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THE OLIVETREE REVIEW

ISSUE 62 SPRING 2018

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THE OLIVETREE REVIEW

OTR 62

ISSUE 62 SPRING 2018

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Errata

Bellow will be a list of all known errors printed in Issue 61, along with all corrected information.

Jacob Cintron

The art piece titled “Flowing” on Page 39 is by Jacob Cintron.

Emily Fernandez

Emily Fernandez’s poetry piece “Cyclicity” was incorrectly noted in the table of contents as being on page 22. The poem appears on Page 29. Her last name was also incorrectly printed as “Hernandez.”

© The Olivetree Review, CUNY Hunter College, 695 Park Avenue, Hunter North 115, New York, New York 10065, theolivetreereview.com This journal is partially funded by Hunter College’s student activity fee, partially by fundraising and donations. This journal is distributed for free. The artwork featured on the cover is Just For Fun by Gabriella Grimes. The fonts used in this book are Liquida, Lintel, Helvetica. This book was designed by Julia Bannon. Submissions are reviewed September through October and February through March. We consider submissions of visual art, fiction, non-fiction, poetry, and scripts. All submissions are reviewed anonymously and selected by a jury of staff members. The review is entirely staffed by Hunter College undergraduate students. Permission to publish the content in this issue was granted to The Olivetree Review by the authors and artists featured throughout. These contributors retain all original copyright ownership of works appearing in The Olivetree Review before and after its publication. Copying, reprinting, or reproducing any material in this journal is strictly prohibited. Printed by Sunray Printing St. Cloud Minnesota.

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The Olivetree Review

Issue 62

Spring 2018

The Literary and Arts Magazine of Hunter College since 1983

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Editorial & administrative staff Editor-in-Chief

Tanisha Williams

Vice President Ariel Tsai

Treasurer

Julia Bannon

secretary

Raven Hicks

Spring 2018

Associate Editors

Benjamin Castillo Hagar Dan Daphney Diaz Dina Darwish Ashley Fenstermaker Samantha Finley Seon Pollard Zsofia Kozma Will Rowe Andrew Shkreli Junia Caldeira Simao

art editors

Kenny Perez Melissa Rueda

drama editor Raven Hicks

poetry editors

Emily Fernandez Chasity Pierna

prose editors

Julia Bannon Erin McDermott

Senior Publicist

Samantha Finley

publicity assistant Sharon Young

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018

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Table of Contents ART

Drama

Solitary strolls in Italy Patricia Abrego

4

WEEDS Kana Tateishi

9

Solitary strolls in Italy Patricia Abrego

11

Untitled Melissa Rueda

18

Of uncooked noodles and ultimatums Claudette Ramos

7

The Decision Sara Christopher

37

Reimagining Cupid and Psyche Dina Darwish

44

Through The Doors Madison Paredes

59

Untitled Melissa Rueda

22

Just for Fun Gabriella Grimes

23

26

29

Gabriella Grimes

36

Matias Madrid

41

Patricia Abrego

43

Kana Tateishi

48

Gabriella Grimes

53

Solitary strolls in Italy Patricia Abrego

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56

14

Psilycybin Beach Raven Hicks

Orange Girl

8

Everland Zsofia Kozama

Empty Vessel, Heavy Thoughts

10

Where she used to be Jessica Balgobin

Solitary strolls in Italy

6

Uncertainties Leo McMahon

Exposure 2017

5

A Eulogy for adolescenece Cooper Perry

Ikeuhh Girl

3

Touch my leg as a litmus test Shaina Clingempeel

Hollow Sunlight Kana Tateishi

The old brag of my heart Claudette Ramos

Untitled Melissa Rueda

Poetry

15

The Nymph Charlie Fscetti

19

if my razor could speak Cindy Cabar

25

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OTR Portrait of a Day Hannah Rozenblat

Zamana 28

Where she used to be Jessica Balgobin

54

19

Contributions

61

25

Meet the staff

65

History of the Olivetree Review

67

28

spit on me then act like the victim Opeyemi Ojo

52

James Pepe

Portrait of a Day Hannah Rozenblat

Joel Mota

The Last Culachino

if my razor could speak Cindy Cabar

31

15

The Nymph Charlie Fscetti

Andy Lopez

memory Serves contest winner 14

Psilycybin Beach Raven Hicks

21

Nights with shirley 8

Everland Zsofia Kozama

Amrita Chakraborty

30

The words of life Opeyemi Ojo

33

Needle marks contest winner Darrell Herbert

35

here are the ways in which I know you Claudette Ramos

55

does ghost need to be dead to haunt you? Charlie Fiscetti

57

Prose The Cruellest Month Peter NuĂąez

1

While the kids were gone Ames Cane

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Letter from the Editor The life of the wanderer often lacks purpose; in my case, I found something meaningful. Ever since the first time I entered OTR’s old office, Thomas Hunter Rm 212 in September 2015, I haven’t looked back. If it wasn’t the well produced issues and workshops that kept me in, it was the people who resided there. The Olivetree Review quickly became my home away from home. Being president has been my most enriching experience within the organization so far.What makes it even greater is that in the three years I have been at Hunter, I’ve been able to work with so many efficient, tenacious staff members of OTR. As a publication, we have been through it all: from run arounds with event forms, dry seasons during tabling, to struggling with money to produce this issue after the recent re-budgetting referendum passed at Hunter College, which slashed more than 66% of our budget. However, every time a brick is thrown at us, we add it to our foundation. The struggles are what bring us together and the moments of success are what solidify the glue. I want to give special thanks to the staff I currently work with. I know I say this enough already to them so it sounds cliched by now, but they are the best group of people I could imagine working with. Kenny, Melissa, Julia, Ariel, Raven, Chasity, Sharon, Samantha, Emily, and Erin, you have all contributed so much in saving this publication, and have helped immensely in getting one of Hunter’s oldest publications out of the rubble after the referendum. Words are not great enough to thank you guys. Before I conclude, I would like to thank our readers both in- and outside of Hunter. It is because of you that we have the priviledge of publishing each semester. Thank you all, and I hope you enjoy reading this issue for Fall 2017! Best, Tanisha Williams Editor-in-Chief

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The Cruellest Month An excerpt from the first chapter of a novel by

Peter Nuñez Prose

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n my desk, in the middle of my study, in the middle of the night, only illuminated by the flame of a gas lamp, I write. I’ve always preferred writing in the light of fire instead of that of lightbulbs. Darkness envelops space. Aside from the burning wick, the sheet of paper before me and the traces of black ink left by a fountain pen waltzing on it, nothing else exists. Not even me. I am more of a witness, an admirer. I’m sitting here, and this I know only because of the feeling of the chair against my back and behind. I see a hand. Mine. I recognize the wrinkles as breaches and the liver spots. I had counted them before and traced lines in between as lovers do with constellations. It’s my hand; nevertheless, doesn’t feel like it. I command it no more. Tonight, it’s no longer mine. I am its. You may be wondering, but who are you? That is a question I could offer many answers to. I am an old man; I’m 74. My health has deteriorated, but it could always be worse. My legs can’t support my body anymore. Hence, I lean on a black cane with a wooden handle to lessen their martyrdom. I still have good eyesight, though nowadays I’m skeptical of whether I should be thankful for that. I have lost everything I ever cared for. Today, the only thing I have left is money. And my memory, which is both a gift and a curse. But I’m also a story, and so are you. I am every part of my life, every one of my secrets, every word I ever spoke. Just like you, I am my truths and lies, my smiles and tears, my triumphs and failures. I am a story—my story. And I will disclose my story to you with no intention of getting yours in return. I once read a quote by Hemingway. He said, there is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed. By the time we reach the end, I will have given you the last drop in my veins. Amongst those who couldn’t make the most of one lifetime yet dream of living for-

ever, I am one more. Still, with a slight difference in ideology. Unlike most, I don’t want to live in blood and flesh for eternity, for I might end up living the same life over and over again. I want to be immortal like Milton, and Yeats, and Eliot. And for that I need you. You will give me life—a new life. Through you, I shall live as many lives as you’re willing to give me. Each one different from the other. And once again, you may be wondering, how can you be so sure I will read this? Where do you find such certainty after all? Well, my conviction lies on a simple yet undeniable fact. No story of a bad man has ever remained untold. I was born the same day as Charlie Chaplin, though 54 years later. As a child, I felt a strong sense of pride in the fact that Charlie Chaplin and I shared the same birthday. It made me feel as if somehow, I was special. Every year, on the day of my birthday, I had this recurring fantasy in which Mr. Chaplin and I would finally meet. Both of us walking in his penguin-like manner, jumping and clapping with our heels in mid-air, we would arrive at a house that felt more like a home. The house was on the summit of a small hill. The hill was carpeted with bright and humid grass. And as though announcing our arrival, mockingbirds would sing as we sat at the portico. As only in the mind of a child can happen, two mugs of steaming hot chocolate appeared next to us. Making an “o” with his lips in a childish display of surprise, Mr. Chaplin would grab his mug. And after blowing on the brown liquid, he would sip. “Okay, now it’s time for stories. Huh. Wait …” Said Chaplin, as he was using his bottom lip to take residues of hot chocolate off his mustache, “Now! Delicious.” I laughed. He gave me a tender smile. “You think that was funny, huh? Wait until you hear this. And by the way, happy birthday, mate.” He said, softly elbowing me. “Happy birthday to you, too, Mr. Chaplin!”

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62 The sight of Charlie Chaplin eagerly reflowers. These he only used to serve coffee lating his enviable past birthdays never failed to his guests. Just the important ones. So I to provoke the feeling of anticipation in me. understood. My filthy hands and clothing He told me of the marvelous gifts he got from would’ve only ruined the things my father friends and acquaintances. And when he said was so ñoño of. that the best ones came from the people whose I finally found the box of matches in a names in the cards he couldn’t give a face to, top drawer. At least four minutes had passed, he exploded with laughter. Holding his stomI estimated. Noiselessly, I closed the drawach with one hand, er and ran to my fahe rocked his body ther’s backyard. Like until his laughter, Holding his stomach with one the hill in my fantasy, slowly decreasing father’s backyard hand, he rocked his body until my in intensity, finally was blanketed in vanished. He used his laughter, slowly decreasing the greenest grass, the back of his hand though not entirely. in intensity, finally vanished. to dry the teardrops Only noticeable from trapped in his long above, for the grass’s eyelashes. As he height disguised it, did so, I could hear small chuckles escaping was a small circle of weeding soil. And there from his mouth in short intervals. I knelt, right next to my father’s aloe plant. “Your turn, mate,” Said Mr. Chaplin When feeling congested and having difficulty still regaining composure. breathing, my father liked to pour aloe to his “My turn? For what?” black coffee. Bueno pal pecho, good for the “Come on. Birthday story, of course! I chest, he’d always say. told you mine. It’s your turn. Tell me your I opened the box and took some matchbest one.” es out and began to spit on the soil. I spat Charlie Chaplin’s petition made him and spat until my mouth was dry and the vanish from my side. The mockingbirds earth became mud. Underneath my knees, were singing no more. The sweet flavor tiny stones were then beginning to push their and warm sensation of the hot chocolate way through my skin. I rushed and stuck the were washed from my tongue. And the matches into the muddy ground. Then probig and beautiful house was reduced to ducing one more match, I struck it against my father’s colmado where I was lying on the red stripe on the side of the box and promy sack of rice behind the counter. If only ceeded to light the former. For a second— I had something to share, I thought, he or maybe two—I stared at the diminutive would still be here with me. flames. They were dancing to the rhythm of “I wish I had something to tell you, Mr. the chilly breeze of the newborn morning. Chaplin,” I said out loud, “I wis—” I moved closer and shielded them with my A wish! Of course! I thought. And in no just-turned ten-year-old hands. And I sang. time, I was on my feet putting my slippers on. Or rather I whispered. I checked the clock hanging from a nail on Aware that the flames wouldn’t last until the wall. the final “to you”, I wished for a birthday I 5:47 AM. could share with Charlie Chaplin and blew I had only thirteen minutes before my fathe matches out. ther woke up. So I was dashing into the kitchen searching every drawer for matches. That day I broke two of my father’s rules. First, I was not allowed to be at my father’s house unless he wanted me to be there. And second, I was not allowed to touch the matches. But once inside the house, I understood why he didn’t want me there. The dining table set, the cabinets, and the sofas were all in polished mahogany. In the living room, also in mahogany, was a showcase exhibiting a fine crockery. The set consisted of small pearly white cups and plates with flourishing blue

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THE OLD BRAG OF MY HEART Claudette Ramos poetry

Listen to me, she whispers, and I twist my head towards the clear and confident ring of her voice. She’s got heels and hard steps and sharp nods and silk shirts that flow and fly like her hair does sometimes when she walks fast down the concrete. Coffee clutched in hand, rather liberal with her eyerolls because the bus is late again and people need to get out of her way on the sidewalk. A workin’ woman, Americana, emails and dinner receptions and she talks fast, too. Listen to me, another voice chimes, and my head pivots toward her quieter, rougher timbre. There’s a sadness to this girl, a rawness, a history, a solitary melancholia of sorts, because she doesn’t can’t speak her mother tongue and she can’t go back home and she listens to that other girl, laughs alongside her, but she remembers her mom and dad. Closet-sized rooms, and cousins pregnant back home, and old, faded jeans, and their hunger. She seems like a writer. In the mornings, I wake up and greet them both and brush my teeth and put on my clothes and lock my door. I carry them both in the emerald around my neck. I am, I am, I am.

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Solitary Strolls in Italy Patricia Abrego Art

PG

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TOUCH MY LEGS AS A LITMUS TEST Shaina Clingempeel poetry Touch my leg as a litmus test, then say prude as I brush your hand off my thigh: a code to crack jokes about my hemline. How high waist skirt means tease. Yet you say the right things— relax, have one more drink, and how does red lipstick mean no? Now, I’m a snicker at the bar, talk amongst friends. Siren. Sexless

without you, I bear bad blood

built from honeysuckle and nylons to make you uncomfortable.

Born with black lace. Master of dark arts. Virgin and vixen. Both fall asleep sinister &

wake up singing without you.

man, I feel like a woman

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A EULOGY FOR ADOLESCENCE Cooper Perry poetry

moss grows in cracks where brain cells used to hide sucking up the moisture I need to think it wouldn’t be so bad, except for the fact that it is turquoise shadows hijack my diminutive mind I can’t do anything but sleep in them giving into the lushness of my brain’s futile fluff but today I lay on a hard wooden bridge the one I carved my future into as a child trying to connect with the untouched crevices the valleys of thought I’d prescribed as unattainable I inhale toxic green, blue fog tangled in my grey hair & again as I’m panting for breath I can see my parents’ backyard where I peed behind the dog house pretending to live in the pile of moss my urine watered pretending not to be human but a blessing in a white, wool coat reminding each plant that it is okay to grow the first snow of that winter I slept outside in a sleeping bag on the grave of my first pet, the one I accidentally killed

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OF UNCOOKED NOODLES AND ULTIMATUMS Claudette Ramos Drama

LEAH What are you doing, Abe? Oh my God, is that my last ramen? No, wait, put it down, Abe. Seriously!

A SCUFFLE ENSUES. THE RAMEN PACK BURSTS, WHICH STUNS LEAH AND ABE INTO SILENCE. LEAH STARES AT ABE AND FINALLY DECIDES TO SPEAK HER MIND. LEAH You can’t keep doing this. Don’t give me that look—you know exactly what you’re doing. And it’s not just the ramen. It’s the ramen, and the eggs, and the cupcakes, and the croissants, and all the fucking shit Mom makes for you because she loves you and she feels bad. We feel bad. But she doesn’t have the fucking time, Abe. It’s not fair to her or any of us. It’s been months, and yeah, you’re in the pit, you’re at rock bottom, and it sucks, but you haven’t tried climbing your way out. Not even a little bit. You haven’t touched your camera or checked your emails, you haven’t looked for jobs, you haven’t talked to us at all. You really haven’t done anything except eat my fucking ramen. (Pause) I’m done with it. I’m not helping someone who wants to stay stuck in the dirt. Let me know when you decide to wipe it all off your ass.

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Where She Used To Be Jessica Balgobin poetry

Grandma wears skirts that Waft in the ill-rationed breezes of her 90 degree kitchen In gusts of air that smell of the old country The old, old country that I can see Only in the way grandma rolls out supple puffs of white dough Phagwah parades bursting amid each stroke of her belna She sets fire to bubbling pots and pans Bottoms blossoming with black burns begging to be scrubbed Without true intentions of getting clean Curry simmers with steam rising and Brooks babbling like water rushing in quiet dreams of where she used to be The wrinkles along her fingers tell stories of the ways She used to set rice to boil on top The parts of the earth she no longer steps on The old, new country that lives on in photos and Past lives steeped in the prayers sung from grandma’s small jukebox They sing alongside two single gold bangles that chime and jingle Indian song birds on her wrists The grease ridden walls and dusty brown floors become A love letter to lands far away Resurrected as grandma rolls onto the tips of her red polished toes And hums along as those before us breathe and whisper inside her Their eyes opening inside of me

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WEEDS

Kana Tateishi Art

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UNCERTAINTIES Leo McMahon poetry I A pernicious youth I worry for, too early to yearn Heaven’s door. II Yesterday I forgot you, concluded it was better this way. But today I have found you, and again I am led astray. How is it my joy is conjoined to my grief? How is it my joy is no source of relief? III A radiant evening of the sun on a lake— a fuchsia sky reveals a watery mist— A romantic call of the day fills the heart— just as the darkness is about to start. IV Sometimes I feel I seek bottle’s bottom To have glimpse of final dark night— A taste of death, a glimpse into abyss. It makes me look forward to my autumn— Where all of care be gone with all of fright— When the soul’s reckless cage I will dismiss. V If gold ain’t struck like it was ’49 don’t worry young soul Give it time. Give it time.

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SOLITARY STROLLS IN ITALY Patricia Abrego Art

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WHILE THE KIDS WERE GONE Ames Cane Prose

I

guess I am one of those shitty peoactually enjoys going to my parents’ ple who lies about mostly everything, house, and so she didn’t want any wine like yesterday my mom called to and she didn’t want to watch a movie see if I was bringing Judy and the kids and from there things went downhill around for dinner like we planned, and because then her sister called in the my instant reflex was to say, “oh no, midst of another breakdown, this time we’re busy,” all the while I’m thinking, because her toilet was clogged and the lady, we never made any dinner plans; plumber couldn’t make it until the next but then it dawned on me that Judy day, and what was she supposed to probably agreed to dinner because she do? So Judy launched into a step-byand my mom are always plotting bestep approach to using a toilet plunger, hind my back like that; so sure enough which eventually led to the real reason my mom said, “but Judy told me you her sister was upset (some guy); on were free,” and I replied, “yeah but she the upside, I had a thought: maybe afforgot we were going to that play and ter the phone call Judy would get some the kids will be at the neighbor’s house perspective, like she would see how for a sleepover,” and my mom said, life with me was amazing compared to “but honey, I already made the cassethe way her sister’s life was going and role,” and I said, “I wish we didn’t have she would change her mind about the to miss it,” and she said, “I’ll drop the wine and the movie and the possibility leftovers by in the morning then.” Realfor more. But the phone call went on ly we weren’t going to any play, but on and on, and I just waited on the couch principle I don’t like to spend weekend like an ass; first I read an article about evenings with my parents, especially a popular country singer—it seemed he not when the kids are going to be out had written another dumb song—and of the house; you then I watched the have to take advanlast half of an old tage of those rare You never know when one science fiction movoccurrences, seeie in which aliens try ing as you never of them will get scared of to invade Earth and know when one of enslave all of its inthe dark or vomit on them will get scared habitants, including their friend’s carpet... of the dark or vomthe animals, but it on their friend’s the aliens ultimatecarpet, and then ly fail and become they’re calling up cute pets for people for a ride home just as you’re sinking to buy for their kids; but after all that, into the sofa; so I saw my opportunity Judy was still on the phone and I could and seized it, thinking Judy and I might hear her sister’s Fran Drescher voice be able to have a nice evening togethloud and clear even though she wasn’t er—maybe some wine, a movie, and if on speaker phone, so I finally gave up things went well… and went into our bedroom, retrieved But Judy was pissed that I lied to my vibrator from the Adidas shoebox my mom because for some reason she in the closet, and started masturbatContinued on page 21

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EVERLAND

Zsofia Kozma poetry I stepped off the road and met Peter Pan He had big front teeth, a bed and a plan Before I knew it, his magic potion worked Like the oil of Hannukah, the potion was supposed to light us up for one night. One night became two and then three One year became two and more than me More than what I could comprehend with human mind Why does my heart beat for this human-like creature I felt like a failure, this man with a son was stronger than me He says enjoy, it’s destiny or imagine that frequently Pan had a funny accent, but he pronounced “te quiero” a hundred percent He gathered an army of lost boys behind him and all the lost girls wanted to be under him I forgot the real story of Pan The book I gave him we never finished Thus I can’t predict his destiny Neither can I mine, because I’m no Wendy, No one’s Wendy Who is Wendy anyways Who Am I to him - it’s a maze A miracle can only last eight days The book, the t-shirts, the looks I gave him They are all getting dusty in an old bin This is the story if Peter Pan Who can’t even use a frying pan I wanted to grow up but Peter Pan never No compromises to be in the book forever A year ago he reached his Neverland Offered me to stay I stepped out of the book and Decided to play

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PSILOCYBIN BEACH Raven Hicks poetry scene the shore on a late August eve 31 minutes after ingestion. just barely higher than the tide but my journey won’t begin until the psilocybin unties my shoes my mind for now, I’m just along for the ride 34 minutes after ingestion. my eyes scan the sky and the stars appear to dance briefly, I’m entranced before I realize I’m smack dab in the middle of stolen land because they took it for themselves and didn’t really give a damn. “damn,” I say to myself before I sink into the sand. when I took a handful to the head this wasn’t really my plan and now I’m searching for purpose on my journey through the hourglass. 39 minutes after ingestion. I can’t regain control and so I watch my flesh and bones melt like I’m a lit candle processing feelings I thought my mind could never handle consistently trying to ignore the ticking clock on the mantle – but you know what? I’ve moved on and I’m changing the channel. 42 minutes after ingestion.

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I look back up and I’m a kid in a crib with a mobile above my head not an adult with regrets wishing I could take back the things I’ve said. I can return to a time when mama still tucked me into bed mama. mama... she’s worked so hard for so little satisfaction or sanity all for my benefit and I’ve just reacted passively I hope while I’m on this trip that I find a little clarity in a world that will forever prize paper over humanity. 49 minutes after ingestion. tiny rocks beneath my palms and now they’re wet with dew It’s like nothing I’ve ever felt or maybe, ever knew not even when I was on my knees kneeling in the pews a catholic, committed to my faith (“devout,” as they say) but only for my grandma’s sake cause growing up, I never got to choose what faith meant to me and now I just have the blues. what to do? what to do? furthermore, what constitutes blue and can it truly have a mood? can I call it the hue of the sky on a cloudless day when sunshine’s rays lovingly bathe my skin a golden-brown shade of royalty and glory? can a color tell a story? does my skin speak? what does it convey? I only hope I find the answer at least a week before doomsday. 57 minutes after ingestion.

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my thoughts encircle me like killer bees on psilocybin beach a habitual ritual a sticky sacrifice honey-sweet and I can’t breathe call it an allergic reaction to an overdose of reality every prick every painful sting won’t let me forget that I’m in the center of the hive but wow I’ve never felt so alive.

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Melissa Rueda Art Untitled

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THE NYMPH

Charlie Fischetti poetry shakespeare spoke of “salad days” of youth, of vivacity, of verdant viewpoints not green of envy, but green of innocence. i first saw him among the trees, of the trees. his movement was more materializing emphasizing; this was not of my own blood. he had vines for veins. you want verdant? he glowed greener than any trees. humans have “blonde” or “curly” hair but he? golden roses rested in ringlets atop his head, reflecting the sun’s embrace instead. the nymph of today is one of lust overcome with mania, and once dusk falls our temptation falls too. but this man - ­­not man -­­ this nymph of innocence praising the hallelujah of his hips. but i, a man, hold no candle to his iridescence, effervescent laughter bubbling down the brook. the bible spews “sin” upon man lying with man but he is of a different mythos.

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62 his crescendoed body embodies the clarity of the pools reflected of the clearer skies and the clearer days gone by. a thousand years have passed since our meeting was written in the stars but i’m not one for fate. i may, though, as artemis tugs his collarbones as she tugs her bow a constellation of freckles pepper his face the embrace of the wind tucking locks of gold behind his ear and bidding the nymph farewell. i take the hint and take my coat, not breaking my tree-­speckled gaze. perhaps in another life another, braver man than i, can bring to bloom our budding bond. but, for now, our leaves begin to brown; lay us to rest in our mahogany tomb.

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zamana

Amrita Chakraborty Prose

S

everal hundred years ago, i knew a girl named zamana. where she lived, june marked the start of monsoon season. and she had her ways of preparing. every night, as her husband slept soundly, zamana would sit for hours in the small courtyard beyond their hut and weave baskets and thatches from thick, dried reeds she had gathered from the fields. they would cover the gaps in their walls and ceiling when the rains arrived to ravage and replenish the land, and the baskets would hold any water that leaked. by moonlight, she would weave, tight coils and complicated braids, her dark face awash with silvered serenity. the movement of her hands were graceful and lush with understanding. i would look on from the corner of the yard, sitting with my back to the wall, my eyes never leaving her and hers never glancing up at me. she knew what i was, and she allowed my presence. some nights,

i hoped she took solace in it–but she did not know i loved her. even the humans that believed in our existence did not believe that we could love. when the first streak of orange hit the sky, zamana would rise silently, stack her night’s work in a neat pile, and head to the river holding two of the baskets. i would follow. by weak sunlight, she would enter the river, and i would sink in behind her. watch as the wet lines of her white and red sari drifted around her, enclosing her body in a sun-soaked halo. one basket, she would fill with water to take home with her. the other she would offer to me. i accepted, every time, because this was the only time in all those hours spent when she would meet my eyes. that brief brush of her hand on mine before she pulled away. i have not known a more subtle tenderness to this day.

Continued from page 13 While the Kids Were Gone

ing; but even with the door closed I could still hear Judy’s sister squawking, so I got up and put my iPod on shuffle, and then laid back down feeling like the most pathetic motherfucker, and that’s when things got even worse because our old song came on and suddenly I was crying and masturbating at the same time, which I swear has never happened, it’s just that I started thinking about a very specific day, a day so far in the past that I almost couldn’t believe it had happened, a day long before the kids, long before the idea of a future together. Judy and I were driving to the movies, and it was a real sunny afternoon, so why we were going to lock ourselves in a dark building for three hours, I don’t know, but we were

listening to that song; and because Judy was there beside me, gazing into the light with her freckled hand hanging out the window, and because the song made me feel for the first time like I might love her, and because the whole day seemed preordained, like it was planned by God or something comparable, because of all that I reached over and touched her cheek, which was even softer than I expected it to be, and then I told her she was the most beautiful girl in the world, which would have been the first real true thing I had said to her, or that I had said ever, and I suspected I really did mean it, and then Judy, she looked right at me and she said: oh Samantha, don’t lie.

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Melissa Rueda Art Untitled

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JUST FOR FUN

Gabriella Grimes Art

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IF MY RAZOR COULD SPEAK

Mel

Unt

Cindy Caban poetry

I thought we were lovers at first. I watched you undress, as you pulled me into the shower, and we commenced our ritual, cutting and shaving the hairs off your legs, armpits and other delicacies. Months had passed and this is all we did and I got tired as you got tired, sighing each time you saw me, me grunting at how often your hair grew. I was tired of feeling used. I wanted more and so did you. You were 17 when you grabbed me out of your shower kit and walked me to your room. Your hands were shaking. Did I make you nervous? I thought maybe you would love me now maybe we’d somehow speak the same language. But instead you unattached my handle from my head and I was screaming at you but you couldn’t hear, NO you wouldn’t hear and you grabbed a scissor and shoved it down my throat, yanked out my nose, and my lips, until only my three rectangular eyes remained, and you started to cry. What did I do wrong? I’m sorry that I was tired, I’m sorry, please save me. Your whole body was trembling, and you held me in the mid of your forearm your head staring up at the ceiling, whispering at someone in words that were not your own, and you used me to carve horizontal lines on your skin, further and further past the layers of your skin, until there wasn’t any skin anymore, only red, shy timid red, trespassing onto the surface, lines of blood kept shedding, shedding like your hair and you threw me across the room and and in this horror, we finally shared a moment.

24

We were both defective me separated from my parts, and you separated from your mind. It became our new ritual, you’d hide me in your top drawer, beneath your salinger and prozac and every other night you’d shed tears down my damaged eyes and we would both cry. There’d be so many lines, that we had to retrace them we had to find new spots, you took me down your legs, down your thighs, and even the back of your neck. And now I only see the color red.

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Melissa Rueda Art Untitled

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SOLITARY STROLLS IN ITALY

Patricia Abrego Art 27 Issue 62.indd 36

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Portrait of a Day

Hannah Rozenblat poetry Bleary eyed alarms too soon after throwing in the towel for the night Hiding under the protective hood of a comforting sweater not my own Reality creeping up an unwanted surprise at the most inconvenient time Sinking in bit by tiny bit only able to shrug at every thought that assails Shrugging instinctively as if none of it matters every hour the silence continues Denial is the only coping mechanism attributing the stress to academic concerns being overworked, underslept, that is all.

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HOLLOW SUNLIGHT Kana Tateishi Art 29

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SPIT ON ME THEN ACT LIKE THE VICTIM Opeyemi Ojo poetry

Why would you spit on me, then act like the victim? Yell at me, then say I broke your spirit

Shoot me down because I’m black, but you’re black too Continue to let them win, pushing us against ourselves We’re bombs colliding, creating collateral damage That we continue to bring upon ourselves Over and over and over Pause, rewind

Over and over and over Fast forward, play

Over and over and over

Don’t you see the cycle?

Isn’t it our job to break the chains? Blame the blue suits for hurting us But it’s okay if we hurt ourselves

Slash a blade against the dreams of your brother because you didn’t come up with it

Stab a knife into the life of your sister because she taught herself to swim while you’re still drowning in poverty

If I kill you first, can you touch me?

If they kill you second, can you stop it?

When you scream for help, but no one hears, do you continue? According to you, my death is overdue

Your excuse “If I can’t have it, you shouldn’t either If I can’t be good, no one should be neither.”

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NIGHTS WITH SHIRLEY Andy Lopez Prose

H

ours have passed and the boy is now at home. He watches as the orange light leaks under the door and soft shadows pass left and right. Cold breezes sneak into the room through the open window, making the bottom of the thin curtain flow freely. Gael feels the air pass over him from where he lies on the floor, listening and watching those beyond his door. On his stomach, he scratches at the rug with his toenails and pulls the peeling paint on the door. He breathes softly through his mouth, knowing that soon the light will recede and the figures beyond the door will move on. Click, and the light is gone. Steps become lighter and soon they are also gone. He sits up and pulls his pajama bottoms back to his ankles and fixes his top. He runs his fingertips along the left side of his face, moving them in a circle on his cheek, feeling the indents made from lying on the carpet. The digital clock says eleven in red strips of light, and he sits there waiting for ten minutes to pass. Ten, not seven or five, but ten because he has learned that he has to wait to make sure that Mama and Papa are asleep. After ten minutes, he knows that Mama remembered to drink her nightly tea because if she had not, she would have asked Papa to bring her the then cold cup. In the night, he pretends to be asleep, to not be doing what he is doing. A secret that is all his. A few weeks ago, he received a gift: a used iPhone. A cousin handed it to him and told him he could play whatever games he wanted or watch cartoons on it. It was useless as a phone, for it couldn’t make or receive calls, but the eight-year-old boy did not care about that. Its operations were entirely reliant on a connection to wireless internet, which Gael had. He played with the beaten device furiously, learning each day what it had to offer. Mama gave him a pair of earphones so she did not have to listen to the noises the little machine made. Last week, he made an astonishing discovery, by opening an app

and typing in a name. The name is music to him in sound and art in its being. After typing the name, a list of videos showed on the cracked screen: videos of her songs, of her performances, and of her. No voice can compare to that of Shirley Bassey. The boy first heard her on the radio, during a car ride when no one had realized what station they were listening to. Her voice grabbed him and he turned immediately to face the woman who was not there. His only way of getting to her is when he is left in the car and has the radio to himself. Any time he can, which is seldom, he listens to her, remembering which station was playing her. And it is important to listen, really listen, for each time he does, he feels himself getting closer to letting his own voice be free like hers. But no song is long enough, for his voice climbs up his throat, plays on his tongue and prepares to jump out, but before it can the song ends and the voice recedes back into the little boy. Neither his teacher, nor his doctor, nor his Mama can get him to talk. When he speaks, the words do not flow. They jumble and crash into each other. The sounds are incorrect and they repeat uncontrollably. In his room these past nights, he has been enjoying the company of Shirley. On a low volume, he plays her songs and allows himself to enjoy her in the way she was meant to be enjoyed. He allows her voice to seep into his ears and he can feel his own voice come up and become ready to join hers. The ten minutes have passed and he goes to his bedside drawer where he keeps the music player and plugs in the earphones. He puts it in his pocket, goes to his bed, and pulls off the blue plush blanket. He knots the two ends of the blanket around his waist and he admires his train in the pale light trespassing from outside. From under his bed he takes out a shoe box where he has hidden a few items he took when Mama was not looking. He puts on two bracelets he took from her nightstand. He takes out an

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62 almost empty tube of lip gloss he found the pavement outside. His mouth opens in the bathroom. In the dark he presses but no words or sounds come out. He is on the tube and passed it over his lips, gasping while he is being dragged into top and bottom. He licks off a bit from his the hallway. The hand around his arm bottom lip and enjoys the cherry flavor of is large enough that it covers the lower it. From his closet he takes out a pair of half of it and it tightens as he struggles to Mama’s shoes - black wedges that she break free. In the bathroom, the lights are left in his room a few days ago when they turned on. With one hand Papa turns on took a nap together - and he slips his feet the faucet in the tub and water furiously into them. gushes out. Gael’s head is forced under In the dark, he cannot see himself and the water and he feels a hand rub harshly he likes it. He can be whoever he wants. all over face. The hand rubs his lips so He plays the music and holds the device to hard that they begin to burn. All the while, his mouth because he likes pretending it is he attempts to push back to get his face him. He dances because he likes to dance out of the water so he can breathe. and he shakes his hand above his head beAnd then it stops. He gasps for air, cause he likes to feel the bracelets hit his grabbing the side of the tub with both of wrist. He shuts his his shaking hands. He eyes and keeps them listens to the sound of tightly closed and His voice climbs up his throat, Papa’s footsteps leavraises the volume ing the room. On his plays on his tongue louder and louder to knees before the tub, hear the full extent of and prepares to jump out. he feels the water run her voice. He bobs down his back and run his head left and down his chest, making right from shoulder to him shiver as the dropshoulder because he lets continue travelling. has forgotten where he is. He can taste iron on his lips and touches The rug moves from under him and them with his fingertips. When he pulls his Gael falls onto the naked floor. He opens hand away, he stares at the blood mixed his eyes and the lights are now on. He has with water. The voice that was building up fallen on his arms and they are crossed inside of him crumbles back into his throat, with his chest on top of them. He moves falling into the dark tunnel. his head to look up and he sees a blurry No, he can never be Shirley. Papa whose mouth is moving but who he cannot hear because the earphones are still in his ears and Shirley is still playing. He looks around the room but he cannot see. His eyes have not adjusted to the bright light. He feels a strong tug on the collar of his shirt and it tightens around his neck. His body hits the closet door and he now sees. He sees Mama standing outside the door in her pink robe, looking at the floor. He sees Papa with his fists on his sides, his face red. His eyes are red too, the veins on his forehead popping out. Gael closes his eyes, seeing a fist come at him and his knees hit the floor. Air is forced out of him and he hugs his stomach, feeling it tighten from the punch. The earphones are pulled out and the music player falls onto the floor. Before he can reach for it, it is thrown out the open window and he hears it smack

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THE WORDS OF LIFE Opeyemi Ojo poetry

“Stop, hands up!” My hands go up. His third eye is aimed at me His trigger finger, flinching “Take out your ID please” I start reaching “SHE’S GOT A GUN! SHE’S GOT A GUN!” My hands shoot up And I know He’s ready to shoot me up The first one hits the middle of my stomach The second crashes through my heart The third spirals into my head I don’t know where the others went I died with my hands up As if I was begging God To stop what I knew was coming It wasn’t just my life that was affected My mother, my brothers, that little girl that’s barely one In their eyes, I saw the spark disappear Until one by one, it was gone I held no weapons, but the tears that poured down But the words that I said But the secret letter I wrote to my mother “Mum, How is it that our race is the chosen one, Descendants of kings and queens? And when he shot me, My crown did not stop him? My crown fell at the same time that I fell I grew up knowing that I was heir to a King who decided not to rule And a Queen who succeeded in her attempt to be King I just wanted to make you proud, Mum There’s blood on my crown, Mum You can’t give that to the next Queen She died before she could be conceived So that means it ended with me”

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And all of a sudden, I wake up It was nothing but a dream A foreshadowing of what is to come What will be done I need to ask myself When they’re looking at you The men in the blue What will you do Will you bow down to their supposed superiority Or will you attempt to rebel against what is not supposed to be? They tried to get you down, But you refused to cry Until they gave you your angel wings And then you had to fly What if I’m not ready to fly because my wings are broken? Because the one who gave them to me broke them for me? What if I make that choice and it’s too late? I’ll be another face on the news with the policeman saying, “I’m sorry.” No, keep that same energy you had when you shot me Because it’s too late...it’s too late And when I die Don’t you dare put “I’m sorry” on my grave.

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NEEDLE MARKS

Darrell Herbert poetry Contest Man’s best friend can’t even bark And I’m checking her arms for needle marks An addiction merely lights the spark Breaking down as you broke my heart Fuck around in her wedding gown Fight or flight, just make sure you deal right Never knew what real love felt like He’s a dick and she’s still a Dyke Some nights I want to heal right But, that shit don’t feel right So I sip cocaine from steel pipes I mean, you don’t know how shit goes down behind closed doors I mean, you could say my insecurities are whores Who gives blow jobs to feelings that I’m done fighting for Fuck that, I’m just lying more Crying more Fuck it, I want to be the living proof that’s dying more Sweet and sour, but my sour is poured Nobody made me feel safe, nobody made me feel secure Nobody saw my blood dripping from the fucking floor of my fucking pours Of course, I am insecure The pain of life is too much to bear, like standing in a window of a towering inferno When the heat gets too hot, you jump

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Ikeuhhh Girl

Gabriella Grimes Art

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THE DECISION

A Five Minute Play in One Act

Sara Christopher Drama

Characters

Jenna Woman, 28 years old Roman Man, 30 years old

Scene

The kitchen of Jenna’s small New York apartment Time The present

Act 1 Scene 1 Setting: JENNA’s apartment around 5pm. JENNA and ROMAN sit across each other at a round table with cups of water in front of them in JENNA’s kitchen. How long have you known? About a week.

ROMAN JENNA

ROMAN (Surprised) Why would you wait so long to tell me? JENNA (A little defensive) Because I wanted to know how I felt before I involved you. And how do you feel?

ROMAN

JENNA I don’t know. I wanted to talk to you to see if your opinion would make the decision clearer. ROMAN Sorry I couldn’t be more help. I’m just kind of in shock. I mean I like you but this is a lot. I know this is hard.

JENNA

ROMAN I just think it is ultimately your decision. JENNA Well, I’ve taken a lot into consideration and I’ve weighed the pros and cons and its coming out pretty much even.

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62 ROMAN So, you’re a pros and cons kind of girl? I didn’t expect that. (JENNA gives him a look) Let’s start with the pros. What did you come up with? JENNA Well, it was more little things like, I’m the right age. Like if I wait too long, what if I want a kid but can no longer have one. And I think I’d make a really cute kid. I have good genes that should be passed along. (ROMAN chuckles) ROMAN Okay, what does that even mean, you have good genes? JENNA Well I have perfect teeth and my family doesn’t have a history of mental illness. I have long nail beds which my mom always told me was a plus and I was a really cute baby and I bet you were a really cute baby too, so together our baby would be adorable. ROMAN That’s true. I was frikin precious. Our baby would be cute as fuck. I’m glad we agree on that.

JENNA

(JENNA smiles) You have a really great smile.

ROMAN

(They look at each other for a little while and it is easy to see the connection between them but their momentary joy shifts into realization that they still need to make a decision.) What are some other pros you came up with? JENNA Well, if everything works out, this could be a really great thing. It could turn out perfectly for the both of us. We could have a really great kid and our lives would be awesome. But that’s a long shot. We don’t know much about each other and we only have so much time to figure it out.

That’s true.

ROMAN (pause)

What were the cons? JENNA Well first, this wasn’t part of my plan. I thought I’d be married if and when I decided to have children. And that’s the other thing, I’m not sure I’d be a good mom and if I want to be a mom at all. I thought I’d be more financially stable when it happened and I didn’t think it would happen with a guy I hooked up with once at a sleazy bar on my best friend’s birthday. Now this means I have to really be an adult if I’m going to be supporting a kid. I can’t go out anymore. I can’t party or take vacations whenever I want or drink whenever I want or sleep where ever I want, whenever I want, with whomever I want. Whom?

ROMAN

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JENNA I’m completely shackled to the kid. My freedom is gone. Also I know you said you want to get to know me but what if we aren’t a good fit? Then it’s going to be weird and awkward and then I’ll have to start dating other people again which would be weird for the kid and you which would cause fights between me and the kid and me and you and it just all sounds so complicated. ROMAN Wow. Ya know, I was freaked out before but after hearing all of that, I’m kind of convinced you don’t want this baby at all. JENNA And I still don’t know what you want. Do you want a baby? Do you want to be a father now or in the future? Did you ever plan on getting married? Do you have a job? Do you still live with your parents? WhereWoah! Those are a lot of questions.

ROMAN

JENNA Well I need them answered if I’m going to make this decision. ROMAN Okay. Well, I have answers to some of them. Okay.

JENNA

ROMAN I don’t live at home. I have an apartment down town with two roommates and a dog. I have a job. I co-own a small chain of coffee shops with my best friend from college, who is also one of my roommates. I always figured someday I’d get married and have some babies but I really did not think that time would be now. I don’t want to freak you out or anything. I just want to be honest and I may overwhelm you with information butJENNA It’s ok. I want you to. The more I know the better. ROMAN Okay, well, I really don’t think I’m ready to be a dad. Just last week, I woke up at two in the afternoon with a Cheeto stuck to my face on a Wednesday. Nice.

JENNA

ROMAN I haven’t had a serious relationship in four years. I’m a giant baby myself. But recently I have been trying to get more serious and I have been open to finding someone and starting to be an adult. I don’t know if that person is you but I’d like to find out. No matter what you decide I’d like to see you again. JENNA I feel like we are in the same exact place in life and I feel the same way. Did that help at all? Yeah, I think I know what I have to do. What is it?

ROMAN JENNA ROMAN

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JENNA I really do like you and I want to see you again and hopefully try some of your coffee at your shop but I can’t have a baby right now. Okay. I get it. Thank you for being so understanding. I’ll go with you if you want. Thank you.

ROMAN JENNA ROMAN JENNA

(Black out) (End of show)

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Exposure 2017 Matias Madrid Art

La Paz, Bolivia

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Concepciรณn, Chile

z, Bolivia

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SOLITARY STROLLS IN ITALY

Patricia Abrego Art 43

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Reimagining Cupid and Psyche Dina Darwish Drama

Characters Psyche Goddess of the soul. Human in many respects. She is resolute. Cupid A paradox Servant Servant from Olympus

Scene

Underneath Mt. Olympus, beneath the clouds on the side of the mountain, there is a cavern. Inside the cavern, there are small jewels where gods are imprisoned for their misdeeds. It is dark and murky, unfit for someone who commands love. Time A long time ago (Enter Psyche, nerve-wracked. She wears a white peplos and walks steadily across the dark room draped in velvet. She sits down in a seat in front of a large, glass wall, as directed by a servant dressed in a suit.) PSYCHE

Thank you. You’re welcome.

SERVANT PSYCHE

Ah, when-

SERVANT Soon. They’re having trouble waking him up. PSYCHE (fidgeting)

Oh okay. SoI’ll be outside for when you finish.

SERVANT

(The servant walks away silently. Psyche watches him leave and then looks towards the glass wall. She stands, knocks on the wall once, twice, and then punches it as hard as she can to test it. She grunts in pain but it does not shatter. She sits, waits, and lets out a breath. Enter Cupid. He wears a white chiton and is in gold shackles with the guards at his side. He sits down in the seat across from her on the other side of the glass wall and glares at her. The guards exit quietly. Psyche looks at him, wide-eyed and tense.) 44 Issue 62.indd 53

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OTR PSYCHE

Hello.

CUPID

Hello.

PSYCHE (fidgeting again) Well, the weather’s nice today. Apollo must be in a happy mood. CUPID

I wouldn’t know.

PSYCHE Well, it’s very… sunny. Though I’m sure it’s only because he wishes welcoming weather for the war. He’s already chosen a side to meddle in. Most of Olympus has, in fact. Uh- what do you make of that? CUPID They can do whatever the fuck they want. Why should I care? PSYCHE

Right… um, okay.

(rubbing her arms) Is it always this chilly here? CUPID There is always a draft in here. No one’s ever bothered to fix it. PSYCHE

I can see my breath.

CUPID (smiling insincerely) Well, luckily you won’t have to stay long. (Psyche doesn’t respond.) CUPID

Quiet now, are we?

PSYCHE I’m trying to talk to you. But you’re beginning to act like this again. CUPID

Like what? Nothing.

(sighs)

Won’t you ask how I am for once? No.

PSYCHE CUPID PSYCHE

CUPID Well, you’re doing a poor job of trying to get on my good side. PSYCHE Who says I’m trying? I think you want this to be difficult. CUPID And I think you have something more to say to me than the weather and the war. Why else would you come?

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62 PSYCHE Sometimes people do things out of the kindness of their own hearts, you know. CUPID (sneers) No one ever comes to me unless they want something. PSYCHE

Okay. So what if I do?

CUPID Then why don’t you just say it instead of dancing around it? PSYCHE Because I was told not to provoke you. CUPID You couldn’t even provoke a single mortal into wedding you, princess. No. But I did provoke a god.

PSYCHE (more quietly) (Cupid remains silent for a few moments.) CUPID

Why are you here?

PSYCHE (rubs her face with her hands) I- I don’t know, to be honest. The nightmares wouldn’t stop. I think they were telling me to see you again one last time. How are you? CUPID There is no nectar or ambrosia here. What do you think? PSYCHE

Oh. I’m-

CUPID

Sorry? Never. Not after what you’ve done. Still upset about that? Really?

PSYCHE CUPID

PSYCHE You lied to me. I forgave you the first time. A-and you’re still(trembling now) And you- you s-stillCUPID (groans) Don’t cry. If you do, then leave. Or else it will resume incessantly in my head and you know they don’t offer any drinks here. (She turns away and brushes her tears away, almost violently. But he can still hear her quiet weeping.) CUPID I said shut up! I didn’t allow your presence here to hear you sob and snivel over past events! What’s done is done! To think I waited this long for this pathetic encounter is beyond me!

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OTR (The guards enter, cautious, clenching their weapons firmly at the raising of his voice. Psyche coughs to clear her throat and grimaces.) You waited for me? Yes.

PSYCHE CUPID

PSYCHE Is that why you have been haunting me? CUPID I don’t care enough for that. You think I have enough energy left to spite you? Maybe it’s your narcissism. (chuckles darkly) … Or maybe I would for fun- there’s nothing else to do here. PSYCHE (narrowing her eyes) So, did you? Or did you not? CUPID (rolling his eyes) I didn’t. Wipe that ugly look off your face. It’s no matter. The air shouldn’t have allowed me to, if you didn’t wish it so. PSYCHE Well, I didn’t. That’s for sure. I would have come sooner to confront you about it. But I haven’t been able to organize a visit in months, I’ve been busy with all the paperworkYears. What?

CUPID PSYCHE

CUPID It’s been years. Or does your newly god-like status aid you in forgetting? PSYCHE No, but perhaps I’ve been drinking too much water from the wrong wells, that somehow the River Lethe seeped in through the cracks, and made me forget. (He remains quiet and gives her a scrutinizing look.) PSYCHE That’s what you were going to say, wasn’t it? Honestly, I don’t know why I forgot. Maybe I’ve been busy taking care of the havoc you released onto this world. CUPID (scoffs) Havoc? You mean the truth? You’re all just angry because you’ve all finally seen your true colors. PSYCHE Your mother has taken up the responsibility with the accursed bow and arrows in your stead and has been ardent on rectifying the hatred you left behind. But there aren’t enough golden arrows toCUPID Does that bitch think she can replace me? PSYCHE 47

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Empty Vessel, Heavy Thoughts Kana Tateishi Art

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OTR (startled) That’s no way to refer to your mother! She-HAS FORGOTTEN ME!

(irate)

CUPID

PSYCHE (hushed) No! She is grieving for you. Why do you insist on justifying what you did? Did you want this? Do you want to rot in here? CUPID (somber) And would that be so bad? I know you want me gone too. (Psyche fidgets around, looking down, silent. Cupid realizes that she’s slipping.) CUPID (sighs) Listen, I married you because the omens that pointed to you. My father instilled in me the idea that the oracles were vultures and that we should beg for their mercy. I’ve never believed in anything in my life. I wasn’t going to beg. The idea itself sickened me to the core. But the prophecy became known to me anyway. What did it say?

PSYCHE

CUPID (smirking) You wouldn’t have liked it. I rescued you from a lifetime of misery and loneliness. I married you against my better judgement, because my mother wanted me to. Because she still believes only you could have brought me happiness. How funny. (more firmly) What did the prophecy say?

PSYCHE

CUPID That I would be free from love. From this duty bestowed upon me since birth. Only then I could truly rule on my own accord. But I didn’t read the fine line. Had I known you would lead me to ruin, I would not have a night with you. You’re nothing like what my mother said about you. You are not pretty or subservient. No… you are wild like the sea. I never could’ve controlled you. PSYCHE (disgusted) Okay. No. You’re wrong. You married me because you were sickened with yourself and dying to escape your misery for air. You wanted the throne more than you wanted love, and I have never loved you. You tore me away from my family. My father grew sick in the wanting and vanished in the grief. My sisters threw themselves off of cliffs for you. You! The ungrateful, vile, awfulCUPID King! I am a king in my own right and you know it. In my realm, I control all the love and compassion andAll the lust and hatred and aversion-

PSYCHE

CUPID (livid) Do you not hear me? You cross boundaries. Remember you are human once you remove that ring. You will always be human. I am a-

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62 PSYCHE King! I heard you! You are a king, but you are no more than a sad king. A terrestrial dying star. A god that doesn’t want to be alive. You wanted more than just a fling. You wanted a wholesome, fruitful memory of me. You fooled me into releasing every single soul of their obligations to love, giving way to hatred. To give you a break. And I thought this would be temporary. I thoughtCUPID

That I would go back?

PSYCHE You threw all your gold-tipped arrows away into Tartarus. They took Hephaestus centuries to make, and you can’t expect Hermes to go and find them in that endless void. CUPID I don’t want them found. You should’ve just trusted me more. You of all people. PSYCHE (takes a deep breath) When the arrow pricked your soft skin, you cried in anguish because you knew what that meant for you. You knew that your youth could save you no longer and your gaze has perpetually killed me ever since. People have suffered under your reign of terror and deep-seated lies. They have cast a plague upon your name. So when you wanted to be understood, you looked to me. When you wanted to be accepted, you told Zephyr to find me. Took me into a dark, damp, dubious place with no light. Blinded me with something unreal, a palace of disillusion and intoxication. An underworld you wanted to call your own. You wanted to recreate yourself into someone I could see. Wanted me to be not so torn over it all. Wanted me to pity you and give you comfort. (Something I cannot give myself.) You wanted a puppet under the guise of devotion. You grew attached to me because I wept and you heard a calling. CUPID And were you satisfied with that ring on your finger? That one that granted you immortality? Because after a few centuries, it becomes tiring. Not just tiring- frustrating. Awful. Mind-numbing. Vexing. Infuriating. You do not want to be a slave to humanity. I was trying to save us. I wasn’t honest because I knew you wouldn’t understand then. No do you now. But with timePSYCHE Time wasn’t going to change my mind! You know you made a grave mistake. You ruined yourself! You wanted to be absent and take refuge far away, far from here. Far from human. Far from this. But you let me trust you in spite of what the oracle said. Even when I should’ve known that you were no monster, no beast, but a manipulative soul in disguise. You convinced yourself that you needed me. People curse my name too. You wanted me to pick up the glass shards of your broken self and create a beautiful mosaic with the pieces. You wanted me to remind you that you are not avaricious. But you are. Ugh, everyone’s better off without love.

CUPID

PSYCHE Is that all you have to say? What did you expect? That the gods wouldn’t be angry? That people wouldn’t retaliate when you smote them vulnerable? I’m still trying to fix your mess. And you still act like this here in this sad, lonesome place… (She gets up and turns to leave. Cupid inhales.) CUPID You know, you were a queen in your own right as well. (She becomes still.) I did not elevate you; I made your status noted for all. These bronze shackles, these golden bars, they are nothing in your presence. You have every right to be angry with me. To be sickened by me for what I have subjected you to. I promised to love you unconditionally, but instead I fled into the sky, somewhere you could not touch me. Somewhere I could rain molten fire down on you. I was afraid. I put my trust in you 50

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OTR when you held an oil lamp in one hand and a dagger concealed in the other, behind your back. Maybe the arrow grazed me, maybe it has undone me. Reduced me into this petty little thing, clouded my eyes with the memory of a deep fog like no other. But it does not induce love. It amplifies it tenfold. PSYCHE (with her back to him) I will not forgive you. I came to tell you that I won’t be coming back. There’s nothing left for you here. I’m moving away. Somewhere where I can’t hear you. I came to say goodbye. CUPID Psyche, I’ll be locked up in here forever if you leave. If you leave, I’ll be left with all the debris and guilt alone, I’ll bear them alone. Remember when we first met? By the trees, in the night, when you needed my help, and you came to me. And when all the trials became jokes- What happened to the man you said you were sworn to love until Chaos swallows us whole? I haven’t met him yet.

PSYCHE (She leaves out the door with a loud slam and the stage silent. Cupid is seen clenching his fists with his head down, as the curtain falls.)

END SCENE

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Memory Serves Joel Mota Prose Contest

J

oan took her child out of his cradle and placed him in a baby carrier. She picked up a lantern, and closed the front door before making her way to the street. Joan adjusted the straps on the carrier, held up her lantern, and walked into the darkness. Her parents spoke fondly of the bright nights when cities glowed in the dark and brightly-lit buildings defied the stars; a time before the great disaster, before the lights went out. Now, the buildings stood dark as a reminder of all things possible and all things lost, but only to those who remembered the past. Joan recalled her parents’ advice. Memory serves. Without a knowledge of the past, there is no future. She made it a point to recall her parents’ every word when she ventured out at night with her child and her lantern held high. It was the only time her baby, Mozart, was compliant. She felt like Diogenes wandering around ancient Greece. The nocturnal streets lit only by candlelight and torches created pockets of lights scattered about in the darkness. They were intimate places where people would gather to talk and exchange ideas. The sharp contrasts of light and dark created a Renaissance affect; the people looked solid and appeared to display real emotions. Joan looked upon the scenes and thought of them as works of art. It was a coping mechanism she felt was necessary in order to survive in these troubling times. This appreciation allowed her to be more empathetic towards others, since strangers and friends were drawn with the same nocturnal brush. In her eyes each city block was a painting come to life. Up above, the blackened buildings loomed like angry monuments standing in rows forming concrete canyons. The local militia greeted her as she made her way to the wide boulevard. Many abandoned vehicles littered the streets. The semi-trucks had been transformed into shops and places of trade. Her parents used to call them the New Bodegas. One day, when Joan asked what that meant, her father replied. “Why don’t you Google it?” Her mother laughed. “I was a human search engine in the days before Google,

but now we’re back to these.” She held up a book, and carefully placed it back on one of the many bookshelves lining the wall. She sighed and sat on her father’s knee. “It’s funny. I used to think going back to basics was a good thing—but not like this.” She rested her head on his shoulders. “Our little girl has read most of the books we have.” Daddy nodded, and gently gripped her hand. “I know, sweetheart. I know.” A long silence followed. They hugged and often cried when they reminisced about the past, but it was different that day. It was shortly after that they introduced Joan to the library, a place where her mother used to work, a building filled with books. Any time Joan had a question that couldn’t be answered by her parents—which was often— they would go to the library. Eventually every fortnight they journeyed out with a young Joan in tow. It became a family tradition because it filled a void and gave them a purpose. The library was where Joan was headed now, following the same path walked with her parents more than a decade ago. She had to return a book: The Dark Board Book for the Gothic Toddler. The book was effective, in part because of its sensational and fantastic subject matter. However, Joan thought the story’s pacing was a problem. Nevertheless, she read it out loud to her child for a few days, but now the book was due. Joan reached the library and climbed the familiar, wide stairs lit with rows of torches at each end. Two statues without heads flanked the entrance. Her father had called them lions. She noticed a bigger crowd than usual scattered around the steps. Some were reading out loud to anyone who would stop and listen, but many simply read to themselves. Joan was comforted to see their numbers slowly grow as the years passed. She pointed at the crowd, and spoke to her child. “You see, Mozart, do you see the people? Isn’t it wonderful?” She sighed. “Maybe there’s hope.” Joan sang, laughed, and danced until her baby giggled. She hoped the scene would be engrained in his developing mind, and one day passed down to his children just like her parents had passed to her. 52

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ORANGE GIRL

Gabriella Grimes Art

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THE LAST CULACHINO James Pepe Prose

T

he cognac was served neat.She blinked a few times and raised her eyebrows in satisfaction, releasing a sincere smile. The bartender raised the shot and, in a humming baritone, said, “It’s been too long. Cheers.” They touched the edges of their glasses just hard enough to make each one clink. He sipped his slowly, savoring the warmth of the cognac. He looked invigorated from the drink. She picked up the remaining glasses and threw the bartender a wink. He received it with a grin and returned to the queue of customers. She was wearing leather gloves that reached just beyond her wrist. As she walked, not even a ripple cascaded across the surfaces of the two-inch bands of liquid in each glass. She wasn’t looking at the ground, though. She wasn’t looking at the glasses of cognac in her hands, either. She was looking at me. She had two steps left until she reached my table. One step left. I tried to look unconcerned. I tried to show that this was nothing out of the ordinary. I tried to make it seem as if I hadn’t been fully absorbed by her since the moment she arrived. I tried to seem as if I hadn’t already processed every detail and curve about her; that I hadn’t already hypothesized her story in my head, our future children together, or the causes of how she would inevitably become a future ex-girlfriend. She arrived at my table. “Cognac should always be served neat,” she said. “You don’t want to thin the flavor. Can’t taint its lush body.” She placed the two glasses down. “May I sit?” I reached for the chair and pushed it out, much like a boy pinning on his first corsage. The chair slid to her. “Please do,” I said.She sat down. I reached my hand out to her. “My name is [un-trite, thought provoking male name].” She reached her hand out and placed it in mine. “[equally un-trite and thought provoking female name],” she said. “How did you know I liked cognac?” I said, as I let her hand go.

“I didn’t,” she said, straining her words through the teeth of her smile. “I think this is the first time in a year I’ve ever seen [worldly and honest barkeep name] serve anyone from that bottle,” I said. “My father used to perform here,” she said. “He played the harp. I may be the only one besides him to order it.” She swirled and sipped her drink. “You never forget its smell.” I swirled my own glass in a soft rhythm and said, “A smell you don’t want to forget.” I took a sip and leaned back in my chair. “So what made you walk over here?” I said. “I thought I was successfully hidden in this dim light.” “I saw you the moment I walked in,” she said, and finished her cognac. I leaned forward. “Really?” She rose and slid closer, “Yes,” she said. “Your shoe is untied.” I bent over in disbelief and looked down to check my laces. “No,” I said. “They’re double knotted.” But she was already gone, dissolved into the crowd. The perfect thing to say always comes a few seconds too late. “Forget my shoes, you haven’t saved me from tripping over my own tongue,” I mumbled under my breath. All that was left was her empty glass. Not even a droplet of perspiration or a water ring stain beneath her glass remained. I turned to watch the drummer’s double time swing and wondered if the smeared lipstick mark on the rim of her glass would ever be something I would have to wash off my neck.

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HERE ARE THE WAYS IN WHICH I KNOW YOU Claudette Ramos poetry

One, you hate lists. Two, your green tea is steeped for three minutes and drizzled, liberally, with honey. Three, you eat like every meal is your last because when you were young you once went weeks without food. You caress your bones and pinch your skin sometimes, too. Four, you’re headstrong and narrow-minded and we stand against each other like walls of granite, immovable, bold and tall and just a little bit lonely. Five, you wake early, but don’t touch the dishes. Six, you hate talking about the past but that’s where I spend most of my time, thinking and writing and asking questions you reserve silences for at night. You push forward like the subway trains, shutting doors like your life is a line of stops and checkpoints and you mark each of them off with a hard flick of your wrist and never look back. Seven, you miss your family and you won’t admit it, which makes me sad. Eight, I’ve never seen you cry. Nine, you’re perpetually warm and during December evenings you cradled my feet in your palms and absorbed the ice in my blood, steady, unbothered. Ten, you’re gone and there’s a coldness in the bed and a numbness in my toes and I don’t know how long it will take to get warm again.

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SOLITARY STROLLS IN ITALY Patricia Abrego Art

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DOES A GHOST NEED TO BE DEAD TO HAUNT YOU? Charlie Fiscetti poetry

i know i shouldn’t let you live rent-free in my brain, but i’m desperate for a tenant, even one who will tear up all the furniture and leave me with nothing. it’s funny how places and spaces are defined by those who inhabit them which is why i can’t go past the papaya dog at the corner by the subway station without hearing you laugh about the name. at the corner by the subway station everything is tainted places we kissed goodbye and i watched you go by and say “goodbye” but we would never really part. every last joke and smile you seemed to save i began to crave you whispered and smirked it was work to love you but i thought that’s what was love was. i thought i was supposed to say goodbye with tears in my eyes feeling empty my bed, once warm, feeling empty a little empathy would’ve been nice when i said i was frustrated because we hadn’t spoken in three days, broken by your lack of words i had latched myself onto you wholeheartedly a little empathy, when honestly i had lost myself in you entirely because i trusted you. and to me your skillfull tongue could spin me into pure romantic that you spoke so fondly i tend to break up my life in terms of pre-you and post-you except it;s less christ and more like a natural disaster—

there were more before you, and there will be more after you, because unfortunately for me,

you are not an anomoly.

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you of all people, should know, romeo, there is nothing romantic about lies you made up false fantasies and

convinced me to believe in them too. i believed in you. i believed in us and we til death do us part

but you started to unravel and in toure bones you carved out the truth our truth

life, liberty, and pursuit of being my own damn man not tied down to you, we lied down

and you whispered sweet nothings that really were nothing because we were nothing and—

it makes me sick, the rent i asked you for weeks ago, you somehow sweetly spun my barbed-wire heart undone.

convincing me i owed you rent. i owe you nothing.

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THROUGH THE DOORS

Madison Paredes Drama FADE IN: INT. HOUSE - DAY

(A girl rushes inside, leaving the front door slightly open behind her. Her long black hair is disheveled, along with her blue jeans and rosy knitted shirt. She is wearing a plain black pair of sneakers. The first floor has no windows to let in the day’s sunshine. Artificial red lights attached to the ceiling illuminate the vicinity. There is no furniture and the concrete floors contain geometric patterns of black and white triangles. She walks quickly down the hallway and turns right.) You can’t run away from me.

WOMAN

(We hear the front door slam shut.The girl slips off her shoes. Holding them in her arms, she proceeds to walk in her white socks down the next hallway.Footsteps in the distance can be heard.The girl turns right again and before her stands a hot pink carpet. Peculiarly, it twists and turns to higher elevations, like a spiral staircase with no structure underneath to bolster it. She bends over, places her hands on floor, and crawls up the carpet. She arrives at the top where the edge of the carpet is pushing up against a floating white door. She enters.The room is filled with plants. They aren’t at all typical plants. Sapphire flowers with black bumps all over, deep green aloe with a spiraling shape like that of an origami design, and foliage with crimson stripes highlighted against bronze and pale yellow striping rested on wooden tables. The walls are windows and the laminate floor is decorated with rainbow fish paintings.) I know you’re in here somewhere.

WOMAN

(The girl pushes past the tables, running to the other side of the room. She twists the handle to another white door and enters. Footsteps in the distance are no longer in the distance. We hear them getting louder.) WOMAN

I WILL find you.

(The new room contains a plethora of furniture. Beige chairs, tables, and sofas placed in a disorganized fashion across the grey carpeted floor. Old newspapers are scattered across the floor, dust is lurking in the corners of the room, and grandmother clothes on hangers are lying on the chairs. There is a door in the left corner.The girl turns the door’s knob, only to discover that it leads to a small closet. She enters anyway, pulling it closed behind her. She crouches down and faces the door, shoes still in her hands. A door slam is heard.) Come out or I will make you.

WOMAN

(The girl peers through the closet’s door blinds and sees 59

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62 the woman’s black leather clogs shuffling around the room. The woman is carrying a nut-brown cane, each of her hands clasping near the ends. She is wearing a sooty black pouf dress with her grey hair tied up in a neat bun.) WOMAN

You must be in there.

(The girl holds her breath as she sees the women’s clogs move closer to the closet door. The woman is beating the nut-brown cane against her hand as she walks. She opens the closet door. The girl squeals and the woman moves her cane to one hand. A smirk is showing on the woman’s wrinkly face.) WOMAN Don’t worry my dear. This will be a treat. (She grabs the girl by her black locks and drags her out of the closet. She shoves the girl up against a wall and taps the wall with her cane. We see the blackest of black doors appear. The woman places her fingers at the end of her cane and twists the circular end open. A whip emerges from the cane. The woman opens the black door and enters, whip in one hand and the girl in the other.) The door closes behind her. FADE TO BLACK.

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Contributions Patricia Abrego is a Hunter student and visual artist based in Queens, New York.

Jessica Balgobin is a Queens native studying Creative Writing and Psychol-

ogy at Hunter. As an Indo-Guyanese woman, she aims to explore her culture through her poetry and prose and shine a light on untold narratives in creative spaces. She hopes to broaden her knowledge of topics concerning gender justice, identity, mental health, and the experiences of people of color. She has plans to pursue a career in counseling and publish a collection of her work one day.

Ciny Caban is an awkward, yet hyper introvert studying English and Sociology

at Hunter College. She likes to play field hockey, writes poetry and short stories, and rides her bike along the streets of Brooklyn. Her sleeping schedule is sporadic as she gets the most work done past midnight. She hopes you like and dislike her work because all art cannot be fully loved.

Ames Cane

was born and raised in Portland, Maine. She holds an MFA in Creative Writing from Boston University, and now resides in Columbus, Ohio, where she teaches piano. Her fiction has previously appeared in The Susquehanna Review and Used Gravitrons, among others. She is currently at work on her first novel.

Amrita Chakraborty is a Bengali-American writer and student located in New

York City. Her work has previously been published in The Rising Phoenix Review, and she has self-published a chapbook entitled Incarnate. She is currently pursuing a Bachelor of Arts in English Literature, and her interests include music, social justice, and stargazing.

Shaina Clingempee is a first-year Poetry MFA student at Sarah Lawrence Col-

lege, where she serves as Social Media Coordinator for the Sarah Lawrence Poetry Festival, and as General Reader for Lumina. In her spare time, she likes to read and write poetry at coffee shops, discuss feminism, read science fiction and existential philosophy, explore the city, and watch mind-bender films. Clingempeel has work forthcoming or published in The Heartland Review, Free State Review, Poetry Quarterly, Crab Fat Magazine, and other places.

Dina darwish is a student at Hunter College. She spends her time daydreaming on the commute and loves drinking coffee. She hopes to publish something in the near future.

Charlie Fiscetti is a sophomore Film major and English minor, and is inter-

ested in the intersection between mythology and the supernatural, individual and systematic trauma, and modernity.

Gabriella Grimes is a 22 year old artist from New York City, majoring in mu-

sic at Hunter. A combination of the impossible-to-ignore art scenes of the city and art classes in elementary to high school prompted her to explore art seriously. She’s experimented with several mediums, from acrylic painting to crocheting, focusing on watercolors in high school. Currently, under the name 61

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62 MalaikaG, she primarily produces ink, watercolor, and digital artwork featuring non-real human subjects, who are mostly people of color without specified races. Due to her interest in fashion, her subjects wear originally designed clothing, heavily inspired by South Korean, Japanese, and American fashion. She released a book in October 2017, entitled Just for Fun, thirty pages long and full of pieces influenced by POC, including completely unedited ink drawings, rough drafts, and works unavailable for purchase in her store. Gabriella’s ultimate goal is the continuation of her artistic self-exploration, finding topics and subject matter to portray, as well as gaining more experience in less familiar mediums.

Darrell Herbert is a nationally recognized poet. He has earned a national

silver medal in the 2014 Scholastic Art & Writing Awards, presented by the Alliance for Young Artists & Writers. He earned a gold key from Casita​​Maria​​ Center​​for​​the​​Arts​​&​​Education. He is also a songwriter, humanitarian, author, and artivists.

raven hicks is the Senior Drama editor and Secretary for OTR, she is an English linguistics and Gender Studies major. She loves to read and write drama and poetry and harbors and intense obsession for Inuyasha. She can be found in the OTR office on Thursday afternoons—usually blasting SZA and singing to herself. What a cooky girl.

Zsofia Kozma was born and raised in Budapest, Hungary and spent time in

places like Paris, Seattle, Vancouver, La Palma, Guadalajara and Odessa for studying, working and traveling. These cultures and different ways of traveling all shaped the way she sees the world. She is currently studying acting and all things theatre. She is still new in New York City and is happy to meet new people. Feel free to contact her at zsofia.kozma10@myhunter.cuny.edu

Andy lopez is a Creative Writing major at Hunter College. He enjoys writing stories featuring small instances of childhood.

Matias Madrid is a New Yorker by way of Chile; he was born in Vina del Mar,

but grew up in the city. Visiting museums as a child and seeing graffiti on the streets has influenced him to dabble in street art. However it was not until leaving New York that he was able to finally take to the streets. Once in Salvador de Bahia, Brazil, the artist discovered the symbol common in his artwork today. It came about as the negative from a cut out of a stencil from another symbol. After looking at it for a while he decided to start putting it on the street. Originally it reminded him of a simple, basic structure, similar to houses in favelas (shanty towns) in Brazil but he realized that people will see what they want to see as well. Today the artist is finishing his studies at Hunter College with a double major in history and education. His artwork has been put on pause for the moment but he still has the itch to get out and get up.

Leo McMahon was born in Brooklyn on December 4th 1995. He attended PS 29,

MS 51, and the Beacon High School. McMahon went to Pitzer College for two years before transferring to Hunter. He loves playing and watching basketball. He loves Herman Melville and Frederick Douglass. He is hoping to become a teacher who creates a classroom where critical thinking is fostered and curiostity flourishes.

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OTR Joel mota was born in The Dominican Republic. After graduating from The

High School of Music and Art, he was recruited, and worked for an advertising agency for many years. The company filed for bankruptcy and closed. It was then that he decided to further his education by enrolling in Bronx Community College. Suddenly, his passion for writing was born. He received his Associates degree in 2016, with honors, and is presently pursuing a Bachelor’s degree at Hunter College. He follows in his mother, Flordelisa Mota’s footsteps, who also graduated from Bronx Community College, with honors, and received her Bachelor’s degree at Hunter College in 2005. You can contact him at joelm20111@gmail.com.

Peter Nunez is a Junior at Hunter College, majoring in Psychology. He is also

an aspiring writer, currently working on his first novel. Peter is a guy of simple tastes: classical music, a good laugh, and good books. He fancies the notion that one day you will be walking down the block, minding your own business, with a hardcover copy of his novel in your bag, and he will tap youon your shoulder, Sharpie in hand, and say, “I would like to sign that for you”. He hopes that you like his work, but if you don’t, that’s cool, too.

Opeyemi Ojo was born in Nigeria but raised in Brooklyn. Considering herself

a New Yorkian, Opeyemi has been reading since the age of 2 and currently reads like her life depends on it. She writes for the fun of it and doesn’t really expect much from it, but then again, who knows what the future may hold? She is majoring in Psychology and hopes to go to medical school afterward. She likes anything with cheese, is secretly afraid of heights, and thinks spicy thoughts on a daily basis.

Madison Paredes is a sophomore at Hunter College. She is majoring in film and creative writing. Madison enjoys spending her time taking photographs, writing short scripts, and watching anime. She is currently a marketing intern at Thalia Spanish Theatre and volunteers at a cat shelter.

James Pepe is an NYC-based actor, writer, and director. His award-winning

plays and films have been featured in international festivals. He holds a BS from Penn State University, completed a two-year Meisner acting program at Playhouse West, and is an Upright Citizens Brigade alumnus. He performs weekly throughout the city with his improv team, The Puritans.

Cooper Perry, 21 years old, is a senior at Hunter College, double majoring in

Creative Writing and Psychology. She was born in Washington D.C. and grew up in Charlottesville, VA. with her older brother, Rowen, riding horses and building drip-sandcastles on the beach. Perry enjoys writing, painting, and playing with her cat, Ulalume, in an East Village apartment shared with best friend, Tara.

Claudette Ramos is an East Harlem native who has been writing poetry and

prose since her embarrassing middle school days. Born in the Philippines but raised in the U.S., she likes to create character-driven pieces and explore the intersections and endless nuances of identity, among other topics. Catch her freaking out about TV shows and making her way through every ice cream shop in the city.

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62 Hannah Rozenblat is a writer born and raised in New York. She is currently

working on her Master’s degree in Art History at Hunter. Her work has been published in the YU Journal of Fine Arts, Olivetree Review, New Voices, and other places. Although she appreciates working with all genres, she particularly loves reading and writing nonfiction. During her free time she enjoys traveling, photography, theater, ballet, and going to museums.

Kana Tateishi is a freshman at Hunter College with an undeclared major and minor.

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Meet The Staff Editor-in-Chief

Tanisha Williams is a person who is still learning how to adult, wears mis-

matched socks, sleeps in, calls everyone “bro” and steals junk food from her nieces and nephews. On her free time, she goes to Hunter College where she majors in Film and minors in English.

Vice President

Ariel Tsai is a sophomore at Hunter College double majoring in English and

Chinese. She is both a cat and a dog person, and firmly believes that mushrooms are not meant to be eaten.

Treasurer and Prose Editor

Julia Bannon is a Junior majoring in Creative Writing and minoring in An-

thropology. She can’t wait to finish college so that she will have more time to pleasure-read. Julia’s favorite podcast is “Sooo Many White Guys” and her snack of choice is chips and guac.

Secretary and Drama Editor

Raven Hicks is the Senior Drama editor and Secretary for OTR, she is an English linguistics and Gender Studies major. She loves to read and write drama and poetry and harbors and intense obsession for Inuyasha. She can be found in the OTR office on Thursday afternoons—usually blasting SZA and singing to herself. What a cooky girl.

Art editor

Melissa Rueda is a Muse Scholar who loves fine art. Currently, Melissa is

studying towards a minor in Japanese and a Major in Studio Art. Melissa also loves cats and eating macaroni and cheese.

Art Editor

Kenny Perez likes long walks on the Beach.

Poetry Editor

Emily Fernandez is a Beat Generation-obsessed, rock and roll-loving poet. She enjoys long walks through the third floor sky bridge when it’s crowded and she’s late for class.

Poetry Editor

Chasity Pierna, 25, is a native New York City spoken word artist and a Senior

at Hunter College majoring in Media. In her free time she makes monsters as a freelance Special Effects Makeup Artist, which is just another one of her passions aside from cleverly weaving emotions into words that resonante with the masses. 65

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Prose Editor

Erin McDermott is a prose editor at OTR. While she’s not busy being a sophomore studying English, she thinks about food.

Senior Publicist

Samantha Finley is a sophomore majoring in English and minoring in Sociology. Her favortie Cards Against Humanity card is “magnets.”

Publicity Assistant

Sharon young was born and raised in Portland, Maine. She holds an MFA in

Creative Writing from Boston University, and now resides in Columbus, Ohio, where she teaches piano. Her fiction has previously appeared in The Susquehanna Review and Used Gravitrons, among others. She is currently at work on her first novel.

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OTR

History of the Olivetree Review Since the fall semester of the year 1983, The Olivetree Review has been a Hunter Institution, allowing a place for student writers to submit their work and see it published. Under the auspices of their faculty advisor, professor David Winn a small group of hunter students successfullt petitioned hunter for the funds to start a publication. This allowed The Olivetree’s original staff members, Pamela Barbell, Michael Hariton, Mimi Ross DeMars, and Adam Vinueza to create their issue of student work and dedicate it to the memory of the late Hunter College professor and poet, James Wright. The Olivetree Review has come a long way since that original first issue. Digital printing allows for both the inclusion of full color images and extra design elements to be available for all projects. we began including photography submissions in issue number seven, and advancements in scanning and digital photography have allowed for us to accept nearly any form of art that can be captured in one or more frames. We’ve also begun accepting drama writing submissions as of issue number 52, meaning we’re finally accepting and printing all forms of creative writing and art that it’s currently possible to.

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Issue 62  

Issue 62, Spring 2018

Issue 62  

Issue 62, Spring 2018

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