Leaves of Orange Fall 2013

Leaves of Orange Fall 2013

Syracuse University volume I, issue 1 orange.leaves.syr@gmail.com

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the insiders

Leaves of Orange is a free literary magazine published once during each academic semester by undergraduate students at Syracuse University.

Address editorial correspondence to orange.leaves.syr@gmail.com.

We hope to inspire, to anger, to unleash, to exalt, to yield, to offend. We hope we can share what we deem necessary to existence...art and love and words...with those who haven’t been touched yet.

Leaves of Orange is now accepting submissions for the Spring 2014 issue.

Send poetry, prose & artwork to orange.leaves.syr@gmail.com.

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EDITOR-IN-CHIEF

MANAGING EDITORS

Genevieve Payne

EDITORS

READERS

Taylor Arias Nittika Mehra Madelyn Minicozzi

Yevgeniya Muravyova

Leigh Eron Christopher Rivera Josh Dolph Ashley Mixson Christine Wassel Laura Donle Eden Lapsley Rachael De Orio Manmeet Shani

MANY THANKS, Michael Burkard

Bridget O’ Bernstein

The ETS Department

Daphne Stowe

Terri Zollo

Shelly Griffin

Clare Merrick

The Student Association

All of the professors who encouraged their students to submit

Linger here.

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the insiders

Leaves of Orange is a free literary magazine published once during each academic semester by undergraduate students at Syracuse University.

Address editorial correspondence to orange.leaves.syr@gmail.com.

We hope to inspire, to anger, to unleash, to exalt, to yield, to offend. We hope we can share what we deem necessary to existence...art and love and words...with those who haven’t been touched yet.

Leaves of Orange is now accepting submissions for the Spring 2014 issue.

Send poetry, prose & artwork to orange.leaves.syr@gmail.com.

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Leaves of Orange

EDITOR-IN-CHIEF

MANAGING EDITORS

Genevieve Payne

EDITORS

READERS

Taylor Arias Nittika Mehra Madelyn Minicozzi

Yevgeniya Muravyova

Leigh Eron Christopher Rivera Josh Dolph Ashley Mixson Christine Wassel Laura Donle Eden Lapsley Rachael De Orio Manmeet Shani

MANY THANKS, Michael Burkard

Bridget O’ Bernstein

The ETS Department

Daphne Stowe

Terri Zollo

Shelly Griffin

Clare Merrick

The Student Association

All of the professors who encouraged their students to submit

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the contributors

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undergraduate writing

Editor’s Letter

Jennifer Jeffery 11 The Crow

12 Back to the Moon & Stars Cluadia Chen 13 Untitled Genevieve Payne 14 Making It August Prum 16 No Fun Leigh Eron 25 The Pheonix Alex Garofalo 26 Love Sawyer Cresap 28 Washing Machine Victoria Russo 30 Untitled Eugene Butler 34 Skin Kaya Bulbul 36 The Late Night Worker Josh Dolph 37 Runner’s Song

38 Steep Anthony Herbert 40 Dedication Molly Pomroy 43 A Monkey’s Sunflower Nazia Islam 44 Finding wholeness in

shattered things Aminah Ibrahim 45 Center That Life Nedda Sarshar 46 A Vignette Kat Ferentchak 49 Big Brother Megan Daniels 50 A Toe in the Lava

58 Raw Johnathan Harper 64 The Art of College Taylor Arias 66 A Love Never Returned Christopher Rivera 68 A College Crush Nittika Mehra 69 A Time Gabriella Bello 71 Inoperable Tumor

72 Untitled 4

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James David Yu 75 To Someone I hardly Knew Sarah Ibrahim 79 Vines of Conviction Matt Plotnick 81 The Light Eva De Charleroy 82 Drain

83 Flowers and Bee Stings

86 The House of the Rising Sun Josh Guillaume 88 The Pearly Gates Frieda Projansky 92 Taste the Moon

94 Canteens

95 The Honesty of Our City

undergraduate art

Samantha Glevick 10 Untitled

84 Untitled

85 Untitled Talley Larkin 15 Garden of the Gods

63 Hands Annelis Rebecca Rivera 27 Gossip Christina Mastrull 29 Untitled Courtney Garvin 32 Untitled

33 Untitled Madelyn Minicozzi 39 Sweet Dejection

57 Clarity

70 Abstractopus Sarah Sanga Kim 42 Gorilla Simon Perez 48 Crowd

67 Two Minute Figure Study Linger here.

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the contributors

7

undergraduate writing

Editor’s Letter

Jennifer Jeffery 11 The Crow

12 Back to the Moon & Stars Cluadia Chen 13 Untitled Genevieve Payne 14 Making It August Prum 16 No Fun Leigh Eron 25 The Pheonix Alex Garofalo 26 Love Sawyer Cresap 28 Washing Machine Victoria Russo 30 Untitled Eugene Butler 34 Skin Kaya Bulbul 36 The Late Night Worker Josh Dolph 37 Runner’s Song

38 Steep Anthony Herbert 40 Dedication Molly Pomroy 43 A Monkey’s Sunflower Nazia Islam 44 Finding wholeness in

shattered things Aminah Ibrahim 45 Center That Life Nedda Sarshar 46 A Vignette Kat Ferentchak 49 Big Brother Megan Daniels 50 A Toe in the Lava

58 Raw Johnathan Harper 64 The Art of College Taylor Arias 66 A Love Never Returned Christopher Rivera 68 A College Crush Nittika Mehra 69 A Time Gabriella Bello 71 Inoperable Tumor

72 Untitled 4

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James David Yu 75 To Someone I hardly Knew Sarah Ibrahim 79 Vines of Conviction Matt Plotnick 81 The Light Eva De Charleroy 82 Drain

83 Flowers and Bee Stings

86 The House of the Rising Sun Josh Guillaume 88 The Pearly Gates Frieda Projansky 92 Taste the Moon

94 Canteens

95 The Honesty of Our City

undergraduate art

Samantha Glevick 10 Untitled

84 Untitled

85 Untitled Talley Larkin 15 Garden of the Gods

63 Hands Annelis Rebecca Rivera 27 Gossip Christina Mastrull 29 Untitled Courtney Garvin 32 Untitled

33 Untitled Madelyn Minicozzi 39 Sweet Dejection

57 Clarity

70 Abstractopus Sarah Sanga Kim 42 Gorilla Simon Perez 48 Crowd

67 Two Minute Figure Study Linger here.

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Sarah Shelton Sydney Monahan

77 Recycle Dress 52 Intermission 74 Constraint

I have finally reached my final semester at Syracuse University and

faculty art Markus Antonio Pierce-Brwester 91

Editor’s Letter

have offered my final input to the art and literary magazine on campus, “Whether going or returning, we cannot be any place else...At this moment what more need we seek?”

Leaves of Orange.

While here at the University I began to understand the place that writing has in my life: the importance of reading contemporary writers, of finding influences and of taking risks in my own writing in order to continue expanding.

Now that I’m graduating I am becoming more and more aware of how hard I will have to work to keep writing, to keep finding new writers

FRONT COVER ART BY Annelis Rebecca Rivera Separation COVER DESIGN CREDIT TO Genevieve Payne FRONT INSIDE COVER ART BY Claire Pedulla BACK INSIDE COVER ART BY Claire Pedulla

to read and to keep meeting other writers. I have never felt less like I know what to do with my life or less like I know where to go. Yet I do know that I want to keep a space for writing in my life, and my life as a space for writing.

Working on the magazine over the past three and a half years has helped me learn how to articulate what I find strong about a piece of writing, what I find real. I am thankful for the opportunity I’ve had to work for the magazine, as well as be its editor-in-chief. I don’t think I would be as confident in the importance of art and literature if I hadn’t had the chance to see how it impacts all of the people it involves: those working on the magazine, those submitting, and those who simply pick up an issue to follow the creativity of the Syracuse University community.

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Leaves of Orange

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Sarah Shelton Sydney Monahan

77 Recycle Dress 52 Intermission 74 Constraint

I have finally reached my final semester at Syracuse University and

faculty art Markus Antonio Pierce-Brwester 91

Editor’s Letter

have offered my final input to the art and literary magazine on campus, “Whether going or returning, we cannot be any place else...At this moment what more need we seek?”

Leaves of Orange.

While here at the University I began to understand the place that writing has in my life: the importance of reading contemporary writers, of finding influences and of taking risks in my own writing in order to continue expanding.

Now that I’m graduating I am becoming more and more aware of how hard I will have to work to keep writing, to keep finding new writers

FRONT COVER ART BY Annelis Rebecca Rivera Separation COVER DESIGN CREDIT TO Genevieve Payne FRONT INSIDE COVER ART BY Claire Pedulla BACK INSIDE COVER ART BY Claire Pedulla

to read and to keep meeting other writers. I have never felt less like I know what to do with my life or less like I know where to go. Yet I do know that I want to keep a space for writing in my life, and my life as a space for writing.

Working on the magazine over the past three and a half years has helped me learn how to articulate what I find strong about a piece of writing, what I find real. I am thankful for the opportunity I’ve had to work for the magazine, as well as be its editor-in-chief. I don’t think I would be as confident in the importance of art and literature if I hadn’t had the chance to see how it impacts all of the people it involves: those working on the magazine, those submitting, and those who simply pick up an issue to follow the creativity of the Syracuse University community.

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Leaves of Orange

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For this reason, Leaves of Orange acts as a great reminder to me of what it means, not only to create, but also to share those creations with the world.

So this semester the staff here at the magazine set about looking for what we always look for in the many submissions sent to us; we looked for the human. We looked for the work that understands it does not have to understand everything about life. We looked for the work that does not pretend to hold a universal truth. We looked

undergraduate

for what captures the smallness of the human, the significant and the insignificant, the unpretending. This is what we found.

Thank you for picking up the inaugural issue of Leaves of Orange, I hope it can be for you what it is for me: a reminder to keep art and literature in your life, regardless of where you end up.

Genevieve Payne

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Editor-in-Chief

Leaves of Orange

Linger here.

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For this reason, Leaves of Orange acts as a great reminder to me of what it means, not only to create, but also to share those creations with the world.

So this semester the staff here at the magazine set about looking for what we always look for in the many submissions sent to us; we looked for the human. We looked for the work that understands it does not have to understand everything about life. We looked for the work that does not pretend to hold a universal truth. We looked

undergraduate

for what captures the smallness of the human, the significant and the insignificant, the unpretending. This is what we found.

Thank you for picking up the inaugural issue of Leaves of Orange, I hope it can be for you what it is for me: a reminder to keep art and literature in your life, regardless of where you end up.

Genevieve Payne

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Editor-in-Chief

Leaves of Orange

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Jennifer Jeffery The Crow

Black, iridescent in the sun she sits on the line outside my window.

Sometimes with onyx friends, sometimes alone.

I don’t know when I knew we were in this together.

My feathered sentry and I. I watched my warrior leave like he was never here.

Marching away like the last leaves of November.

This vigil we keep my coal jacketed companion and I. I know we will never give up, Semper Fi. I like to believe that our vision is keen enough to carry him into the future and safely home.

Samantha Glevick Untitled

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Jennifer Jeffery The Crow

Black, iridescent in the sun she sits on the line outside my window.

Sometimes with onyx friends, sometimes alone.

I don’t know when I knew we were in this together.

My feathered sentry and I. I watched my warrior leave like he was never here.

Marching away like the last leaves of November.

This vigil we keep my coal jacketed companion and I. I know we will never give up, Semper Fi. I like to believe that our vision is keen enough to carry him into the future and safely home.

Samantha Glevick Untitled

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Claudia Chen Back to the Moon & Stars

Untitled

Full moon pours down to fill dark water, Pointed ears alert, an old, old wolf leans to drink, Death shadows her now, The world's reflection revealed to her ancient eyes

somewhere under bandages of queer womyn of color rage loose, confused threads of self-identification musk of underground-conscious-hip-hop-slam-poetry permeating all haphazardly heaped in my mind like the aftermath of a bedroom dispute lies a poem and i will spend the rest of my life tearing t-shirts, tissues, tips of my fingers trying to write it

Time moves backward, dissolving harvested aches and the confusion when her mate no longer ran with her, the bullet hurtles away from him restoring the heart that beat for her, marching back towards learning to hunt unlearning her mother's harsh patience, and back still, to the moon and the stars shining down into the cold, dark lake

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Claudia Chen Back to the Moon & Stars

Untitled

Full moon pours down to fill dark water, Pointed ears alert, an old, old wolf leans to drink, Death shadows her now, The world's reflection revealed to her ancient eyes

somewhere under bandages of queer womyn of color rage loose, confused threads of self-identification musk of underground-conscious-hip-hop-slam-poetry permeating all haphazardly heaped in my mind like the aftermath of a bedroom dispute lies a poem and i will spend the rest of my life tearing t-shirts, tissues, tips of my fingers trying to write it

Time moves backward, dissolving harvested aches and the confusion when her mate no longer ran with her, the bullet hurtles away from him restoring the heart that beat for her, marching back towards learning to hunt unlearning her mother's harsh patience, and back still, to the moon and the stars shining down into the cold, dark lake

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Genevieve Payne making it

the night birds are at it again at what? the silence. they’ve come for their dead. in the mornings the apples we set out for them on the front steps are gone. even the seeds? the cold is coming like headlights a long way down a straight road. we’ll make it. we’ll put water in a bowl on the woodstove. wear mittens, snow will stick to the dogs’ paws. it would be good to be a bird. to leave when the earth says it should. when the light comes down early, just after the trees get red.

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Talley Larkin Garden of the Gods

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Genevieve Payne making it

the night birds are at it again at what? the silence. they’ve come for their dead. in the mornings the apples we set out for them on the front steps are gone. even the seeds? the cold is coming like headlights a long way down a straight road. we’ll make it. we’ll put water in a bowl on the woodstove. wear mittens, snow will stick to the dogs’ paws. it would be good to be a bird. to leave when the earth says it should. when the light comes down early, just after the trees get red.

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Talley Larkin Garden of the Gods

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August Prum No Fun

My lean man lives in Stuy Town on like 18th st, my weed man lives in my building and my girl lives below Houston on Stanton so I have an eighth in my pocket and I’m smoking a cigarette walking to the subway at 72nd st. I look at my reflection in the Urban Outfitters window. This place used to be called Needle Park.

It’s one of those summer days when the city feels like it’s gonna fall in on top of itself, I swear. I’m going down to the Lower East Side, if you’re cool you call it the LES, and I live on the Upper West so I take the train and shit to Union Square, then a casual walk but it’s cool because I’m about to get my lean on and see my girl. And my old girl lived in Red Hook, Brooklyn and that was mad far so the LES is fine in comparison.

When I was a kid my uncle David lived in Alphabet City and that shit seemed crazy. He died when I was a kid, in like 1995. Heroin or AIDS or some shit. Not trying to say AIDS makes the city better, I don’t know, people always talking about the “old city.” My Dad just says, “fuck Giuliani.”

I guess that’s the best way to deal with stuff you miss, blame it on other people. But still, fuck Giuliani.

I’m on the subway and rub my hair and this advertisement for NYC Storage tells me if I store my stuff outside of the city it might come back Republican. These four-year-old kids are scrolling through The Atlantic on their mom’s Ipad. I swear that’s why the world is going to be ok. These little Apple-proficient motherfuckers are gonna solve all the problems in Africa, no bullshit.

Sometimes I like moving more than actually being in a new place, like the trip is better than the destination or whatever. So I take the local and all these European men and pieces of shit in suits damp with cologne and sweat keep getting on the train. Cats looking at their phones like they’re pissed of that shit doesn’t work underground. I start sweating a little bit 16

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and I can feel my body churning and aching for the pills, it’s not cool and I know it’s a problem, but I’m all good. My cousin overdosed on heroin at my aunt’s house back in Connecticut earlier this summer, so I’m trying to kick it. Shit isn’t easy in the summer though. Not in the city.

I get off at Union Square and go up to 18th St. and walk east on 18th to 1st Ave. My brother used to live here, 336 E 18th St. between 1st and 2nd and I would come when I was in high school and get high and talk about boners or whatever. Then he read Bright Lights, Big City too many times and now my parents won’t let him come home. I look at 336, a LES brownstone, and start remembering shit, but I keep walking to the lean spot. At 1st Ave. I cross and enter Stuytown.

I’m taking the elevator up to my man’s spot. His name is J; at least I call him J. When I get to his door I knock loudly like in that beat everybody says is the secret knock or whatever. Fucker answers like he’s never seen me or some shit with his Yankee hat pulled all the way down over his eyes. I don’t really fuck with baseball, I’m all about the Knicks man and yeah they break my heart every year, but I guess I can get down with the Yankees. When my parents were getting really bad and fighting a lot I lived up on 118th and Broadway with my Grandpa, I would go to more games seeing as I was closer to the Bronx and all, but I guess I’m over baseball now, too many fat white dudes. J is Dominican or Cuban and he has a Newport 100 dangling from his mouth. He’s got a big white t-shirt that says “STOP SNITCHING”.

He grunts at me, “you’re late homes.”

I just laugh, and give this piece of shit $90, he throws me 3 little blue pills. $1 per mg and I know I’m no economist or pharmacist but that’s definitely called controlling the marketplace or some shit. J says blues are $30, so that shit is $30.

I motion to the table, my hands and face ask, “I can do these here, right?”

He nods, but really it’s just that Yankee cap nodding. J and I don’t say too much. Just talk about hip-hop or whatever. His boys deadass sitting here with three flat screen TV’s playing video games, watching sports, smoking Linger here.

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August Prum No Fun

My lean man lives in Stuy Town on like 18th st, my weed man lives in my building and my girl lives below Houston on Stanton so I have an eighth in my pocket and I’m smoking a cigarette walking to the subway at 72nd st. I look at my reflection in the Urban Outfitters window. This place used to be called Needle Park.

It’s one of those summer days when the city feels like it’s gonna fall in on top of itself, I swear. I’m going down to the Lower East Side, if you’re cool you call it the LES, and I live on the Upper West so I take the train and shit to Union Square, then a casual walk but it’s cool because I’m about to get my lean on and see my girl. And my old girl lived in Red Hook, Brooklyn and that was mad far so the LES is fine in comparison.

When I was a kid my uncle David lived in Alphabet City and that shit seemed crazy. He died when I was a kid, in like 1995. Heroin or AIDS or some shit. Not trying to say AIDS makes the city better, I don’t know, people always talking about the “old city.” My Dad just says, “fuck Giuliani.”

I guess that’s the best way to deal with stuff you miss, blame it on other people. But still, fuck Giuliani.

I’m on the subway and rub my hair and this advertisement for NYC Storage tells me if I store my stuff outside of the city it might come back Republican. These four-year-old kids are scrolling through The Atlantic on their mom’s Ipad. I swear that’s why the world is going to be ok. These little Apple-proficient motherfuckers are gonna solve all the problems in Africa, no bullshit.

Sometimes I like moving more than actually being in a new place, like the trip is better than the destination or whatever. So I take the local and all these European men and pieces of shit in suits damp with cologne and sweat keep getting on the train. Cats looking at their phones like they’re pissed of that shit doesn’t work underground. I start sweating a little bit 16

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and I can feel my body churning and aching for the pills, it’s not cool and I know it’s a problem, but I’m all good. My cousin overdosed on heroin at my aunt’s house back in Connecticut earlier this summer, so I’m trying to kick it. Shit isn’t easy in the summer though. Not in the city.

I get off at Union Square and go up to 18th St. and walk east on 18th to 1st Ave. My brother used to live here, 336 E 18th St. between 1st and 2nd and I would come when I was in high school and get high and talk about boners or whatever. Then he read Bright Lights, Big City too many times and now my parents won’t let him come home. I look at 336, a LES brownstone, and start remembering shit, but I keep walking to the lean spot. At 1st Ave. I cross and enter Stuytown.

I’m taking the elevator up to my man’s spot. His name is J; at least I call him J. When I get to his door I knock loudly like in that beat everybody says is the secret knock or whatever. Fucker answers like he’s never seen me or some shit with his Yankee hat pulled all the way down over his eyes. I don’t really fuck with baseball, I’m all about the Knicks man and yeah they break my heart every year, but I guess I can get down with the Yankees. When my parents were getting really bad and fighting a lot I lived up on 118th and Broadway with my Grandpa, I would go to more games seeing as I was closer to the Bronx and all, but I guess I’m over baseball now, too many fat white dudes. J is Dominican or Cuban and he has a Newport 100 dangling from his mouth. He’s got a big white t-shirt that says “STOP SNITCHING”.

He grunts at me, “you’re late homes.”

I just laugh, and give this piece of shit $90, he throws me 3 little blue pills. $1 per mg and I know I’m no economist or pharmacist but that’s definitely called controlling the marketplace or some shit. J says blues are $30, so that shit is $30.

I motion to the table, my hands and face ask, “I can do these here, right?”

He nods, but really it’s just that Yankee cap nodding. J and I don’t say too much. Just talk about hip-hop or whatever. His boys deadass sitting here with three flat screen TV’s playing video games, watching sports, smoking Linger here.

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blunts, blowing painkillers and pouring codeine into Sprite all day ‘cause they heard rappers talking about it. I’m not about that life, at least I’m trying not to be, man. I crush up a full 30 and another half of one and then put the rest of the one and a half in that small jean pocket, that one inside the bigger pocket.

I’ve got this blue powder in front of me, 45 mgs of Roxicodone, and I chalk it into one long ass line. J calls that shit a Harriet Tubman line on some Underground Railroad jokes, but I’m not really down for that racist shit, especially because my girl half-black anyways, or Puerto Rican. So I call it a “Fidel” even though I don’t even know if this man is Cuban, I just assume that it’s somewhat offensive to him. I take it down lifting my head to the sky. Shit kinda stings but it’s all good I guess.

Everybody always telling me these pills are like synthetic heroin and it’s a ticking time bomb. Regardless, it hits you hard and when I stand up I feel like that girl getting out of the pool in Fast Times at Ridgemont High all sexy and loose. I dap J up like I’m from 125th and 1st and get the fuck out of that apartment.

I’m listening to Wu-Tang walking down 1st Ave past Beth-Israel Hospital and all the crack heads and the hipsters and the pieces of shit and the chickens with the short shorts. I stop at the loosie spot on 14th St., throw my homie $1.50, he throws me two Marlboro Lights, I light one and put the other behind my ear and pour back out onto the street. By the time I’m at St. Marks I’m feeling dopey and I’m getting excited to see my girl and all that shit but it’s just way too hot in this city. My eyes are now sheathed in a roxy-induced gloss, which is impossible to wipe away despite digging my palms as hard as possible into my eye-sockets. It’s like when they trip in those movies; every sound is bouncing around my brain and every face is looking at me like I’m one of these junkies and nah, that’s not me.

The heat of the city is different than other heats. It just rolls off all this concrete and hangs in the air. At 1st and 2nd I stop at some corner store and get a bottle of water and pour it in my mouth and splash my palm and rub my face, trying to slap the life back into eyes. I’m feeling a little numb 18

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and I need to sit down and 1st avenue is starting to spin. This shit always happens to me in the LES. I shuffle down 2nd St. towards 2nd Ave. and lean up against a wall that says “DO NOT POST BILLS” and light the other cigarette and try to breathe. My dad makes me go to this analyst, I only say “analyst” because Woody Allen always does, and she says that I use because I’m too stressed out and I have the “addiction gene” but I think that just means I have Irish genes. I try not to think about that kind of stuff; gets me mad down.

Once 2nd St. has stopped spinning and I’ve smoked down to the Marlboro I slowly put my weight back onto my feet and head back to 1st avenue. As I trudge along I stare down at my beat up white Vans. Sometimes I think about if shoes could talk and my Vans had a close relationship with my mother. These kicks have seen some shit, I suppose when it comes down to it, I’m glad shoes are inanimate objects.

As I’m crossing Houston I think I see my older brother, but I know it’s not him because he doesn’t dress like he’s from the country. I catch myself just staring at this kid from the divider in the middle of Houston as he walks along like an asshole. I try to forget about everything and squeeze the bridge of my nose and breath like my doctor says to. The synthetic dopamine calms me down before my brain can and I wipe away the drip from my nose with the palm of my hand like how a four year old gets rid of snot.

I walk along Houston until I get to Katz’s and I take a right and walk a block and a half and get to Her apartment. I start to feel nervous as I buzz eight, I’m short of breath as I pull on the door and I fuck up and have to buzz again. Get your shit together. It’s two apartments per floor so Her apartment is on the fourth floor, which is the top floor so when I get to the top I really can’t breath.

Her name is Tasia. I walk up to her and I’m all sweaty and dopey and covered in the fucking city, she smiles and laughs at me, putting her hand on my cheek.

“Jesus you’re pale.” Before I can really say shit she gets on her tippytoes, grabs my white t-shirt by the collar and kisses me. I swear she smells Linger here.

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blunts, blowing painkillers and pouring codeine into Sprite all day ‘cause they heard rappers talking about it. I’m not about that life, at least I’m trying not to be, man. I crush up a full 30 and another half of one and then put the rest of the one and a half in that small jean pocket, that one inside the bigger pocket.

I’ve got this blue powder in front of me, 45 mgs of Roxicodone, and I chalk it into one long ass line. J calls that shit a Harriet Tubman line on some Underground Railroad jokes, but I’m not really down for that racist shit, especially because my girl half-black anyways, or Puerto Rican. So I call it a “Fidel” even though I don’t even know if this man is Cuban, I just assume that it’s somewhat offensive to him. I take it down lifting my head to the sky. Shit kinda stings but it’s all good I guess.

Everybody always telling me these pills are like synthetic heroin and it’s a ticking time bomb. Regardless, it hits you hard and when I stand up I feel like that girl getting out of the pool in Fast Times at Ridgemont High all sexy and loose. I dap J up like I’m from 125th and 1st and get the fuck out of that apartment.

I’m listening to Wu-Tang walking down 1st Ave past Beth-Israel Hospital and all the crack heads and the hipsters and the pieces of shit and the chickens with the short shorts. I stop at the loosie spot on 14th St., throw my homie $1.50, he throws me two Marlboro Lights, I light one and put the other behind my ear and pour back out onto the street. By the time I’m at St. Marks I’m feeling dopey and I’m getting excited to see my girl and all that shit but it’s just way too hot in this city. My eyes are now sheathed in a roxy-induced gloss, which is impossible to wipe away despite digging my palms as hard as possible into my eye-sockets. It’s like when they trip in those movies; every sound is bouncing around my brain and every face is looking at me like I’m one of these junkies and nah, that’s not me.

The heat of the city is different than other heats. It just rolls off all this concrete and hangs in the air. At 1st and 2nd I stop at some corner store and get a bottle of water and pour it in my mouth and splash my palm and rub my face, trying to slap the life back into eyes. I’m feeling a little numb 18

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and I need to sit down and 1st avenue is starting to spin. This shit always happens to me in the LES. I shuffle down 2nd St. towards 2nd Ave. and lean up against a wall that says “DO NOT POST BILLS” and light the other cigarette and try to breathe. My dad makes me go to this analyst, I only say “analyst” because Woody Allen always does, and she says that I use because I’m too stressed out and I have the “addiction gene” but I think that just means I have Irish genes. I try not to think about that kind of stuff; gets me mad down.

Once 2nd St. has stopped spinning and I’ve smoked down to the Marlboro I slowly put my weight back onto my feet and head back to 1st avenue. As I trudge along I stare down at my beat up white Vans. Sometimes I think about if shoes could talk and my Vans had a close relationship with my mother. These kicks have seen some shit, I suppose when it comes down to it, I’m glad shoes are inanimate objects.

As I’m crossing Houston I think I see my older brother, but I know it’s not him because he doesn’t dress like he’s from the country. I catch myself just staring at this kid from the divider in the middle of Houston as he walks along like an asshole. I try to forget about everything and squeeze the bridge of my nose and breath like my doctor says to. The synthetic dopamine calms me down before my brain can and I wipe away the drip from my nose with the palm of my hand like how a four year old gets rid of snot.

I walk along Houston until I get to Katz’s and I take a right and walk a block and a half and get to Her apartment. I start to feel nervous as I buzz eight, I’m short of breath as I pull on the door and I fuck up and have to buzz again. Get your shit together. It’s two apartments per floor so Her apartment is on the fourth floor, which is the top floor so when I get to the top I really can’t breath.

Her name is Tasia. I walk up to her and I’m all sweaty and dopey and covered in the fucking city, she smiles and laughs at me, putting her hand on my cheek.

“Jesus you’re pale.” Before I can really say shit she gets on her tippytoes, grabs my white t-shirt by the collar and kisses me. I swear she smells Linger here.

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like polka dots and sunflowers.

I’m naked and rolling a joint in her bed but can’t stop itching my face, I also can’t stop looking at her. She’s running her hands through her hair talking to me about how her mom is being annoying and her older brother took the car to The Hamptons. Her white sheets are covering her from her thigh down and the sun is making her body glisten like coffee-colored sex. She has Buena Vista Social Club Guantanamera skin and hazel eyes and now she’s running her finger along her stomach and her side still talking about how she gets into a fight with her mother every time she sees her.

“She’s so fucking controlling, and every little thing I do pisses her off I swear. And she never even gets mad at Brian for smoking weed in his room at home, it’s bullshit.”

“That’s fucked up.” I say as I light the joint. I’m feeling kind of nauseous but know the weed will help and I reposition myself next to Tasia, hit the joint and pass it to her. She takes it, staring into my eyes and goes silent.

She sits up and looks into my eyes past the haze and all the other shit, “where are you, Francis?” Only my Grandmother calls me Francis.

For the next 30 minutes all I hear is that she just doesn’t really even know me and maybe we’re forcing things and we’re rushing into things.

She gets frustrated that I have nothing to say, but really I just can’t say it. Tasia says if I have nothing to say I should leave. I know you’re never supposed to leave in that situation, you’re supposed to stay and talk like normal people. But I get up without saying shit. She’s sitting up in bed looking at me with those eyes that grab you’re heart and twist it as hard as possible and tears are forming at the corner of her eyes. I take a deep breath and say sorry as I rub my face, but it’s all muffled and I can hear that it doesn’t sound genuine, but I fucking mean it. “Goodbye.” Tasia says from the bed and I walk down the four flights of stairs.

I’m stumbling back up Stanton towards Katz’s and go in this time. I grab my ticket and get a coke and a turkey melt with bacon with provolone cheese. It takes 25 minutes to make it and I eat it. The first time I was in Katz’s I threw up on the floor, I was eight and that shit stuck with 20

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me. I put a $20 on the table, feel my small pocket and look towards the bathroom.

I’m in this bathroom stall taking out 45 mg of blues, crushing them up on the back of the toilet with my Natural History Museum member card. I take out this $5 Canada bill that I’ve had since I went to Montreal last winter. I blow the rest off the top of the toilet stand up and feel real degraded and shit. I take a seat on the toilet put my earphones in, listen to “Sweet Thing” by Van Morrison rub my face and try to cry. I just feel real corny and itch my nose.

I listen to all of “Sweet Thing” and then need to get the fuck out of Katz’s.

I go back to 1st Ave. and take the express bus uptown on the East Side. I look out of the window at the fucking LES. I don’t really know where I’m going and don’t have a plan and I’m just watching the city go by out the window. I almost stopped at 23rd St. and get more pills but this shit is a ticking time bomb, I know that. I’m not trying to fuck with heroin man. I already can’t keep my heavy ass eyelids from sliding down my eyes or stop itching my face so I don’t get off.

I get off at 55th or 56th or whatever the fuck it is up there and go to a deli and buy a pack of cigarettes. As I light one on the street it feels like the sun lights it for me. I stand all hunched on the corner of 55th and 1st all weird and decide to go to my homie Sean’s apartment on 62nd.

60 blocks north man and I’m in a different city. Mad old people, and families, and golden retrievers. But it’s nice up here though, you can breathe and the pressure on my temples has gone away. That could be the blues though.

Sean’s doorman is this cat Victor, funny old dude from Queens always making jokes about the girls Sean brings home and us puffing on the roof and shit. A couple weeks ago another one of Sean’s doormen got hit by a car and died. That’s a bugout man, I see my doormen every day and even though I don’t really know shit about them, to have someone in your life that much and then gone like that is crazy. I don’t know, it’s weird. I tell Victor 12H as if he didn’t know and he sends me up without calling.

Linger here.

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like polka dots and sunflowers.

I’m naked and rolling a joint in her bed but can’t stop itching my face, I also can’t stop looking at her. She’s running her hands through her hair talking to me about how her mom is being annoying and her older brother took the car to The Hamptons. Her white sheets are covering her from her thigh down and the sun is making her body glisten like coffee-colored sex. She has Buena Vista Social Club Guantanamera skin and hazel eyes and now she’s running her finger along her stomach and her side still talking about how she gets into a fight with her mother every time she sees her.

“She’s so fucking controlling, and every little thing I do pisses her off I swear. And she never even gets mad at Brian for smoking weed in his room at home, it’s bullshit.”

“That’s fucked up.” I say as I light the joint. I’m feeling kind of nauseous but know the weed will help and I reposition myself next to Tasia, hit the joint and pass it to her. She takes it, staring into my eyes and goes silent.

She sits up and looks into my eyes past the haze and all the other shit, “where are you, Francis?” Only my Grandmother calls me Francis.

For the next 30 minutes all I hear is that she just doesn’t really even know me and maybe we’re forcing things and we’re rushing into things.

She gets frustrated that I have nothing to say, but really I just can’t say it. Tasia says if I have nothing to say I should leave. I know you’re never supposed to leave in that situation, you’re supposed to stay and talk like normal people. But I get up without saying shit. She’s sitting up in bed looking at me with those eyes that grab you’re heart and twist it as hard as possible and tears are forming at the corner of her eyes. I take a deep breath and say sorry as I rub my face, but it’s all muffled and I can hear that it doesn’t sound genuine, but I fucking mean it. “Goodbye.” Tasia says from the bed and I walk down the four flights of stairs.

I’m stumbling back up Stanton towards Katz’s and go in this time. I grab my ticket and get a coke and a turkey melt with bacon with provolone cheese. It takes 25 minutes to make it and I eat it. The first time I was in Katz’s I threw up on the floor, I was eight and that shit stuck with 20

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me. I put a $20 on the table, feel my small pocket and look towards the bathroom.

I’m in this bathroom stall taking out 45 mg of blues, crushing them up on the back of the toilet with my Natural History Museum member card. I take out this $5 Canada bill that I’ve had since I went to Montreal last winter. I blow the rest off the top of the toilet stand up and feel real degraded and shit. I take a seat on the toilet put my earphones in, listen to “Sweet Thing” by Van Morrison rub my face and try to cry. I just feel real corny and itch my nose.

I listen to all of “Sweet Thing” and then need to get the fuck out of Katz’s.

I go back to 1st Ave. and take the express bus uptown on the East Side. I look out of the window at the fucking LES. I don’t really know where I’m going and don’t have a plan and I’m just watching the city go by out the window. I almost stopped at 23rd St. and get more pills but this shit is a ticking time bomb, I know that. I’m not trying to fuck with heroin man. I already can’t keep my heavy ass eyelids from sliding down my eyes or stop itching my face so I don’t get off.

I get off at 55th or 56th or whatever the fuck it is up there and go to a deli and buy a pack of cigarettes. As I light one on the street it feels like the sun lights it for me. I stand all hunched on the corner of 55th and 1st all weird and decide to go to my homie Sean’s apartment on 62nd.

60 blocks north man and I’m in a different city. Mad old people, and families, and golden retrievers. But it’s nice up here though, you can breathe and the pressure on my temples has gone away. That could be the blues though.

Sean’s doorman is this cat Victor, funny old dude from Queens always making jokes about the girls Sean brings home and us puffing on the roof and shit. A couple weeks ago another one of Sean’s doormen got hit by a car and died. That’s a bugout man, I see my doormen every day and even though I don’t really know shit about them, to have someone in your life that much and then gone like that is crazy. I don’t know, it’s weird. I tell Victor 12H as if he didn’t know and he sends me up without calling.

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That’s how you know you’re a regular.

This old lady is getting in the elevator with one of those small-ass dogs as the doors are closing. I glide over and put my hand in the door and the doors draw back and I get in and press 12. I see that she is getting off on the 21st floor so I guess we have this whole ride together. She’s a nice old lady and it kind of makes my heart feel good seeing old people happy.

She’s smiling at me with a little bit of a look where you can tell Mrs. Old Lady doesn’t totally have it all anymore. But it’s cool and I smile back and I’m about to say something or something and then I catch a look at myself in the elevator mirror. My hair is greasy from the city and it hangs in my eyes, which is a good thing because them shits are red and my skin is so pale it’s almost purple. My white t-shirt just sags off me and my jeans are way too low. Looking like a junkie in front of Mrs. Old Crazy Lady. At floor 7 her dog starts panting and I’m thinking I should pet it or something. I ask Mrs. Old Crazy Lady what the name is and she says “Claudia” and I say that’s a beautiful name and reach down to pet her and Claudia bites the shit out of my hand.

“Ahh fuck you Claudia, you little bitch” are the words that come out of my mouth at floor 10. By floor 12 my hand was bleeding kind of and Mrs. Old Crazy Lady has stopped being my friend. I get off and mumble an apology but it just isn’t audible and I hear the lady sigh.

Sean opens the door and he’s rocking an Expos hat from the same Montreal trip I have that dollar from. Sean and I went to PS 87 on the West Side together, he moved over to the East Side in 8th grade and went to Private school but we stayed homies throughout. He’s wearing a tank top with something about his frat on it, he goes to Maryland. Sean’s a good-looking scruffy West Side Jew, my kind of people.

I’m not a gang banger, I’m half Irish-half Jewish and my dad works at the Natural History Museum but Sean and I have spent enough time above 115th on the East Side to think we can dap up like we’re from Harlem. I guess it’s probably because we went to public school in the city at some point. We think we’re bad.

“What’s good my dude?”

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“Chillin homie, my parents are on The Island for the weekend you know.

Another day another dollar.” The Island is Long Island; Sean doesn’t have a job and volunteers at the JCC sometimes. His parents being on The Island means that we’re about to get down on a vanilla dutch. I throw him my eighth, he takes out what he needs, grinds it up and cuts the blunt up the middle, just how they taught us Uptown.

We’re watching the Mets game and smoking and talking and I tell him about Tasia and he asks me if I’m ok and I say I’m chilling as I blow an O of smoke in his living room. Sean’s apartment looks out at the East River and the 59th st bridge but I always forget which one it is for some reason, I’m bad with the bridges even though I’ve lived in this city for my entire life.

The truth is I’m tripping and I’m doped out and I’m sweating and I’m nauseous and Sean tells me to cool it with the blues and I tell him I will.

He says he can tell I’m on that shit. I need to get the fuck home. Sean knows it and I dap him up and tell him I’ll hit him up later or tomorrow and he says word up and he gives me a hug and he’s got this concerned look in his eye that freaks me the fuck out especially as I’m looking at myself in the mirror in the elevator on the way down.

I know if I get on the cross-town bus I’m going to vomit so I light a cigarette and rub the bags under my eyes really hard so everything goes black. As the city comes back into focus it feels like everyone is walking right at me and the sound is hanging and spinning around my head like those things babies have in their cradles. I start to walk back across town because there are too many fucks on public transportation anyways. I’m on 63rd St. walking West smoking and I can’t wait to get home. It’s not dark yet but it’s cooling off a little bit and people are walking past me with all these anonymous blank looks in their eyes. When I get to Columbus Circle I see all the fucking tourists and shit and my head pulses but I take deep breaths and I chill back out. Amsterdam, Broadway, and then West End, then I walk up to 77th and into my building. I walk up to apt 6 unlock it to see my mom standing in the middle of the apartment. She seems surprised to see me but happy and her eyes are really soft. She soon Linger here.

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That’s how you know you’re a regular.

This old lady is getting in the elevator with one of those small-ass dogs as the doors are closing. I glide over and put my hand in the door and the doors draw back and I get in and press 12. I see that she is getting off on the 21st floor so I guess we have this whole ride together. She’s a nice old lady and it kind of makes my heart feel good seeing old people happy.

She’s smiling at me with a little bit of a look where you can tell Mrs. Old Lady doesn’t totally have it all anymore. But it’s cool and I smile back and I’m about to say something or something and then I catch a look at myself in the elevator mirror. My hair is greasy from the city and it hangs in my eyes, which is a good thing because them shits are red and my skin is so pale it’s almost purple. My white t-shirt just sags off me and my jeans are way too low. Looking like a junkie in front of Mrs. Old Crazy Lady. At floor 7 her dog starts panting and I’m thinking I should pet it or something. I ask Mrs. Old Crazy Lady what the name is and she says “Claudia” and I say that’s a beautiful name and reach down to pet her and Claudia bites the shit out of my hand.

“Ahh fuck you Claudia, you little bitch” are the words that come out of my mouth at floor 10. By floor 12 my hand was bleeding kind of and Mrs. Old Crazy Lady has stopped being my friend. I get off and mumble an apology but it just isn’t audible and I hear the lady sigh.

Sean opens the door and he’s rocking an Expos hat from the same Montreal trip I have that dollar from. Sean and I went to PS 87 on the West Side together, he moved over to the East Side in 8th grade and went to Private school but we stayed homies throughout. He’s wearing a tank top with something about his frat on it, he goes to Maryland. Sean’s a good-looking scruffy West Side Jew, my kind of people.

I’m not a gang banger, I’m half Irish-half Jewish and my dad works at the Natural History Museum but Sean and I have spent enough time above 115th on the East Side to think we can dap up like we’re from Harlem. I guess it’s probably because we went to public school in the city at some point. We think we’re bad.

“What’s good my dude?”

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“Chillin homie, my parents are on The Island for the weekend you know.

Another day another dollar.” The Island is Long Island; Sean doesn’t have a job and volunteers at the JCC sometimes. His parents being on The Island means that we’re about to get down on a vanilla dutch. I throw him my eighth, he takes out what he needs, grinds it up and cuts the blunt up the middle, just how they taught us Uptown.

We’re watching the Mets game and smoking and talking and I tell him about Tasia and he asks me if I’m ok and I say I’m chilling as I blow an O of smoke in his living room. Sean’s apartment looks out at the East River and the 59th st bridge but I always forget which one it is for some reason, I’m bad with the bridges even though I’ve lived in this city for my entire life.

The truth is I’m tripping and I’m doped out and I’m sweating and I’m nauseous and Sean tells me to cool it with the blues and I tell him I will.

He says he can tell I’m on that shit. I need to get the fuck home. Sean knows it and I dap him up and tell him I’ll hit him up later or tomorrow and he says word up and he gives me a hug and he’s got this concerned look in his eye that freaks me the fuck out especially as I’m looking at myself in the mirror in the elevator on the way down.

I know if I get on the cross-town bus I’m going to vomit so I light a cigarette and rub the bags under my eyes really hard so everything goes black. As the city comes back into focus it feels like everyone is walking right at me and the sound is hanging and spinning around my head like those things babies have in their cradles. I start to walk back across town because there are too many fucks on public transportation anyways. I’m on 63rd St. walking West smoking and I can’t wait to get home. It’s not dark yet but it’s cooling off a little bit and people are walking past me with all these anonymous blank looks in their eyes. When I get to Columbus Circle I see all the fucking tourists and shit and my head pulses but I take deep breaths and I chill back out. Amsterdam, Broadway, and then West End, then I walk up to 77th and into my building. I walk up to apt 6 unlock it to see my mom standing in the middle of the apartment. She seems surprised to see me but happy and her eyes are really soft. She soon Linger here.

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realizes my eyes are hard and dry and hurting. She walks up to me wraps her arms around me like a mom and I lean my head on her shoulder. I hug her back, itch my nose and can’t stop crying.

Leigh Eron “The Phoenix”

Everything’s going up in flames but I’ve still got me.

Tethered yet free.

There’s disappointment and hope.

A letdown as the ashes begin to crumble and flutter to the ground.

But then there’s me.

I hold my head high and look to the distance, Where a brighter blue is shining.

I reach out with all that’s left, Because alone or not it can still be mine.

I can leave this, I will leave this, If left it must be.

As the fire roars and minds crack, My heart will beat out, Maybe one thump or two, just for you.

But the flames won’t lick at me, for a harder shell has formed.

When the distance closes in, my fingers will taste the glowing freedom.

The opportunity.

The dream.

And when the light flickers out, Will I be left alone?

What will that say as I shine in the heat of a moment that’s mine?

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Linger here.

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realizes my eyes are hard and dry and hurting. She walks up to me wraps her arms around me like a mom and I lean my head on her shoulder. I hug her back, itch my nose and can’t stop crying.

Leigh Eron “The Phoenix”

Everything’s going up in flames but I’ve still got me.

Tethered yet free.

There’s disappointment and hope.

A letdown as the ashes begin to crumble and flutter to the ground.

But then there’s me.

I hold my head high and look to the distance, Where a brighter blue is shining.

I reach out with all that’s left, Because alone or not it can still be mine.

I can leave this, I will leave this, If left it must be.

As the fire roars and minds crack, My heart will beat out, Maybe one thump or two, just for you.

But the flames won’t lick at me, for a harder shell has formed.

When the distance closes in, my fingers will taste the glowing freedom.

The opportunity.

The dream.

And when the light flickers out, Will I be left alone?

What will that say as I shine in the heat of a moment that’s mine?

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Linger here.

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Alex Garofalo Love

There was only ever fire And it burned without discretion And the forrest was consumed By flames in every seen direction.

The trees cried out with reason And they pleaded let me grow, But the fire could not listen And it had no way to know That for all the misplaced passion In that bright and buoyant blaze There was nothing left to love When every tree and root was raised.

Then the embers slowly faded And with nothing left to burn The fire died off into ash With nothing left and nothing learned.

Annelis Rebecca Rivera Gossip

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Alex Garofalo Love

There was only ever fire And it burned without discretion And the forrest was consumed By flames in every seen direction.

The trees cried out with reason And they pleaded let me grow, But the fire could not listen And it had no way to know That for all the misplaced passion In that bright and buoyant blaze There was nothing left to love When every tree and root was raised.

Then the embers slowly faded And with nothing left to burn The fire died off into ash With nothing left and nothing learned.

Annelis Rebecca Rivera Gossip

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Linger here.

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Sawyer Cresap Washing Machine

the rain in Syracuse falls on deaf ears and eyes that do not see. Huddled like orphans in the great flood, they wait with the remnants of the Earth to be saved. They walk with heads down and shoulders back to shroud their sickened souls, marching onwards towards Cain awaiting the arrival of the horizon. I feel so awful and the Pope didn’t even call, maybe he lost my telephone number and sends his regrets by wire, now that we’ve all stopped believing in God. Sea turtles swim next to me as I walk down the street, isn’t it enough I already can’t breathe, my thoughts pounding me like ocean tides relentless battering the fragile shores. water water everywhere and none to drink

Christina Mastrull Untitled 28

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Linger here.

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Sawyer Cresap Washing Machine

the rain in Syracuse falls on deaf ears and eyes that do not see. Huddled like orphans in the great flood, they wait with the remnants of the Earth to be saved. They walk with heads down and shoulders back to shroud their sickened souls, marching onwards towards Cain awaiting the arrival of the horizon. I feel so awful and the Pope didn’t even call, maybe he lost my telephone number and sends his regrets by wire, now that we’ve all stopped believing in God. Sea turtles swim next to me as I walk down the street, isn’t it enough I already can’t breathe, my thoughts pounding me like ocean tides relentless battering the fragile shores. water water everywhere and none to drink

Christina Mastrull Untitled 28

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Linger here.

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Victoria Russo Untitled

She got out of bed, feeling the cool ceramic against her bare feet. It was good to feel something. Walking towards the bedroom door, she took the only jacket hanging on the hook and wrapped herself inside. The door creaked as she pulled it open; it had needed to be fixed for a few months.

Hopefully it wouldn’t wake the boys early.

Quietly she descended the stairs, calculating the time in her head. It was the third Monday in October. That made it nineteen weeks, almost five months of the same routine.

Reaching the kitchen, she listened for the familiar click from the timer of the coffee pot as it began to brew. Seven thirty-five. It too was on schedule.

She stepped outside to a crisp fall day that did not feel fresh nor energizing but rather chilly and that was appropriate. There were clouds in the sky; the early morning had brought a light drizzle. The cement was still wet and felt cold against her toes. It was good to feel something. A few rays of sun pushed through the haze to reach her.

Grabbing the garden shears from the shed, she walked the path back to the brown fence where the roses grew. There was the bush they planted on their third anniversary, eight years ago when the twins were born.

The bush was big and green and leafy; the roses were waking up for the day. Choosing the best bloom, she angled the shears and held the stem, cutting one free from the bush. She didn’t worry about being pricked by a thorn; that pain was nothing these days. It was good to feel something.

Rose in hand, she went back inside. The pot on the counter was half-full of freshly brewed, dark liquid. She reached past it for the vase, removing last week’s dried and drooping rose and replacing it with a lightpink one. She returned it to the right of the picture.

The creak from her bedroom door told her the boys were up. They 30

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must have checked her room in hopes of finding someone. Silently she took off her jacket, grabbed a cup of coffee and sat down in her spot at the table. As the boys came down the stairs, she quickly checked the clock.

Eight am; they were right on time.

They went to their chairs with sleepy eyes and hungry bellies.

Recently she’d started preparing them a large meal for Monday breakfast.

It helped the day start more easily. She watched as they glanced over to the picture, making sure the flower had been changed.

They knew that was how she’d been starting her Mondays. It was these days she felt nothing. They had noticed she hadn’t cried for many mornings, though they couldn’t count how long.

But she knew the time.

She cried alone every night, as she kneeled by his side of the bed to pray.

Linger here.

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Victoria Russo Untitled

She got out of bed, feeling the cool ceramic against her bare feet. It was good to feel something. Walking towards the bedroom door, she took the only jacket hanging on the hook and wrapped herself inside. The door creaked as she pulled it open; it had needed to be fixed for a few months.

Hopefully it wouldn’t wake the boys early.

Quietly she descended the stairs, calculating the time in her head. It was the third Monday in October. That made it nineteen weeks, almost five months of the same routine.

Reaching the kitchen, she listened for the familiar click from the timer of the coffee pot as it began to brew. Seven thirty-five. It too was on schedule.

She stepped outside to a crisp fall day that did not feel fresh nor energizing but rather chilly and that was appropriate. There were clouds in the sky; the early morning had brought a light drizzle. The cement was still wet and felt cold against her toes. It was good to feel something. A few rays of sun pushed through the haze to reach her.

Grabbing the garden shears from the shed, she walked the path back to the brown fence where the roses grew. There was the bush they planted on their third anniversary, eight years ago when the twins were born.

The bush was big and green and leafy; the roses were waking up for the day. Choosing the best bloom, she angled the shears and held the stem, cutting one free from the bush. She didn’t worry about being pricked by a thorn; that pain was nothing these days. It was good to feel something.

Rose in hand, she went back inside. The pot on the counter was half-full of freshly brewed, dark liquid. She reached past it for the vase, removing last week’s dried and drooping rose and replacing it with a lightpink one. She returned it to the right of the picture.

The creak from her bedroom door told her the boys were up. They 30

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must have checked her room in hopes of finding someone. Silently she took off her jacket, grabbed a cup of coffee and sat down in her spot at the table. As the boys came down the stairs, she quickly checked the clock.

Eight am; they were right on time.

They went to their chairs with sleepy eyes and hungry bellies.

Recently she’d started preparing them a large meal for Monday breakfast.

It helped the day start more easily. She watched as they glanced over to the picture, making sure the flower had been changed.

They knew that was how she’d been starting her Mondays. It was these days she felt nothing. They had noticed she hadn’t cried for many mornings, though they couldn’t count how long.

But she knew the time.

She cried alone every night, as she kneeled by his side of the bed to pray.

Linger here.

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Courtney Garvin Untitled

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Courtney Garvin Untitled

Linger here.

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Courtney Garvin Untitled

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Courtney Garvin Untitled

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Eugene Butler Skin

If only beauty rest on skin Then be my canvas and let me adore the Moon’s light caught in the ripples of your spine Pressed against your back Your skin reflects the curve of the Tuscan Sun dipping between peaks As Creators mold marble Gods My hands often rush I sculpt your body eight times And although it burns my lungs Exhaling is often sweet like black berries, cool like smoke that plays on black leather Let this skin be my addiction And if my body withdraws, my cure If beauty rest on skin Then my eyes must bleed pearls and jewels Yet I lay here bare My eyes are often blinded by skin that resembles a dying Sun My sheets are covered with Exploding Art! Maybe a God, 1920’s Harlem Or a Basquiat, Brooklyn 93

You are the creation of the rhythmic alliteration of clanking cans that mimics Pac’s Pussy and Paper is Poetry, Power and Pistols Tagged in Sgraffito The Piece bleed, Red on brick walls Heaven’s got a ghetto Beauty rest on this Skin As the tempo arches, shadows move wild on your chest like Suicidal dancers Crashing into the base of your of your brown skin They become suspended performers caught in the climax of a black and white film Spinning Blades of light They cut deep into your waist They are eternal Taking the air out my lungs They forever live in the moment between life of the projector and death of the fluorescent screen They know no bounds Absorbing all light They beam a trillion suns They are Titian’s of Beauty They are without a God And their Religion is Me Only beauty rest on this skin

A Free Style done of the top of his head And here lies the ranting and ravings of Spiraled Galaxies Splattered like paint, wrapped around your legs and thighs You are the Colored smoke that sits aloof above my bed like strange clouds 34

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Eugene Butler Skin

If only beauty rest on skin Then be my canvas and let me adore the Moon’s light caught in the ripples of your spine Pressed against your back Your skin reflects the curve of the Tuscan Sun dipping between peaks As Creators mold marble Gods My hands often rush I sculpt your body eight times And although it burns my lungs Exhaling is often sweet like black berries, cool like smoke that plays on black leather Let this skin be my addiction And if my body withdraws, my cure If beauty rest on skin Then my eyes must bleed pearls and jewels Yet I lay here bare My eyes are often blinded by skin that resembles a dying Sun My sheets are covered with Exploding Art! Maybe a God, 1920’s Harlem Or a Basquiat, Brooklyn 93

You are the creation of the rhythmic alliteration of clanking cans that mimics Pac’s Pussy and Paper is Poetry, Power and Pistols Tagged in Sgraffito The Piece bleed, Red on brick walls Heaven’s got a ghetto Beauty rest on this Skin As the tempo arches, shadows move wild on your chest like Suicidal dancers Crashing into the base of your of your brown skin They become suspended performers caught in the climax of a black and white film Spinning Blades of light They cut deep into your waist They are eternal Taking the air out my lungs They forever live in the moment between life of the projector and death of the fluorescent screen They know no bounds Absorbing all light They beam a trillion suns They are Titian’s of Beauty They are without a God And their Religion is Me Only beauty rest on this skin

A Free Style done of the top of his head And here lies the ranting and ravings of Spiraled Galaxies Splattered like paint, wrapped around your legs and thighs You are the Colored smoke that sits aloof above my bed like strange clouds 34

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Linger here.

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Kaya Bulbul

Josh Dolph

The Late Night Worker

Runner's Song

Harsh white light punctures the room.

Television spewing information Across the walls at Sleeping ears.

The other two are covered.

Melodies being injected into them With hopes that The notes will aid The lone litterateur With his late night work.

Staring down the maw of mile number five And as I wipe the rain from my eyes I consider the run, And why it is we fight.

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I do not stop when I run, for to stop is to submit.

Submitting is admitting that the spirit is weaker than flesh.

In that is contained a death, and I’ll none of that today.

Linger here.

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Kaya Bulbul

Josh Dolph

The Late Night Worker

Runner's Song

Harsh white light punctures the room.

Television spewing information Across the walls at Sleeping ears.

The other two are covered.

Melodies being injected into them With hopes that The notes will aid The lone litterateur With his late night work.

Staring down the maw of mile number five And as I wipe the rain from my eyes I consider the run, And why it is we fight.

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I do not stop when I run, for to stop is to submit.

Submitting is admitting that the spirit is weaker than flesh.

In that is contained a death, and I’ll none of that today.

Linger here.

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Steep

You look a delicious brew And we’ve got that kettle on But this Lord Earl must take to the back burner Cause time and time alone brings the boil My water’s getting hot; Getting lost in those leaves

Madelyn Minicozzi Sweet Dejection

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Steep

You look a delicious brew And we’ve got that kettle on But this Lord Earl must take to the back burner Cause time and time alone brings the boil My water’s getting hot; Getting lost in those leaves

Madelyn Minicozzi Sweet Dejection

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Anothony Herbert Dedication

Think of dedication as an hour glass You start with all the sand at the top, stumbling but coming together Draining as you use it to boost you to new heights Each drop of sand is time which is money and delights of success Literally as sweet as honey Then as you go on and on, you begin to fight to stay upright Whether it is changing weather or obstacles you have to overcome But don’t be discouraged as death is the only sign of being overly dedicated So by the time night falls and that last particle of sand drops You know in your heart you either made it or stayed at the top So you can relax, sleep, and let that sense of time stop

Dedication is something you owe to yourself To get by, to stand tall, and fly high And be comfortable within yourself To tell your heart to relax and your doubt to shut up Tell your muscles to get it together and your feet not to give up And in reality is that not quite the feat?

It identifies the strong and inspires the weak So here’s factoid numero uno: Dedication finds you, as long as it is dedication you seek

How about we think of dedication as a journey to the neverend?

Because even when everyone tells you that you arrived at a destination You refute, pack your bags, and pick back up again Sightseeing is impressive, and to your pain you become neglective Because dedication is a lens that provides strength like no other incarnation Your feet may get weary but if you stop what was the point?

Quitters never win and I’ve never seen a winner quit So stick it to your joints and keep it pushing No one can limit you but you so keep shushing The naysayer and the haters Even if it lies within thyself Why don’t we just produce the facts?

I can Merriam-Webster the word to you but it would do you no good Like a hard fought struggle or nice long stumble would 40

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Linger here.

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Anothony Herbert Dedication

Think of dedication as an hour glass You start with all the sand at the top, stumbling but coming together Draining as you use it to boost you to new heights Each drop of sand is time which is money and delights of success Literally as sweet as honey Then as you go on and on, you begin to fight to stay upright Whether it is changing weather or obstacles you have to overcome But don’t be discouraged as death is the only sign of being overly dedicated So by the time night falls and that last particle of sand drops You know in your heart you either made it or stayed at the top So you can relax, sleep, and let that sense of time stop

Dedication is something you owe to yourself To get by, to stand tall, and fly high And be comfortable within yourself To tell your heart to relax and your doubt to shut up Tell your muscles to get it together and your feet not to give up And in reality is that not quite the feat?

It identifies the strong and inspires the weak So here’s factoid numero uno: Dedication finds you, as long as it is dedication you seek

How about we think of dedication as a journey to the neverend?

Because even when everyone tells you that you arrived at a destination You refute, pack your bags, and pick back up again Sightseeing is impressive, and to your pain you become neglective Because dedication is a lens that provides strength like no other incarnation Your feet may get weary but if you stop what was the point?

Quitters never win and I’ve never seen a winner quit So stick it to your joints and keep it pushing No one can limit you but you so keep shushing The naysayer and the haters Even if it lies within thyself Why don’t we just produce the facts?

I can Merriam-Webster the word to you but it would do you no good Like a hard fought struggle or nice long stumble would 40

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Linger here.

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Molly Pomroy “A Monkey’s Sunflower”

Sarah Sanga Kim Gorilla

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It’s like a dream; Not one of the clichés…

Running, screaming, flying, sinking.

But one of the heart, Where it skips across my chest to The beat of a song with an unknown name.

Where I try to catch that lost Second in time.

I fly through the stars, Pass the black holes of dismay, And gather the hope of a smile.

I’ll walk to the bounce of my step, And bounce as I step to a sound That drums through my heels, Speeding my stride, Quickening My mind.

Ba-boom. Boom-ba.

Sing to me with the voice of reason.

Tell me what is held amongst your Red breath.

Tempt me, shake me, wake me, While I walk to that corner of the street; The crowded one: yellow wheels, furrowed brows.

I’ll be there defending A feeling of a travel through stars, When I passed the black holes and Reached for your hand.

Linger here.

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Molly Pomroy “A Monkey’s Sunflower”

Sarah Sanga Kim Gorilla

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It’s like a dream; Not one of the clichés…

Running, screaming, flying, sinking.

But one of the heart, Where it skips across my chest to The beat of a song with an unknown name.

Where I try to catch that lost Second in time.

I fly through the stars, Pass the black holes of dismay, And gather the hope of a smile.

I’ll walk to the bounce of my step, And bounce as I step to a sound That drums through my heels, Speeding my stride, Quickening My mind.

Ba-boom. Boom-ba.

Sing to me with the voice of reason.

Tell me what is held amongst your Red breath.

Tempt me, shake me, wake me, While I walk to that corner of the street; The crowded one: yellow wheels, furrowed brows.

I’ll be there defending A feeling of a travel through stars, When I passed the black holes and Reached for your hand.

Linger here.

l 43

Nazia Islam

Aminah Ibrahim

Finding wholeness in shattered things

Center That Life

Shards. a

mirror broke

hard.

Pieces shattered. a million

stars scattered.

Reflections. jagged

imperfections.

The mirror is useless.

Cracks.

Gaps.

Not one reflection But countless.

Each

line of brokenness Is a memento of birth.

No longer a piece of the whole But a whole new piece.

Center that life. peak at the paper.

Flow, Breath, Flutter, Stare.

False, Feel, Fault, fall into the paint naked, all the time lips touch.

Light, Lift, Tap, Tips Pits, stop momentarily.

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look at me .................

LOOK AT ME Turn around, walk away place that empty cup in front of me.

I will fill it with all I have left.

It won't be enough.

Worse, Worst, Last, First, Flash, Rip up the last few pages you have left.

Linger here.

l 45

Nazia Islam

Aminah Ibrahim

Finding wholeness in shattered things

Center That Life

Shards. a

mirror broke

hard.

Pieces shattered. a million

stars scattered.

Reflections. jagged

imperfections.

The mirror is useless.

Cracks.

Gaps.

Not one reflection But countless.

Each

line of brokenness Is a memento of birth.

No longer a piece of the whole But a whole new piece.

Center that life. peak at the paper.

Flow, Breath, Flutter, Stare.

False, Feel, Fault, fall into the paint naked, all the time lips touch.

Light, Lift, Tap, Tips Pits, stop momentarily.

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look at me .................

LOOK AT ME Turn around, walk away place that empty cup in front of me.

I will fill it with all I have left.

It won't be enough.

Worse, Worst, Last, First, Flash, Rip up the last few pages you have left.

Linger here.

l 45

Nedda Sarshar A Vingette

This is baby number 6. Before him was baby number 5, and before her was baby number 4. Before her was Christopher and before Christopher there was Janet, then there was me and there’s three more before me but I can’t remember all their names. I was the only one who stayed around, though.

All the other ones left. I am the oldest out of all of them because I am four and none of them were even one.

Baby number 6 just came into the world. I can see him from where I am standing. He’s very ugly and has no hair. His head’s bigger than the rest of him and he looks like how I look after I’ve stayed in a bath for a very, very, very long time because his fingers look like prunes. He’s still all gross and bloody from coming out of mommy’s tummy and he’s screaming and wriggling around so badly that the doctors are having a hard time getting him cleaned up. One of the doctors says that he’s obviously very healthy, but I can see mommy and daddy are still very worried for him and that’s why they won’t give him a name.

They stopped giving the babies names after Christopher. They were very sad when he was gone. I was very sad too, because for months mommy would talk to me about how I was going to have a little brother and how I would have to take care of him and make sure all the kids at school were nice to him. She said the same thing about Janet, but I didn’t want a little sister because I don’t like girls, except for mommy. And anyways, Janet left while she was still in mommy’s tummy so I didn’t even get to see if I liked her.

When Christopher came mommy and dad were very happy because they thought boys were stronger babies. They thought this because I was the only boy they had had so far and I was the only one who stayed. But Christopher was very small and very quiet and wouldn’t eat much at all.

He also never moved unless I poked him and he breathed in and out 46

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very quickly. Once I tried to breathe as much as he did in a minute but I got dizzy and had to stop. I was sad that he left so quickly after he came, but he didn’t seem to like it much here anyways.

After him, Mommy and Dad didn’t even get happy anymore when they found out another baby was coming. I got really excited at first, because I still kind of wanted a baby brother to take to school and show everyone, but after baby number 3 didn’t come and baby number 4 after her I stopped liking babies when they came out. But I still liked watching mommy’s stomach get big and I liked feeling the baby kick against my hand when I touched her tummy. They were always more alive on the inside than when they came out.

While the doctors are still taking care of baby number 6, a nurse comes up to me and takes me back to the kid’s section. I could get there by myself because I’ve been to the hospital so many times when all the other babies were coming, but I don’t say anything because she seems very nice.

“Are you excited to have a baby brother?”

Excited? , I wonder. I don’t feel anything. I don’t care. I’m getting really tired of always seeing babies and loving them, but never getting to keep them. But I nod anyways, because I know that’s what she wants to hear.

“I think you’ll make a very good big brother.”

I nod again, because I know I will. If I was a big brother I’d be really good at it. I’ve thought so much about it and I have everything drawn out in case it happens. But I’m not a big brother yet. Baby number 6 is here, I know, but I also know how these things go.

Linger here.

l 47

Nedda Sarshar A Vingette

This is baby number 6. Before him was baby number 5, and before her was baby number 4. Before her was Christopher and before Christopher there was Janet, then there was me and there’s three more before me but I can’t remember all their names. I was the only one who stayed around, though.

All the other ones left. I am the oldest out of all of them because I am four and none of them were even one.

Baby number 6 just came into the world. I can see him from where I am standing. He’s very ugly and has no hair. His head’s bigger than the rest of him and he looks like how I look after I’ve stayed in a bath for a very, very, very long time because his fingers look like prunes. He’s still all gross and bloody from coming out of mommy’s tummy and he’s screaming and wriggling around so badly that the doctors are having a hard time getting him cleaned up. One of the doctors says that he’s obviously very healthy, but I can see mommy and daddy are still very worried for him and that’s why they won’t give him a name.

They stopped giving the babies names after Christopher. They were very sad when he was gone. I was very sad too, because for months mommy would talk to me about how I was going to have a little brother and how I would have to take care of him and make sure all the kids at school were nice to him. She said the same thing about Janet, but I didn’t want a little sister because I don’t like girls, except for mommy. And anyways, Janet left while she was still in mommy’s tummy so I didn’t even get to see if I liked her.

When Christopher came mommy and dad were very happy because they thought boys were stronger babies. They thought this because I was the only boy they had had so far and I was the only one who stayed. But Christopher was very small and very quiet and wouldn’t eat much at all.

He also never moved unless I poked him and he breathed in and out 46

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very quickly. Once I tried to breathe as much as he did in a minute but I got dizzy and had to stop. I was sad that he left so quickly after he came, but he didn’t seem to like it much here anyways.

After him, Mommy and Dad didn’t even get happy anymore when they found out another baby was coming. I got really excited at first, because I still kind of wanted a baby brother to take to school and show everyone, but after baby number 3 didn’t come and baby number 4 after her I stopped liking babies when they came out. But I still liked watching mommy’s stomach get big and I liked feeling the baby kick against my hand when I touched her tummy. They were always more alive on the inside than when they came out.

While the doctors are still taking care of baby number 6, a nurse comes up to me and takes me back to the kid’s section. I could get there by myself because I’ve been to the hospital so many times when all the other babies were coming, but I don’t say anything because she seems very nice.

“Are you excited to have a baby brother?”

Excited? , I wonder. I don’t feel anything. I don’t care. I’m getting really tired of always seeing babies and loving them, but never getting to keep them. But I nod anyways, because I know that’s what she wants to hear.

“I think you’ll make a very good big brother.”

I nod again, because I know I will. If I was a big brother I’d be really good at it. I’ve thought so much about it and I have everything drawn out in case it happens. But I’m not a big brother yet. Baby number 6 is here, I know, but I also know how these things go.

Linger here.

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Kat Ferentchak Big Brother

I never forgave my parents when they failed to have more children. This only child thing has a major downside: loneliness. They could have made an effort, I would tell myself. I should have had a big brother or sister. Not a younger one, mind you. Having to care for a younger sibling did not appeal one iota.

It turns out my judgment was a tad uncalled for. I was sixteen when I learned about the “other Ferentchak.� Several years before I was born, my mother conceived another baby. That little boy could not live outside the womb. My big brother.

Simon Perez Crowd 48

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Linger here.

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Kat Ferentchak Big Brother

I never forgave my parents when they failed to have more children. This only child thing has a major downside: loneliness. They could have made an effort, I would tell myself. I should have had a big brother or sister. Not a younger one, mind you. Having to care for a younger sibling did not appeal one iota.

It turns out my judgment was a tad uncalled for. I was sixteen when I learned about the “other Ferentchak.� Several years before I was born, my mother conceived another baby. That little boy could not live outside the womb. My big brother.

Simon Perez Crowd 48

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Linger here.

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Megan Daniels A Toe in the Lava

The apartment was small – a one bedroom with a kitchen and a barely there living room. Brown carpet, dirtied by ash and maybe some form of mold woven deep into the fibers. White tile. The refrigerator created a shadow that splayed out across the tiles, just to the threshold of the living room, blocking the exit. The child would sometimes pretend that it was lava, hop across it to reach the door, fear for the soles of her feet. It was also hot inside the apartment. That August type of hot, muggy and inescapable and hopeless. The suitcase was keeping the front door propped open. The child sat next to it, eyelids peeled back. She was startled.

“You didn’t want this to begin with, did you?” the mother asked.

“Of course I wanted this. In the beginning everyone wants it, don’t they?” the father said.

“Do they?” She held a glass of wine. Her hand waved from side to side when she spoke and some sloshed over the edge.

“They do. I did. You did.”

“You always did like putting words in my mouth, didn’t you?”

“Always is a strong word.”

The father glanced at the child sitting at the edge of the shadow.

He let out a breath, long and sad, and continued packing his second suitcase. The mother followed him around as he retrieved his spare boots from the closet, his extra coat. She tapped him on the shoulder until he acknowledged her.

“What?” the father asked.

“Why are you really doing this?”

“You know why.”

“Explain it again.” She sipped her wine, wiped her lips with the back of her wrist. “Is it this?”

“This?”

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She gestured to her wine glass.

The father didn’t answer her. He brushed past her, made the mistake of knocking his arm into hers, caused the wine to spill out onto the tile, just beside the shadow. The child pulled her knees to her chest and stared at the red spot. A different red than lava.

“So it is this, then,” the mother said.

“It’s a lot of things.”

The mother grabbed his boots and tossed them across the room. They smacked into the wall, leaving a smudge of grey on the white. The child flinched, but the mother and father didn’t seem to notice.

The father continued to pack. He retrieved the boots, placed them carefully into his suitcase, folded his coat, placed that into his suitcase, too.

He looked at the scuff mark on the wall and let out a brief breath before zipping his suitcase closed. He lifted it onto its wheels and headed toward the front door, but the mother blocked his path.

Arms crossed over her shoulders, she said, “You are not leaving. You can’t.”

He sighed, said her name, mumbled some sort of, “Please” or “Stop” or “Just let me go”.

She took the suitcase from him and dragged it behind her, shook her head. “Just another chance. One more chance.”

“There have been a million chances.”

“Make it a million and one. I promise –” He ran his fingers through his hair. The course strands stood up, molded to the shape of his fingers. He tried to step around her, but even in her state, she was swift. She blocked him and crossed her arms over her chest.

“Listen, I’m leaving,” he said.

“No.” “Yes,” he said. He sounded frustrated. “I’m leaving.”

The mother lifted the suitcase and tossed it out the door, across the shadow, into the hallway. “This is about her isn’t it?”

“No,” the father said. “No. This is about us. She has nothing to do with Linger here.

l 51

Megan Daniels A Toe in the Lava

The apartment was small – a one bedroom with a kitchen and a barely there living room. Brown carpet, dirtied by ash and maybe some form of mold woven deep into the fibers. White tile. The refrigerator created a shadow that splayed out across the tiles, just to the threshold of the living room, blocking the exit. The child would sometimes pretend that it was lava, hop across it to reach the door, fear for the soles of her feet. It was also hot inside the apartment. That August type of hot, muggy and inescapable and hopeless. The suitcase was keeping the front door propped open. The child sat next to it, eyelids peeled back. She was startled.

“You didn’t want this to begin with, did you?” the mother asked.

“Of course I wanted this. In the beginning everyone wants it, don’t they?” the father said.

“Do they?” She held a glass of wine. Her hand waved from side to side when she spoke and some sloshed over the edge.

“They do. I did. You did.”

“You always did like putting words in my mouth, didn’t you?”

“Always is a strong word.”

The father glanced at the child sitting at the edge of the shadow.

He let out a breath, long and sad, and continued packing his second suitcase. The mother followed him around as he retrieved his spare boots from the closet, his extra coat. She tapped him on the shoulder until he acknowledged her.

“What?” the father asked.

“Why are you really doing this?”

“You know why.”

“Explain it again.” She sipped her wine, wiped her lips with the back of her wrist. “Is it this?”

“This?”

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She gestured to her wine glass.

The father didn’t answer her. He brushed past her, made the mistake of knocking his arm into hers, caused the wine to spill out onto the tile, just beside the shadow. The child pulled her knees to her chest and stared at the red spot. A different red than lava.

“So it is this, then,” the mother said.

“It’s a lot of things.”

The mother grabbed his boots and tossed them across the room. They smacked into the wall, leaving a smudge of grey on the white. The child flinched, but the mother and father didn’t seem to notice.

The father continued to pack. He retrieved the boots, placed them carefully into his suitcase, folded his coat, placed that into his suitcase, too.

He looked at the scuff mark on the wall and let out a brief breath before zipping his suitcase closed. He lifted it onto its wheels and headed toward the front door, but the mother blocked his path.

Arms crossed over her shoulders, she said, “You are not leaving. You can’t.”

He sighed, said her name, mumbled some sort of, “Please” or “Stop” or “Just let me go”.

She took the suitcase from him and dragged it behind her, shook her head. “Just another chance. One more chance.”

“There have been a million chances.”

“Make it a million and one. I promise –” He ran his fingers through his hair. The course strands stood up, molded to the shape of his fingers. He tried to step around her, but even in her state, she was swift. She blocked him and crossed her arms over her chest.

“Listen, I’m leaving,” he said.

“No.” “Yes,” he said. He sounded frustrated. “I’m leaving.”

The mother lifted the suitcase and tossed it out the door, across the shadow, into the hallway. “This is about her isn’t it?”

“No,” the father said. “No. This is about us. She has nothing to do with Linger here.

l 51

Sarah Shelton Intermission

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it. That was a long time ago.”

“Don’t lie to me.” The mother slammed her hand against the wall and the child let out a sharp cry. The child didn’t want to cry. She pressed her fingers over her closed eyelids.

“You’re scaring the baby,” the father said. “Stop it.”

“The baby is fine,” the mother said. “We are the ones who aren’t fine.

We’re a family. Why can’t we just stay a family?”

The father moved across the room. He retrieved his hat from its place on the couch’s armrest and placed it on his head. He looked ready to leave; the mother began crying. This confused the child. She’d never seen her mother cry before. It was strange. She hugged her knees against her, pressed her heels into the backs of her thighs.

“We haven’t been a family for a long time,” the father said. “You’ve seen it. You know it’s true.”

“It doesn’t have to be.”

“It is, though.”

“We can start over.”

“We can’t.”

“Why not?”

The father pinched the bridge of his nose. The sun was setting outside and it would be more difficult to drive at night. The highway had very few streetlights and the headlights on his car were too dull.

“You know why,” he said.

The child let go of her legs and her foot slid out into the shadow. She gasped and pulled her knees up again.

“Just sit for a second,” the mother said. “Just talk to me for one second, okay?”

The father relented. His shoulders sunk, his breath escaped him, his eyes drooped closed for a moment. He took a seat at the kitchen table and the mother followed him. The child stayed put by the door.

There was a pot of coffee on the counter and the mother poured two mugs full. She set them both on the table, along with her glass of wine, and sat next to the father. She sipped the coffee while he let his sit.

Linger here.

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Sarah Shelton Intermission

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it. That was a long time ago.”

“Don’t lie to me.” The mother slammed her hand against the wall and the child let out a sharp cry. The child didn’t want to cry. She pressed her fingers over her closed eyelids.

“You’re scaring the baby,” the father said. “Stop it.”

“The baby is fine,” the mother said. “We are the ones who aren’t fine.

We’re a family. Why can’t we just stay a family?”

The father moved across the room. He retrieved his hat from its place on the couch’s armrest and placed it on his head. He looked ready to leave; the mother began crying. This confused the child. She’d never seen her mother cry before. It was strange. She hugged her knees against her, pressed her heels into the backs of her thighs.

“We haven’t been a family for a long time,” the father said. “You’ve seen it. You know it’s true.”

“It doesn’t have to be.”

“It is, though.”

“We can start over.”

“We can’t.”

“Why not?”

The father pinched the bridge of his nose. The sun was setting outside and it would be more difficult to drive at night. The highway had very few streetlights and the headlights on his car were too dull.

“You know why,” he said.

The child let go of her legs and her foot slid out into the shadow. She gasped and pulled her knees up again.

“Just sit for a second,” the mother said. “Just talk to me for one second, okay?”

The father relented. His shoulders sunk, his breath escaped him, his eyes drooped closed for a moment. He took a seat at the kitchen table and the mother followed him. The child stayed put by the door.

There was a pot of coffee on the counter and the mother poured two mugs full. She set them both on the table, along with her glass of wine, and sat next to the father. She sipped the coffee while he let his sit.

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“Talk to me,” she said.

“I’ve done a lot of talking,” he said.

She sipped her wine, then. “Not enough.”

“What do you want me to say?”

“That we can do this. Make things work. We have a child together, you know? You can’t just abandon her.”

He closed his eyes for a moment. “You think I want to abandon her?

There’s no other choice right now. This is it. This is my only option.”

“No it’s not,” the mother said. “You can stay. Please, just stay.”

“No.” “Please.”

“I said no. We haven’t worked for a long time. She’s the only good thing that came out of this mess.” He sipped his coffee then and bit his tongue at its bitterness.

“This is because that woman. This is her fault.”

“It’s not.”

“So you’re not going to see her after this? You’re not leaving here to stay with her?”

He didn’t answer.

“I knew it.”

He gulped his coffee and it burned his throat. He glanced at the child.

She had her eyes closed, her front teeth snagged on her lip. “I wasn’t the first one to step out on this,” he said to the mother.

She laughed, curt and dry and painful. “That was ten years ago and I’ve apologized. A million times, I’ve apologized.”

“And I’m apologizing,” he said. “But I can’t live like this anymore.”

The mother rested her face in her hands and cried. He did not move to comfort her. The child was confused because he’d normally comfort the mother. But this time, he just stood up, left his mostly full mug of coffee, and zipped his coat.

“Will you sign the papers?” he asked.

The mother continued to cry. “I don’t . . . I can’t.”

“You can. Please, just sign the papers, okay?”

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“I’m sorry.”

“I am, too. Just sign the papers.”

She bawled into her hands. The child’s eyes were wide open again, watching the scene play out before her. She pushed her hair behind her ears. It was a mess; no one brushed it this morning.

“Fine,” the mother said. She finished off her wine in one final gulp.

“Fine. Leave. I’ll sign the papers. I don’t care anymore. If you want to leave, just leave.”

The father nodded and straightened his collar. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me.”

“I’ll still come around to see the baby.”

“I’m not a baby,” the child said from her place at the door. Her first words all night.

Both the father and mother looked to the child, as if they’d forgotten about her before. The father took a few steps in her direction, kneeled in front of her, his pant leg narrowly missing the shadow by the door. The child heaved a sigh of relief. She wouldn’t have wanted his pants to burn.

“Hey, sweetie,” the father said.

“Daddy, I’m not a baby.”

The mother hiccupped. She covered her mouth with her hand and left the kitchen for the bedroom, where she slammed the door behind her. The father flinched. The child held onto her knees tightly.

“I know that, sweetie,” the father said. “I’m sorry I called you that.”

The child shrugged her bony shoulders.

“Do you know what mommy and I are arguing about?” he asked.

“No.” “I’m going to be leaving for a while and mommy’s not too happy about that.”

“Where are you going?” the child asked. She gripped onto the fathers coat sleeve, suddenly afraid.

“Just away. I’ll be back, though. Soon.”

“When?”

“Soon.”

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“Talk to me,” she said.

“I’ve done a lot of talking,” he said.

She sipped her wine, then. “Not enough.”

“What do you want me to say?”

“That we can do this. Make things work. We have a child together, you know? You can’t just abandon her.”

He closed his eyes for a moment. “You think I want to abandon her?

There’s no other choice right now. This is it. This is my only option.”

“No it’s not,” the mother said. “You can stay. Please, just stay.”

“No.” “Please.”

“I said no. We haven’t worked for a long time. She’s the only good thing that came out of this mess.” He sipped his coffee then and bit his tongue at its bitterness.

“This is because that woman. This is her fault.”

“It’s not.”

“So you’re not going to see her after this? You’re not leaving here to stay with her?”

He didn’t answer.

“I knew it.”

He gulped his coffee and it burned his throat. He glanced at the child.

She had her eyes closed, her front teeth snagged on her lip. “I wasn’t the first one to step out on this,” he said to the mother.

She laughed, curt and dry and painful. “That was ten years ago and I’ve apologized. A million times, I’ve apologized.”

“And I’m apologizing,” he said. “But I can’t live like this anymore.”

The mother rested her face in her hands and cried. He did not move to comfort her. The child was confused because he’d normally comfort the mother. But this time, he just stood up, left his mostly full mug of coffee, and zipped his coat.

“Will you sign the papers?” he asked.

The mother continued to cry. “I don’t . . . I can’t.”

“You can. Please, just sign the papers, okay?”

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“I’m sorry.”

“I am, too. Just sign the papers.”

She bawled into her hands. The child’s eyes were wide open again, watching the scene play out before her. She pushed her hair behind her ears. It was a mess; no one brushed it this morning.

“Fine,” the mother said. She finished off her wine in one final gulp.

“Fine. Leave. I’ll sign the papers. I don’t care anymore. If you want to leave, just leave.”

The father nodded and straightened his collar. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me.”

“I’ll still come around to see the baby.”

“I’m not a baby,” the child said from her place at the door. Her first words all night.

Both the father and mother looked to the child, as if they’d forgotten about her before. The father took a few steps in her direction, kneeled in front of her, his pant leg narrowly missing the shadow by the door. The child heaved a sigh of relief. She wouldn’t have wanted his pants to burn.

“Hey, sweetie,” the father said.

“Daddy, I’m not a baby.”

The mother hiccupped. She covered her mouth with her hand and left the kitchen for the bedroom, where she slammed the door behind her. The father flinched. The child held onto her knees tightly.

“I know that, sweetie,” the father said. “I’m sorry I called you that.”

The child shrugged her bony shoulders.

“Do you know what mommy and I are arguing about?” he asked.

“No.” “I’m going to be leaving for a while and mommy’s not too happy about that.”

“Where are you going?” the child asked. She gripped onto the fathers coat sleeve, suddenly afraid.

“Just away. I’ll be back, though. Soon.”

“When?”

“Soon.”

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The child stared at him. “But I don’t want you to leave.”

The father frowned, the corners of his mouth wrinkling in their downward pull. “I know, sweetie. But I have to go. I have a present for you though, okay?”

The child smiled. “Okay? What is it?”

The father shoved his hand in his pocket and withdrew a small plush penguin. “Remember when we went to the zoo? And you loved the penguins. Remember?”

The child took the stuffed animal from him and pressed it to her chest. “Thank you, Daddy.”

The father kissed her head and said, “You’ll take care of your mother, right?”

“Okay.”

“Make sure she’s not too sad.”

“Okay.”

“You’ll always be my favorite, kid. You know that, right?”

“Can’t you just stay a little bit more?” she asked.

He shook his head and stood up, ruffling her hair on the way. “Sorry, kiddo. I can’t.”

The child wrapped her arms around his leg. “Please, Daddy?”

He lifted his suitcase from its spot in front of the door and pulled his leg free. “I’ll see you later, sweetie.”

He walked into the shadow, through the lava, and the child gasped.

And then he was gone. Just like that. The child looked around, and the mother was locked away in her room. The child was alone. She held the door open, hoping that maybe her father would return, but minutes passed. Minutes of silence until the child finally looked down at the shadow.

She eased her toe toward it, hesitated, slid it further, until she finally let it land in the middle of the dark patch. It didn’t burn her. She let the door close behind the father’s absence.

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Madelyn Minicozzi Clarity

Linger here.

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The child stared at him. “But I don’t want you to leave.”

The father frowned, the corners of his mouth wrinkling in their downward pull. “I know, sweetie. But I have to go. I have a present for you though, okay?”

The child smiled. “Okay? What is it?”

The father shoved his hand in his pocket and withdrew a small plush penguin. “Remember when we went to the zoo? And you loved the penguins. Remember?”

The child took the stuffed animal from him and pressed it to her chest. “Thank you, Daddy.”

The father kissed her head and said, “You’ll take care of your mother, right?”

“Okay.”

“Make sure she’s not too sad.”

“Okay.”

“You’ll always be my favorite, kid. You know that, right?”

“Can’t you just stay a little bit more?” she asked.

He shook his head and stood up, ruffling her hair on the way. “Sorry, kiddo. I can’t.”

The child wrapped her arms around his leg. “Please, Daddy?”

He lifted his suitcase from its spot in front of the door and pulled his leg free. “I’ll see you later, sweetie.”

He walked into the shadow, through the lava, and the child gasped.

And then he was gone. Just like that. The child looked around, and the mother was locked away in her room. The child was alone. She held the door open, hoping that maybe her father would return, but minutes passed. Minutes of silence until the child finally looked down at the shadow.

She eased her toe toward it, hesitated, slid it further, until she finally let it land in the middle of the dark patch. It didn’t burn her. She let the door close behind the father’s absence.

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Madelyn Minicozzi Clarity

Linger here.

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Raw

She likes raw things – raw food, raw men, raw emotion. She is on one of those weird diets that exclude you from most social interaction unless you hang out with predominantly raw lovers, too. So no Cheesecake Factory. No Olive Garden. But who likes The Olive Garden, anyway, right? Certainly not you.

She likes to fuck raw. Rough. Passionate. But only for one night. Then leave her alone, fuck off.

A broken heart is raw, she likes to believe. It makes you spark inside, sends cracks and bolts through you like a circuit. She wants others to feel that electricity, so she makes her One Night Stands feel their One-NightStandness. They don’t appreciate it. You surely didn’t.

She stores things in good measure, not quite a hoarder, but maybe along the lines of a hoardette, on her way there. She digs through her attic, through its dusty wooden bowels, through her parents’ belongings, searching for something special. Small shimmers of sunlight reflect off the particles in the air, lighting the attic in an eerie glow, almost like small specks of snow, but it’s hot and muggy and snow is only some kind of ugly September hope. She’s sweating a little, and the gloss bothers her. She has to wipe her clammy hands on her dress, and they come away with small black fibers and spots of dust stuck to them.

She finds something of her father’s – a badge he received in the army for saving someone’s life. A hero.

Haha. Funny. Hero. Him. She tosses it over her shoulder and continues searching, has to find it, the night will be ruined without it. She’s starting to get hungry and she wants to eat lunch already. If she was still with you, you’d have brought her lunch by now.

Yum. Raw carrots. Perfectly her style.

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She digs some more. In an hour, Red Shirt is coming over, and she wants to take a shower before he gets there because she wants to smell nice and not like the stale aroma of a smothered attic, air like fog, like glue, sticky and wet.

Red Shirt. She met him last night. Name? Unsure. Age? Whatever.

He looked like her father, she thought, and that kind of freaked her out, but she caught him chewing the piece of celery sticking out of his Bloody Mary and it turned her on.

On. Ready, sweetie? Set. Go. Dad pushed her on her bike down a hill.

Woops. Hills are steep. She fell. Knee scraped. Raw. Bleeding. Innocent, you think of her memory. Innocent fun, innocent mistake, innocent injury. She understood the reality, though.

She hates reality.

Even if she doesn’t get to shower, she can’t possibly stay in what she’s wearing – all black, the dress, the tights, the shoes, down to the clips in her hair and the dried flakes of makeup on her cheeks.

Oh yeah, she cries sometimes. Today, especially because today was special, different. His own fault, she thought. She finds something else of his below the self portrait she drew of herself in the fifth grade, face crooked and split into pieces like a puzzle that wasn’t meant to fit together, like a fucking Picasso painting or something.

She pulls the metal cuffs free from underneath and drops them atop everything else, and then kicks them away. She doesn’t want to see metal cuffs anymore. They are his and they are disgusting like he is disgusting, and she’d much rather be tied up underneath Red Shirt by scarves or ties or something that won’t make her wrists bleed like those cuffs.

She feels that Red Shirt is more important than the others, more important than Blue Eyes, or Buzz Cut, or Crooked Teeth, or You. Yeah, you. You hate that, don’t you?

She wants to make a good impression, and she’s good at those. She flips her hair nicely, in just the right way so that you smell her shampoo, some strawberry soapy clean scent that drove you crazy for exactly One Night.

Her eyelashes flutter, and her cheeks blush and look warm and they make Linger here.

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Raw

She likes raw things – raw food, raw men, raw emotion. She is on one of those weird diets that exclude you from most social interaction unless you hang out with predominantly raw lovers, too. So no Cheesecake Factory. No Olive Garden. But who likes The Olive Garden, anyway, right? Certainly not you.

She likes to fuck raw. Rough. Passionate. But only for one night. Then leave her alone, fuck off.

A broken heart is raw, she likes to believe. It makes you spark inside, sends cracks and bolts through you like a circuit. She wants others to feel that electricity, so she makes her One Night Stands feel their One-NightStandness. They don’t appreciate it. You surely didn’t.

She stores things in good measure, not quite a hoarder, but maybe along the lines of a hoardette, on her way there. She digs through her attic, through its dusty wooden bowels, through her parents’ belongings, searching for something special. Small shimmers of sunlight reflect off the particles in the air, lighting the attic in an eerie glow, almost like small specks of snow, but it’s hot and muggy and snow is only some kind of ugly September hope. She’s sweating a little, and the gloss bothers her. She has to wipe her clammy hands on her dress, and they come away with small black fibers and spots of dust stuck to them.

She finds something of her father’s – a badge he received in the army for saving someone’s life. A hero.

Haha. Funny. Hero. Him. She tosses it over her shoulder and continues searching, has to find it, the night will be ruined without it. She’s starting to get hungry and she wants to eat lunch already. If she was still with you, you’d have brought her lunch by now.

Yum. Raw carrots. Perfectly her style.

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She digs some more. In an hour, Red Shirt is coming over, and she wants to take a shower before he gets there because she wants to smell nice and not like the stale aroma of a smothered attic, air like fog, like glue, sticky and wet.

Red Shirt. She met him last night. Name? Unsure. Age? Whatever.

He looked like her father, she thought, and that kind of freaked her out, but she caught him chewing the piece of celery sticking out of his Bloody Mary and it turned her on.

On. Ready, sweetie? Set. Go. Dad pushed her on her bike down a hill.

Woops. Hills are steep. She fell. Knee scraped. Raw. Bleeding. Innocent, you think of her memory. Innocent fun, innocent mistake, innocent injury. She understood the reality, though.

She hates reality.

Even if she doesn’t get to shower, she can’t possibly stay in what she’s wearing – all black, the dress, the tights, the shoes, down to the clips in her hair and the dried flakes of makeup on her cheeks.

Oh yeah, she cries sometimes. Today, especially because today was special, different. His own fault, she thought. She finds something else of his below the self portrait she drew of herself in the fifth grade, face crooked and split into pieces like a puzzle that wasn’t meant to fit together, like a fucking Picasso painting or something.

She pulls the metal cuffs free from underneath and drops them atop everything else, and then kicks them away. She doesn’t want to see metal cuffs anymore. They are his and they are disgusting like he is disgusting, and she’d much rather be tied up underneath Red Shirt by scarves or ties or something that won’t make her wrists bleed like those cuffs.

She feels that Red Shirt is more important than the others, more important than Blue Eyes, or Buzz Cut, or Crooked Teeth, or You. Yeah, you. You hate that, don’t you?

She wants to make a good impression, and she’s good at those. She flips her hair nicely, in just the right way so that you smell her shampoo, some strawberry soapy clean scent that drove you crazy for exactly One Night.

Her eyelashes flutter, and her cheeks blush and look warm and they make Linger here.

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everyone want to touch her face because it looks soft like fresh sheets or baby powder. Her ears would turn pink and it’d be endearing, and Red Shirt will fall in love with her because of her ears and her face and her hair and the soft snorts in her laughter.

She reaches her arm into a new pile of junk and feels around, and pulls out a small canvas bag, rough to her fingertips, stored away for years and yellowed when it should be white, and torn even though canvas is near impossible to tear. She thinks this is it. She opens it.

Nope.

Not what she’s looking for.

There are just photographs in there. Family-graphs she likes to call them. Misery-graphs she likes to think sometimes. She pulls one out and looks through the water stained lamination, at her father’s tight grip around her waist, crinkling the fabric of her shirt; at her mother’s docile smile, doe eyes, fingers gripping the edge of her dress, arms straight like twin two-by-fours. She shoves it back into the canvas pouch and tosses that toward the corner near the handcuffs.

She searches some more, wishing she had some food in her to fill up some space inside. She finds a jar in the mess of scattered memories and she pulls it free. In the jar is a broken heart.

She hmms.

This didn’t belong to her mother or father.

All raw and perfect and beating to the tune of her favorite song.

Favorite song? Hers? How strange, she thinks. Why not his favorite song?

His. Who? Yours?

No. She can’t remember who it belongs to. There’s been so many. She sets the jar in her lap to inspect later. Right now, she needs to find the thing.

Where is it?

Her fingers are starting to ache, through the joints and the bones, thin and fragile, and her nails feel ready to splinter back if she digs any further.

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But still, she pushes more shit aside, wondering how there could be so much shit. Clothing balled up, like cashmere sweaters, like what? What?

What are cashmere sweaters doing in a dusty musty pile of shit? She tosses two of them to the corner, murmurs, What the fuck, Mom? and keeps searching.

The jar in her lap jostles and whatever type of formaldehyde preservative liquid inside sloshes around, and it reminds her of the sound of the ocean when her father, called Daddy back then, used to lay her down in the sand, stare at the clouds with her. Pick out shapes, like, Hey, sweetie, doesn’t that look like a pair of tits?

And she’d cringe and be like, Um. And he’d squeeze her hand and be like, Not yours, don’t worry. Yours aren’t that big.

She holds onto the jar tightly and the ocean’s waves slow.

Back to the pile. And there she sees it, just the corner, a small red zipper sticking up. She pulls it out, holds this other canvas bag above the jar and unzips it. Her mother’s makeup bag.

She dumps it into the pile and finds the thing she’s looking for: a small, metallic tube of Berry Berry Perfect lipstick. Yes, perfect. Red Shirt will like it on her; her father liked it on her mother. She takes the jar and the lipstick, stands up. Her legs feel wobbly, disconnected, weak. She needs food. A head of lettuce to peel pieces off of, an orange to pop slices from, maybe just those carrots you would have gotten her.

But first, she wants to shower.

She takes the jarred heart and the lipstick with her. She hums along with the hearts beat, listening to her favorite song, a song her father used to sing to her to put her to sleep. She loves it still, even if she’d first heard it out of his mouth.

In the bathroom, she places the lipstick on one corner of the vanity, the jar on the other and she looks down at her black dress. Black? Yes, it was black. But now it’s more of a grey, or an ash color, covered in soot and dust and remnants from her mother and father. She unzips the side, steps out, rolls down her tights, pulls her shoes off, takes the clips and the tie out Linger here.

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everyone want to touch her face because it looks soft like fresh sheets or baby powder. Her ears would turn pink and it’d be endearing, and Red Shirt will fall in love with her because of her ears and her face and her hair and the soft snorts in her laughter.

She reaches her arm into a new pile of junk and feels around, and pulls out a small canvas bag, rough to her fingertips, stored away for years and yellowed when it should be white, and torn even though canvas is near impossible to tear. She thinks this is it. She opens it.

Nope.

Not what she’s looking for.

There are just photographs in there. Family-graphs she likes to call them. Misery-graphs she likes to think sometimes. She pulls one out and looks through the water stained lamination, at her father’s tight grip around her waist, crinkling the fabric of her shirt; at her mother’s docile smile, doe eyes, fingers gripping the edge of her dress, arms straight like twin two-by-fours. She shoves it back into the canvas pouch and tosses that toward the corner near the handcuffs.

She searches some more, wishing she had some food in her to fill up some space inside. She finds a jar in the mess of scattered memories and she pulls it free. In the jar is a broken heart.

She hmms.

This didn’t belong to her mother or father.

All raw and perfect and beating to the tune of her favorite song.

Favorite song? Hers? How strange, she thinks. Why not his favorite song?

His. Who? Yours?

No. She can’t remember who it belongs to. There’s been so many. She sets the jar in her lap to inspect later. Right now, she needs to find the thing.

Where is it?

Her fingers are starting to ache, through the joints and the bones, thin and fragile, and her nails feel ready to splinter back if she digs any further.

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But still, she pushes more shit aside, wondering how there could be so much shit. Clothing balled up, like cashmere sweaters, like what? What?

What are cashmere sweaters doing in a dusty musty pile of shit? She tosses two of them to the corner, murmurs, What the fuck, Mom? and keeps searching.

The jar in her lap jostles and whatever type of formaldehyde preservative liquid inside sloshes around, and it reminds her of the sound of the ocean when her father, called Daddy back then, used to lay her down in the sand, stare at the clouds with her. Pick out shapes, like, Hey, sweetie, doesn’t that look like a pair of tits?

And she’d cringe and be like, Um. And he’d squeeze her hand and be like, Not yours, don’t worry. Yours aren’t that big.

She holds onto the jar tightly and the ocean’s waves slow.

Back to the pile. And there she sees it, just the corner, a small red zipper sticking up. She pulls it out, holds this other canvas bag above the jar and unzips it. Her mother’s makeup bag.

She dumps it into the pile and finds the thing she’s looking for: a small, metallic tube of Berry Berry Perfect lipstick. Yes, perfect. Red Shirt will like it on her; her father liked it on her mother. She takes the jar and the lipstick, stands up. Her legs feel wobbly, disconnected, weak. She needs food. A head of lettuce to peel pieces off of, an orange to pop slices from, maybe just those carrots you would have gotten her.

But first, she wants to shower.

She takes the jarred heart and the lipstick with her. She hums along with the hearts beat, listening to her favorite song, a song her father used to sing to her to put her to sleep. She loves it still, even if she’d first heard it out of his mouth.

In the bathroom, she places the lipstick on one corner of the vanity, the jar on the other and she looks down at her black dress. Black? Yes, it was black. But now it’s more of a grey, or an ash color, covered in soot and dust and remnants from her mother and father. She unzips the side, steps out, rolls down her tights, pulls her shoes off, takes the clips and the tie out Linger here.

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of her hair and shakes it free. Dust sprinkles out in a transparent cloud.

She leans over and peers into the jar at the heart. She’s stolen many a heart from many a man, and honestly, she thought about eating them every so often. They were raw after all. That fit into her diet. It wasn’t like she was one of those crazy vegans or anything. And she is very hungry.

But this one was soaked in chemicals. She couldn’t eat this one. So what would she do with it?

She sighed, shrugged, took the jar and placed it in the cabinet underneath the sink. She didn’t have time to think about it now. Red Shirt would be there soon and she needed to get ready, to get all lipsticked up and dressed in clothes that didn’t belong at a cemetery but rather belonged on someone who only intended to wear them for five minutes or so.

She stares at herself in the mirror, runs her finger down the scar on her chest, feels the raised skin there. A red stripe with only a marginally angry simmer. Healed up and clean. You know it’s hollow underneath that scar, underneath that baby powder skin, that shell of a sternum.

She thinks, Hmm. She thinks, How peculiar.

And then she thinks nothing because she cannot remember how she got that scar, and she somehow cannot connect what you know to what she has forgotten. You want to warn her. You want her to know that she asked you to help her do it. You want her to know that maybe you were more than just One Night.

She steps into the shower and smiles at the image of Red Shirt, at the potential of tonight, at the promise of him never returning after his One Night, and maybe at the prospective heart she can steal.

You doubt she’ll ever find that heart below that sink.

And even if she does, you doubt she’ll remember you.

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Talley Larkin Hands

Linger here.

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of her hair and shakes it free. Dust sprinkles out in a transparent cloud.

She leans over and peers into the jar at the heart. She’s stolen many a heart from many a man, and honestly, she thought about eating them every so often. They were raw after all. That fit into her diet. It wasn’t like she was one of those crazy vegans or anything. And she is very hungry.

But this one was soaked in chemicals. She couldn’t eat this one. So what would she do with it?

She sighed, shrugged, took the jar and placed it in the cabinet underneath the sink. She didn’t have time to think about it now. Red Shirt would be there soon and she needed to get ready, to get all lipsticked up and dressed in clothes that didn’t belong at a cemetery but rather belonged on someone who only intended to wear them for five minutes or so.

She stares at herself in the mirror, runs her finger down the scar on her chest, feels the raised skin there. A red stripe with only a marginally angry simmer. Healed up and clean. You know it’s hollow underneath that scar, underneath that baby powder skin, that shell of a sternum.

She thinks, Hmm. She thinks, How peculiar.

And then she thinks nothing because she cannot remember how she got that scar, and she somehow cannot connect what you know to what she has forgotten. You want to warn her. You want her to know that she asked you to help her do it. You want her to know that maybe you were more than just One Night.

She steps into the shower and smiles at the image of Red Shirt, at the potential of tonight, at the promise of him never returning after his One Night, and maybe at the prospective heart she can steal.

You doubt she’ll ever find that heart below that sink.

And even if she does, you doubt she’ll remember you.

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Talley Larkin Hands

Linger here.

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Johnathan Harper The Art of College

We turned the astronomy lab to a club, to a surge of bodies and beats, a thrum of existence cancelling the staged silence— an audience booed, a rotten tomato was thrown.

We all knew to dance our way up, and on the roof we found a tree strangled in vines, and in the ash boughs we found a ladder right up to the Milky Way, and in a cloud of dust and clash of radiation we found a rung of stars that took us to a black smudge on the periphery of every eye of every telescope.

Our feet rattled the roof, we struck the dust from space and all the stars behind it in the deep turned the sky completely white: a pupil of sun, the red veins of spinning planets.

was a talking into silence, that if your friends can’t dance we’ll leave them behind, that sentience isn’t knowing how small you are but making yourself bigger than everything.

We were caught in the gravity of these things when we finished in the library. You zipped up your pants and the motion reminded me of a comet tracing lines in the sky, so I made a wish for all of this to come together in a way that wasn’t a degree, a ceremony, and piece of paper. I wished for the known and by telling my wish I cancelled silence and the wish out.

The lights went out as we left building, the dust swept back in and the sky shut its eyes. The dark closed around us so we studied all night for a way to push it back.

I touched your palm on the top floor of the Carnegie Library, we opened our bodies to the books and each other—memorized the text.

We dissected the guts of constellations and spread love along projections of universal expansion.

Back at the party someone’s pants caught fire and a curtain went up next, so we tumbled from the smudge to the Milky Way, our hangover reached us in the tree’s limbs, and on the ground they reined us back in for the exam.

We failed despite knowing all life 64

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Johnathan Harper The Art of College

We turned the astronomy lab to a club, to a surge of bodies and beats, a thrum of existence cancelling the staged silence— an audience booed, a rotten tomato was thrown.

We all knew to dance our way up, and on the roof we found a tree strangled in vines, and in the ash boughs we found a ladder right up to the Milky Way, and in a cloud of dust and clash of radiation we found a rung of stars that took us to a black smudge on the periphery of every eye of every telescope.

Our feet rattled the roof, we struck the dust from space and all the stars behind it in the deep turned the sky completely white: a pupil of sun, the red veins of spinning planets.

was a talking into silence, that if your friends can’t dance we’ll leave them behind, that sentience isn’t knowing how small you are but making yourself bigger than everything.

We were caught in the gravity of these things when we finished in the library. You zipped up your pants and the motion reminded me of a comet tracing lines in the sky, so I made a wish for all of this to come together in a way that wasn’t a degree, a ceremony, and piece of paper. I wished for the known and by telling my wish I cancelled silence and the wish out.

The lights went out as we left building, the dust swept back in and the sky shut its eyes. The dark closed around us so we studied all night for a way to push it back.

I touched your palm on the top floor of the Carnegie Library, we opened our bodies to the books and each other—memorized the text.

We dissected the guts of constellations and spread love along projections of universal expansion.

Back at the party someone’s pants caught fire and a curtain went up next, so we tumbled from the smudge to the Milky Way, our hangover reached us in the tree’s limbs, and on the ground they reined us back in for the exam.

We failed despite knowing all life 64

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Taylor Arias A Love Never Returned

A love never returned A friendship that was burned A relationship that never blossomed A wish that never had a possible chance to come true A kiss never shared A thought that was never cared by you A love never returned A meaningless crush that made my stomach churned A feeling that was never of your concern A dream that was broken into pieces A desire that slowly increases A thought that was never cared by you A love never returned A lesson you’d think I’d learn A punishment that I’ve now earned A reality that now fills my mind A pain that’ll take much healing over time A thought that was never cared by you A love never returned A fact that I spurn with disgust A world of mine that is gradually turning into dust A fate that could’ve been changed A sensitivity of me making me become estranged A thought that will never come true The thought that I could be with you A love that I wanted to come true.

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Simon Perez Two Minute Figure Study

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Taylor Arias A Love Never Returned

A love never returned A friendship that was burned A relationship that never blossomed A wish that never had a possible chance to come true A kiss never shared A thought that was never cared by you A love never returned A meaningless crush that made my stomach churned A feeling that was never of your concern A dream that was broken into pieces A desire that slowly increases A thought that was never cared by you A love never returned A lesson you’d think I’d learn A punishment that I’ve now earned A reality that now fills my mind A pain that’ll take much healing over time A thought that was never cared by you A love never returned A fact that I spurn with disgust A world of mine that is gradually turning into dust A fate that could’ve been changed A sensitivity of me making me become estranged A thought that will never come true The thought that I could be with you A love that I wanted to come true.

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Simon Perez Two Minute Figure Study

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Christopher Rivera

Nittika Mehra

A College Crush

A Time

It's those cute big eyes.

And the fact that he doesn't know.

That makes me so giddy‌ He even has a cute nose!

He likes sharks and video games.

Those two things just fall into play.

I like marine life and fantasy.

It's like my mind is tangoing with flames.

I feel that fire every time I blink my eyes.

When he stands near me I tend to just die.

There is a time when No one cares for anyone But for themselves

How can I deal with this it's been so long.

The last time I felt this way I still had braces on!

There is a time when People are greedy and selfish There will be a time soon, When the world will come together as one There will be a time when the whole world Will suffer from the same problem.

There will be a time when The governments of different Countries will solve their problems together There will soon come a time when there will be nothing Left: coal, petroleum, oil, clean water or even oxygen.

HOW WILL WE SURVIVE THEN?

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Christopher Rivera

Nittika Mehra

A College Crush

A Time

It's those cute big eyes.

And the fact that he doesn't know.

That makes me so giddy‌ He even has a cute nose!

He likes sharks and video games.

Those two things just fall into play.

I like marine life and fantasy.

It's like my mind is tangoing with flames.

I feel that fire every time I blink my eyes.

When he stands near me I tend to just die.

There is a time when No one cares for anyone But for themselves

How can I deal with this it's been so long.

The last time I felt this way I still had braces on!

There is a time when People are greedy and selfish There will be a time soon, When the world will come together as one There will be a time when the whole world Will suffer from the same problem.

There will be a time when The governments of different Countries will solve their problems together There will soon come a time when there will be nothing Left: coal, petroleum, oil, clean water or even oxygen.

HOW WILL WE SURVIVE THEN?

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Gabriella Bello Inoperable Tumor

Madelyn Minicozzi Abstractopus

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You started as a mole on my hip.

Made your way up to my chest and settled in comfortably, deep within the crawl space between my ribs and my lungs.

Broke bones in order to reach my heart, so you said.

The ER nurses begged to differ but it was too late, you had become an inoperable tumor, that made people go quiet at the sight of my stomach, my chest, my inner thighs, you were everywhere.

I never took pain killers because I thought 'no pain, no gain', and just like that, you were in my brain.

You marked your path everywhere I went, the whimpers from hugs, the rainbow patches that adorned my skin, from head to toe.

An inoperable tumor, that made my heart its home.

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Gabriella Bello Inoperable Tumor

Madelyn Minicozzi Abstractopus

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You started as a mole on my hip.

Made your way up to my chest and settled in comfortably, deep within the crawl space between my ribs and my lungs.

Broke bones in order to reach my heart, so you said.

The ER nurses begged to differ but it was too late, you had become an inoperable tumor, that made people go quiet at the sight of my stomach, my chest, my inner thighs, you were everywhere.

I never took pain killers because I thought 'no pain, no gain', and just like that, you were in my brain.

You marked your path everywhere I went, the whimpers from hugs, the rainbow patches that adorned my skin, from head to toe.

An inoperable tumor, that made my heart its home.

Linger here.

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Untitled

The thing I remember the most from my mother’s funeral was the heavy scent of the ocean breeze. It wasn’t the choking sobs of her sister or my father’s silent weeping. There is no particular reason as to why the thing I remember the most is the distinct smell of the nearby sea. It was a beautiful day, and I recall thinking how ironic that was. I almost laughed out loud at the irony of the nonchalance of the heavens, my mother had just died but the sun was out and not a cloud was in sight. My mother’s funeral was held on a beautiful day.

The world seemed to go on, much like the clouds and the sun, oblivious to the parting of a soul. Mother resembled the optimistic weather, she looked alive. Her auburn hair was neatly brushed with her trademark sideway bangs. Whoever had done her makeup knew her very well, light green eye shadow adorned her emerald eyes; it was her favorite shade. My father’s pained expression was mimicked by all the spectators; grief was painted on their faces. For some odd reason everyone looked pale, except for mother. It was as if she had stolen the shine from their once smiling faces.

I moved on from denial a year after mother passed away. I had woken up around three am screaming her name. I barged in her bedroom and called after her when she didn’t come to my aid. Father embraced me and brushed my hair while I broke out in heart clenching sobs. My chest felt tight and if father hadn’t been holding me up, I would have crumbled to the ground.

My mother’s funeral was held on a beautiful day. I thought she would rise up from her coffin in her elegant silk dress at any moment. I didn’t cry up until the night I saw their half-empty bed. The funeral was a short one, like mother’s unexpected death, the doctor said she hadn’t felt a thing. I am glad she didn’t feel the life leaving her body or her heart come to a halt.

Mother had died gracefully, it was a fitting death to a graceful woman, I thought to myself.

I wonder what it would have been like, her last breaths. Did she realize what was happening? Had she awakened? Did she have the time to wake up father but opted not to? It seemed like something mother would do, slip quietly into a permanent oblivion.

Over twenty people had gathered for her formal departure but unlike them, I wasn’t there. Perhaps physically but my mind was elsewhere, I don’t know where it was but it wasn’t at my mother’s funeral. They say denial is the first phase one goes through after the death of a loved one, I never thought I would be stuck in phase one for so long. I refused to believe mother wouldn’t make her neighborhood famous peanut butter and chocolate chip cookies anymore. I refused to believe her voice wouldn’t boom up the stairs every Sunday yelling at my tardiness for church.

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Untitled

The thing I remember the most from my mother’s funeral was the heavy scent of the ocean breeze. It wasn’t the choking sobs of her sister or my father’s silent weeping. There is no particular reason as to why the thing I remember the most is the distinct smell of the nearby sea. It was a beautiful day, and I recall thinking how ironic that was. I almost laughed out loud at the irony of the nonchalance of the heavens, my mother had just died but the sun was out and not a cloud was in sight. My mother’s funeral was held on a beautiful day.

The world seemed to go on, much like the clouds and the sun, oblivious to the parting of a soul. Mother resembled the optimistic weather, she looked alive. Her auburn hair was neatly brushed with her trademark sideway bangs. Whoever had done her makeup knew her very well, light green eye shadow adorned her emerald eyes; it was her favorite shade. My father’s pained expression was mimicked by all the spectators; grief was painted on their faces. For some odd reason everyone looked pale, except for mother. It was as if she had stolen the shine from their once smiling faces.

I moved on from denial a year after mother passed away. I had woken up around three am screaming her name. I barged in her bedroom and called after her when she didn’t come to my aid. Father embraced me and brushed my hair while I broke out in heart clenching sobs. My chest felt tight and if father hadn’t been holding me up, I would have crumbled to the ground.

My mother’s funeral was held on a beautiful day. I thought she would rise up from her coffin in her elegant silk dress at any moment. I didn’t cry up until the night I saw their half-empty bed. The funeral was a short one, like mother’s unexpected death, the doctor said she hadn’t felt a thing. I am glad she didn’t feel the life leaving her body or her heart come to a halt.

Mother had died gracefully, it was a fitting death to a graceful woman, I thought to myself.

I wonder what it would have been like, her last breaths. Did she realize what was happening? Had she awakened? Did she have the time to wake up father but opted not to? It seemed like something mother would do, slip quietly into a permanent oblivion.

Over twenty people had gathered for her formal departure but unlike them, I wasn’t there. Perhaps physically but my mind was elsewhere, I don’t know where it was but it wasn’t at my mother’s funeral. They say denial is the first phase one goes through after the death of a loved one, I never thought I would be stuck in phase one for so long. I refused to believe mother wouldn’t make her neighborhood famous peanut butter and chocolate chip cookies anymore. I refused to believe her voice wouldn’t boom up the stairs every Sunday yelling at my tardiness for church.

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James David Yu To Someone I hardly Knew

Confliction. When all you are is aware, you won't shed for no production.

So you lay back, because this has all happened before and you confront your religion. Aimlessly, because you know it's right, so it's only you that's trying to shell out because that makes sense too. But you've been through that before. And that's getting older. You've become too stabilized to do the same things twice even if what's twice seems appropriate.

But you'll still hit the ground. But you've got to do it alone. You've got to look around and surprise yourself at the things that shouldn't be there and grab and push them as jerked as possible. 
You've got to do it to yourself to show yourself the absurdity; because what's happened is much more glorious than conformity allows for.

Shrill and agape behind the steering wheel. You won't tear up or ruin needlessly as you remember anymore. The mind has been imaged too far. Even if you feel that's what he deserves. But the drama is not. He's got much more useful.

Sydney Monahan Constraint

And you can deal in other venues; even when it doesn't feel like that's the right direction to go. But you have to continue. Because staying in that place is where the mistakes were made to begin with. Now that's spiritual.

What's goin'a change?

You've done a beautiful thing. And it makes you feel yourself normal. At least that's what you can tell yourself to subsidy the anger and bring you to the place that you've wanted to go. That's where the plan's tried to take you. It's never going to end because you can sit here forever. This is how

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James David Yu To Someone I hardly Knew

Confliction. When all you are is aware, you won't shed for no production.

So you lay back, because this has all happened before and you confront your religion. Aimlessly, because you know it's right, so it's only you that's trying to shell out because that makes sense too. But you've been through that before. And that's getting older. You've become too stabilized to do the same things twice even if what's twice seems appropriate.

But you'll still hit the ground. But you've got to do it alone. You've got to look around and surprise yourself at the things that shouldn't be there and grab and push them as jerked as possible. 
You've got to do it to yourself to show yourself the absurdity; because what's happened is much more glorious than conformity allows for.

Shrill and agape behind the steering wheel. You won't tear up or ruin needlessly as you remember anymore. The mind has been imaged too far. Even if you feel that's what he deserves. But the drama is not. He's got much more useful.

Sydney Monahan Constraint

And you can deal in other venues; even when it doesn't feel like that's the right direction to go. But you have to continue. Because staying in that place is where the mistakes were made to begin with. Now that's spiritual.

What's goin'a change?

You've done a beautiful thing. And it makes you feel yourself normal. At least that's what you can tell yourself to subsidy the anger and bring you to the place that you've wanted to go. That's where the plan's tried to take you. It's never going to end because you can sit here forever. This is how

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you've been taught to sit. And the teacher is good; even if it all sounds like propaganda. That's just life. It's all just life. …

Is it okay now to move on, sir? Your cold skin that I should've loved the way I preach to plasters nothing. And your legacy: was it all that you wanted? Why am I always too late…

Can I proceed with my business, or do you deserve this aching and awkward attention? What is this voice that keeps telling me that? Who's talking?

Rocking. Mocking. Stalking. Hawking. Chalking. Glocking— Or can I only proceed if I promise that someone like you will never exist again in reality? This is what you've been asking for all along isn't it? It is... it seems it is. So I pray, I know you were a believing man—at least that's what the soft-knee bench and beads and cross before, over and behind your casket suggested—that you don't let me forget. Maybe that'll be my tribute. Rather than my selfish sorrows.

It'll corrupt my work. I'll be heartless. But that's the consequence of having been so to you. Because I need to get this done. All of your hatred is my humility. But just don't let me forget. I'll hate myself while I get it done because I think you deserve my tears, because what is a life to my dreams?

But that's just me talking isn't it? You have much more wisdom than me now that you’ve gone where I can never go consciously. What are you trying to show me? Talking to your ghost, talking to your afterlife, makes me feel as if I'm talking to the Lord, Himself despite the ancestral and native and tribal connotations.

Simon Perez Recycle Dress

I'd like to cry for you though but not violently, because that was me before.

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you've been taught to sit. And the teacher is good; even if it all sounds like propaganda. That's just life. It's all just life. …

Is it okay now to move on, sir? Your cold skin that I should've loved the way I preach to plasters nothing. And your legacy: was it all that you wanted? Why am I always too late…

Can I proceed with my business, or do you deserve this aching and awkward attention? What is this voice that keeps telling me that? Who's talking?

Rocking. Mocking. Stalking. Hawking. Chalking. Glocking— Or can I only proceed if I promise that someone like you will never exist again in reality? This is what you've been asking for all along isn't it? It is... it seems it is. So I pray, I know you were a believing man—at least that's what the soft-knee bench and beads and cross before, over and behind your casket suggested—that you don't let me forget. Maybe that'll be my tribute. Rather than my selfish sorrows.

It'll corrupt my work. I'll be heartless. But that's the consequence of having been so to you. Because I need to get this done. All of your hatred is my humility. But just don't let me forget. I'll hate myself while I get it done because I think you deserve my tears, because what is a life to my dreams?

But that's just me talking isn't it? You have much more wisdom than me now that you’ve gone where I can never go consciously. What are you trying to show me? Talking to your ghost, talking to your afterlife, makes me feel as if I'm talking to the Lord, Himself despite the ancestral and native and tribal connotations.

Simon Perez Recycle Dress

I'd like to cry for you though but not violently, because that was me before.

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I'll cry absently. Because I just didn't know you well enough. My friends they did and I'm jealous of them. But that's enough about it being about me.

So I'll thank you for your name and the words you've given me and carry on. And please remember to never let me forget even while it makes me feel despicable. So you won't happen ever again.

Sarah Ibrahim Vines of Conviction

Works of art scribbled across vacant and unnoticeable surfaces Passion put into the words "David was here" and "Frank <3 Selina" Walls of cement baring the markings of lives of broken hearted teenagers and bored breaks in the bathroom When will vines of conviction breach and break through the slabs of monochrome structures where words of life, love, and struggle sprout into leaves on the stems Who will start the movement of Persistance.

Determination leading to the cracks in the pavement, allowing for the growth of such things

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I'll cry absently. Because I just didn't know you well enough. My friends they did and I'm jealous of them. But that's enough about it being about me.

So I'll thank you for your name and the words you've given me and carry on. And please remember to never let me forget even while it makes me feel despicable. So you won't happen ever again.

Sarah Ibrahim Vines of Conviction

Works of art scribbled across vacant and unnoticeable surfaces Passion put into the words "David was here" and "Frank <3 Selina" Walls of cement baring the markings of lives of broken hearted teenagers and bored breaks in the bathroom When will vines of conviction breach and break through the slabs of monochrome structures where words of life, love, and struggle sprout into leaves on the stems Who will start the movement of Persistance.

Determination leading to the cracks in the pavement, allowing for the growth of such things

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Must we instead drop our words of amazement and fear alike onto fields of grass and meadows And wait for forests to grow, animals and insects to migrate, Systems built on the gradual evolution of philosophy and honesty?

Matt Plotnick

only to have these vast lands turned into hunting grounds, turned into a source of non-living for the deaf, the blind, the emotionless, the non-humans?

The darkness has taken my concept of time And rendered it useless in my endless night I’d escape to the stars if I still was alive Far from this life of crepuscular plight

Non-humans breed humanoids.

And what will be next?

Machines birthing the misplaced parts within themselves?

Instead drop nuts and bolts of ignorance and nihilism onto barren landscapes, Not waiting, but only... mindlessness.

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the light

As the sun drifts on westward out over the hill Leaking last drops of warmth with a glorious light Through a window that hasn’t been opened for years I long for a chance to be spoiled by sight

I move through each room of this cage with my hands The steel numbs my fingers; it’s sharp painful bite Feels nothing like vision should feel to a man So mostly I sit, as each movement feels trite There is no bold delusion that I can still see I live in the black, and can’t understand white This is my greatest curse, but a comfort to me What is wrong in a world never graced by what’s right?

I’ve grown weary from trying to open my eyes Prying each lash with the rest of my might The sun escapes all as it moves westward still So together the blind wait alone for the light

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Must we instead drop our words of amazement and fear alike onto fields of grass and meadows And wait for forests to grow, animals and insects to migrate, Systems built on the gradual evolution of philosophy and honesty?

Matt Plotnick

only to have these vast lands turned into hunting grounds, turned into a source of non-living for the deaf, the blind, the emotionless, the non-humans?

The darkness has taken my concept of time And rendered it useless in my endless night I’d escape to the stars if I still was alive Far from this life of crepuscular plight

Non-humans breed humanoids.

And what will be next?

Machines birthing the misplaced parts within themselves?

Instead drop nuts and bolts of ignorance and nihilism onto barren landscapes, Not waiting, but only... mindlessness.

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the light

As the sun drifts on westward out over the hill Leaking last drops of warmth with a glorious light Through a window that hasn’t been opened for years I long for a chance to be spoiled by sight

I move through each room of this cage with my hands The steel numbs my fingers; it’s sharp painful bite Feels nothing like vision should feel to a man So mostly I sit, as each movement feels trite There is no bold delusion that I can still see I live in the black, and can’t understand white This is my greatest curse, but a comfort to me What is wrong in a world never graced by what’s right?

I’ve grown weary from trying to open my eyes Prying each lash with the rest of my might The sun escapes all as it moves westward still So together the blind wait alone for the light

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Eva De Charleroy Drain

Flowers and Bee Stings

I got rid of you because You were the pest living under My floorboards, Eating away at the foundation Of the house I so carefully builtMy shelterAnd these floorboards Crumbled, Caving me in.

It wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t like taking Out the trash, But it was purification, A ritualizationI bathed myself free of your Dirt and dust, Stuck to my hair, My face, My chest, And all the rest.

I drained the water, Slowly, To let you see yourself go Down belowSwirling water disappeared And took your sins down with it.

Like a tree in winter, Wrung of its leaves, Wet and Bare as a bone, You stood without coverageWithout color or warmth.

You were left exposed to the elements, Your bark so damp it Became the rotted wallpaper in the Bathrooms at the cheap motel.

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When you were uprooted, You wanted to take every shortcut possible And forget that The snow ever fellForget that you spent time with Your leaves inhibited and Unable to open and grow.

Yet, The wolf could taste the saltiness in your sweat, And the sweetness in your soul.

So you ran through the flowers, Forgetting that you could be Stung by the beesForgetting that beauty attracts Fatal enemies.

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Eva De Charleroy Drain

Flowers and Bee Stings

I got rid of you because You were the pest living under My floorboards, Eating away at the foundation Of the house I so carefully builtMy shelterAnd these floorboards Crumbled, Caving me in.

It wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t like taking Out the trash, But it was purification, A ritualizationI bathed myself free of your Dirt and dust, Stuck to my hair, My face, My chest, And all the rest.

I drained the water, Slowly, To let you see yourself go Down belowSwirling water disappeared And took your sins down with it.

Like a tree in winter, Wrung of its leaves, Wet and Bare as a bone, You stood without coverageWithout color or warmth.

You were left exposed to the elements, Your bark so damp it Became the rotted wallpaper in the Bathrooms at the cheap motel.

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When you were uprooted, You wanted to take every shortcut possible And forget that The snow ever fellForget that you spent time with Your leaves inhibited and Unable to open and grow.

Yet, The wolf could taste the saltiness in your sweat, And the sweetness in your soul.

So you ran through the flowers, Forgetting that you could be Stung by the beesForgetting that beauty attracts Fatal enemies.

Linger here.

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Samantha Glevick Untitled Samantha Glevick Untitled

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Samantha Glevick Untitled Samantha Glevick Untitled

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The House of the Rising Sun

I’ll never forget that house. There was always something wrong with it. The toilet wouldn’t flush, or a fuse would always go out. The paint was chipped, and nails were hanging from the bottom of the cracked cupboards. It was a run down, falling apart, wreck. The floorboards were squeaky, and whenever I snuck down the stairs to listen to my parents fighting, or talking about subjects foreign to me, I was easily discovered.

The Oriental rug in the living room I remember as being beautiful, and frayed. The stereo and TV were outdated, and there were always birds making nests in the woodstove chimney. My room was small, with remnants of nursery wallpaper, and painted yellow. When the sun rose each morning, it shone directly through my window, casting stripes of sunlight on the bedspread I never thought of replacing.

In winter time, the snow would pile in drifts on the side of the house, frozen in white ocean waves, and I’d get myself wrapped up in a snowsuit and obnoxious print knit scarf, excited to conquer the towering sheets of powdered sugar. It was always cold then in than house, even more than the tension. No matter how many layers you put on, you couldn’t seem to escape the way the damp cold settled on your flesh, making goose bumps, and permeating through you until you could have breathed out icicles.

Sometimes I wondered what it would be like to live in a modern house.

Maybe settle in a development like everyone else, with their modern appliances. But until I had to leave that house, I never really realized how much I’d miss it.

It had its air of coziness. It was a damp, creepy cellar dwelling mess, and a pain in more places than one, but it was my home. If it could’ve talked on that last day, I wonder what it would’ve said to me. How do you say goodbye to a silent place, graced by nothing but empty rooms? It was just a structure made of plywood-right? I had risen up in the house, from a little 86

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shy child, to a pondering, confident teen on her way to a new world. And I guess it’s only right to pay the house some credit. It was my shelter, and an unappreciated one at that, unrewarded and forgotten. As it lay crumbling, I grew taller and stronger amongst the ruins-amongst wreckage and amongst heartbreak. I never had the guts to drive by and look, but I hope that still, with all its falling pieces, it stands stubbornly behind the maple tree in my front yard, castling a undeniable shadow on North Street.

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The House of the Rising Sun

I’ll never forget that house. There was always something wrong with it. The toilet wouldn’t flush, or a fuse would always go out. The paint was chipped, and nails were hanging from the bottom of the cracked cupboards. It was a run down, falling apart, wreck. The floorboards were squeaky, and whenever I snuck down the stairs to listen to my parents fighting, or talking about subjects foreign to me, I was easily discovered.

The Oriental rug in the living room I remember as being beautiful, and frayed. The stereo and TV were outdated, and there were always birds making nests in the woodstove chimney. My room was small, with remnants of nursery wallpaper, and painted yellow. When the sun rose each morning, it shone directly through my window, casting stripes of sunlight on the bedspread I never thought of replacing.

In winter time, the snow would pile in drifts on the side of the house, frozen in white ocean waves, and I’d get myself wrapped up in a snowsuit and obnoxious print knit scarf, excited to conquer the towering sheets of powdered sugar. It was always cold then in than house, even more than the tension. No matter how many layers you put on, you couldn’t seem to escape the way the damp cold settled on your flesh, making goose bumps, and permeating through you until you could have breathed out icicles.

Sometimes I wondered what it would be like to live in a modern house.

Maybe settle in a development like everyone else, with their modern appliances. But until I had to leave that house, I never really realized how much I’d miss it.

It had its air of coziness. It was a damp, creepy cellar dwelling mess, and a pain in more places than one, but it was my home. If it could’ve talked on that last day, I wonder what it would’ve said to me. How do you say goodbye to a silent place, graced by nothing but empty rooms? It was just a structure made of plywood-right? I had risen up in the house, from a little 86

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shy child, to a pondering, confident teen on her way to a new world. And I guess it’s only right to pay the house some credit. It was my shelter, and an unappreciated one at that, unrewarded and forgotten. As it lay crumbling, I grew taller and stronger amongst the ruins-amongst wreckage and amongst heartbreak. I never had the guts to drive by and look, but I hope that still, with all its falling pieces, it stands stubbornly behind the maple tree in my front yard, castling a undeniable shadow on North Street.

Linger here.

l 87

Josh Guillaume The Pearly Gates

I am invisible again. I managed to be seen, not while my arms burnt from work, or my forehead sweat in the heat, but when my brows furled when he said “just keep calling, man.” Keep calling. Dialing is all I had done the past year to reach that day. I used to call every day until he said “you don’t need to call every day, man.” So I called every week until he said “you don’t need to call every week, man.” So I called once a month until he said “don’t call me unless you know you’re free.” He thought I was a wizard. He thought that I could survive by keeping everyday free, without work, until his voice broke through the mist of my receiver to say “can you drive out tomorrow, man?” He made it out of the ghetto, so everyone else could too. The world is an oyster. But, when he got what he wanted— when he became god— he didn’t send Jesus to die for me or those like me.

Calvary isn’t for the ambitious, but the jokesters, pranksters, and sloughs.

It was the first weekend of summer, and his voice did just that. The voice of god found my phone from someplace distant; the film world. He asked me to journey to the cement jungle and help shoot a music video.

I was blind and happy. All along he was right about the calls, while I was wrong. The days, weeks, months of phone calls came to fruition. That’s all I thought about as I drove seven hours to Queens. Coffee kept me alive.

Adderall kept me awake. Butterflies choked my throat. I remembered how much I hated that drive to the city, but soon I was numb. My car barreled down the highway. The hills all looked the same. They were the same hills I watched my entire life; familiar, comforting, sickening. My heart pounded. I imagined what I would find at the end of the road. The sun rose, and a pink light revealed the New York horizon.

A promising Manhattan skyline soon cleared away to the low shoulders of the Bronx. Pot holes swallowed my tires, trying to stop me.

They couldn’t. A congested highway delivered me to my destination, 88

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Queens. I stopped to use the bathroom at a cheap grocer. I smiled at the recognizable musk from my own time served stocking shelves, bagging groceries. Little did they know I survived, and was asked by the voice of god to work on a music video. I washed my hands, and thought what I was feeling was my own transition into the pantheon. Soon I’ll be telling people to ‘just call me, man.’ No, I wouldn’t be like that. I would call, even if I was a god. I dried my hands, returned to my car and followed the GPS to my final location.

Red brick slums and middle class mediocrity brought me to the foot of the pearly gates. Imported marble posts and iron stakes pushed against all notions of what Queens was or could be. Without hesitation, I passed through the pearly gates. The pantheon waited. Million dollar homes lined both sides of the street. Lamborghini’s and pools for each home. Pure privacy where I thought it could never be found. It didn’t feel like New York anymore, but someplace external. A world of excess transplanted itself here to toss jokes at those who stood at the gates. I wondered if this place could ever materialize outside those pillars. Soon, I sensed this world existed elsewhere, in many places, and will always exist somewhere outside my consciousness.

To become a god I knew I had to grow familiar to this place, and must learn to live someplace outside of myself. But, the Adderall was wearing off and I pissed all of the caffeine out at the last stop. I needed rest, which I found at a nearby park. People walked their canines and chatted with one another while those dogs squat down with that stupid smile they make. I took another Adderall, and closed my eyes until it kicked in. A few moments of rest, then the stimulation came. I was ready to work.

With one last glimpse at the dog walkers I pulled out of the park. A sign there said “no dogs allowed,” and it was Monday. Beyond the pearly gates, no one works on Monday and their dogs can squat all over. These gods upset me, but I pushed forward knowing I wouldn’t be like them when I was one.

I arrived at my destination, but the GPS must be wrong. I faced a mansion with uncut grass and overgrown bushes. The granite steps were Linger here.

l 89

Josh Guillaume The Pearly Gates

I am invisible again. I managed to be seen, not while my arms burnt from work, or my forehead sweat in the heat, but when my brows furled when he said “just keep calling, man.” Keep calling. Dialing is all I had done the past year to reach that day. I used to call every day until he said “you don’t need to call every day, man.” So I called every week until he said “you don’t need to call every week, man.” So I called once a month until he said “don’t call me unless you know you’re free.” He thought I was a wizard. He thought that I could survive by keeping everyday free, without work, until his voice broke through the mist of my receiver to say “can you drive out tomorrow, man?” He made it out of the ghetto, so everyone else could too. The world is an oyster. But, when he got what he wanted— when he became god— he didn’t send Jesus to die for me or those like me.

Calvary isn’t for the ambitious, but the jokesters, pranksters, and sloughs.

It was the first weekend of summer, and his voice did just that. The voice of god found my phone from someplace distant; the film world. He asked me to journey to the cement jungle and help shoot a music video.

I was blind and happy. All along he was right about the calls, while I was wrong. The days, weeks, months of phone calls came to fruition. That’s all I thought about as I drove seven hours to Queens. Coffee kept me alive.

Adderall kept me awake. Butterflies choked my throat. I remembered how much I hated that drive to the city, but soon I was numb. My car barreled down the highway. The hills all looked the same. They were the same hills I watched my entire life; familiar, comforting, sickening. My heart pounded. I imagined what I would find at the end of the road. The sun rose, and a pink light revealed the New York horizon.

A promising Manhattan skyline soon cleared away to the low shoulders of the Bronx. Pot holes swallowed my tires, trying to stop me.

They couldn’t. A congested highway delivered me to my destination, 88

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Queens. I stopped to use the bathroom at a cheap grocer. I smiled at the recognizable musk from my own time served stocking shelves, bagging groceries. Little did they know I survived, and was asked by the voice of god to work on a music video. I washed my hands, and thought what I was feeling was my own transition into the pantheon. Soon I’ll be telling people to ‘just call me, man.’ No, I wouldn’t be like that. I would call, even if I was a god. I dried my hands, returned to my car and followed the GPS to my final location.

Red brick slums and middle class mediocrity brought me to the foot of the pearly gates. Imported marble posts and iron stakes pushed against all notions of what Queens was or could be. Without hesitation, I passed through the pearly gates. The pantheon waited. Million dollar homes lined both sides of the street. Lamborghini’s and pools for each home. Pure privacy where I thought it could never be found. It didn’t feel like New York anymore, but someplace external. A world of excess transplanted itself here to toss jokes at those who stood at the gates. I wondered if this place could ever materialize outside those pillars. Soon, I sensed this world existed elsewhere, in many places, and will always exist somewhere outside my consciousness.

To become a god I knew I had to grow familiar to this place, and must learn to live someplace outside of myself. But, the Adderall was wearing off and I pissed all of the caffeine out at the last stop. I needed rest, which I found at a nearby park. People walked their canines and chatted with one another while those dogs squat down with that stupid smile they make. I took another Adderall, and closed my eyes until it kicked in. A few moments of rest, then the stimulation came. I was ready to work.

With one last glimpse at the dog walkers I pulled out of the park. A sign there said “no dogs allowed,” and it was Monday. Beyond the pearly gates, no one works on Monday and their dogs can squat all over. These gods upset me, but I pushed forward knowing I wouldn’t be like them when I was one.

I arrived at my destination, but the GPS must be wrong. I faced a mansion with uncut grass and overgrown bushes. The granite steps were Linger here.

l 89

scuffed and driveway empty. It was a modern mansion without any bodies to complete it. In the entrance, moss stuck to a stone lion. This reminded me of those horrible hills I passed to come here. Or, were they comforting hills? My mind clouded. I couldn’t remember. On the stoop, I waited, not certain anyone would ever come. I wondered if I should have asked a friend to come, somebody. A car pulled up, and someone rose up, the producer. Butterflies choked my throat again. This was it, the real deal, my chance to make an impression. The voice of god that reached out over my phone receiver led me to this moment, and I begged for it. The producer said ‘hi.’ I was entranced. Before I couple reply, she turned to her car and pointed. She needed help carrying something. I walked to the trunk, and looked in find all that I had waited for: groceries.

I realized then that the voice of god that reached through the receiver to my ear didn’t care about me. He asked me because no one else would come. No one else would carry groceries. A dog to a bone I went to that music video. I passed through the pearly gates without a thought and without question. ‘Just call me, man.’ He said that every time, and still said it when I shook his hand, thanking him for the opportunity. He saw the sting in my eyes and salt on my forehead. For a moment, I thought he too was human, but he fast returned to that wicked pantheon or else others would notice. I took another Adderall and drove home. I passed those treacherous hills, and all that was familiar. My gut wrenched. I pulled to the side of the road where it all came up. The butterflies fled my stomach and hurled onto the road side. A highway of gods flashed by, travelling to their pantheons. I bent over, gripping the dirt, bracing, knowing that I am invisible again. I had managed to be seen, but that feeling left me long ago.

90

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Markus Antonio Pierce-Brewster “Whether going or retuning, we cannot be any place else...At this moment what more need we seek?”

--Hakuin Ekaku Zenji

“The Song of Zazen”

Linger here.

l 91

scuffed and driveway empty. It was a modern mansion without any bodies to complete it. In the entrance, moss stuck to a stone lion. This reminded me of those horrible hills I passed to come here. Or, were they comforting hills? My mind clouded. I couldn’t remember. On the stoop, I waited, not certain anyone would ever come. I wondered if I should have asked a friend to come, somebody. A car pulled up, and someone rose up, the producer. Butterflies choked my throat again. This was it, the real deal, my chance to make an impression. The voice of god that reached out over my phone receiver led me to this moment, and I begged for it. The producer said ‘hi.’ I was entranced. Before I couple reply, she turned to her car and pointed. She needed help carrying something. I walked to the trunk, and looked in find all that I had waited for: groceries.

I realized then that the voice of god that reached through the receiver to my ear didn’t care about me. He asked me because no one else would come. No one else would carry groceries. A dog to a bone I went to that music video. I passed through the pearly gates without a thought and without question. ‘Just call me, man.’ He said that every time, and still said it when I shook his hand, thanking him for the opportunity. He saw the sting in my eyes and salt on my forehead. For a moment, I thought he too was human, but he fast returned to that wicked pantheon or else others would notice. I took another Adderall and drove home. I passed those treacherous hills, and all that was familiar. My gut wrenched. I pulled to the side of the road where it all came up. The butterflies fled my stomach and hurled onto the road side. A highway of gods flashed by, travelling to their pantheons. I bent over, gripping the dirt, bracing, knowing that I am invisible again. I had managed to be seen, but that feeling left me long ago.

90

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Markus Antonio Pierce-Brewster “Whether going or retuning, we cannot be any place else...At this moment what more need we seek?”

--Hakuin Ekaku Zenji

“The Song of Zazen”

Linger here.

l 91

Frieda Projansky Taste The Moon

Had I some Aloe Vera.

True, I haven’t romanticized any harder.

I can taste the moon Even though my tongue is Sunburned.

It’s like the leaves in my hair Are woven by your own Thick thumbs, Even though I can see them Elsewhere.

I like to watch you.

Finish quadrants of Sudoku in seventy-degree Sand.

Carried over a fence, And onto a towel on A bald patch of prickly grass, I can taste the moon.

Even in Chicago I Can spot a star. I can hear Distant, live, reggae.

I can be so spot-on With every start That the ends aren’t Humid-soaked heavy.

It’s beach breezy.

Wild, and outside-sleazy.

One of the closest moons of the year, I would have tasted it with you For hours on the harbor 92

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Linger here.

l 93

Frieda Projansky Taste The Moon

Had I some Aloe Vera.

True, I haven’t romanticized any harder.

I can taste the moon Even though my tongue is Sunburned.

It’s like the leaves in my hair Are woven by your own Thick thumbs, Even though I can see them Elsewhere.

I like to watch you.

Finish quadrants of Sudoku in seventy-degree Sand.

Carried over a fence, And onto a towel on A bald patch of prickly grass, I can taste the moon.

Even in Chicago I Can spot a star. I can hear Distant, live, reggae.

I can be so spot-on With every start That the ends aren’t Humid-soaked heavy.

It’s beach breezy.

Wild, and outside-sleazy.

One of the closest moons of the year, I would have tasted it with you For hours on the harbor 92

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Leaves of Orange

Linger here.

l 93

Canteens

The Honesty Of Our City

I only take baths when I am sick.

I am taking a bath.

I only get sick in summer.

It’s the last day of July.

My heart races more in Hot water and Nutella tastes better straight from a Butter knife.

Marty told us to find our groove.

He was our jam-band-dance coach.

That is called honesty, And it’s at every bus stop of the city.

It’s when you know that the homeless Residents bathe in the fountains But you don’t tell the tourist that When they drop pennies.

If I weren’t born here I wonder if I would go Search for it.

Maybe I would work at a mall.

I am honest in that way.

I realize not everyone can Slow dance in the rain to Phish In a parking lot with fans who Can’t afford tickets.

I can recognize the sound Of the bus’ breaks, the sigh, But I have no license to drive, And if I weren’t born here I wouldn’t have run into you At the guitar shop Or Marty At Northerly’s parking lot Or myself.

If everyone is to have a decade of decadence, I might be walking past mine as a bystander.

I might be standing near mine as a passerby.

Guard me until we nail gates to jump.

Jump (over) me until we gate nails to guard.

It’s not a risk until I have skin-colored scars.

It’s not us until we laugh this far.

I can measure by legs tethered.

The way I have felt for youThat’s felt, not leather.

That’s severing plastic bottles Just to taste nutella.

I eat a lot of protein in overcast weather.

I take a lot of baths in understaffed canteens.

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Linger here.

l 95

Canteens

The Honesty Of Our City

I only take baths when I am sick.

I am taking a bath.

I only get sick in summer.

It’s the last day of July.

My heart races more in Hot water and Nutella tastes better straight from a Butter knife.

Marty told us to find our groove.

He was our jam-band-dance coach.

That is called honesty, And it’s at every bus stop of the city.

It’s when you know that the homeless Residents bathe in the fountains But you don’t tell the tourist that When they drop pennies.

If I weren’t born here I wonder if I would go Search for it.

Maybe I would work at a mall.

I am honest in that way.

I realize not everyone can Slow dance in the rain to Phish In a parking lot with fans who Can’t afford tickets.

I can recognize the sound Of the bus’ breaks, the sigh, But I have no license to drive, And if I weren’t born here I wouldn’t have run into you At the guitar shop Or Marty At Northerly’s parking lot Or myself.

If everyone is to have a decade of decadence, I might be walking past mine as a bystander.

I might be standing near mine as a passerby.

Guard me until we nail gates to jump.

Jump (over) me until we gate nails to guard.

It’s not a risk until I have skin-colored scars.

It’s not us until we laugh this far.

I can measure by legs tethered.

The way I have felt for youThat’s felt, not leather.

That’s severing plastic bottles Just to taste nutella.

I eat a lot of protein in overcast weather.

I take a lot of baths in understaffed canteens.

94

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Leaves of Orange

Linger here.

l 95

96

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