The Croaker Vol 5

THE CROAKER

Volume 5 2021

The Croaker • Volume 5 Copyright © 2021, Sarah Lawrence College Student Senate. All rights reserved. Cover Art: “Untitled Frog Piece” by Becca Wilson The Croaker is published annually by students of Sarah Lawrence College. This issue welcomes worldwide submissions.

This is our fifth volume. All rights revert to the authors upon publication.

“[I]n the end this shall be for me sufficient, that a marble stone shall declare that a Queen, having reigned such a time, lived and died a virgin.”

Elizabeth I “...when Plato gave the tongue-in-cheek definition of man as “featherless bipeds,” Diogenes plucked a chicken and brought it into Plato’s Academy, saying, “Behold! I’ve brought you a man...”

Wikipedia

Table of contents 7

YOUR HEART FREED FROM ITS NICOLAS CAGE HARRY SAROFF

13

A MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S QUACK

25

HORRIBLE EKPHRASIS

28

DAVIS 6

36

BISMUTH

37

PABULUM

40

MY FUNNIEST TWEET

41

SOLILOQUY OF A SEMICOLON

44

ANOTHER WAY TO SPELL HERO, ALTERNATIVE TITLE: THE WORD FROG WITH TOO MANY SYLLABLES

tyler fisher IVY WESTON

BENJAMIN WILLEN SEvERAL LIMES SANA NASIB SEVERAL LIMES

SOFIA AGUILAR

Several Limes

4

45

ON ANIMALS

48

BEAR RUG

53

MOUSE DREAMING

54

A CHEEKY, UNOFFICIAL, & UNNECESSARY REVIEW OF A 14-YEAR-OLD ALBUM

SARA YOSSEF

SHAWN CAMPBELL FRANCES KENNEY

KAT LO FARO

62

CHICKIE CHICKIE

63

A WEDDING!

79

BOOZING AROUND

80

HANGOVER

81

LOOK!

82

CUT

SEVERAL LIMES

RACHEL SARUSKI HIRAL TANNA CELIA MEADE SEVERAL LIMES SOFIA BALDASSARI

5

83

A POETIC RETELLING OF A WACKASS DREAM I HAD INVOLVING A FRIEND OF MINE BECOMING A MOUNTAINEERING VLOGGER harry saroff

85

CAPTIVE WORLD

86

RECESS

90

BE STILL

94

PLAGUE POEMS

101

ALL’S (CLUB) FAIR IN LOVE (AND SQUALOR) AND WAR (IN THE CHAT):

BECCA WILSON AUDREY DENG SEVERAL LIMES

CASSANDRA TRAINA

HARRISON RIOS, ASH FREEMAN, MAYA PEMBLE, VERONICA PARTAIN, RILEY MALONEY, REID BEAN, MADELEINE ALBANESE, EMILY NEVES, & HARRY SAROFF transcribed by harry saroff

107

A DAY IN THE LIFE OF AN SLC STRAIGHT BOY ZOE STANTON-SAVITZ

6

your heart freed from its nicolas cage harry saroff

You are Nicolas Cage’s biggest fan - and his secret admirer. You’ve managed to meet one-on-one with him - and this meeting is taking place in your living room. It doesn’t matter how this happened. It doesn’t matter why this happened. All you know is that it was destined to happen. You’re worried that Nicolas Cage, being the kind, responsible, and respectful star that he is, would refrain from making a pass at you because of his unfair position of power and privilege. Thankfully, you happen to have a lit neon sign over your head that reads “You are welcome to seduce me despite your position of power and privilege, Nicolas Cage.” He clearly understands the message, because you notice that Nicolas Cage has a comically large bulge in his pants; and he sees you looking at it.

“So… are you interested in stealing my Declaration of Independence?” he slyly asks. You move closer and look deeply into his eyes, in awe at their pale blue beauty. They almost seem too magnificent to be called eyes; perhaps “orbs” would be a more fitting term.

7

“If I were to send you flowers where would I... no, let me rephrase that. If I were to let you suck my tongue, would you be grateful? - Face/Off (1997).”

Nicolas Cage murmurs. The way he cites the specific movie in which his quote originates gets you hot and bothered. You ask Nicolas Cage what he wants to do.

His mouth says “Tool up, honey bunny. It’s time to get bad guys. - Kick-Ass (2010),” but his eyes say you. You step closer, and begin to loosen his tie. He runs his hand over the small of your back.

“I never disrobe before gunplay - Drive Angry (2011),” he moans. He can barely contain himself. “I would... very much like to engage in sexual intercourse that is passionate, sensual, and completely unrealistic by all literary standards. Is that something you would enjoy?”

He doesn’t need to ask you... but you’re very glad that he does. Consent is fucking sexy. You say yes, and allow your hands to tread softly across his chest.

“What do you say we cut the chit-chat, A-HOLE! - The Rock (1996)” he seductively croons, implying that the ‘Chit-chat’ you need to cut is the playful seduction, and that he would much rather get right 8

to Leaving Las Vegas, if you catch his meaning. Not only that, but the way he says ‘1996’ is incredibly sexy.

Nicolas Cage flashes a perfect, hungry smile, pulls you close, and begins to whisper - his words ooze into your ear: “I think we’re a great match. You wanna go at it like the birds and the...”

His delicate, airy, strong, deliciously masculine voice trails off.

“And the... the...”

He stops. His breathing, at first a cacophany of subtle erotic grunts, becomes laboured and desperate.

Fear and panic sew a violent storm in the blue ocean of his eyes.

“No... no... not... NOT THE BEES!! OH, NO! NOT THE BEES! NOT THE BEES! AAAAAHHHHH! OH, THEY’RE IN MY EYES! MY EYES! AAAAHHHHH! AAAAAGGHHH!” Nicolas Cage begins to unravel in front of you; his proud frame of exactly 6 feet, with no inches to spare, shrivels into a tepid lump at your ankles as tears slowly leak towards his chiseled jaw. Nicolas Cage is 9

having a flashback to a traumatic experience tied to the 2006 motion picture The Wicker Man, which was given a 15% rating by Rotten Tomatoes.

You are the only one who can help him.

Help him. Help your Nicolas Cage.

Through sheer insight, you pull out your wallet, swiftly rummaging through its many arbitrary pockets, and find your conveniently-placed medical license. You suddenly remember that you are a Trauma Specialist, and are perfectly equipped to handle this situation. What a romantic coincidence! You list off a series of well-placed tidbits of mental health advice, and suddenly every problem Nicolas Cage has ever had dissipates. He has you to thank, and is incredibly grateful. Nicolas Cage, dried tear-salt rimming his voluptuous cheekbones, brings his head closer to your chest. You hold him to your bosom and stroke his hair as he sniffles.

“I’m sorry to get you hard and/or wet only to have a mental breakdown over a traumatic incident I portrayed in the 2006 film The Wicker Man,” Nicolas Cage sighs. You aren’t upset, as you are no longer in the mood for unrealistic sex that is both passion10

ate and sensual; you would much rather forge an unbreakable and intimate bond. In this moment of emotional clarity, you realize that the bulge in Nicolas Cage’s pants is still there - and not phallic at all. Nicolas Cage undoes his belt and pulls down his trousers, revealing The President’s Book of Secrets, which he must have stolen from the set of the 2007 film National Treasure: Book Of Secrets.

“Turn to page 69 to learn the truth,” Nicolas Cage ushers. You follow his command, vivaciously flipping through the pages and careening past national secret after national secret; all that interests you is this truth Nicolas Cage speaks of. You finally reach page 69, and see, scrawled in Nicolas Cage’s handwriting, “I love you.” He gently brushes your cheek with his hand, gazing longingly into your eyes. You can feel the gratitude radiating from him.

“Why don’t you make like John Travolta and put your face on mine?” Nicolas Cage meekly requests.

You eagerly oblige, and share your first kiss with the Nicolas Cage of your dreams.

“You’re my National Treasure,” Nicolas Cage whispers as he pulls away. You have denied it for 11

months... perhaps even years. Now, however, the truth could not be more clear; he is yours. You love him too. You love your Nicolas Cage.

12

a midsummer night’s quack tyler fisher

Inspired by the Plays and Writings of William Shakespeare Fade In: EXT. THE PARK - DAY A park in the middle of a city, paths with benches on the seen in the distance.

EXT. Pointing to a mini-wa-

DUCK, classic mallard in a park

13

-

aching again. Yet pain will always arise, dreading this constant in life will only prolong the feeling...

Loneliness, the stings of despised sweet. Yet the smallest feeling of -

14

-

der a weary life” for all eternity

terrible fate, that is to be at the

-

15

borne to feel pain, loneliness and

nobody that calls me their sweetest. artist, tragically lead, or any oth16

We now watch DUCK as he waddles on the park path and recites with his whole body as if he were a Shakespearean actor,

-

closest to me in the arts and lan17

brilliant ones. Was I borne merely to er?

and as he speaks he edges the dagger closer to his breast.

thee so sweetly in my moments of most

DUCK throws the dagger away from him with haste.

18

myself into this wretch’d despair! slimmer each passing day, each wakthis hope that someday, some tender heart for me as I will to them. For someday there will be happiness for all!

again.

bitterness and strife. I remembereth’

holds it in his wing, concentrating on it like Hamlet.

19

AH! Poor sweet Yarick, the sole atone-

Yarick, who hath been the only man I and memories now from my childhood.

Hath been many moons, many years

miss Yarick, and the lingering happiness hath came with him...

both fall down on their front away from DUCK. Both DUCK and their aches.

20

the arts.

Sincerest apologies o’ intrepid one.

cates the look.

21

midst?

sight of oneself, as thee did when

and nod their heads to each other. Then they spring to their lying positions as they begin to act together, both their bodies and hands sporadically and choreographically.

22

Many moons indeed! And each night my heart ached more than the last in loneliness and grief.

For what better there is in life than a friend!? And for what better there is in life than thee?

23

him into the air and they conon a park bench watching the spectacle between DUCK and HUat each other, one shakes his

24

horrible ekphrasis ivy weston

!"#$%&&"'(%))"*)%'!%+,,"'-(%.".."#/0' -1)%,"%&0'!2&#%'3456'7'3896':#;2/' <2%)='#>'?@#&"*0'.%A'34B57BC'' D",'#&'E%&$%*

The hills are rolling, undulating sensually into the far crystal blue expanse of heaven, bouncing the plump, round little bodies that frolick among them.

Somewhere, there is a boar amongst those hills, dipped in the blood of the most beautiful man, and that boar is running angry and fast in ancient Greece, like a bull thundering towards a bright, blood-red cape of a matador in modern-day Spain. It very much makes sense. There are cherubs chasing this boar through the emerald hills, gleefully singing strange melodies and tripping over their chubby feet, not used to touching the sinful, coarse dirt of the earth. They are playing a game of tag with the boar and they are skipping from painting to painting and smudging oil and tempera in every color of a breathtaking rainbow as they go.

The most beautiful man is on the ground and he 25

is dying but he is doing it very beautifully. His pink toga slips artfully and sexily off one shoulder and he is reclined perfectly, like a statue, even though he is a painting at the moment. There is probably a statue of him somewhere else with the same sassy expression as if he were murmuring huskily: “I am Adonis and I have been pierced by a boar and there is probably a joke about phallic penetration and how pretty I am somewhere. How crude and horrible and gauche.

Can’t you see that I’m dying very handsomely? Why are these weird, curly-headed babies crying all over me? What’s with the renaissance and conflating mythic and religious imagery? Chill out.”

The most beautiful woman is also there, because of course she is. She is freaking out, so much so that her butt is out, because of course it is. People love painting butts, but it is kind of hard to write about butts. Actually, the most beautiful woman isn’t even actually a woman, even though her body looks more like the body of a woman than any other woman another woman might see in art in, say, the year of our Lord 2021.

The most beautiful woman who isn’t actually a 26

woman but is instead a woman-shaped collection of folklore and fear and butt models weeps: “Oh, Adonis, what the fuck happened? Why aren’t you naked like the rest of us? You’re really harshing the vibe. This is why smelly boars want to run their tusks into your insides. Why isn’t there more blood? Was blood not allowed in whatever Italian painting sweatshop this was made in?”

27

davis 6

benjamin willen Decades night in Davis 6.

Naturally, it was the ‘60s. All the kids danced with flowers in their hair, bathed in the tie-dye light as the band played on.

Well, almost all of them. This girl from 2, in a flapper dress, was flat on her back in the corner. This boy from 9, in a flannel and chucks, was waving his arms and tripping hard.

Joel and I laughed. We jumped up and down, cracked our cups, and sang along.

Davis 6 looks no different from Davis 1 to 5, and 7 to 11. Two stories tall, weird marks on the windows, weathered brick walls. But it’s the real party dorm on a block full of them.

Joel helped me move in at the end of paper week, before he went off to Amsterdam. AJ and Rob gave me a tour after break, so the whole block would know his room was my room now. That night, over tacos and bong hits, they showed me pictures of parties 28

past.

Don’t match Joel, B—, they said. Do him better.

Our reputation is at stake.

Are you sure? I said.

What? they said. You don’t know?

They went on and on about hard it was. Being the party master, for all of Davis, and not just 6. I pulled out my phone.

Was it really that hard? I texted Joel.

He was stoned on a bench by some canal. But his brain was still on New York time.

You have no idea, he said. But you can do it.

My first task? Decades night, revisited. And it wasn’t hard at all.

A decade for each dorm on the block. As long as we had the right outfits, we could move from one decade to the next, and feel welcome anywhere we went.

The flapper and the grunge kid came back. I thought about kicking them out, now that I could do that. But I didn’t. It sure looked like the brown acid was fun.

29

Valentine’s Day wasn’t hard, either.

I pulled from my memories of Halloween. Make a pretty ballroom, instead of a spooky haunted house, although I’d rather have made a haunted house. And try not to let the cupids strike us down, instead of clowns with knives. A few cupids came in. They put their bows on the floor and slow danced. The clowns were never that polite.

Also, our pre-spring break extravaganza. Wow, that was a breeze.

All black, soft flashes, blinding light, all black again. Over and over as the beats flowed and everybody danced. Like they were already in Florida, or the Bahamas, or wherever else they’d be going while I was stuck in the Hamptons. Way more fun than our pre-winter break extravaganza. In which case, I’d have had to respect all faiths. Yes, even the skunk cult.

Where could you go from there? What was I supposed to do on Friday nights when there was nothing to celebrate?

Well, first, art night.

30

We were pop art. Neon hair, pale makeup. Coke bottles and soup cans in hand.

Cubists came in from 3. Those nudes, they screamed with their animal mouths, straight out of Guernica itself. Dadaists came in from 5. A bride in glass, a plastic waterfall, a hand crushed by a urinal.

But they didn’t stay long.

Next, science night.

We were DNA. A twisting chain of jumpsuits.

Red, yellow, blue, green.

HIV came in from 8. They wore our colors, a sickly purple poking out from underneath. Most of us didn’t notice. Those who did, didn’t want to break us apart. Until someone chased them away with a great big pack of condoms.

Then, war night.

We were Vietnam. Tiny boats on a lazy river through the napalm fog.

The Civil War came in from 1. World War II from 4. Afghanistan from 10. The war on Christmas from 11. They warned us, and we didn’t listen. We sailed on and choked while they took us out. Bullets. Bombs.

31

Waterboards. Coffee cups. The horror, the horror.

Perhaps, I said, it had to be this way. Perhaps I did do Joel better. Perhaps I saved our reputation after all.

I coughed. AJ and Rob took another hit.

You’re perhapsing it too hard, B—, AJ said. We really had nothing to save. We just had to prove we were still on top.

Guess you succeeded, Rob said. They’re not coming cause they think we’re cool. They’re coming cause they know they can’t compare.

But they’re trying, I said. They’re really trying. It doesn’t matter where they go, or where they’re from.

They all just want to have fun. Don’t they?

Delivery arrived.

I didn’t want to be the life of Davis 6. I just wanted folks who made me feel welcome. Not once or twice a month. Every weekend. That was all I needed, really. And the first decades night was the first night I got that.

32

Joel built that night around a question. How did people live? What did they do?

I took it further each time. The questions people asked. The discoveries they made. All the shit they chose to ignore.

Where do you go from there?

I don’t know.

I thought all this planning would be fun. More fun than choking on dactylic hexameter, at least.

But no. It’s wearing me out, making them think I’m someone I’m not. Someone who perhapses himself and everyone around him to death.

I text Joel. I forget he’s under the red lights, all night long.

A knock on my door. Siena, from 7, and also my Latin class.

Hey there, she says, I just wanted to say— You’re finding Ovid too confusing? I say.

Oh, no, she says. What I wanted to say is, I like your thinking.

33

You do? I say. Really? It’s wearing me out.

I do, she says. Really, I do. It’s inspiring the whole block. Going back to the decades, but deeper and deeper, so we see both the great and terrible, until we’ve ended up… where?

I remember conspiracy night. We had been the gunmen on the grassy knoll. 7 came in, and they were Watergate. I don’t mention it. If Siena saw me then, she saw me passed out. When I woke up, my magic bullet lay inches from my brain.

But you don’t have to wear yourself out, she says.

Or the rest of us.

I have an idea, I say. Don’t tell our neighbors.

I won’t, she says. It’s just parties this weekend.

Nothing special. Just parties.

Fatalism night in Davis 6.

The whole block comes over. They don’t know what they’re about to see.

All black. Soft flashes. Blinding light. All black again.

34

Then, a party. Nothing special. Just a party.

It doesn’t matter where you go, I say, or where you’re from. We all want the same things.

Some leave. Most stay.

AJ and Rob wave from across the room. Siena and I wave back.

We sing along, crack our cups, jump up and down, and laugh.

35

BISMUTH

SEVERAL LIMES

36

PABULUM sana nasib

What is salt without pepper? What is ketchup without fries? Most importantly, what is a jar of basil pesto without pasta? Nothing most would consider a satisfying experience. Few would scoop into me with a silver spoon and lap me up like mother’s milk to the tongue. What’s more, I would never want to be diminished into such a state, by an object so smooth and boring or an organ so sloppy, almost crass in its movements. No, it must be the pasta. The whole wheat variety, elongated noodles or precise penne, but never curly ones. I’d rather die than touch something so inelegant, and I will, eventually, although the death is not in the sense which humans would think it is.

My inconsistency is broken down in parts smaller than the tiniest raindrop, and I become one with the human, until I am not.

You may say that I am pretentious in the manner in which I speak, or even hypocritical for my response to being licked up with a tongue considering the manner of my future excretion. To that may I say, there is no dignity in existing, but that which we create 37

for ourselves of course. What, you’d rather I live and think as plainly as that carton of evaporated milk on the very top shelf? Tasteless but for a dash of vanilla, churning out sentences full of fat such as “cool” and “hey” and “later”. Later how? Later why? It isn’t as if we’re taken out on a daily basis. We aren’t a jar of almond butter taken out at 9:30 am on weekdays and before noon Saturdays and Sundays. We are reserved for special circumstances, on the whims of others. But I am in a tricky spot.

See, as I had stated earlier and will entail in greater detail presently, I am rarely taken down from my glass shelf full of crowded condiments, many of whom are not up to my standards conversationally speaking. Partially because it isn’t often that the humans here cook pasta, and they never make margarita pizza although they love to order it (a blessing, I would hate to be entangled in such a greasy mess).

I understand this. The worst however, is the days when the stove is brought to a boil, there is a feeling of anticipation for this is when I will be brought out to perfect a meal that would be bland and unrelieved without my tasteful appeal. But then, sometimes I am not chosen even then. Instead, they grab that jar of 38

marinara sauce across from me. It smiles an attractive red grin. And I am green with envy. It is unfair that that oaf is taken out so much more than me, when I have the sooner expiration date. When I am coveted, it is merely popular out of convenience. But eventually, I am taken out, and slowly, as time goes by, less and less of me is stuck here with everything I can never be.

39

my funniest tweet several limes

I stand in front of a crowd, lifeless, joyful, experienced, hopeful.

The crowd sits beneath me, jealous, analyzing, contingent, patronizing.

Each person holds a stone. Each mouth full of air.

Every movement a tactful one. Every eye a watchful one.

I take my soiled notebook of jokes. “Beans,” I say into the mic.

One person stands up. He chucks the rock, hitting me in my spleen.

The rest follow, and I am devoted by stone.

40

soliloquy of a semicolon sofia aguilar

It is my lot in life to be constantly misunderstood.

A misused, mistakenly implemented, frequently abused mark made of a period for a head and a comma for a leg, this body of misshapen proportions. Perhaps that is one reason for your confusion. I am made of punctuation that already exists, the in-between of the very components that shape my entity. The other, of course, is that you consider me standoffish, unapproachable, hard to read and even harder from which to invoke speech. Unlike quotation marks, I prefer to keep my private business unspoken. To my frequent dismay, however, idle chatter spreads even among punctuation. People are surprised to hear that I am incompatible with the colon and that parentheses are my lovers more than friends.

But surprise is not the same as respect. From the moment of my invention, I have found myself incorrectly placed before incomplete clauses, dependent thoughts as though someone seeing a woman solely for her money (never mind her personality) or a child that is really an adult but has yet to move out of their par41

ents’ house. Using me mistakenly happens most when you long to appear more educated than you actually are, than the average American (but unlike the average Brit, that’s low-hanging fruit). You shape your words to convince not only your reader but yourself that you alone are in tune with a language that evades even the most intelligent of scholars, fearing the comma be seen as too lowly or working-class.

On the other hand, many of you outright reject me, treat me with suspicion as a tool that can never commit to either half of its identity. I lack the flighty promiscuity of the comma*, the irritating indecisiveness of the backslash, the masculinity of Hemingway, Chandler, and King.

But strangely, I don’t mind. I’m not as vain as the ampersand or as pompous as the question and exclamation marks (in my opinion, the three are used far too easily and too often). Nor am I desperate to be employed like brackets, braces, and chevrons (though I do sympathize with the asterisk even if—or perhaps because—it, like the at and number sign, is now being used online for reasons incomprehensible to me).

Instead, I lie in wait, hungry for the page, burning 42

for my only two purposes, seeking lists with too many commas included and two complete clauses you wish to be valued the same; one day, I too will know what it is to be needed, understood. *Courtesy of British columnist and my adversary Ben MacIntyre

43

Another Way to spell Hero, Alternative Title: the word Frog with too many syllables Several Limes

44

on animals sara yossef

Domesticated animals have been procured to serve a utilitarian purpose to our capitalistic society.

The wild oxen and buffalo were whittled down to the modern-day heifer, and we’ve made wolves our living baby dolls. One animal that is of no utility to modern humanity is the frog. While it can be argued that the poison dart frog can be used in a hitman scenario, or perhaps the psychedelic frogs you lick can be of some benefit, but apart from that, the average bullfrog merely exists in our world.

It was frogs that dictated the first eleven years of my life.

The creek in my backyard was teaming with the amphibious beasts, so much so it became a problem my parents were itching to fix. But they couldn’t as they saw how much happiness the frogs brought me.

I captured them, named them, built them aquariums in my room, subsequently lost a few of them in my home, and retrieved their petrified bodies months later, and stored them in a Ziploc bag underneath my bed.

45

The frogs taught me lessons that elementary school failed to show me. They taught me the horror of amplexus and the crude performance in which eggs were fertilized, the natural cycles of life and death, and not to be afraid of insects, or dirt, or mud. It’s merely a part of our environment.

Every minute I was away from school, I was stationed at the freshwater that streamed in my backyard. I stared at the frogs from 3:10 when the school bus dropped me off until my mom called me in for dinner at 6. I then went to my room to read about the various species that populated northeast Ohio. I ended my nighttime routine with frog sounds on tape, to lull me into a swampy slumber.

It’s been a while since I’ve spent time outside with the frogs. I now function within normal society, not as a one-dimensional frog addict, but hopefully as a fully realized person. Was conforming to a material society overall beneficial for my character, or did it make me another clone? Why should I spend my life in pursuit of knowledge if I can spend it in eternal bliss with the frogs.

I don’t think we were put here to domesticate 46

animals, but perhaps they are a necessity in un-domesticating us. These grotesque slimy forms remind me that life is weird and exciting and unpredictable.

47

bear rug

shawn campbell I recently learned that if you want to get a bear rug made it’s going to cost you around $6,000 and take as long as a year and half. This might seem like a lot of time and money, but you need to be realistic about the situation. I don’t imagine there are that many bear rug makers left in the world. Not just anyone can make bear rugs. It takes a lot of skill to turn a bear carcass into something that anyone trying to turn their living room into a high end 1970’s pornographic film set would be proud to have grace their hardwood floor. You know the kind of movie I’m talking about. The kind that actually tries to have a plot and stars people with ridiculous names like Charlie Buttermilk and Chesty McTitterson. Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about.

This begs the question, how do people even become a bear rug maker? I never saw that booth at my high school’s career day. Maybe it’s some kind of apprenticeship. I don’t know. Bear rug maker doesn’t really seem like the kind of career most people set out to get. It’s probably something you just kind of fall 48

into. One day you’re stocking groceries onto shelves.

You help some random guy find the canned peaches.

The two of you strike up a conversation. Next thing you know.......bam........you’re an apprentice bear rug maker, on the road to a lifetime of badassery.

That’s right. Badassery. Don’t try to fool yourself.

Bear rug maker is probably the most badass job in the world. I know you think your work in accounting is pretty interesting, but news flash, no one cares. The only job that probably comes close to being a badass as bear rug maker is being the personal lion tamer for President Theodore Roosevelt. However, Teddy’s been dead for some time now and is giving no signs of coming back, so bear rug maker wins by default.

Wait a minute you’re probably saying, what about firemen, they’re pretty badass, and the ladies love them. Please, I don’t care if you’re a fireman with an accent. There is no way you’re pulling more tail than a bear rug maker.

Ladies, imagine you’re on a date and you ask the ruggedly macho man across the table from you what he does for a living. He answers that he makes bear rugs. Boom, that’s all she wrote. You won’t even get 49

through the appetizer before you’re telling him it’s time to go back to his place for some hot loving making on a massive pile of bear rugs. You’ll probably have half your clothes off before you even get out of the restaurant. Some of you will undoubtedly claim that you have too much class and self-respect to ever lose control like that, but that would make you a filthy liar. No woman can resist the masculine charms of a bear rug maker.

Maybe that’s why it takes so long to get a bear rug made. Bear rug makers are probably getting so much ass that they only have time to work on bear rugs two hours a day.....tops. Why do you think people buy bear rugs? They do it in the hope that the essence of the bear rug maker will release enough pheromones in their house to jump start their sad little sex lives.

It’s a verifiable fact that bear rug maker is the number one role-playing fantasy for couples trying to reignite the fire in their relationship. It even beats out classics like Fireman Rescue, Boss and Secretary Working Late, Getting Out of a Speeding Ticket, and Pope John XXIII Missing Easter Mass Because of a Naughty Nun. 50

If all this has you intrigued and you’re thinking about getting a bear rug made, here’s a few tips: 1. Make sure you hunt and kill your own bear.

Bear rugs require rugged manliness from start to finish. Don’t bring a bear rug maker some random bear carcass you found alongside the highway.

2. Don’t send your wife or girlfriend to drop off your bear carcass or pick up your bear rug when it’s done. I don’t care how faithful they are, once they walk through the door of the bear rug maker’s shop they’re going to be hit by so much raging machismo that it’s going to reduce them to the state of a teenager at a pop concert.

3. It’s legal to mail your bear carcass to the bear rug maker. Sure the box might be heavy, drip a little blood, and definitely stink up the mail truck, but screw the mailman, he’s union and gets four weeks of vacation a year.

4. Don’t wear your bear rug like a robe and walk around your house talking in a racist Native American accent or making poor quality bear sounds. Bear rugs are supposed to be classy.

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Let’s keep them that way.

This is totally not brought to you by the North American Bear Rug Association based in Saskatoon, Saskatchewan. I was in no way paid fat wads of colorful monopoly like Canadian dollars to write this. <END>

52

mouse dreaming frances kenney

53

a cheeky, unofficial, & unnecessary review of a 14-year-old album kat lo faro

Formed in 2003, the noughties indie rockpop band The Wombats perfectly captures the teen angst and universal insecurities we experience as we grow up. The musical marsupials consist of Matthew “Murph’’ Murphy (guitar, vocals), Dan Haggis (percussion), and Tord Øverland Knudsen (of whose name I was planning to include a phonetic spelling, but after watching several Norwegian lesson videos on YouTube I decided I’d embarrass myself less by simply admitting I’m still unclear as to that damned Ø’s pronunciation) on bass guitar. Feelings of depression, anxiety, and heartache are combined with major keys and relentlessly lively drums.

Combining usually-upbeat melodies and assertive drum beats with lyrics reminiscent of the reasons behind the angry tears we cried on our twin mattresses in the ninth grade, their “euphoric tales of romantic misadventures,” - in the words of the almighty Spotify - capture the best and worst parts of adolescence.

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Murph’s heavy Liverpool accent violates professional, neutralized syllable pronunciation standards, creating a sense of genuineness (genuinity? I don’t know if either of those are words, but y’all get the point. I’m not an English major). Loud bass lines, simple guitar, and the unmistakably Wombatian asthma attack-inducing drums are what you can expect from the band’s early work.

The Wombats’ whole discography, when followed chronologically, takes the listener through those god-awful years between the ages of ten and, well, whenever those cherry Kool-Aid-stained upper lip feelings of immaturity are supposed to end (or at least evolve into finely aged Merlot-stained upper lip feelings of insecurity). And after listening through their latest album, 2018’s Beautiful People Will Ruin Your Life, it seems as The Wombats may well be in their late 30s feeling matured yet similar uncertainties.

And here I thought I’d blossom into a socially adept woman by the time I was 25. Guess I better rethink that. But I digress…

After releasing an exclusive preview EP in Japan, their first album was released in the US and UK in 55

2007. Entitled The Wombats Proudly Present A Guide to Love, Loss & Desperation, the album perfectly encapsulates the awkwardness of our young years, as well as the nostalgia for the laughable innocence they carried. I related to their music in middle school, and I relate to it in college. I’d be curious to see if anyone else feels the same way, or if I’m simply emotionally stunted. We’ll just wait and see on that one.

Love, Loss, & Desperation, the aural version of a wide-ruled notebook scribbled with your crushes’ name and that weird S thing we all somehow knew how to draw, verbalizes those feelings of insecurity, restlessness, hopeless romanticism, and general inability to understand (let alone talk to) girls. The track “School Uniforms” is an ebullient, semi-slappingbass-heavy lament about trying to impress a crush, but feeling woefully inadequate. Murph bemoans the ill-fitting school uniforms, his lack of a Walkman, and his terrible middle-part haircut, blaming these on not being able to get the girl. What’s worse, the girl gets a boyfriend who smokes Marlboro Reds and has a beard. How can he compete with that? (How can he?)

The Wombats’ exploration of self-consciousness 56

in relationships doesn’t end at schoolyard crushes, though. “Lost in the Post” presents the insecurities surrounding the deep and emotional part of relationships. “I should have known you didn’t have the time, my dear / To let this twenty-something bring you down with his list of fears” it opens, filling the listener’s mind with flashbacks of every intense conversation with every partner they’ve ever had.

Or maybe that’s just me again. Regardless, the vulnerability of opening up to a partner is the most stressful part of a relationship. And yet we all have to do it at some point. None of us want to tell someone we love about our childhood trauma, our daddy issues, or our fear of being alone. What if they don’t understand? What if they think we’re broken? What if they leave? The Wombats soothe these deep emotions with a cheerful keyboard riff, a sharp rhythm guitar, and perpetually loud, simple snare drum and crash cymbal percussion.

“Moving to New York” summarizes the feeling of needing to get out from wherever you are, of your house, of your hometown, of being trapped within a confusing adolescence, wanting nothing more than 57

to be 10 years older where things make sense (even though I think every person on this campus can agree that things make infinitely less sense 10 years later).

The chorus - “So I’m moving to New York / ‘Cause I’ve got problems with my sleep” and second verse “I put one foot forward and ended up 30 yards back / Am I losing touch or am I just completely off the track?” embody the struggle of not fitting in and looking for a quick fix. And then realizing the quick fix doesn’t exist. Take me, for example: After sucking allaround from grades 6 through 12, I thought moving to England would fix all my problems. Unfortunately, yet predictably, I’m still sucking. Maybe New York will be different? I can only hope. Lord knows I’m not going to do any introspection to solve my problems.

Do I look like some kind of hippie?

Well, as a self-identified hopeless romantic - cute dudes hit my line - infatuation with an unreachable and likely inappropriate person is not unknown to me. It appears Murph is the same. Tracks like “Patricia the Stripper” and “Dr. Suzanne Mattox PHD” illustrate the yearning for love and sex with a learned, older woman. Dressing up in a suit hoping Patricia will notice him, Murph sings about how “alcohol 58

mixed with an empty feeling inside” leads him to fall in what he calls love, or what an outsider might see instead as infatuation or lust. His “coked-up, Botox girl” is too hard to reach, and he watches her go home with other men at the end of the night. His vocalization towards the end of the track is akin to moaning about in pain and frustration. Similar is Dr. Suzanne (but pronounced Susan, which has bothered me since I discovered the song). Murph excitedly tells us she’s his GP (or primary care provider for all you Yankees) and that she even has a PhD. Lines such as “I think she likes me / Well, she’s always smiling” portray the naïveté we had (or maybe still have) when looking for signs that we have a chance at love. But unfortunately Murph’s relationship with Dr. Suzanne stays strictly professional. RIP. Though these tunes seem to end only in blue balls, feelings of inadequacy, or a deeply discouraging, depressing failure to capture her heart, there is some strange form of hope within Love, Loss, & Desperation. “Let’s Dance to Joy Division” is inarguably the best song on the album and possibly of their whole discography, and if you disagree, I’ll happily meet you in the alley behind the Denny’s on Hillside. One of 59

my absolute favorite tunes, it epitomizes our foolish decisions to ignore our deepest emotional turmoils in favor of, well, doing anything else. As any emo/goth/ other genre of depressed middle schooler knows, Joy Division is notorious for their rather bleak subject matter. They’re not exactly dancing material. But that’s where the beauty is. It’s a lesson in finding some good in a whole cesspool of Bad.™ Dan Haggis’ breathless 120 BPM snare and high-hat rhythm accompanies a catchy matching guitar and bass riff. “Let’s dance to joy division / And celebrate the irony / Everything is going wrong / But we’re so happy / Let’s dance to joy division / And raise our glass to the ceiling / ‘Cause this could all go so wrong / But we’re so happy,” is rather obvious in its meaning - which is simply, fuck it. Nothing is going my way, but I’m going to dance about it. I’m going to celebrate what I know I’ve got whilst I’ve still got it.

Of course the theme of childhood is not lost on this track, either; the children of Llangattock Primary School (I’m not even going to try with that one) are featured vocalists during the bridge, confirming those ever-present feelings of immaturity, and assisting in the album coming full circle. The irony of 60

“Let’s Dance to Joy Division” is what ties Love, Loss, and Desperation all together. The broken hearts, the unflattering uniforms, the failed romances and sexual rendezvous with women out of your league, and the self-consciousness and undue embarrassment from merely existing as a youth. They all lead up to a lesson that I think most of us are still learning today: Bad things in life don’t make a bad life. We can still move to New York (and some of us did!). We can still dance to Joy Division. We can still maintain that naïve outlook, allowing ourselves some semblance of innocence in having hope for everything around us. A Guide to Love, Loss & Desperation shows us that we can feel pain and still enjoy life.

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Chickie chickie Several LimeS

Rip the fries from my mouth and sesame seeds from my throat.

Take all the time you need, dissecting my corpse craft a hypothesis on how I died, figure out when my heart gave out after the four for four from Wendy’s.

Sherlock, it’s not hard.

It’s pretty obvious.

But I love being evaluated tell me how my childhood affects my habits talk about my loveless life.

I’ll be in Heaven chillin’ with my friends eating from the Wendy’s in the sky.

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A Wedding!

Rachel Saruski

tered with children’s toys and confetti. Upstage center

-

of lawn chairs and bedsheets, the front of it open for the wedding tradition. Taped to the top of it is a sign crecrayons, and glitter, which -

-

children’s play chairs, with a space left in between them to sit in these chairs, with the occasional seat left empty.

Downstage left sits a plastic 63

dren dressed in formal attire bits, birds etc. MOM and DAD

-

Some of the children sit in the empty seats and talk among hind the aisle. TAYLOR walks es, besides the occasional meow or coo. He presses a

-

Wedding March begins to play. grabs all the items besides holding them in her arms. She then passes the items to each child and pet pair. She then 64

walks down the aisle slowly to with a leashed cat, tossing

Mom This is gonna be an interesting one…

Dad I’ll drink to that.

(Mom and Dad clink their glasses together, both downing their wine. Another child walks down the aisle with their rabbit and the ring

grass. CHILD 1 chases behind Child 1

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Emily (whispering to Taylor angri-

(The children and animals standing on either side of the Taylor

-

-

and Bella walk down the aisle

other animal friends. Taylor smiles and follows while Emily Emily Ugh, Bella! We rehearsed this!

66

Mom Emily

on with SADIE, an adorable

ly made this dress herself,

-

it. They slowly walk down the paid attention in rehearsal. noises, cheering for their beEmily Mom

67

at the end of the aisle and

clears her throat and stands Emily hearts of Sadie and Bella. This is

Mom

Emily Mom! Shh! leash, and spend the rest of their

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(Sadie barks and her kip-

Emily I keep that ceremony short, so I

stories of all time. Hit it, Taylor.

Emily

er for as long as anybody can re-

ferred to the animal shelter, they two strands on the same leash. They

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Child 2 to handle!

Emily the animal shelter in search of a -

70

-

Dad (to himself, taking a sip from choice…

Mom Bill!

Emily And now, the soon-to-be barklyweds (Emily stares at the dogs indog’s speech. They all lean

Oh my god/

Dad Mom

Shh!

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gasp. Soon after, Bella lets Emily are crying. Taylor wipes

Mom

Emily rings.

in front of the dogs and tries to slide the rinks on their

72

Emily Mom Dad Mom

-

Dad

with the dogs and the rings as

Dad something. Well, more like for Bella and Sadie.

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shape of hearts that read,

Emily Oh my gosh! Dad, it’s perfect! Thank

Dad

Dad (Dad kneels down to the dogs and attaches the dog tags to each of their collars. He gets

Mom 74

Don’t start.

Dad Emily -

whimpers.

Dad Where did she learn all these big words?

Mom

Dad Emily

barks and whimpers.

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-

the table and grabs the wine Emily wine glass at a wedding, as it sigbreak.

Dad

SHUT. UP BILL.

Mom

(Emily wraps the glass in a

die’s paws. A long silence en-

Emily Come on Sadie, remember what we practiced!

(Sadie lifts her paw and crashes it down on the glass.

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Emily may now kiss the bride!

(Bella and Sadie lick each and animals cheer meow, coo, -

and starts throwing them into the crowd as Taylor leads Sadie and Bella down the aisle, following and dancing behind them. In the midst of all the celebration and chaos, Mom Mom We did good with them, sweetie.

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Dad say.

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A Boozing Around Hiral Tanna

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Hangover Celia Meade

Although I am named El Supreme Presidente today my head anchors my body in languor Yes I’m your director your mentor, your chauffeur.

Is that enough reason to get up or stand up?

Damn you yesterday night!

From whence the whimper comes and hard surfaces rose to meet my face.

I know—I’m your mother but torpor deflates me please, take the keys spend the day as you need.

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Look!

Several Limes

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Cut

Sofia Baldassari You’ve cut into my skin and drawn my blood Made a map of scars across my body Every time we part I swear Never again But you and I are in a world where I can be ostracized for trying to leave you And society forces us together Even if we part, it’s only a matter of time And a matter of days before we come together And the blood flows Tears fly And red marks appear I use band-aids and makeup to try to cover up my mistakes But I know my cuts and bruises are still here to stay And you are still Going to draw my blood I hate shaving

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A Poetic Retelling of a wack-ass dream i had involving a friend of mine becoming a mountaineering vlogger Harry Saroff

Donning hiking boots as of yet unworn, a mountain-trail vlogging star was born: as Ash braved trails beyond the pale, their viewer count grew in high avail.

With their vlog they did confide all their vast conquered inclines, but on this day, a presence felt challenged even Ash the Vlogger’s svelte.

A clearing rustled; footsteps shuffled, Ash took heed, prepared for a scuffle.

Away from their phones, Ash’s viewers did flee upon glimpsing a furry monstrosity.

But as the shadowy figure rose into sight, Ash cast away their misbegotten fright and swiftly addressed their shaken crowd: “It’s cool, everyone chill” Ash calmly avowed.

“Oh my god, is that Ash?” 83

“Oh my god, is that Bigfoot?”

“Wanna make some TikToks?”

“Is that even a question?”

A chance encounter through and through, Ash can count Bigfoot among their friends; Can you?

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Captive World Becca Willson

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Recess

Audrey Deng Genoese sailors have long been blamed for being the catalysts for the bubonic plague, for they were the ones who sailed their ships far and wide, unwittingly bringing their stowaways, diseased rats, to countries along the Atlantic coast. Turns out that these rats were the diseased vessels. The problem wasn’t the sailors themselves, but the stowaway rodents they carried in the 14th century.

The malady spread quickly, but saw its near-complete end in the 18th century, long after the sailors were alive. During their lifetimes they had been hated; people blamed these sailors for the plague outbreak, and a little unfairly so. Many sailors died hating themselves for what they had inflicted upon humanity.

After all, the world was supposed to end. I decided to use my time machine to bring back Pietro, a Genoese sailor, to show him that the bubonic plague didn’t end human civilization like they believed it would at the peak of the crisis. I took him to the best place to showcase contemporary human health and vitality: elementary school.

ME: Well, here we are: my old elementary school. Look at this playground—these kids are all so healthy and full of vitality, don’t you 86

think?

PIETRO: What? (Looks around, eyes bulging.)

My god, what have I brought upon the world?

Listen to the screams of the children! Look at the terror in the frantic motion of their limbs!

Their tiny little limbs! They will die within the next twenty seconds, at most—the plague does not take children kindly. Oh god, we have been caught at the worst stage! I must act with haste.

I must quarantine them or light them on fire or something!

ME: (See the teachers standing nearby and panic, pulling Pietro closer to swing sets.) You can’t say that so loudly! And what do you mean?

These kids have recess.

PIETRO: Have re…recess? They have it? Is recess some sort of disease? Is that another term for my Great Plague? And so, you mean to say the Death has taken all these children? (Squints, then points at a young, red-headed boy.) What about that little boy who is running around?

Waving his arms so madman-like? (Squints closer, then gasps with horror.) My god, he has all the symptoms! Black spots that cover the skin, sweat that drips all over the face, screams that tear apart the ear—dear lord. He shall be dead in three minutes. I must start a fire.

(Throws shoes and hat into a pile.)

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ME: No, Pietro, no! He’s not dying anytime soon! He probably just hit puberty early and got blackheads or something. And he’s obviously sweaty—it’s super-hot out and he’s running pretty fast. As for the screaming, it’s recess. He’s scared for his life.

PIETRO: Meaning?

ME: Basically, these kids have a half-hour every day at school to do whatever they want. They can run around and shoot hoops and push each other off monkey bars. It’s all fair game!

PIETRO: So…no fire?

ME: No. PIETRO: But what of the singing children over there?

(In the distance, six girls sing “Ring around a Rosy.”)

PIETRO: ‘Ashes, ashes, we all…fall…down?’

We all fall down? What is this sick chant? Are they actually trying to summon the plague?

One…four, five, six girls...my stars, that’s the number of death! Are they witches? (Yanks off cape and tears off mustache, throwing them into the growing pile.) I need a fire! Sailors!

Grab a torch! We have a bonfire that is begging for flame!

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ME: It’s just a children’s song, Pietro. The song doesn’t do anything.

PIETRO: Prove it! I demand you to prove it!

ME: Um. I don’t really know how to prove it. I mean, you don’t see anyone getting the plague right now, do you?

PIETRO: I do. (Dies).

And this is how I brought the bubonic plague into the modern age. I write to you, my friend, now understandably your foe, from hiding. When I look out into the village below from the cold mouth of my lonely grotto I can hear the screams of children, mothers and fathers howling, loved ones mourning over their dead, and I weep. I sing songs to myself of my sad tale. But still I cling to hope. I wait. I wait for a time machine to come and take me to the future where someone can tell me that this was not my fault at all, none of it.

89

Be Still

Several Limes 9:00 am. I walk through the automatic doors. To my right is the Subway attached to Walmart. It always smells like stale bread. Ahead is the Women’s Apparel.

I pass swiftly by, pushing ahead of the Sunday Night Football crowd. Tonight is some sort of big game. I never cared much for sports. Never cared much for anything. To my right, rows of young boy’s shirts and shorts fly by in a blur. I reach the end of the aisle and turn left. Ahead are Children’s Toys, Outdoor Necessities, and Electronics. I walk past various garden supplies and turn right into Electronics. The people I pass are already annoyed with me. I am carrying very heavy and bulky cargo, of which sticks out from under my arm and prods unsuspecting shoppers. I understand. I can be annoying.

I move through the Electronics labyrinth, until I find my treasure at the end. A large tub stands before me- plastic but sturdy. Electric blue with the Walmart logo laid sideways across its circular torso. The body is transparent. And inside, hundreds of movies, like leaves piled on top of each other. A metal sign sticks out from the center- “$5 DVD Classics- Unbeatable Prices”.

I set my easel down, and my canvas on top. My hand reaches inside my bag and pulls out some core 90

materials- palette, brushes, paint, a smock, an old tarp, my record player to play Hyden, a picnic basket filled with Spaghetti-O’s for lunch, and a picture of Bob Ross, for good luck. I dot colors onto my palette, and lick my paintbrush to begin. The first stroke is of my own fluid, as always. Paint rips from its spot on the palette as I draw my brush outward. A web of Seafoam Green connects the material to the medium. I am running through my subject. Every Adam Sandler film is here, and I’m trying to capture them all.

Indiscreet bodies bump and jar into my sides.

Names are thrown out but lose their weight once they hit my ears. They become annoyed when they trip over my tarp but sometimes people have to recognize when something isn’t being made for them. And then, someone decides to challenge me.

A man in a soulless grey jumpsuit comes with a paintbrush of his own. It is large- about the size of his body, and kept in a yellow bucket. The water inside is the same as his suit- soulless. Grey. Devoid of the color of life. I notice he has no paint with him, until he reveals what his canvas actually is. The floor of Walmart itself. He lungs the paintbrush from the bucket and begins to paint the world around me.

Literally and figuratively- he encases me in a circle of water, but also reflects what surrounds him. People walk through his masterpiece, not noticing what his imagination has brought to life- monochrome prairies 91

of dirty water, an ocean of dust. Each groove is an emotion. Every stroke tells a story.

I set my brush down as he works. Foolish to assume that I wouldn’t find amazing talent here. I want to bow to his superiority, but two men in navy uniforms approach us.

“You need to leave,” the first one said.

“Yeah, what he said,” the second one said.

I said, “What did you say?”

The second one said, “Yeah, what he said.”

“I said, you need to leave.” the first one said.

I said, “Why do we have to leave?”

And the first one said, “Not him. You.” They both took my arms. In a fury I tried to break free, but when their grip strength proved to be stronger than my own strength, I decided to show them my jaw strength and bit them. When he recoiled I dashed for my painting, but hit the other painter instead. We both landed on my easel, wood chips finding their way into the crevices of my skin.

“Fools!” I proclaimed. “You can’t see the beauty in anything! Look at this bin! It’s more than just bad movies. Look- can’t you see the mountains that form from jagged edges? Can’t you see tulips about to sprout from the ground? A pile of dead leaves in the early fall? This is a graveyard. Hundreds of names are 92

contained in the credits of these films- names you can only encounter here. Have some respect for the dead!

For the inanimate! For still life! Because there is still life-” They had enough, and changed at me again. I ducked under them, grabbing my canvas. Yet when I picked it up, underneath was an impression of both my body and my rival painter’s body. The colors bled into the murky water of the floor, and in the scuffle some Spaghetti-O’s found their way into the mix.

The wonderful aspect of this piece is that the impression of two bodies were there- something alive created this. It could have been my best piece yet.

But those two guards carried me away before I could name it, install it, or even appreciate it.

Yet, I could have sworn the other painter looked at me before I left Walmart. I saw him earlier pick up my picture of Bob Ross, and while looking at both the picture and the bargain bin, said under his breath: “Mountains, huh?”

93

Plague Poems

Cassandra Traina FDG'3H'II'J?KL:<?M I woke up two hours later than I intended.

At noon, I finished a novel set in Africa, which ended with one woman disfiguring another by throwing hot oil on her.

On my walk––which I like to take at 4 pm, to spend some time with the setting sun–– I saw a handsome man and a very large and frightening parked van with two men sitting in it. On my way home, I met a WWII vet named Bill Matthews.

He asked me never to call him Matt, like his grammar-school classmates always did. I promised I wouldn’t.

He said, “have a nice evening, Nancy,” and we parted ways.

Later, for dinner, I prepared salmon that made the whole house smell like the Grand Central Market, with its fish stalls positioned just behind the glass entrance.

But I didn’t marinate the salmon long enough, and so it wasn’t as flavorful as I’d hoped. Sophia told me I have a problem with everything, so I turned the night into a problem: a trap I often set for myself.

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Who knows what will happen tomorrow.

FDG'N5'II'F1!OKK1PQ':DLK1FQ I cleaned up the cat puke with paper dinner napkins because that’s all we had. You accused me of telling you what to do, and then you threw the blue bottle filled with the homemade vinegar cleaning solution at my stomach, to prove your own free will, I guess.

I folded the laundry we did together when neither of us had enough for a full load. You told me whose socks are whose because you see those kinds of details better than I do. And after the wash had been separated and put on our respective beds, I ran my fingers, dipped in olive oil and honey, through my hair because it’s been very dry lately. None of us had seen Sleepless in Seattle, so we watched it. It was underwhelming. <QE'N4'II'R1'E?FSK'T?1K'LFK1U'1'<DFSK' O?GQ'KD'U1GQ'T1KO'MDL'?FMPD:QAV' I moved my toothbrush to the downstairs bath95

room–– and the corporate toothpaste Sophie refuses to use.

I like the chemical fizz.

I hate peppermint; I like wintermint, whatever that is.

Our sink is in the corner of our bedroom.

Our toilet is behind a door to its right.

My nighttime routine didn’t work for all parties involved.

I brush my teeth in the downstairs bathroom now.

It’s easier that way.

W?F'B'II'KQPXQ:?KL:Q It’s all land.

There is desert in every direction, any way you wander.

There is a saturated word: wander.

The world can feel claustrophobic, but not so much as the infinite celestial space.

I have a hard time sleeping on my back.

It makes me feel restless and finished.

Bury me on my left side.

96

I’ll be more comfortable.

My mother always told me, “you have to let your vagina breathe when you sleep.” My cunt has its own respiratory system–– it’s own pulse, too.

I am just a respiratory system and a face.

When you look at me head-on, I am really beautiful.

I hate to think what the back of my face looks like.

Someone sitting behind me on the train must have watched me eat that croissant, and slurp back the black tea from the dining car.

W?F'3C'II'U1G1F!'1J'!:DT1F!0'1J'?UPDJK' <M1F!'QGQ:M'<?M The solved future I have been working on all morning seems futile.

I may not be fertile. I may be too fertile.

I will breastfeed welcomingly; my left tit is leaking milk already.

My gynecologist wrote me a prescription for a mammogram for that problem in August, and now it’s 97

January, and I still haven’t gone.

If I don’t die from that, I’ll die from covid or possibly an aneurysm.

I make my own doctor’s appointments now. I have for three years.

And I don’t say “wait wait wait” anymore when I get shots, but I did pass out after giving blood in June.

I didn’t believe in passing out before that––I didn’t think it was real.

I am withering away from lack of use.

That is dramatic, but I’m rarely as dramatic as I used to be.

I used to play a knockoff candy crush.

Now I play expert sudoku, so I guess you can say I’ve grown.

W?F'N9'II'O?XXM'(1:KO<?M0'P:A'X:QJ1<QFK' Dad says, “actually, Kamala is a lot prettier than people say she is.”

Hali says, “you have a mental illness, Cassie. Fuck you.”

Sophia says, “can you please not? Just for today.”

98

Mom says, “wow, he’s swearing on a really big bible.”

Hali says, “I’ll never forget that you’re ruining Sophia’s birthday.”

Sophia says, “I read somewhere that Marilyn Monroe was Mexican.”

Hali says, “I really don’t think that’s true.”

I say, “ I can’t believe you guys had Shirley Temples last night, and you didn’t make me one.”

YQ('C'II'P1EO?QU'JO?FFDF'?F<'KOQ'Y1:JK' P?F'TOD'Z1JJQ<'PQ' I can’t help that I’m attracted to Michael Shannon, even in this horrible film, and I can’t believe I saw you, of all people in Times Square, of all places.

Times Square is a hell, and you are surely a demigod.

I was sweating, and my shoes were breaking.

You looked so cool, and you were surrounded by so many people–– none of them seemed to be strangers.

Stumbling out of the France Visa Application Center I didn’t know what to do with myself or where to go.

I saw a play, a matinee with all the old couples 99

who complained about the heat and then the cold and then the temperature of their white wine. Michael Shannon played Johnny, and Audra McDonald played Frankie. I thought an orgasm was about as close to merging as possible, but it’s really closer to leaving the room undetected.

You never gave me an orgasm, but I gave myself one the night you kissed me, later, after I walked home from the party.

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ALl’s (Club) Fair in Love (And Squalor) and war (In the chat): A choice transcription of the historic club fair battle

Harrison Rios (SLC Philosophy Club), Ash Freeman (Love and Squalor), Maya Pemble and Veronica Partain (Bronxeville Rotaract Club), Riley Maloney (Midnight Caberet), Reid Bean (Slc Speech and Debate Club), and Madeleine Albenese, Emily Neves, and Harry Saroff (The Croaker) Transcribed by Harry Saroff Emily Do you like comedy? Laughing? Then come on down to the second floor and visit The Croaker! Learn more about submissions, which are now OPEN! Harris “Every existing thing is born without reason, prolongs itself out of weakness, and dies by chance.” -Jean-Paul Sartre. Come find that reason with philosophy club! :) Emily The C in SLC stands for Croaker! Come visit us on the second floor!

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Harry Why Philosophize when you can swallow flies? Join the Croaker today!

SLC Love and Squalor Don’t worry if you’re not funny! Love and Squalor will love you anyway :) Visit our table on the first floor to learn about submission guidelines Maya Come check out the Rotaract Club of Bronxville for service project opportunities, international networking, and team building!

Harrison @the Croaker “Why should I fear death? If I am, death is not. If death is, I am not. Why should I fear that which can only exist when I do not?” - Epicurus.

Those who join the philosophy club are eternal Veronica Here in Bronxville Rotaract Club, we are doodling.

Join at the top of the first floor!

Harry Guys I think I started some serious beef here Madeleine Croakito ergo sum. I croak therefore I am 102

Reid Are you interested in public speaking, competitive acting or debate? Come check out SLC Speech and Debate up on the second floor!

Harry Nevermind, if this is a war, we’re winning Riley Eat bugs if you want, philosophize if you want, Midcab is a variety show and you need not worry what you do as long as it follows phase 2 guidelines set up by the campus Harry

Is anybody even here?

I feel like we’re all just talking to ourselves I swallow frog ^^^^^

Veronica Madeleine

Reid If you like talking to yourself, come check out SLC Speech and Debate!

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Maya Why eat bugs OR philosophize when you can DOODLE? Come check us out at the Bronxville Rotaract table Harrison “The unexamined life is not worth living” - Socrates. come at me frogs Madeleine did Socrates breathe through his skin? didn’t think so Riley maybe he did you don’t know the guy Harry Socrates was also executed Frogs, as far as I can tell, are alive and well Madeleine socrates has been real quiet Harrison “We are born princes and the civilizing process makes us frogs.” - Eric Berne.

Harry Finally something we can all get behind 104

<3

Harrison

Veronica Come join HOT TIME SEXY CLUB at the top of the first floor, cleverly disguised at Bronxville Rotaract club Emily Good thing submissions to The Croaker are still open!

Come show us all your comedic scripts, philosophical quotes or any amusing musings!

Harrison “Hell is proximity without intimacy.” - Dante. Join us Veronica Here at Bronxville Rotaract club, everyone is hot and I talk about my stepmom Harry Are you inviting us to hell?

Madeleine “why are there so many songs about rainbows” -kermit Harrison ^”Hell is other people, Harry” - Sartre.

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Harry “You’re a wizard, Harry” - Hagrid Harrison lol, Hagrid is my favorite philosopher

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A day in the life of an slc Straight boy Zoe Stanton-Savitz

He wakes in a bare room; unfurnished, the walls a pristine white, no decorations save the Juice Wrld poster in the corner concealing a fist-shaped hole.

His bed is unburdened by comfort, devoid except for a set of Target-bought cotton sheets — after all, real men sleep without a blanket. He slips into the same joggers and quarter-zip sweatshirt he’s worn since laundry day, last Thursday, and his signature slides.

Then, he runs his hands through his shaggy hair for the perfect bed-head chic look to embark on the day ahead. Before leaving his Slonim Woods house, he dons a Carhartt beanie and carelessly places a mask over just his mouth, too preoccupied by his painfully interesting thoughts to bother lifting it over his nose.

Begrudgingly, he mumbles an unenthused “hey” to his roommates playing X-Box in the living room.

They respond with a nod and an apathetic grunt as he begins his trudge to The Barbara Walters Campus Center for a bagel and a carton of milk, starting his day with a balanced breakfast in preparation of the five o’clock grind with his boys. On his way, he encounters a girl with whom he’s been casually flirting, almost dating, though her blue hair is somewhat of a turn-off. He prefers to keep his options open.

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“Whatcha listening to?” she asks cheerfully.

He takes out an airpod and releases an exasperated sigh as he responds.

“They’re pretty underground,” he starts. “I don’t know if you’ve heard of them.” “Try me.”

“Radiohead?”

She rolls her eyes.

The day progresses. In his first class — Aesthetics and History of Postmodern Painting — he is asked his pronouns.

“I’m a boy. Obviously,” he responds with an eye roll.

The discussion centers around Jackson Pollock and he makes the assessment that every splatter was absolutely intentional despite the chaotic nature of the work. An argument ensues between him and another student in the class but defensive, he insists he was just stating an opinion.

“God, no need to get so heated,” he says, fluffing his hair nervously.

He promptly turns his camera off and checks his Tinder — his bio says “Straight, 6 ft. 1, just a simple man from a concrete jungle looking for my Tinderella. Don’t waste my time,” his photos include a shirtless pic from the neck down, flaunting his flexed abs and 108

a portrait of him smiling broadly as he displays a huge carp. He notices a new match and sends a selfie of only his jawline and an audio message of his sexy voice — pitched slightly lower and a little breathy — saying “‘sup?”

After class finally ends, he decides he should blow off some steam and shoot a few hoops at the gym. On approach, however, he is thrown amiss by an Interpretive Movement course occurring on the basketball court. Aghast and a bit disturbed, he watches as students, eyes closed and arms flailing, dance freely, frolic, twirl and roll thoughtlessly across his floor. He lets out a snort but leaves them alone.

His academic day ends with a Film History conference in which he talks about the legendary and original cinematography of 1917. He confidently propounds that metaphor is a gimmick and he appreciates the simplicity of plot.

“It was filmed all in one shot, you know,” he informs his desperately prostrated professor.

The conversation transforms into his passionate assertion that screenwriters have become obsolete and every movie should be devised by the actors and director.

“Quentin Tarantino is my muse,” he declares before leaving the conference. “Don’t you think Pulp 109

Fiction is just the greatest film ever made?”

The professor has stopped listening.

When he returns to his dorm, three full meals in tow, he greets his roommates once again, nodding and repeating the standard grunted “hey.” Following their evening grind, the boys commence a strip Super Smash Bros. tournament inciting a heated debate after he chooses the Princess Peach avatar.

“Why are you laughing at me, bro,” he starts.

“Peach is a straight-up badass.” “Okay, no,” a roommate argues as he aggressively smashes buttons on his controller. “She’s always being kidnapped. She has to be saved all the damn time.”

“Yeah, she’s a damsel in distress or some shit,” another pipes up.

“That’s such an archaic term, though,” he contends. “It’s just used to perpetuate differential treatment of genders in media.”

“Damn, you make a good point,” the first agrees.

“Yeah,” he continues. “The idea that women are weak is just a regressive myth patronizing women and girls and enforcing patriarchal ideals.”

“And that’s on gender disparity,” another roommate remarks, eating a bowl of fruit loops shirtless in the kitchen.

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Before bed, he hastily locks the bathroom door and uncovers a black tote bag from a cabinet under the sink. He unzips it slowly and retrieves his Khiel’s facial cleanser, Mario Bedascu toner and Neutrogena Hydro-Boosting moisturizer. As he applies his skin care products, purifying, exfoliating and revitalizing, an angry knock echoes through the bathroom.

“Dude,” a muffled voice says from behind the door. “I gotta pee.”

“One second,” he calls back.

“What are you even doing?”

Before climbing into bed in his empty cinder-block dorm and preparing for the morning to come, he opens the door to the bathroom revealing a steamed up mirror and a clean face. “Self-care, bro.”

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contributors audrey deng is a New York-based writer. Kindly

follow her on Twitter @6iji4d3.

becca wilson is a first-year studying visual arts.

She is from Oakland, and enjoys avocado toast, the beach, and California stereotypes. benjamin willen is a senior from the North Shore

of Massachusetts. He knows a truly obscene amount of information about paratactic sentences. He is not sure where that knowledge will get him in his life after graduation. cassandra traina is finishing her final year at

Sarah Lawrence College where she studied creative writing and french. Her work focuses on gender and femininity, sexuality, family, our relationships with memory, and the simultaneous beauty and pain of everyday life. The following pieces are from an ongoing poetic diary created during this pandemic entitled Plague Poems. celia meade is currently an MFA writing student

at Sarah Lawrence College in New York, under the guidance of the amazing Marie Howe, Afaa Michael Weaver, Jo Ann Beard, and others. She holds an MFA 112

in painting, has shown internationally and lives in Salt Spring Island, Canada. Her writing has appeared or is upcoming in more than a dozen publications including Brushfire, Plainsongs, The Louisville Review, and Perceptions Magazine. frances kenney is a first-year at Sarah Lawrence

College, where she is studying literature and the social sciences. Her writing and photography have appeared in Drawn Poorly and X-R-A-Y Literary Magazine among others, and she is on the editorial staff of Sarah Lawrence’s very own Love & Squalor. Kenney would like to assure the readers of The Croaker that no animals were harmed in the making of this piece, but the subject may have been vaguely irritated if he wasn’t so deeply asleep. For this reason, Kenney extends special thanks to her dog, Mouse, for having such a cute, squishy little face that he so generously lets his humans mess with. hiral tanna is a first year student of MS in Human

Genetics at Sarah Lawrence college. She is from India and loves to travel and exploring places. Beside genetics and travel, she is a passionate gardener and likes to spend time with her family and plants. She is excited to start her journey as a genetic counselor post her graduation.

Ivy Weston is a sophomore studying psychology 113

and creative writing at Oberlin College. Her passions include tiny notebooks, ghosts, and getting all the white stuff off of an orange before she eats it.

Kat lo Faro is a first-year focusing on public

policy. She enjoys finding humor in the little things, as her discipline is often depressing and the world is in shambles. She hopes this submission will not come back to bite her when she searches for a job in law or government. rachel saruski is a sophomore at Sarah Lawrence

studying theatre and literature, originally from Miami Beach, FL. She likes to think she is funny most of the time, and thanks The Croaker for confirming that that belief is true at least some of the time. rebecca willson is a first-year at Sarah Lawrence

studying visual arts. She is from Oakland California, and enjoys reading, the woods, and Cage the Elephant. sana nasib is a freshman at Sarah Lawrence, inter-

ested in creative writing and sociology. She has many passions including consumption of hot sauce, Buffy the Vampire Slayer and sad songs. sara yossef is a first year student at Sarah Lawrence

College. Her main interests are politics, wiring, and 114

the visual arts, but frogs are pretty high on the list as well.

Several Limes is a band of sentient limes. After

making it big in New York City, they toured the entire country, made their Hollywood debut, had a late-night talk show, and their own brand of cereal.

After this steady rise to fame, they became known as America’s sweethearts. However, sweet soon became sour, and after rumors of embezzlement and fraud, several scandals involving a rival band of lemons, and general creative fatigue, they disbanded. For their final act together, they submitted their funniest work to The Croaker, with brand new art pieces to show.

Hopefully their legacy lives on in our hearts, that we may always carry the spirit, mirth and humor that comes with being several sentient limes. s. w. cambell was born in Eastern Oregon.

He currently resides in Portland where he works as an economist and lives with a house plant named Morton. He has had numerous short stories published in various literary reviews in three countries. If you’d like to read more of his writing, check out his website: www.shawnwcampbell.com. tyler Fischer is a sophomore writer who writes

stuff. He has many hobbies such as writing.

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staff Co-Chairs

Emily neves began her Croaker journey as layout

editor from Long Island. Afterwards, she was ritually sacrificed to the One True Croak, and after an excruciating trial by fire, she was imbued with the spirit of the Funny Mantm and became a co-chair. Now she is ready to pass the frog torch (or frorch, if you will) to the next generation. And for the very last time, she hopes you enjoy reading the magazine.

Madeleine Albanese is a senior who can be

sequestered in the library’s basement. If you offer her cheese-flavored snacks, you may be able to catch a glimpse of her. She has had a great time croaking for the past four years and knows the magazine is in good hands.

FICTION EDITORS

Reve Rogers- Bottino is a Senior at SLC who

focuses in Anthropology and Writing. She would like to thank her parents for giving her such a wacky sense of humor. Reve hopes that everyone has a good laugh from reading the Croaker because laughter is such an important thing in life.

Lily Kahan is a junior who loves writing and music.

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A music third, she truly believes Freddie Mercury is King and wishes she could live in a Brontë novel

NONFICTION EDITORS

Harry Saroff would like to thank the readers of

The Croaker for their great taste, and inform them that he is currently trapped at Croaker Headquarters with no way out. Harry is only able to communicate via this bio, and would like to acknowledge that his supply of food and water has been completely exhausted; he has been living off the abundance of flies and printing paper alone. Harry would lastly like to beg anybody who sees this to send help before it is too late.

Kat McQuade is from Mukilteo, WA, a tiny nowhere town that even most people from Seattle don’t know exists. She was born to parents from Indiana and Chicago, so she sounds like she’s from the Southside and looks like she was born in a cornfield, despite having read Marx and Emma Goldman. In her free time, she enjoys watching terrible television and writing several novels that have yet to be finished.

As a graduating senior, she is moving to Brooklyn like any other twenty-something writer stereotype to make it in the Big City. Kat has a strong passion for children’s literature and once worked at the American Girl Store. She hopes to one day write a new historical character for American Girl that is involved with the 117

socialist/workers’ rights movements in the early twentieth century so she may radicalize a new generation of nine-year-old girls. And yes, Kat does love cats.

POETRY EDITORS

Shannon Mullen is a senior graduating in May

and is currently living in New Hampshire. When not being a poetry editor for The Croaker, Shannon enjoys working at the liquor store and watching the Disney Channel original movie Avalon High. Shannon is so happy to be a part of The Croaker and she hopes you enjoy this year’s magazine!

Sofia Aguilar is a Latina writer, editor, and senior

at Sarah Lawrence College and originally from Los Angeles. Most recently, her work has appeared in Unpublished Magazine, Melanin. Magazine, and The Westchester Review, among other publications. In her free time, she loves crocheting, reading, and spending too much time on Twitter.

ART EDITOR

Sophia Baldassari is a first-year from Hoboken,

NJ. Work has been produced/read at George Street Playhouse, Luna Stage, Haddonfield Plays and Players, and Manhattan Repertory Theatre. Publications with The Blue Marble Review, Poetry Juicebox, Bridgeink, Teennews.net, Le Journal Français, and Teenink (Top 118

Poet of the Month, Staff Pick).

COPY EDITOR

Ash Freeman is a sophomore at Sarah Lawrence

College. They are a multi-genre writer as well as the copy editor for The Croaker, editor in chief for Love and Squalor, and a poetry editor for Sarah Lawrence Review. They spend their days staring at snails.

LAYOUT EDITORS

jamie chen is a junior at Sarah Lawrence College

and a self-proclaimed expert on romcoms (the cheesier the better). Her special talents include saying the alphabet backwards and listening to audiobooks on 2.5x speed. When she grows up, she hopes to be cool. zoe stanton-savitz is a sophomore studying

literature, creative writing, and theatre. Along with being the layout editor for The Croaker, they also work on the SLC Review and The Phoenix. They are a Pisces sun, Sagittarius moon, and Scorpio rising.

Their prized possession is a frog ring named Gerald.

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