__MAIN_TEXT__

Page 1

nuspectrum nuspectrum fb.com/spectrumneu

northeastern.edu/spectrum

SPECTRUM

Literary Arts Magazine Fall 2018


Contents

STAFF Natalya Jean Doga Tasdemir Haniyyah Tobarri Gwen Cusing Remenna Xu

Editor-in-Chief Creative Director & Layout Manager Finance Manager Secretary Advertising Manager

GENERAL MEMBERS August Bottorf Beth O’Brien Gabrielle Bruck Grant Foskett Hannah Lee

Jade Fiorilla Stella Ikpatt Kaitlyn Cavallaro Stephen Hurley Liz Gmoser Vignesh Chander Mitchell Gamburg Taraneh Azar Naqiya Motiwalla

CONTACT Office Email Mailbox

234 Curry Student Center spectrum.magazine@gmail.com 434 Curry Student Center

Cover art adapted from “Room 2” by Danielle Rowe Copyright© Spectrum Literary Arts Magazine and respective authors. All rights reserved.

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.

4

Full Steam Ahead // Liam O’Donnell saltwater absolution // Gwen Cusing

6

Defocused fireworks // Patrick Glover

8

Light Leak // Andie Gasparovic Strings // Oriana Timsit

10

August Table // Gabrielle Bruck Portrait with Fish // Gabrielle Bruck this is my // Gwen Cusing

12

Dog Days in Daisies // Ian Dobbins

14

get clean // Andrea Diaz

16

Toy Tram // Ian Dobbins

18

Absorbed // Zoe Lozano-Strickland Happy Hour // Jade Fiorilla

20

NSA // Ian Dobbins

22

Aqua // Danielle Rowe Houseplant // Danielle Rowe cog // Haniyyah Tobarri

24

Connection // Nadia Naeem Broken Identities // Sharvari Ajit Deepti Narendra

26

Colors // Doga Tasdemir Settling In // Bethany O’Brian

28

Julie // Liam O’Donnell VOLATILE // Naqiya Motiwalla

30

Antelope Canyon // Catherine Argyrople

32

sewn on botany // Sarah Sherard Berlin/Perdition // Naqiya Motiwalla

34 36

Sappho // Victoria Barranco I Hate the Days When I am Two // Gabriella Homonoff

38

views from the praha castle // Fizzah Shaikh Sticky Lies // Camille Ruykhaver

40

Stare // Oriana Timsit dim sum is more than just dumplings // Brigitte Gong

42

Candid Affection // Andie Gasparovic One Fare // Elke Thoms

44

Room 2 // Danielle Rowe

46

Lichtstrahl // Liam O’Donnell Apothecary // Remenna Xu

Cape Lighthouse // Samuel Penney

2


Contents

STAFF Natalya Jean Doga Tasdemir Haniyyah Tobarri Gwen Cusing Remenna Xu

Editor-in-Chief Creative Director & Layout Manager Finance Manager Secretary Advertising Manager

GENERAL MEMBERS August Bottorf Beth O’Brien Gabrielle Bruck Grant Foskett Hannah Lee

Jade Fiorilla Stella Ikpatt Kaitlyn Cavallaro Stephen Hurley Liz Gmoser Vignesh Chander Mitchell Gamburg Taraneh Azar Naqiya Motiwalla

CONTACT Office Email Mailbox

234 Curry Student Center spectrum.magazine@gmail.com 434 Curry Student Center

Cover art adapted from “Room 2” by Danielle Rowe Copyright© Spectrum Literary Arts Magazine and respective authors. All rights reserved.

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.

4

Full Steam Ahead // Liam O’Donnell saltwater absolution // Gwen Cusing

6

Defocused fireworks // Patrick Glover

8

Light Leak // Andie Gasparovic Strings // Oriana Timsit

10

August Table // Gabrielle Bruck Portrait with Fish // Gabrielle Bruck this is my // Gwen Cusing

12

Dog Days in Daisies // Ian Dobbins

14

get clean // Andrea Diaz

16

Toy Tram // Ian Dobbins

18

Absorbed // Zoe Lozano-Strickland Happy Hour // Jade Fiorilla

20

NSA // Ian Dobbins

22

Aqua // Danielle Rowe Houseplant // Danielle Rowe cog // Haniyyah Tobarri

24

Connection // Nadia Naeem Broken Identities // Sharvari Ajit Deepti Narendra

26

Colors // Doga Tasdemir Settling In // Bethany O’Brian

28

Julie // Liam O’Donnell VOLATILE // Naqiya Motiwalla

30

Antelope Canyon // Catherine Argyrople

32

sewn on botany // Sarah Sherard Berlin/Perdition // Naqiya Motiwalla

34 36

Sappho // Victoria Barranco I Hate the Days When I am Two // Gabriella Homonoff

38

views from the praha castle // Fizzah Shaikh Sticky Lies // Camille Ruykhaver

40

Stare // Oriana Timsit dim sum is more than just dumplings // Brigitte Gong

42

Candid Affection // Andie Gasparovic One Fare // Elke Thoms

44

Room 2 // Danielle Rowe

46

Lichtstrahl // Liam O’Donnell Apothecary // Remenna Xu

Cape Lighthouse // Samuel Penney

2


saltwater absolution // Gwen Cusing Full Steam Ahead // Liam O’Donnell

I wade into the ocean and press my face into the tide. Confession: I have never been able to keep my eyes open underwater. Once, an old woman with ink-dark eyes and wilted skin stepped into the swells of Ocean Beach only to find half her body resting in the Manila Bay. And I know, I’ve heard this story before: what starts as eternity condensing into parcels, easily digested. My tongue twisted into a neat sailor’s knot. An entire ocean between where our hands meet. Confession: I have loved the water all my life. We cannot help but grow into what we inherit, the years shedding like scales off our backs, saltwater carving our bodies into sea glass. I listen to prayers for sepia-toned times and emerge from the breakers with an ink-eyed stranger’s memories clenched in my fist. My driftwood skin lingers on the surf for a moment before sinking. Absolution: I wade into the ocean—mouth open, I drink and drink and drink. between where our hands meet. Confession: I have loved the water all my life. 4


saltwater absolution // Gwen Cusing Full Steam Ahead // Liam O’Donnell

I wade into the ocean and press my face into the tide. Confession: I have never been able to keep my eyes open underwater. Once, an old woman with ink-dark eyes and wilted skin stepped into the swells of Ocean Beach only to find half her body resting in the Manila Bay. And I know, I’ve heard this story before: what starts as eternity condensing into parcels, easily digested. My tongue twisted into a neat sailor’s knot. An entire ocean between where our hands meet. Confession: I have loved the water all my life. We cannot help but grow into what we inherit, the years shedding like scales off our backs, saltwater carving our bodies into sea glass. I listen to prayers for sepia-toned times and emerge from the breakers with an ink-eyed stranger’s memories clenched in my fist. My driftwood skin lingers on the surf for a moment before sinking. Absolution: I wade into the ocean—mouth open, I drink and drink and drink. between where our hands meet. Confession: I have loved the water all my life. 4


Defocused fireworks // Patrick Glover

6


Defocused fireworks // Patrick Glover

6


Light Leak // Andie Gasparovic

Strings // Oriana Timsit I refuse to step into your world. We make awkward conversation over sushi I don’t see you smile very often. You say something about political tension, I agree. I quietly think that sexual tension Is taking over, Swiveling on my chair, Pretending not to see you flirt with her She has very red eyes I’m standing here, waiting for life to begin. It’s not that simple to define This love is blurry round the edges And intertwined with missing blessings I never know what I want, But you sure know what you need I live to greet another day In the swelling of the morning sun But I find that it is too grey And perish when she comes undone I see that lips are too delicate, Too uncertain of their own fate They quiver, leaves in a storm, Stammering toward the looming gate

8


Light Leak // Andie Gasparovic

Strings // Oriana Timsit I refuse to step into your world. We make awkward conversation over sushi I don’t see you smile very often. You say something about political tension, I agree. I quietly think that sexual tension Is taking over, Swiveling on my chair, Pretending not to see you flirt with her She has very red eyes I’m standing here, waiting for life to begin. It’s not that simple to define This love is blurry round the edges And intertwined with missing blessings I never know what I want, But you sure know what you need I live to greet another day In the swelling of the morning sun But I find that it is too grey And perish when she comes undone I see that lips are too delicate, Too uncertain of their own fate They quiver, leaves in a storm, Stammering toward the looming gate

8


August Table // Gabrielle Bruck

this is my // Gwen Cusing dream: I place my hands on the steering wheel and it turns to bugs. This means (a) I am deathly afraid of bugs. (b) I feel trapped. (c) my father* is waiting at the end of driveway. He holds the keys in one hand and a letter opener like a dagger in the other. question: what are your future career goals? (a) Medical school. (b) Graduate school. (c) Other: Start the car. Drive straight through the horizon, which wraps around the front bumper like another skin to shed. Portrait with Fish // Gabrielle Bruck

additional relevant experience: (a) Get the weeds out when they are small (b) and (c) they will flourish in foreign soils. // *References (Not Relatives):

Can we ever escape ourselves?

10


August Table // Gabrielle Bruck

this is my // Gwen Cusing dream: I place my hands on the steering wheel and it turns to bugs. This means (a) I am deathly afraid of bugs. (b) I feel trapped. (c) my father* is waiting at the end of driveway. He holds the keys in one hand and a letter opener like a dagger in the other. question: what are your future career goals? (a) Medical school. (b) Graduate school. (c) Other: Start the car. Drive straight through the horizon, which wraps around the front bumper like another skin to shed. Portrait with Fish // Gabrielle Bruck

additional relevant experience: (a) Get the weeds out when they are small (b) and (c) they will flourish in foreign soils. // *References (Not Relatives):

Can we ever escape ourselves?

10


Dog Days in Daisies Ian Dobbins

12


Dog Days in Daisies Ian Dobbins

12


get clean Andrea Diaz

14


get clean Andrea Diaz

14


Toy Tram Ian Dobbins

16


Toy Tram Ian Dobbins

16


Happy Hour // Jade Fiorilla $4 glass with a tall stem, the merlot flirts with his tongue like a girl in a red velvet skirt turning her hips arching her back, the heat of her cheeks a wildfire but he let her go, let her go one last twirl, let go

Absorbed // Zoe Lozano-Strickland 18


Happy Hour // Jade Fiorilla $4 glass with a tall stem, the merlot flirts with his tongue like a girl in a red velvet skirt turning her hips arching her back, the heat of her cheeks a wildfire but he let her go, let her go one last twirl, let go

Absorbed // Zoe Lozano-Strickland 18


NSA Ian Dobbins

20


NSA Ian Dobbins

20


Aqua // Danielle Rowe

Houseplant // Danielle Rowe

cog // Haniyyah Tobarri when your eyes gloss over and everything is white, hazy, electronic data processing and words, words, legal jargon that you’ll never know, that will never matter given the expansive infinities of this universe, that this is all meaningless but somehow valuable by the hour — 15 exact.

fifteen minutes pass and your eyes don’t focus and your legs don’t move and despite your pulse, you’re sure you’re dead. you’re sure that death is monotony because what else do you do in the ground, in the urn, in the cryogenic futuristic freezer besides ​be?​ you don’t even do that.

22


Aqua // Danielle Rowe

Houseplant // Danielle Rowe

cog // Haniyyah Tobarri when your eyes gloss over and everything is white, hazy, electronic data processing and words, words, legal jargon that you’ll never know, that will never matter given the expansive infinities of this universe, that this is all meaningless but somehow valuable by the hour — 15 exact.

fifteen minutes pass and your eyes don’t focus and your legs don’t move and despite your pulse, you’re sure you’re dead. you’re sure that death is monotony because what else do you do in the ground, in the urn, in the cryogenic futuristic freezer besides ​be?​ you don’t even do that.

22


Broken Identities // Sharvari Ajit Deepti Narendra I still remember the faint perfume of jasmine that lingered in the air, and enveloped the words my mother told me that day, “Your body is a temple, Mohini.” Like a Seer gazing into a crystal ball, I remember seeing my own reflection in her orbs, as she continued, “Take care to preserve it.” It was almost as if she foresaw the kind of life I was chosen into— it was almost as if she knew that at the end of the day, after all the devotees had prayed enough after all the beggars had clunked enough when the white dust of the incense settles down like the faint perfume of jasmine like the drug my mother overdosed on, I would need to be reminded of the sanctity of my spirit, of the holiness of my body. But how do I tell her, that worshippers do not step foot into the temple from the back like dacoits; it’s not their mistake thoughTemples are only meant for men and women, and I am just a graveyard of mistakes, broken identities, unfertilized dreams.

Connection // Nadia Naeem

24


Broken Identities // Sharvari Ajit Deepti Narendra I still remember the faint perfume of jasmine that lingered in the air, and enveloped the words my mother told me that day, “Your body is a temple, Mohini.” Like a Seer gazing into a crystal ball, I remember seeing my own reflection in her orbs, as she continued, “Take care to preserve it.” It was almost as if she foresaw the kind of life I was chosen into— it was almost as if she knew that at the end of the day, after all the devotees had prayed enough after all the beggars had clunked enough when the white dust of the incense settles down like the faint perfume of jasmine like the drug my mother overdosed on, I would need to be reminded of the sanctity of my spirit, of the holiness of my body. But how do I tell her, that worshippers do not step foot into the temple from the back like dacoits; it’s not their mistake thoughTemples are only meant for men and women, and I am just a graveyard of mistakes, broken identities, unfertilized dreams.

Connection // Nadia Naeem

24


Colors // Doga Tasdemir

Settling In // Bethany O’Brien Maybe, the mark of how well you know a place, is whether you know which end of the train you need to be nearest the exit when you arrive.

26


Colors // Doga Tasdemir

Settling In // Bethany O’Brien Maybe, the mark of how well you know a place, is whether you know which end of the train you need to be nearest the exit when you arrive.

26


Julie // Liam O’Donnell

VOLATILE // Naqiya Motiwalla every woman i know is / a girl grasping for respect / reduced to a passenger in her own life / you’re listed in the paper as / / everyone has forgotten your name / despite that, you’re catalogued / carved on the walls of the girls’ bathroom stalls for the whole world to see / it’s okay i told no one / cared / when i watched you climb the fence / & thought about doing it / myself / i told no one / but i can’t stand being erased / can you? / is there anything / to erase / there is no place for us / here / there is no place for us to / go / while you have run / to nowhere / i have stayed / in nowhere / we are girls / forced to breathe poison and be thankful / whose narratives are shuttered out / of cardboard / plucked apart by those who created us / for the whole world to / see everyone has forgotten / your name / but i won’t / i hope one day i can say it

28


Julie // Liam O’Donnell

VOLATILE // Naqiya Motiwalla every woman i know is / a girl grasping for respect / reduced to a passenger in her own life / you’re listed in the paper as / / everyone has forgotten your name / despite that, you’re catalogued / carved on the walls of the girls’ bathroom stalls for the whole world to see / it’s okay i told no one / cared / when i watched you climb the fence / & thought about doing it / myself / i told no one / but i can’t stand being erased / can you? / is there anything / to erase / there is no place for us / here / there is no place for us to / go / while you have run / to nowhere / i have stayed / in nowhere / we are girls / forced to breathe poison and be thankful / whose narratives are shuttered out / of cardboard / plucked apart by those who created us / for the whole world to / see everyone has forgotten / your name / but i won’t / i hope one day i can say it

28


Antelope Canyon Catherine Argyrople

30


Antelope Canyon Catherine Argyrople

30


Berlin/Perdition // Naqiya Motiwalla

sewn on botany // Sarah Sherard

everything’s electric so im trying to ground myself in the things that matter i eat ginger and brush lemons into my hair four kettles whistle around the apartment, but they’re empty so it sounds the way nothing feels—feverish my pet butterflies are fed all the leftovers scraps of frozen bread, chunks of crumbling brie, evaporated red wine i keep them in the sky, give them no names because it will never make them mine quiet, the city is clandestine; there has never been much to say all the dishes are washed until my fingers have shriveled, i am raw there are only so many things to do when you can’t reach the ground

32


Berlin/Perdition // Naqiya Motiwalla

sewn on botany // Sarah Sherard

everything’s electric so im trying to ground myself in the things that matter i eat ginger and brush lemons into my hair four kettles whistle around the apartment, but they’re empty so it sounds the way nothing feels—feverish my pet butterflies are fed all the leftovers scraps of frozen bread, chunks of crumbling brie, evaporated red wine i keep them in the sky, give them no names because it will never make them mine quiet, the city is clandestine; there has never been much to say all the dishes are washed until my fingers have shriveled, i am raw there are only so many things to do when you can’t reach the ground

32


I Hate the Days When I am Two // Gabriella Homonoff There are times when I am three again, three and small and crying when my sister sticks her tongue out and laughs at the way my hair looks, sticking up straight like the crown of a rooster when I wake up in the morning. I am twice my age, three times my age even, holding my sister when she cries, my chin resting on her back, hunched over, brushing her hair and smoothing my hand over her tired forehead. Now and then I am six, and learning to write again, copying my sister as she works. Where every word is wrong and beautiful because it is all new and new and new. Too often I am thirteen, in love with the boy in the back of the class who does not care about me but asks if my sister will be in school today, and my heart breaks every time he does not meet my eyes. I hate the days when I am two, when I can’t find the words to explain what I am thinking and feeling and breathing. I am screaming and screaming because it’s scary and dark even with the nightlight on. Worse still are the days when I am fourteen, and broken, with a sister who has seen too much and parents who have seen her see it and me, in the dark, seeing nothing but knowing it all the same.

Then I wish to be ten, with a sister who holds my hand and draws pictures. she tries to teach me to blow bubblegum bubbles. Here, the nights are bright and the sun is always out. Sometimes I skip to fifteen, sixteen, seventeen They flip by like pages in her favorite magazines or they last for ten times more. Each year long and wide and open to swallow me by half or whole. Until I am eighteen and my sister is healthy. The bed in my new dorm is too close to the ceiling, And I am not whole, but I am not broken and neither is she. And then I am the age that I am When every year that I’ve ever been fills me to the brim When there is joy and sorrow and they don’t come one at a time but are just wrapped up together in my sister and in me.

Sappho // Victoria Barranco

34


I Hate the Days When I am Two // Gabriella Homonoff There are times when I am three again, three and small and crying when my sister sticks her tongue out and laughs at the way my hair looks, sticking up straight like the crown of a rooster when I wake up in the morning. I am twice my age, three times my age even, holding my sister when she cries, my chin resting on her back, hunched over, brushing her hair and smoothing my hand over her tired forehead. Now and then I am six, and learning to write again, copying my sister as she works. Where every word is wrong and beautiful because it is all new and new and new. Too often I am thirteen, in love with the boy in the back of the class who does not care about me but asks if my sister will be in school today, and my heart breaks every time he does not meet my eyes. I hate the days when I am two, when I can’t find the words to explain what I am thinking and feeling and breathing. I am screaming and screaming because it’s scary and dark even with the nightlight on. Worse still are the days when I am fourteen, and broken, with a sister who has seen too much and parents who have seen her see it and me, in the dark, seeing nothing but knowing it all the same.

Then I wish to be ten, with a sister who holds my hand and draws pictures. she tries to teach me to blow bubblegum bubbles. Here, the nights are bright and the sun is always out. Sometimes I skip to fifteen, sixteen, seventeen They flip by like pages in her favorite magazines or they last for ten times more. Each year long and wide and open to swallow me by half or whole. Until I am eighteen and my sister is healthy. The bed in my new dorm is too close to the ceiling, And I am not whole, but I am not broken and neither is she. And then I am the age that I am When every year that I’ve ever been fills me to the brim When there is joy and sorrow and they don’t come one at a time but are just wrapped up together in my sister and in me.

Sappho // Victoria Barranco

34


Cape Lighthouse // Samuel Penney

36


Cape Lighthouse // Samuel Penney

36


Sticky Lies // Camille Ruykhaver You are Honey dipped words Glazed over in golden A sweetly coated Molding core Singing sentences Sinking in syrup Until they dry Into sticky lies Covering your lips.

views from the praha castle // Fizzah Shaikh 38


Sticky Lies // Camille Ruykhaver You are Honey dipped words Glazed over in golden A sweetly coated Molding core Singing sentences Sinking in syrup Until they dry Into sticky lies Covering your lips.

views from the praha castle // Fizzah Shaikh 38


Stare // Oriana Timsit dim sum is more than just dumplings // Brigitte Gong Recently: I scroll through Facebook and read a headline “Our latest discovery: the soup dumpling” White people exclaim, much like Columbus must have when He “discovered” the United States, that is to say He didn’t. Attached: A video of these colonizers Prodding the dumpling with their chopsticks Until the wrapping breaks and the soup inside Spills out all over the plate, Wasted. Unfazed: I do not join the army of comments, outraged at their behavior. I’ve felt this same prodding before Of white people tearing apart my skin To reveal the insides and let them spill out, Unwanted. Weeks later: a hipster white chef teaches us “How to eat pho”, calling it “the next ramen” as if They were somehow similar as if These foods are just trends that can be easily Replaced and disposed. I wonder: am I just another trend? When will they decide they no longer like me? Sometimes: my grandparents call and ask me how I’m doing Even though Mandarin was my first language It feels as foreign to me as I do in my own skin Unable to read or write the language my ancestors used for centuries, I feel like a fake Asian. Now: the only connection I have left To a culture I was only ever associated with by default Is the food they are appropriating “Making their own”, chewing it up, shitting it out. I’d rather starve. 40


Stare // Oriana Timsit dim sum is more than just dumplings // Brigitte Gong Recently: I scroll through Facebook and read a headline “Our latest discovery: the soup dumpling” White people exclaim, much like Columbus must have when He “discovered” the United States, that is to say He didn’t. Attached: A video of these colonizers Prodding the dumpling with their chopsticks Until the wrapping breaks and the soup inside Spills out all over the plate, Wasted. Unfazed: I do not join the army of comments, outraged at their behavior. I’ve felt this same prodding before Of white people tearing apart my skin To reveal the insides and let them spill out, Unwanted. Weeks later: a hipster white chef teaches us “How to eat pho”, calling it “the next ramen” as if They were somehow similar as if These foods are just trends that can be easily Replaced and disposed. I wonder: am I just another trend? When will they decide they no longer like me? Sometimes: my grandparents call and ask me how I’m doing Even though Mandarin was my first language It feels as foreign to me as I do in my own skin Unable to read or write the language my ancestors used for centuries, I feel like a fake Asian. Now: the only connection I have left To a culture I was only ever associated with by default Is the food they are appropriating “Making their own”, chewing it up, shitting it out. I’d rather starve. 40


Candid Affection // Andie Gasparovic

One Fare // Elke Thoms If two years later, I reached down and dialed while underground, the signal would cut out, but you’d call back anyway. And I’d ask you if you wanted me to get out at Arlington and reverse to your place, but you’d jump on at the next station, saying, “Your bed’s bigger, anyway.” And no, I don’t indulge in these start-and-stop thoughts on every ride, but I still know every tick on the line. The train’s sudden jolts didn’t used to be revolting. Back then, they were just another squeaky excuse to fall into you.

42


Candid Affection // Andie Gasparovic

One Fare // Elke Thoms If two years later, I reached down and dialed while underground, the signal would cut out, but you’d call back anyway. And I’d ask you if you wanted me to get out at Arlington and reverse to your place, but you’d jump on at the next station, saying, “Your bed’s bigger, anyway.” And no, I don’t indulge in these start-and-stop thoughts on every ride, but I still know every tick on the line. The train’s sudden jolts didn’t used to be revolting. Back then, they were just another squeaky excuse to fall into you.

42


ROOM 2 Danielle Rowe

44


ROOM 2 Danielle Rowe

44


Lichtstrahl // Liam O’Donnell Apothecary // Remenna Xu We both had stupid dreams but I mean, I wasn’t the one who was about to fly to Seattle on a rainy Wednesday afternoon just because I wanted to avoid finals. You never took your medicine . I mixed drugs for you at 2am, wracked my brain for new herbs, tonics, and powders. I stole nightshade and foxglove, hidden under my tongue and buried in the thin-veined skin just below my chin. I would have beaten my bones into holy dust. But I ran out of magic words standing in the middle of your room on top of weeks of unfolded laundry. I hope the rats in your apartment eat you in your sleep but I also kind of hope that you don’t stop being the type of person who offers me a ticket to Seattle on a rainy Wednesday afternoon when you were avoiding your finals and I was just watching you. Take your medicine.

46


Lichtstrahl // Liam O’Donnell Apothecary // Remenna Xu We both had stupid dreams but I mean, I wasn’t the one who was about to fly to Seattle on a rainy Wednesday afternoon just because I wanted to avoid finals. You never took your medicine . I mixed drugs for you at 2am, wracked my brain for new herbs, tonics, and powders. I stole nightshade and foxglove, hidden under my tongue and buried in the thin-veined skin just below my chin. I would have beaten my bones into holy dust. But I ran out of magic words standing in the middle of your room on top of weeks of unfolded laundry. I hope the rats in your apartment eat you in your sleep but I also kind of hope that you don’t stop being the type of person who offers me a ticket to Seattle on a rainy Wednesday afternoon when you were avoiding your finals and I was just watching you. Take your medicine.

46


nuspectrum nuspectrum fb.com/spectrumneu

northeastern.edu/spectrum

SPECTRUM

Literary Arts Magazine Fall 2018

Profile for Northeastern University Library

Spectrum Literary Arts Magazine: Fall 2018  

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

Spectrum Literary Arts Magazine: Fall 2018  

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