Vol. 1 / Issue 2 Winter 2010
Kiss the Girl Michelle Poler
DEANNE REVEL editor-in-chief
BEN WRIGHT copy editor
GILLIAN GRAWEY art director
TRAVIS WALTERS publisher
ALLISON BENNETT DYCHE adviser
GLEN OSTERBERGER adviser
KIM HERRINGTON ad manager
I am pleased to introduce the second issue of District Quarterly: Love & Lust. One of my first positions with District was writing my dating column, “No Good Date Goes Unpunished.” I hunted for love, reported ridiculous trends in dating and made fun of myself when I dated creeper after creeper. Readers laughed, commiserated and cheered me on—we were in it together.
Contributing writers, photographers, painters and illustrators:
I love a good love story. I love worst-date-ever stories. I love proposal stories. And, of course, above all, I love the “meet-cute.”
Krista Bedosky Bridgette Blanton Miles Boinest Casey Crisenbery Katelan Cunningham Katie Dunkle Bristol Dunlap Cleonique Hilsaca Claire Khoury Michelle Poler Deanne Revel Blythe Russo Ezra Salkin Zachary Sauer Melissa Sixma Ben Wright Brittney Wyatt Allison Young
Love and lust have so many connotations today that it’s hard to find the love and lust in stories. Thanks to Paris Hilton, if it’s good, it’s hot. I’ve overheard design students in Gulfstream refer to good design as sexy. Just the other day, I caught myself telling a woman in Bergen, “Oh, I love your dress.”
DISTRICT QUARTERLY KEYS HALL, ROOM 116 516 ABERCORN ST. SAVANNAH, GA 31401 OFFICE : (912) 525-4713 FAX : (912) 525-5509 QUARTERLY@SCADDISTRICT.COM WWW.SCADDISTRICT.COM/QUARTERLY
We’re using these words for something else and I’m worried we’ll lose them forever. There’s still love and lust at SCAD—and it’s real. Given the nature of this theme, some content may not be suitable for all ages. Sincerely,
Deanne Revel Editor-in-Chief
Kiss the Girl / 3 Letter from the editor / 4 Contents / 5 To the Poem You Wrote Me / 6 Remnant / 8 Love & Lust Playlist / 10 DJ Rambler‘s “Women Who Don’t Disappoint Me” playlist
Language of Love / 13 Finding love in a Savannah bar with someone who can talk the talk.
Team Edward @ SCAD / 14 Does Edward Cullen attend SCAD? See for yourself and check out this interview.
Love in Amsterdam / 18 What it’s like to take a stroll through the
What is District Quarterly?
District Quarterly is the new award-winning quarterly magazine produced by SCAD Student Media. It is studentproduced and publishes work by current undergraduate and graduate students at SCAD. District Quarterly provides SCAD and its community with original work in a variety of media by SCAD students. It features non-fiction and fiction essays, poetry, sequential art, illustration, film, photography and more. The different media combines by subject and theme to create a truly refined product each quarter. How do I get involved?
To get your work published in District Quarterly e-mail email@example.com, or attend our weekly District meeting held every Friday at 4 p.m. in Keys Hall at 516 Abercorn St.
Red Light district after dark.
You Said It: “Love & Lust” / 23 Student Media staff members answer the question: love or lust?
Celeste / 26 In Real Time / 28 Call for Entries / 29
Spin the Bottle Casey Crisenbery Lebanon, Ohio
To the Poem YouWrote Me Allison B. Young Unison, Va.
My dear friend, I read the poem you wrote me. My heart sang, and flew back to our mountain days. It turned the leaf back to nights where mandolin sounds filled the darkness between fireflies. To our rock-scrambling, banjo-picking days, to our quarry-plunging, blueberry tea sipping nights of our Harperâ€™s Ferry, West Virginia riding summer. I sat silently too, you know. We are no longer fledglings of love, but aged and flying through the cloudy bitterness, eyes squarely on true earthly plights, no longer staring blindly into each other. I do not regret Georgia. I left my frozen fire and the Blue Ridge with you. You mailed them back. You may only recollect the final correspondence, the goodbye never said, but this is not an ode to our losing each other. Allow me to raise my glass to your rolling-thunder music, to our mountain days, to the poem you wrote me.
Poem You Wrote | poetry
Kissing Blythe Russo Loveland, Ohio
Longing Cleonique Hilsaca
Remnant Ben Wright
These useless and rare white stars are above us again. We are watching them appear and disappear, arcing their long, dead tracks in the sky. Behind the light there is an explosion, dust, then nothing. You say Letâ€™s talk about how small we are, how big this is. I want to tell you that there is nothing between us and them, that we might as well be stacked on top of each other in the void, a star breathing the hair on the back of my neck. I would feel you beneath me, tense under my gravity and you would curl on the latitude of a gas giant. Instead I breathe, feel the planets of sand in my gums, and carefully measure each syllable of my response. 8
Remnant | poetry
I Heart You Bristol Dunlap Makawao, Hawaii
I get disappointed too much. Whether it’s the government, a new CD or myself, I’m tired of it. I’ve had it with people not living up to my expectations. Moreover, I’m tired of dealing with women. This latent misogyny combined with my barrels of cynicism led to the creation of a music database filled with Women Who Don’t Disappoint Me. I’ll be honest; the selection process was grueling, especially given the male-dominated state of popular music these days, where a woman either breathes heavy into the mic and plays her acoustic guitar or creates soulless pop music for clubs. But somewhere between those two extremes, there are women out there trying to get their voices heard, women who haven’t sold out, women who don’t disappoint. Love is perhaps the most written-about subject in songs, and I’ve compiled a short playlist of the best, most unique and least disappointing love songs by women. It starts with one of my favorite artists of all time, Nina Simone, singing “Love Me Or Leave Me,” with, perhaps, one of the best piano solos ever, though, admittedly, the competition isn’t that fierce. All of the women in today’s music have bands like The Shirelles and The Supremes to thank, and they both make appearances. They said it first, and they said it best. “Baby It’s You,” and “You Can’t Hurry Love” are instantly recognizable classics and have survived the test of time. CocoRosie is one of the most individual voices in music today, and, with their surreal lyrics and unusual instrumentation, take their place on the frontier of music. “Raphael” is a track that requires a third or fourth listen to appreciate, but as a poet, I dig their lyrics more than anything. Thao Nguyen and the Get Down Stay Down have been tearing up college radio for the past six months or so. Thao’s distinctive voice breathes life into a genre of music I left for dead many moons ago, and I can’t get enough of their new CD. Esperanza Spalding’s smooth, jazzy voice and simple piano backing is both vintage and familiar, and any love song playlist needs a powerful voice like hers, and she doesn’t get enough publicity for it, but DJ Rambler is trying to help out. 10
Love & Lust | playlist
I’ve given up on Regina Spektor since her last two albums, but the a capella “I Want To Sing,” off of her first EP is the Regina I fell in love with. It shows off her beautiful voice and sounds like she’s whispering into your ear. It still gives me chills. Following Regina, Joanna Newsom’s “Bridges and Balloons” is one of my favorite songs of all time by the best songwriter of our generation, hands down. Newsom has the rare gift of compressing epic emotions and stories into short songs, using a harp and a voice that sounds like a 12-year-old boy. Lots of people give up on her upon hearing her voice, but, if you stay with her, she doesn’t disappoint, ever. The playlist ends with two songs by two of my favorite divas. Janis Joplin’s “Down On Me,” is not one of her more famous songs but should be. It’s classic Joplin and great. Macy Gray’s “I Try” is familiar to everyone and she doesn’t get enough credit for it. Despite her arguable status as a one-hit wonder (lest we forget the “As Told By Ginger” theme song), Gray was a rare gem in the wasteland of the early 2000s, and doesn’t deserve forgetting. To hear this playlist played in its entirety, listen to Women Who Don’t Disappoint Me, March 9, and tune in every Tuesday at 10 p.m. for even more non-disappointing women.
The playlist: Love Me Or Leave Me – Nina Simone Baby It’s You – The Shirelles La Vie, L’Amour – Edith Piaf If Love Is a Red Dress – Maria McKee All Is Full Of Love – Bjork Raphael – CocoRosie Beat (Health, Life and Fire)- Thao Nguyen and the Get Down Stay Down Love & Communication – Cat Power Fall In – Esperanza Spalding You Can’t Hurry Love – The Supremes Courtship Date – Crystal Castles Hysteric – Yeah Yeah Yeahs I Want To Sing – Regina Spektor Bridges and Balloons – Joanna Newsom Do, Do, Do – Gertrude Lawrence My Superman – Santigold Down On Me – Janis Joplin I Try - Macy Gray
Get your artwork published! District is SCAD’s student produced online newspaper, and is the official student voice of SCAD. Participation is open to all majors. We’re looking for writers, photographers, videographers, sequential artists/cartoonists, illustrators, etc. If you have an interest, we have a spot for you.
Interest meeting are every Friday at 4 p.m. at Keys Hall. Love & Lust | playlist
Fresh Air Blythe Russo Loveland, Ohio
Language Claire Khoury Dallas, Texas
And then I spot him. Tall and compulsively clad in his fleece vest with the collar of his bleached white, perfectly pressed button down shirt poking out ever so coyly. The way he moves projects an aura of aplomb I've never had. He sits down at the bar, letting his feet levitate a few inches above the dirty floor, occasionally brushing against it. This is the man I have secretly admired for two years now. We've never spoken. It's more of an, I know he exists, and I'm pretty sure he knows I do too. There are cigarette butts everywhere, and the girl sitting next to me just spilled her drink, managing to spill some atop my new suede sandals. But I am unfazed. Let your cigarette ashes burn me and your alcohol stain my clothes, for I will not care. Not now. Not while he is here, sitting a few feet away from me, unaware of my presence, for now. I'd rather it be that way for my tongue feels like it has swelled to the size of my foot, and an unusual amount of phlegm has formed in the back on my throat. I realize that everyone in bars want to get their hands on something. Mine has become occupied by cigarettes and rum and Cokes. Unfortunately for my friend, the man she's been talking to wants to get his hands on her. I manage to break my attention away from Him and try to help her out. Body language is not something I can read into well. I don't pick up on subtleties, only blatant gestures and when I walk up to her, I can't tell if she wants me interjecting or not. Her body is facing him, however, not entirely, leaving an open space for me to walk into. I hear her say, "Oh! You speak German too?" He responds, "Wie, lang haben sie deutsches gesprochen?" [How long have you been speaking German?] As he asks this, I tap her gently on the shoulder, making her aware of my presence. Death stare. "I'll be right back," he says, as he walks off to the bar. She turns to me, rolls her eyes and says, "Claire! What. The. Hell. I liked him!" "Well how was I supposed to know that?"
"I was speaking German!" "Oh, psh. Right. The language of love. I forgot. All right, well, fine. Sorry, I'll just go sit back down." Never mind the fact that you dragged me here tonight and swore to me that I'd have fun. Never mind that Friendship Rule #1 is to never leave a friend alone in a bar unless the friend has stated he or she is OK sitting by themselves, looking like a social outcast, a prude or a deeply disturbed alcoholic. I return to my seat and down my very girly beverage. I hear a guy clearing his throat next to me. He taps me on the shoulder and says, "So, I have a bet going on with my friend here that your legs are better than your friends over there. I think yours are nicer." I pleasantly smile and say, "Thank you," then excuse myself to the bathroom. Do men really think lines like these work on girls? I run into my friend on the way to the bathroom and let out a, "Thanks a lot!" She's too occupied pretending she knows more than five words in German to hear me though. As I walk out of the bathroom, I see Him again. The man I have idolized since my first year in Savannah. The man I will never talk to unless someone is holding me up while fanning my face and feeding me witty, cute remarks. "Ahhh, yes. About Marcel Proust, I find him to be quite fascinating." (I don't know why, but for some reason I picture our first conversation played out in English accents, talking about authors, literature and theories of life.) While fantasizing about our first conversation, as I often do, little do I realize it would be all too soon. "Ouch!" He is standing in front of me and just stepped on my big toe. "Oh, God. I'm so sorry," he says. "S***, I'm always doing stuff like that. Way to go, idiot! Oh, um, pardon my French," and lets out the most adorable laugh. He smiles as he patiently waits for me to respond. At last, a language of love I can relate to. Language of Love | essay
Team Edward @ SCAD
DQ: “GQ” recently named Robert Pattinson the most stylish man in the world for 2010. What’s your personal style? Lalli: I read a lot of “GQ” so if I see something that looks sweet I’ll try it out. I’m not into bright color stuff like pink pants and bow ties.
DQ: What initially attracted you to sequential art? Lalli: I like the storytelling medium. It’s a good bridge between a book and a movie. There’s a creative satisfaction you get by reading a comic.
I’ve heard rumors while attending SCAD that the “Twilight” kid goes to school here. Students swear they saw Robert Pattinson walking around Savannah—even entering Norris Hall. Unfortunately, Pattinson does not attend SCAD, but someone who looks just like him and has an equally enthusiastic fan base does: Ben Lalli.
DQ: Thanks to characters like Seth in “The O.C.,” the stereotype of a comic enthusiast is changing. Are you glad? Lalli: I feel like it’s getting more mainstream. There’s a lot more to it than super heroes.
“Ben Lalli is beautiful—the poor man’s Robert Pattinson,” said a female third year graphic design major. “Ben Lalli is beautiful–the poor man’s Robert Pattison,” said a female third year graphic design major. “I thought he was hot the first time I saw him because he looked just like Edward Cullen,” a female fourth year writing major said. “But then the third time I saw him he had cut all his hair off so the hotness wore off.” Many SCAD students crush on Lalli and, in his hipstervampire way, he’s one of SCAD’s most eligible bachelors. I don’t know much about “Twilight” or vampires, but there’s no denying that Lalli is adorable. Lalli shows up for the interview wearing a “GQ” inspired outfit: striped tee under a denim button-down with dark wash jeans, brown vintage wingtips and, yes, black Ray Bans. I have to double take. He does look like Robert Pattinson—even the sexy bed-head hair, which Lalli says he’s had for three or four years. DQ: You look just like Robert Pattinson. Lalli: I get it all the time. DQ: How do you feel about that? Lalli: Sometimes it gets annoying. It’s like being famous without the benefits. Just yesterday my girlfriend and I were walking her dog and these kids jumping on a trampoline were like, “Are you famous?” And, I mean I had sweatpants and boots and sunglasses on. I was pretty undercover 14
DQ: Are you aware of your fan base in the SCAD community? Lalli: No, but it’s kind of flattering. I’m more under radar here. People in Salt Lake ask for pictures all the time.
Team Edward | interview
DQ: Describe your style for sequential art. Lalli: It’s not anime but it’s not superhero either. It’s hard finding your own style, so I find artists I like and use bits and pieces I like. DQ: What’s your ideal date? Lalli: Dinner and a movie. I know that sounds lame. Any time I try to do something out of the box, it never works for me. DQ: Ideal nightlife? Lalli: I don’t like big parties just spending time with a small group of people I know. DQ: Favorite hangouts in Savannah? Lalli: I’m at home mostly. Don’t get downtown much. DQ: Favorite restaurant? Lalli: Juarez. It’s always good. DQ: What music are you listening to? Lalli: I kind of listen to everything. In my iPod right now I’m listening to Between the Buried and Me, but last night I was listening to Phil Collins. DQ: If you could only own one genre or decade of music, what would it be? Lalli: Eighties. You have all that badass music like Mötley Crüe and then you have all the synthpop. Nowadays you can grow a beard, play guitar and be famous. And I think that’s stupid. DQ: Are you into the Savannah music scene? Lalli: I never got into it because all the bands that I heard about
seemed like a kid and his guitar. If I’m going to pay money to go to a show, I want to have a good time—not get sad and search my soul. DQ: Movies? Lalli: I like movies that are fun to watch, like stupid action movies. “Smoking Aces 2” looks badass. I think people are too critical now—like it’s becoming cool to hate on movies. DQ: Fun facts? Lalli: I have a black belt in karate. People say I’m the worst dancer they’ve ever seen.
“People say I’m the worst dancer they have ever seen.” DQ: Don’t have rhythm? Lalli: Yeah and I have bad moves. I’m just bad in every category. DQ: Plans post-graduation? Lalli: I’d like to get a job in comics. There’s a wide range of career options in my major like storyboarding for movies. DQ: Would you write a comic about vampires? Lalli: There’s a possibility a vampire might show up but definitely not a vampire teen romance. For those who haven’t seen Lalli around town, it may be hard to. He admits he’s kind of a homebody. Stick around Norris Hall long enough—or the large format scanner at Jen Library—and you may run into SCAD’s own hot vampire.
Ben Lalli A.J. Whitfield Atlanta, Ga.
To see Lalli’s artwork, check out benlalli.tumblr.com.
“It’s like being famous without the benefits.” “I’m not into bright color stuff like pink pants and bow ties.”
Team Edward | interview
Crotch Love Jeremy Nguyen San Francisco, Calif.
Red Light Window Ezra Salkin Freeport, N.Y.
Amsterdam Ezra Salkin
So often had we stumbled back and forth across the same cobblestone street and crossed the same cobblestone bridge to start the circle over that it began to feel like one of those dreams where, no matter how far you go, you always end up back where you started. (The dreamlike quality to our wandering was enhanced by the whimsical old city of Amsterdam itself. The Red Light district, on a sultry summer night, like this one, didn’t need the help of a couple of bud-struck Americans to feel like a dream.) Whether the dream is a good or bad one is contingent on a number of factors, but a particularly salient one is the girl in the window at whom you happen to be looking at that particular moment. This variable alone precipitated our confined, circuitous path. However, when wandering the nearly limitless possibilities of this dream, often, like Homer’s famed protagonist Odysseus, one must travel through Hades if he wishes to make it home to Ithaca. Whether Hades or Ithaca, the only guarantee in this dream is that it shall surely be bizarre. You may also encounter a maneating Cyclops, except, unlike in the “Odyssey,” this one will wear a thong. As we walked, though our eyes were too bashful to stay locked on the two blonde and buxom prizes, our minds remained on task. The shadows of the tall bare trees fell in stitching patterns across our white faces. Their tenuous branches fractured and veered off into new, more tenuous and fractured tiers. The phantasmagorical nature of our surroundings–gondolas gliding across the channel, cutting through the city, dissecting the flagged streets between the charming old-world European facades and terraces–reminded me of the Disney ride “It’s a Small World After All.” I waited for the prostitutes to emerge from their antechambers in the form of wooden, dolled-up puppets spinning on a fixed axis. They kicked a white-stockinged leg in the air, as they danced and broke into song in their respective languages and 18
Love in Amsterdam | essay
scanty lingerie. Girls from all over the world come to serve in the notorious, historic windows. In the fantastic and paradoxical, child-like atmosphere, the absence of Christmas lights and ornaments on the trees and snow on the ground was mystifying. It was mythic. It was cartoon-like. It was as historical and beautiful as it was sordid and garish, a bakery of carnal delights. I looked into the face of my travel partner Jesse, with whom I had spent the last few weeks backpacking. His features were obscured by the unruly shadows of the trees and houses that reigned unchallenged by the blurring halos of the street lamps bordering the road. In the black moat that curved and dipped through the city, effigies of the lights shone like small succeeding worlds around a sun that was really just the moon, while the darkness of the water reflected in an ocean of black sky.
It was as historical and beautiful as it was sordid and garish, a bakery of carnal delights. We tried to be inconspicuous as we peered into the windows of the fairytale buildings, scared of the mascara-drawn eyes that might look back, though never losing sight of our two coveted damsels. At the same time, we never managed to miss any ladies in passing. Sometimes mere glimpses left our mouths gaping at goddesslike visages of the sirens who, with their tantalizing voices, called many sailors to their crashing doom on the rocks. Other times, our expressions were left fixed in terror as we felt the bile rise from our stomachs to our throats, at the sights of the ones who, surely in another life, turned brave warriors to stone with their hideous Gorgon heads of snakes. When one analyzes this comparison, one must conclude that neither alternative is particularly advantageous to two young male travelers. After two nights of perusing the 12-century-
old thoroughfares, we obviously knew which one we preferred. However, even when some paths appeared more consistently the former, the situation is akin to trick-or-treating: No matter how many king-sized Hershey bars you get in a row, eventually you hit a house that leaves you wishing the generous neighbor had left a trick in your basket instead.
She couldn’t have been more than nineteen, and her heavy doll-like eyes stayed perfectly still as we walked by. We passed one room, where a girl whose face, framed by a bed of short and neat brown hair, was as beautiful and sad as porcelain. She couldn’t have been more than nineteen, and her heavy doll-like eyes stayed perfectly still as we walked by. In the very next window, a middle-aged woman with runny black makeup, dressed in a white-laced nightgown, jeered at us from over her shoulder with wanton eyes, as she provocatively swayed her hips. In the next room, the curtains had been pulled shut and we heard things that didn’t sound human. As we crossed the bridge again, the twin steeples of the one Catholic church in Red Light loomed from behind the candycolored buildings and burlesque houses. Centuries ago, when Amsterdam was an important port city, lonely sailors would flock to that church, assailing the priests for the promise of absolution before enjoying a night with the ladies, all, of course, in exchange for small monetary contributions. It was wise planning on behalf of the church’s patron, as the rare sanctified ground brought in bundles of gold. At least this was what we were told when we took the tour. It’s surprising to see the type of crowd a place like this draws. Sure, it had its share of bad boys, college students, off-duty military officers and such, but it also had plenty of what looked like respectable business men and women, as well as the occasional elderly couple strolling arm-in-arm, peering and pointing into windows, as if they were looking at a coat sale or an art auction. In such a mixed bag, everyone appeared to have only one thing in common: They weren’t locals. “Cocaine, heroin?” whispered a raspy voice from behind us. We turned our gazes to a Middle Eastern man with his nose buried in his trenchcoat and his hands in his pockets. He never stopped walking but his fierce eyes of coal bore into us. We quickly looked away. Away led us to the tallest of three towering black men, who seemed to have no face other than a mouth of gaping white teeth. He wore a purple vest that exposed his bare arms that weren’t as big as they were long, but rippled incessantly. “What’ll it be boys?” he asked. His tone was corpse-like, but the accent slightly exotic, possibly from the West Indies. When we walked by without acknowledging the hulking hoods, one of his corn-rowed cronies started snorting and moaning loudly as he facetiously humped the air behind us. With his nasal braying, I couldn’t help but be reminded of the carnival
atmosphere of Pleasure Island, the place where poor little Pinocchio found himself at the mercy of the nefarious and corpulent boss who allowed all the “stupid bad boys” to indulge in all the wild activities and temptations that they knew they weren’t supposed to. I waited for the same fat man in his Dickens-style top hat, red cloak and scarf to emerge from behind one of the Merlot-colored curtains, barking, “You boys have had your fun, now pay for it,” to a bunch of poor lamenting donkeys, transformed because of their naughty and reckless behavior. As the two blondes in their fluorescent green lingerie, sexier than any fairy godmother that I’d ever seen, beckoned us forward, coquettishly batting their eyes, and moving their waists like a slow rhythmic pendulum, I began to sympathize with dear little Pinocchio. Was I willing to risk growing a furry tail and a pair of long droopy ears for the chance to become a real boy?
Mistress Melissa Sixma Ponce Inlet, Fla.
Exposed Krista Bedosky Plymouth, Minn.
Lust is Delicious, but it Never Lasts Bridgette Blanton Shelby, N.C.
You Said It: District Quarterly
“Love & Lust”
“Love is putting up with all my bad puns.” Deanne Revel Birmingham, Ala.
When I was in the ninth grade, my English class divided into two teams for our final exam and debated whether or not “Romeo and Juliet” was a love story or a lust story. A cynical 14-year-old, I argued for lust. My team lost and ever since then I’ve reassessed love. Amidst the aftermath of Valentine’s Day, I asked several Student Media staff members their opinion: Love or lust? What is love?
Caila Brown SCAD Radio General Manager
“Love is spontaneous, creative and loyal.”
Jen Sparkman SCAD Radio Training Assistant
“Love is built on trust, celebrated with laughter and is absent from judgment.” Gillian Grawey District Quarterly Art Director 22
You Said It |
“Lusty love. You know, love without lust isn’t love at all. Love is an extendable hyperbolic, insane, phatasmagorical, mythical, preposterous, wonderful suspension of disbelief.”
Ben Wright District Copy Editor
Tiffany Cullen District Outreach Editor
“Love is a series of chemical reactions designed to rob you of your common sense in an effort to further the species.”
“Love is someone who will erase your hard drive when you die.”
Travis Walters District Editor-in-Chief
Jake Allen SCAD Radio DJ
“Lust…at this point in my life. Love is being able to stay friends even through the worst of things.”
“Love is…I haven’t forgotten about love. I’m still thinking on it.”
Myrriah Gossett District News Editor
Katelan Cunningham District A & E Editor
“Love is complete trust in someone.”
“Love is…Can I phone a friend?”
“A combination of the two. Love is a moment of clarity. It’s when you start caring more about someone else rather than yourself.”
Logan Best Student Media Web Director
Victoria Phetmisy Audio Programming Director
Lust and love
Josh Katie Dunkle
Untitled Michelle Poler
(or the m o s t i n t i m a t e r e l a tionship ’ Iveeve had r w i awomth an
Miles Boinest Charleston, S.C.
I’m sitting across from her in a dimly lit room on Radcliffe Street. There is no need to pretend that we are two boats on a lonely sea breaking each other from a spell of isolation, but I do it anyway. She opens her mouth to speak, and only smoke comes out, a signal, as if this is the first true thing she’s said in a long, long time, and I’m reminded of the time we first met – on Broadway, more or less – in a haze of showtunes and advertising and 42nd street. This was our fly-by-night Broadway romance, as the song went, and, of course, I was the Sky Masterson to her Sarah Brown, spinning myself further and further into an awkward downward spiral that culminated in the backseat of a charter bus on 9th Avenue. A few days after the whole “I’m in love with you/you’re a homosexual” debacle, I asked her to prom: a painfully unnecessary affair, a night full of displacement and emotions and abstinence, and after that night subsided like a bad hangover or a hurricane, all that was left was a gentle, temperate friendship. Years later, we were sitting in her apartment on King Street, the one above University Books, and I’d try on her clothes and comment on her wall hangings, and we’d run around the city, taking back what was taken from us, and it was like a second prom, a better prom, just she and I and the city lights, and in some weird way I guess we’re in love. Then it’s Summer, August maybe, and we’re in the Radcliffe place again, and when we’re passing a joint back and forth and still the humidity is higher than we are and we’re listening to music we’ve never heard before, it feels like we’re melting into the atmosphere, together, and it feels like being in love.
Celeste | poetry
Iâ€™m Your Puppet Brittney Wyatt Lexington, N.C.
In Real Time Katelan Cunningham Arlington, Texas
From here, the sun doesn’t pinch your cheeks and this oscillating fan doesn’t replace the vacillating wind of the Southern shore. Our own eyes see in RGB. The projection of the morning light has pixels. I can’t smell the cold in here. I can’t hear the crickets sing. We are missing it. The tube is feeding us stories, but I’m hungry for yours and ours too. We are children because we are innocent enough to fall—no— plummet into love. But we can still escape this playpen and mama doesn’t have to know. Let the brisk air well your tears. Dance with me to the crickets’ song. And mama doesn’t have to know. We are children! Grab your knapsack and fill it only with what you really need. Let’s build a tree fort, find a tree, find a flower, find a seed and plant something other than our feet into this hardwood floor. You can be my shelter and I’ll be yours and we’ll say goodbye forever to this inside place.
In Real Time | poetry
Fascination Zachary Sauer
Chapel Hill, N.C.
Want your work published in District Quarterly?
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firstname.lastname@example.org by March 19.
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