark  breathing   against my skin. perhaps, all peace asks for is attention to the rhythm of things. to pause in the pacing and the path-making and breathe in communion with wind. release a dormant ohm, and listen with body limp.


Deep in the Clouds | Natalie Hoch

up in a tree, late Fall | Rick Faletto

18

a fluffed rug of green pine resting on orange-gray stone chips, calling calm soft from their distant, lichenous source. and the yellow leaves brush with each inhale, brush their painting into the breeze. audibly, like a hawk’s cry colors a canyon wild.   gently, like the smoothness of bark  breathing   against my skin. perhaps, all peace asks for is attention to the rhythm of things. to pause in the pacing and the path-making and breathe in communion with wind. release a dormant ohm, and listen with body limp.


20 City Lights | Samanjate Sood

Bedroom View | Elke Thoms The Citgo sign is mocking me. It blinks: HA. HA. Ha ha ha. Because once again I’m spending the night Staring straight at its flashing face Instead of gazing at the colors, softened As they outline you Above me.


20 City Lights | Samanjate Sood

Bedroom View | Elke Thoms The Citgo sign is mocking me. It blinks: HA. HA. Ha ha ha. Because once again I’m spending the night Staring straight at its flashing face Instead of gazing at the colors, softened As they outline you Above me.


22 Misty Irish Midnights | Kristina Hagman

Haiku for Sleepless Nights | Felicity Henson I am nothing but the knots in my stomach and the holes in my chest.


22 Misty Irish Midnights | Kristina Hagman

Haiku for Sleepless Nights | Felicity Henson I am nothing but the knots in my stomach and the holes in my chest.


24 Vitality | Liza Ashley i carved your name through my face in the mirror, effaced the bare necessity of bearing an identity– drowning in myth is a bliss that lasts minutes but stable breath leaks true stories limp.

love song to a Legend | Hamza Maanane

i carved it in cursive, one stroke scarred in glass– there’s just something in that way that You walk, those babbling steps tumbling, polishing rock,   piercing kingdoms: a river;   caressing them: a moat, a moat i can stand in and breathe in deep– that makes me think of nothing but distilled liquidness, a stream of consciousness i swim against or swim with, drifting like either dun fish or sediment. often the latter–my own brand of defeatism: deceived by dim demons drug from the depths of my innermost tombs, like the dregs from a coffee cup caked in crust from use and reuse– i’m swept in the tide of bitter-black desperation.  i look up towards constellations and pretend You’re there, watching, a vacuous outline of unrelated pinpricks made body by thousands of visions and revisions, until an angel is all i could possibly see– until there’s no differentiating You from me. i built a paper pedestal constructed in vain, the bare skeleton of Jacob’s ladder– yet You roost upon it so delicately, with your soft posture and resistance to gravity; what am i supposed to think? but that You’re a waterfall in reverse: that You’ll sweep my grime like a tide and cut me in line while i’m waiting anxious for heaven. well i don’t believe in heaven, and i don’t believe in angels. i just believe in figments like my self and like my Love.


24 Vitality | Liza Ashley i carved your name through my face in the mirror, effaced the bare necessity of bearing an identity– drowning in myth is a bliss that lasts minutes but stable breath leaks true stories limp.

love song to a Legend | Hamza Maanane

i carved it in cursive, one stroke scarred in glass– there’s just something in that way that You walk, those babbling steps tumbling, polishing rock,   piercing kingdoms: a river;   caressing them: a moat, a moat i can stand in and breathe in deep– that makes me think of nothing but distilled liquidness, a stream of consciousness i swim against or swim with, drifting like either dun fish or sediment. often the latter–my own brand of defeatism: deceived by dim demons drug from the depths of my innermost tombs, like the dregs from a coffee cup caked in crust from use and reuse– i’m swept in the tide of bitter-black desperation.  i look up towards constellations and pretend You’re there, watching, a vacuous outline of unrelated pinpricks made body by thousands of visions and revisions, until an angel is all i could possibly see– until there’s no differentiating You from me. i built a paper pedestal constructed in vain, the bare skeleton of Jacob’s ladder– yet You roost upon it so delicately, with your soft posture and resistance to gravity; what am i supposed to think? but that You’re a waterfall in reverse: that You’ll sweep my grime like a tide and cut me in line while i’m waiting anxious for heaven. well i don’t believe in heaven, and i don’t believe in angels. i just believe in figments like my self and like my Love.


26 Annotations | Sharon Zhu I’m analyzing you             The way your lines are                 Flipped to one                     Side The next stanza So perfectly spoken    

Indent here

   

Just once

   

Just enough

B u t _t h e_b r o a d _p a r a g r a p h s_w e r e_n e v e r_e n o u g h_t o_d e s c r i b e_y o u r_f e e l i n g s There was always something More Than I could decipher And based on context clues There’s a passage for me too But you started writing on the next page Before you finished writing mine Boy was I     Quick to           jump to Conclusion.

On Black Basalm | Stephen Hurley


26 Annotations | Sharon Zhu I’m analyzing you             The way your lines are                 Flipped to one                     Side The next stanza So perfectly spoken    

Indent here

   

Just once

   

Just enough

B u t _t h e_b r o a d _p a r a g r a p h s_w e r e_n e v e r_e n o u g h_t o_d e s c r i b e_y o u r_f e e l i n g s There was always something More Than I could decipher And based on context clues There’s a passage for me too But you started writing on the next page Before you finished writing mine Boy was I     Quick to           jump to Conclusion.

On Black Basalm | Stephen Hurley


28 A Collection of Young Emotion, Part III Sam Penney I know we never were an item but I know you’re with another man but I know I made mistakes and hurt you I know I’ve not earned the right to love you But The way those eyes glow at me The way you make me feel at peace The way you smile goes right through me The way your touch takes away a piece Of my soul of my being Oh my heart Oh my heart is bleeding The quickness of it all The fleeting nature of our short term romance I can feel my body fall Fall for you fall into death fall into happenstance The way that face put me to sleep Knocked me off my feet The way this day feels like I’m 6 foot deep But It was all worth it, for a moment A moment away a moment present Present in your warmth and welcomeness My eager mind that gives out holiness To beauty who speaks kindly to it To lovely who speaks kindly of it The amazing and the wonderful The open and the powerful But The moment is over now That moment I wonder over how I could get this far how I could push so hard And I can’t, it wasn’t me. No, it’s a charge I accept, for my sin is my sin And I will take it home again To think it over and over and over Until my brain with apologies spills over Until the words coagulate to form them Blood reacting with snake venom But

Ornate Archway Leila Habib

Too little too late It was a single date And I feel old Older than an oak tree old And at only nineteen I’m still new To the game, I have time to hew This heart of stone into something intimate To make myself a man who is legitimate, Genuine, the picture of personal perfection The man I will one day admire in reflection But I hold myself back I look to my lack Of control and think of the past The eyes, your eyes, that image will last In my being and burn this, A reminder that that me had to exist. I will love again. I will live again. It’s those eyes. Damn those eyes.


28 A Collection of Young Emotion, Part III Sam Penney I know we never were an item but I know you’re with another man but I know I made mistakes and hurt you I know I’ve not earned the right to love you But The way those eyes glow at me The way you make me feel at peace The way you smile goes right through me The way your touch takes away a piece Of my soul of my being Oh my heart Oh my heart is bleeding The quickness of it all The fleeting nature of our short term romance I can feel my body fall Fall for you fall into death fall into happenstance The way that face put me to sleep Knocked me off my feet The way this day feels like I’m 6 foot deep But It was all worth it, for a moment A moment away a moment present Present in your warmth and welcomeness My eager mind that gives out holiness To beauty who speaks kindly to it To lovely who speaks kindly of it The amazing and the wonderful The open and the powerful But The moment is over now That moment I wonder over how I could get this far how I could push so hard And I can’t, it wasn’t me. No, it’s a charge I accept, for my sin is my sin And I will take it home again To think it over and over and over Until my brain with apologies spills over Until the words coagulate to form them Blood reacting with snake venom But

Ornate Archway Leila Habib

Too little too late It was a single date And I feel old Older than an oak tree old And at only nineteen I’m still new To the game, I have time to hew This heart of stone into something intimate To make myself a man who is legitimate, Genuine, the picture of personal perfection The man I will one day admire in reflection But I hold myself back I look to my lack Of control and think of the past The eyes, your eyes, that image will last In my being and burn this, A reminder that that me had to exist. I will love again. I will live again. It’s those eyes. Damn those eyes.


30 Livelihood | Liza Ashley

Haiku #1 | Edward Nardi Watery trees shake As a cigarette butt breaks The puddles remake


30 Livelihood | Liza Ashley

Haiku #1 | Edward Nardi Watery trees shake As a cigarette butt breaks The puddles remake


32 They say some twins have telepathy that extends across oceans, messages treading invisible tightropes across continents in seconds, like what inventors originally minded the telegram for (except less military) yet here we sit, silent, in the same room, and I’d like to ask what she’s thinking, but I’m afraid she’ll be annoyed by the query, so silence it is, as we sit in the quiet question mark of our old bedroom, amidst old notebooks, worn sundresses, and spare shoelaces on the twin beds we abandoned so many years before. And even the comforters know not to make a sound as we shift uncomfortably in a house so suddenly forlorn.

Telepathy | Melissa Fitzgerald

Fire on Third Cliff | Gabe Goodman


32 They say some twins have telepathy that extends across oceans, messages treading invisible tightropes across continents in seconds, like what inventors originally minded the telegram for (except less military) yet here we sit, silent, in the same room, and I’d like to ask what she’s thinking, but I’m afraid she’ll be annoyed by the query, so silence it is, as we sit in the quiet question mark of our old bedroom, amidst old notebooks, worn sundresses, and spare shoelaces on the twin beds we abandoned so many years before. And even the comforters know not to make a sound as we shift uncomfortably in a house so suddenly forlorn.

Telepathy | Melissa Fitzgerald

Fire on Third Cliff | Gabe Goodman


34 Ode to Cookies | Nicole Sojkowski Your dough made of flour, eggs, sugar and salt Your sweet scent knows no bounds and makes me come to a halt. Perfect little spheres all in a row, Tucked into the oven and starting to grow. 10 minutes go by and you’re a perfect golden brown. I immediately take a hot, gooey bite. Maybe I should have let it cool off on the tray. Yet even when burning my mouth you won’t find a frown The taste of heaven is quite a respite This is why molten cookies will always be bae. The survivors of my pillage pile up on a plate The sweet melted chips sitting pretty like bait Just crisp enough to stay in one piece I blink and the numbers start to decrease There is no loud crack, crumble, or crunch With these cookies–no, no Even after their proper cool-down they are a smooth delight. These buttery creations continuously getting munched Three then four then six until I have to slow Saving them for a snack at midnight. The golden ratio of sugars exact as usual Create that wafting fragrant aroma that’s crucial Melted down and foraged to perfection This kind of homemade excellence can’t escape my detection. It’s hard to imagine the separate ingredients from just 3 hours past Slowly churning, slowly earning their spot in my tummy. Not-so-slowly disappearing as I consumed raw brilliance I gaze remorsefully toward my hand at the last The beads of chocolate embedded in an ambrosia of yummy Then ‘snarf,’ the last cookie (for now) is out of existence.

Joey | Justine Newman


34 Ode to Cookies | Nicole Sojkowski Your dough made of flour, eggs, sugar and salt Your sweet scent knows no bounds and makes me come to a halt. Perfect little spheres all in a row, Tucked into the oven and starting to grow. 10 minutes go by and you’re a perfect golden brown. I immediately take a hot, gooey bite. Maybe I should have let it cool off on the tray. Yet even when burning my mouth you won’t find a frown The taste of heaven is quite a respite This is why molten cookies will always be bae. The survivors of my pillage pile up on a plate The sweet melted chips sitting pretty like bait Just crisp enough to stay in one piece I blink and the numbers start to decrease There is no loud crack, crumble, or crunch With these cookies–no, no Even after their proper cool-down they are a smooth delight. These buttery creations continuously getting munched Three then four then six until I have to slow Saving them for a snack at midnight. The golden ratio of sugars exact as usual Create that wafting fragrant aroma that’s crucial Melted down and foraged to perfection This kind of homemade excellence can’t escape my detection. It’s hard to imagine the separate ingredients from just 3 hours past Slowly churning, slowly earning their spot in my tummy. Not-so-slowly disappearing as I consumed raw brilliance I gaze remorsefully toward my hand at the last The beads of chocolate embedded in an ambrosia of yummy Then ‘snarf,’ the last cookie (for now) is out of existence.

Joey | Justine Newman


almost not yet

you finally leave 27 days later the soft glow of the yellow sign now flickering post apocalyptic

bring self doubt into hardee’s order a biscuit exchange a glance with the cashier and realize you are worth 1 jam packet but the world asks for 10 defeated, sit in a booth the biscuit staring back gaping mouthed split into two halves flaky but dry like the old man sitting across from you fluorescent lights only highlighting the creases on his face such deep creases what does it mean to weather the storm?

hardee’s | Kaylee Stewart

36

Approaching Granada Storm | Leila Habib


almost not yet

you finally leave 27 days later the soft glow of the yellow sign now flickering post apocalyptic

bring self doubt into hardee’s order a biscuit exchange a glance with the cashier and realize you are worth 1 jam packet but the world asks for 10 defeated, sit in a booth the biscuit staring back gaping mouthed split into two halves flaky but dry like the old man sitting across from you fluorescent lights only highlighting the creases on his face such deep creases what does it mean to weather the storm?

hardee’s | Kaylee Stewart

36

Approaching Granada Storm | Leila Habib


38

Twenty-Two Stories | Callie Marsalisi Flashing lights outside tall windows, obscenely high. Windows you’ll miss in years to come because they let you, in a way, sneak into a baseball game. But more importantly, because of the sunrise. Because using someone as an armrest on the train (the T, pardon my language) is the highest form of affection. Except for going out and not coming back until four in the morning when your feet and your eyes are burning, and the city is half awake and half asleep, just like you. And when you look around, you find your awake self feels suddenly more alive. And the sleeping you purrs and wraps the covers, this city-blanket just a little tighter.

She the Desert, and I the City She Ran From Monica Keszler


38

Twenty-Two Stories | Callie Marsalisi Flashing lights outside tall windows, obscenely high. Windows you’ll miss in years to come because they let you, in a way, sneak into a baseball game. But more importantly, because of the sunrise. Because using someone as an armrest on the train (the T, pardon my language) is the highest form of affection. Except for going out and not coming back until four in the morning when your feet and your eyes are burning, and the city is half awake and half asleep, just like you. And when you look around, you find your awake self feels suddenly more alive. And the sleeping you purrs and wraps the covers, this city-blanket just a little tighter.

She the Desert, and I the City She Ran From Monica Keszler


40

Spectacle | Natalia Queenan you breathe raw lips gaping in apparent surprise every time that cold air invades your lungs permeating layers of tight, warm tissue you think is this what it feels like to swallow a sword like those girls at the circus maybe clad only in gauzy red chiffon gilded currency dangling on planes of exposed flesh it’s easy and then your woolen scarf wouldn’t feel like hands wrapped around your neck it isn’t this dark at the circus where people gather in protective crowds around the performers and you wonder how are they chosen for something like that

Ocean State | Remenna Xu

but all loud, thrashing things must end leaving a barren ring ravished by temporary trespassers at nightfall you walk home alone


40

Spectacle | Natalia Queenan you breathe raw lips gaping in apparent surprise every time that cold air invades your lungs permeating layers of tight, warm tissue you think is this what it feels like to swallow a sword like those girls at the circus maybe clad only in gauzy red chiffon gilded currency dangling on planes of exposed flesh it’s easy and then your woolen scarf wouldn’t feel like hands wrapped around your neck it isn’t this dark at the circus where people gather in protective crowds around the performers and you wonder how are they chosen for something like that

Ocean State | Remenna Xu

but all loud, thrashing things must end leaving a barren ring ravished by temporary trespassers at nightfall you walk home alone


42 Hannaford Brothers | Michael Brown   So my brother got me this job at the Hannaford supermarket down the road. I never see my brother, I mean, but he made some calls and pulled some strings.   The lady at the job interview asked me why I wanted to work there. “I like people,” I said. “I want to work with people.”   There’s this guy named Jason in all the training videos. All he ever talks about is groceries and how to bag groceries.   Hi! My name is Jason, and after six months working here at a Delhaize America supermarket, I consider myself an expert bagger. To begin building a bag, I always put something heavy at the base. A jar of pickles is a good example of something heavy to put at the base. Then, I place at least two lightweight boxes at the sides of the bag to build the “walls” of the bag. You can fill the remaining space with lightweight filler items, like marshmallows and peanuts.   It is important to always smile at the customer and greet them. We are the last point of contact the customer has with the store, so good customer service is key.   Did you know that Delhaize America uses over two billion plastic bags per year? That’s a lot of plastic bags! Using less bags doesn’t just save the company money. It also means less bags for the customer to carry. Plus, we can all do our part to save the environment.   A cop pulled me over on the way back from work. “Why are you so nervous?” he said. I said I wasn’t nervous. He said I had a tail light out and gave me a warning. Then he said I was free to go.   Before I start bagging, I always ask the customer if they have any special bagging needs. There are three main types of bags: plastic, paper, and reusable. A customer may want their items bagged in paper rather than plastic. They may even want one type of bag inside of another! It is important to always ask the customer if they have any special bagging needs before you start bagging.   There was this pretty girl in the break room. I was looking at her because the days and the weeks were tied up in her hair.   “Do you have the time?” I asked her.   “Go away,” she said.

  Garlic and onions must never be bagged with other fruits. Fruits tend to absorb odors, and having fruits that smell like garlic and onions will dissatisfy the customer. You can remember this by thinking that garlic and onions have bad breath, and that the fruits don’t want to be around them.   I didn’t get pulled over the next time I drove home from work.   Sometimes, a customer will bring reusable bags with them, but will forget to take them out unless they are asked to do so. They may get frustrated at having gone to all the trouble of bringing reusable bags without being able to use them. That’s why it is so important to ask the customer if they have any special bagging needs before you start bagging. We can all do our part to save the environment.   This guy was talking to me in the break room. “I had this dream, and in the dream there was this restaurant, and the name of the restaurant was displayed with a big neon sign. And the name of the restaurant was Disinterest. Not uninterest, as in lack of interest, but disinterest, like impartial. What does that mean?” he said.   Though grocery items should be separated from non-grocery items in general, there are some additional restrictions you should keep in mind. Ammonia products must always be bagged separately from bleach. These two chemicals, when mixed together, release a poisonous gas that could harm or even kill the customer! That’s why it is so important to always bag ammonia products separately from bleach.   The last time I drove home from work I was listening to the radio. I found this between-place of shattered sounds and voices. A piano man’s fingers were tripping and tumbling over keys that were light and dark. A man and a woman talked in reasonable, soothing tones about air strikes and invasions and corpses stretched out in the desert. Some god-fearing men were singing and clicking drums. They were wailing and regretting themselves, pouring out their souls and their sins. There was static all throughout it.   The static was like a dirty wave that kept breaking over the same shore and never receded. It moaned in my ears and lapped at my ankles. I played in the static, like a child in the sand and the surf. But I wanted the static to wash over me. I wanted to float in a vat of anesthetic fluids that were warm and nourishing like milk. I wouldn’t have a big, clumsy body to lug around any more, or thoughts to trouble me. In that static I was content. I wanted to live and to drown and to die there.


42 Hannaford Brothers | Michael Brown   So my brother got me this job at the Hannaford supermarket down the road. I never see my brother, I mean, but he made some calls and pulled some strings.   The lady at the job interview asked me why I wanted to work there. “I like people,” I said. “I want to work with people.”   There’s this guy named Jason in all the training videos. All he ever talks about is groceries and how to bag groceries.   Hi! My name is Jason, and after six months working here at a Delhaize America supermarket, I consider myself an expert bagger. To begin building a bag, I always put something heavy at the base. A jar of pickles is a good example of something heavy to put at the base. Then, I place at least two lightweight boxes at the sides of the bag to build the “walls” of the bag. You can fill the remaining space with lightweight filler items, like marshmallows and peanuts.   It is important to always smile at the customer and greet them. We are the last point of contact the customer has with the store, so good customer service is key.   Did you know that Delhaize America uses over two billion plastic bags per year? That’s a lot of plastic bags! Using less bags doesn’t just save the company money. It also means less bags for the customer to carry. Plus, we can all do our part to save the environment.   A cop pulled me over on the way back from work. “Why are you so nervous?” he said. I said I wasn’t nervous. He said I had a tail light out and gave me a warning. Then he said I was free to go.   Before I start bagging, I always ask the customer if they have any special bagging needs. There are three main types of bags: plastic, paper, and reusable. A customer may want their items bagged in paper rather than plastic. They may even want one type of bag inside of another! It is important to always ask the customer if they have any special bagging needs before you start bagging.   There was this pretty girl in the break room. I was looking at her because the days and the weeks were tied up in her hair.   “Do you have the time?” I asked her.   “Go away,” she said.

  Garlic and onions must never be bagged with other fruits. Fruits tend to absorb odors, and having fruits that smell like garlic and onions will dissatisfy the customer. You can remember this by thinking that garlic and onions have bad breath, and that the fruits don’t want to be around them.   I didn’t get pulled over the next time I drove home from work.   Sometimes, a customer will bring reusable bags with them, but will forget to take them out unless they are asked to do so. They may get frustrated at having gone to all the trouble of bringing reusable bags without being able to use them. That’s why it is so important to ask the customer if they have any special bagging needs before you start bagging. We can all do our part to save the environment.   This guy was talking to me in the break room. “I had this dream, and in the dream there was this restaurant, and the name of the restaurant was displayed with a big neon sign. And the name of the restaurant was Disinterest. Not uninterest, as in lack of interest, but disinterest, like impartial. What does that mean?” he said.   Though grocery items should be separated from non-grocery items in general, there are some additional restrictions you should keep in mind. Ammonia products must always be bagged separately from bleach. These two chemicals, when mixed together, release a poisonous gas that could harm or even kill the customer! That’s why it is so important to always bag ammonia products separately from bleach.   The last time I drove home from work I was listening to the radio. I found this between-place of shattered sounds and voices. A piano man’s fingers were tripping and tumbling over keys that were light and dark. A man and a woman talked in reasonable, soothing tones about air strikes and invasions and corpses stretched out in the desert. Some god-fearing men were singing and clicking drums. They were wailing and regretting themselves, pouring out their souls and their sins. There was static all throughout it.   The static was like a dirty wave that kept breaking over the same shore and never receded. It moaned in my ears and lapped at my ankles. I played in the static, like a child in the sand and the surf. But I wanted the static to wash over me. I wanted to float in a vat of anesthetic fluids that were warm and nourishing like milk. I wouldn’t have a big, clumsy body to lug around any more, or thoughts to trouble me. In that static I was content. I wanted to live and to drown and to die there.


44 Orange Rose | Sam Penney

Cardiac | J. F. Connolly It will come in the deep drop of an afternoon nap, or raking leaves, a morning jog on the dew-wet track—      just like that, a mongrel, yours, curling up in its heart’s arrest, the one at your side and at the end of your hand, an old girl’s best friend.


44 Orange Rose | Sam Penney

Cardiac | J. F. Connolly It will come in the deep drop of an afternoon nap, or raking leaves, a morning jog on the dew-wet track—      just like that, a mongrel, yours, curling up in its heart’s arrest, the one at your side and at the end of your hand, an old girl’s best friend.


46

  What do I think of anything? Turning the brightness down Tap tap tap I think I preferred writing with a pen into the notepad on the boat But it was too rainy today, Three months later And I am too rainy also In my room I just Sitting with the Patriots game was something Pizza – no cheese Sitting with my parents was something I don’t think my dad was a fan of What my mom thought of The game But none of this is writing so much as diary entering So I will return to the second instance I was piecing together Three months ago back out on the water Before the patch in my back yard became covered In palm sized leaves serving to hold Gallons an inch above the ground Everyone’s been confused lately, and I can’t imagine the

Venice Blue | Georgeanne Oliver

Diary Entering | Gabe Goodman


46

  What do I think of anything? Turning the brightness down Tap tap tap I think I preferred writing with a pen into the notepad on the boat But it was too rainy today, Three months later And I am too rainy also In my room I just Sitting with the Patriots game was something Pizza – no cheese Sitting with my parents was something I don’t think my dad was a fan of What my mom thought of The game But none of this is writing so much as diary entering So I will return to the second instance I was piecing together Three months ago back out on the water Before the patch in my back yard became covered In palm sized leaves serving to hold Gallons an inch above the ground Everyone’s been confused lately, and I can’t imagine the

Venice Blue | Georgeanne Oliver

Diary Entering | Gabe Goodman


www.spectrum.neu.edu

Fall 2016

SPECTRUM Literary Arts Magazine

Profile for Northeastern University Library

Spectrum Literary Arts Magazine: Fall 2016  

A student-run publication at Northeastern University, Boston, MA.

Spectrum Literary Arts Magazine: Fall 2016  

A student-run publication at Northeastern University, Boston, MA.