The Croaker Vol 6

The Croaker • Volume 6 Copyright © 2022, Sarah Lawrence College Student Senate.

All rights reserved. Cover Art: “Trendsetter” by Cerulean Rivera Goldman The Croaker is published annually by students of Sarah Lawrence College. This is our sixth volume. All rights revert to the authors upon publication.

“A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.”

— Laozi “Take that step into a plane! :)” — The Croaker

Table of contents 6

THE CLOWN ENCOUNTER

7

BARBARA WALTERS. PERIOD.

17

THE WORST PLAY EVER WRITTEN

HARRY SAROFF Roni Endres

Rachel Saruski

26

ODYSSEUS MASSAGES PENELOPE JOSEPH COLEMAN

27

THINGS DIDN’T GO AS PLANNED

29

THE BUGGO - SIMON AND GARFUNKEL’S “THE BOXER” PARODY

Zoe Stanton-Savitz

DAFYDD DAVIES

31

SAMURAI GORILLA

32

DUSTING DIDION

44

EGG

DAN O’HARE

Renée Richichi Lily Marshall

4

45

FIRE AND BRIMSTONE INCORPORATED Zoe Stanton-Savitz

47

DRAGON’S DUNGEON

50

IT’S JUST BASEBALL

60

HARK! SHIT’S GOING DOWN AT MEDIEVAL TIMES DINNER AND TOURNAMENT™!

DAN O’HARE HAZEL KIPPS

HARRY SAROFf

5

The Clown Encounter Harry Saroff

One time, at the circus, The Clown was Wide Goofy I look to the sign The Clown exhibit.

I saw a clown.

Odd Spooky Absurd.

Posted outside It reads:

House of Mirrors. Woe and Dismay For 1000 Years.

6

BArbara Walters. Period.

Roni Endres

I awoke facing the wall, trying to grasp my bearings as I journeyed from dreamland to reality. My room was pitch black, minus the sliver of light peeking out from under the door, and dead silent, minus the heavy mouth breathing I suddenly realized was not in dreamland but as real as the puddle of drool adorning my pillow case.

I turned to the direction of the rhythmic breaths. What I had assumed was light coming from under the door was actually the glow of the figure in front of me.

“Barbara?” I rasped. I wasn’t scared, but confused.

“Come,” she said. Except, what came out wasn’t words. It was a series of clicks and squeals, a pattern of noise that resembled echolocation. Yet, I understood her. Not only did I understand her, but it made sense.

“Barbara,” I said, “you look different.”

She looked younger, but her eyes still held ninety-two years of wisdom. She wore a green flannel robe, the collar of which settled just below the tattoo reading “NO REGRETS” across her neck. She hugged a copy of Joan Didion’s Slouching Towards Bethlehem to her breast and watched me as I took in her presence.

7

“Come,” she clicked again.

“Where?”

She simply held the book out to me so that the title was mere inches away from my face. I looked into her eyes and we exchanged a silent message. Then, she turned around and I hopped onto her back.

I clung to her as she soared out of my dorm and across the North Lawn of her former college campus.

“How have you been?” I asked, attempting to fill the silence. She shushed me, and through her squeals and clicks told me to embrace the silence. She then told me that she also had that tattooed.

I obeyed, but before I could attempt to fully appreciate the tranquility, we landed in front of the Barbara Walters Campus Center. We stood side by side on the grass, staring up at the big letters that read her name. She squeaked and pointed.

“Yes,” I responded. “That’s you.” I shivered.

I had forgotten a jacket. Suddenly, I felt a warm and heavy fabric being draped over my shoulders. I looked down and saw the green plaid, and then looked up at Barbara. I didn’t realize it until now, but she was well over six feet tall.

Still hugging the Joan Didion best seller to her body, which was now covered in another green plaid robe, she stared at me, into me, rather, and 8

I swore I saw the tiniest upturn of the corners of her mouth before her fist met my jaw in a swift uppercut and my world went black.

I woke up in front of the fireplace in the living room of the campus center. My jaw felt like I had been punched by the hand of God, and I quickly remembered that I had been. Rubbing my bruised face, I blinked a few times and came face to face with another ghost-like figure sitting cross-legged in the fireplace.

“Barbara?” I asked. “Barbara, why did you punch me?”

She put her finger to her lips. “No hables, niña,” she whispered. I comprehended that her Spanish tongue had said, “Don’t speak, child,” but I yearned for answers.

“Barbara,” I pleaded, “I don’t understand.”

“Sí, tú puedes,” she countered. But I didn’t.

I didn’t understand her.

I realized that this was not the Barbara I had once known, the Barbara who had possibly broken my jaw. This new Barbara was dressed in a long white gown, with sleeves that draped down to her knees while her hands were raised in a meditative position. Although she was sitting, I could tell that this Barbara was significantly shorter than the previous. She had buttons for eyes, like the characters from Coraline, and seated in her lap was a daytime Emmy award.

9

Barbara 2.0 maneuvered herself into a backbend and crawled out of the fireplace and over to me. I sat up, feeling an unexplainable obligation to express the utmost respect for Neil Gaiman’s Barbara Walters. Her buttons met my pupils and irises, and we exchanged a brief, but what felt like long, analysis of each other’s eyes.

Finally, she uttered, “Vámanos,” and I obeyed, following her out of the room and to the staircase in the middle of the campus center.

As she climbed the stairs upside down, her head hit each step she passed, like a metronome that mimicked my heartbeat. Or was it the other way around? Did my pulse follow her metronome?

“Barbara, doesn’t that hurt?” She didn’t answer, but increased her speed so that she was now racing up the stairs like a gazelle running from a lion. I ran faster, and soon realized that we were traveling up an endless hill of stairs.

“Barbara, ¿te duele?” I asked again, this time in Barbara 2.0’s native tongue. She remained silent, the only sound coming from her being the thump of her head hitting the linoleum stairs.

I was running out of breath. I cursed myself for not grabbing my inhaler before leaving, but in my defense, I didn’t expect such a physically demanding journey. The air stung my jaw as I ran. Barbara 2.0 accelerated again, and I tried 10

to keep up, but it was humanly impossible for my two measly legs to match her speed, which confirmed my suspicions: Barbara Walters was not human.

My vision blurred, so my only gauge of her speed was the sound of her head banging against the steps, which now sounded like a playing card on a bicycle tire in the Tour de France.

Suddenly, the thumps came to a halt, but the staircase didn’t end. I kept running. There was a magnetic pull between me and whatever, or whoever, was at the end of this staircase.

My vision and my breath were leaving me and just when I felt like I was about to collapse, I did. Except, I collapsed not by fainting, but by tripping over the last step, which I didn’t see coming, and landed on my swollen jaw. Lifting my head, I felt a warm liquid sliding down my bruised face. I reached up to touch my injury and instinctively brought my hand in front of my face to examine the substance on my fingers. I blinked and raised my eyebrows a few times, attempting to force my sight back to life.

Once I saw the red trickling down my fingers, I breathed an air of relief, and then one of fear as I processed the open wound on my face.

All of a sudden, I noticed a hand in front of me and looked up. Standing tall above me was a white stallion, mane blowing in a nonexistent 11

wind, and seated atop its blinding coat was none other than Barbara, but with human eyes, no tattoos, and sporting a bright yellow blazer and matching skirt set. I looked back down at her hand, and saw that her gentle grasp was cradling an unwrapped pad. I looked up at her, and she nodded with a warm smile. I took the pad from her hand and she gestured to my face.

I complied, and pressed the sanitary napkin to the source of the blood. She beckoned me to the horse, and I stood and wobbled over, my legs not fully recovered from my marathon up the staircase. She extended her arm to me, and with the hand that wasn’t holding the pad to my face, I let her pull me up onto the horse with such a strength as if I were an eyebrow hair being plucked from a linoleum-tiled face.

I placed my hands around her waist as we rode, and she stopped in front of the bathroom.

She was waiting for something. For what, I wasn’t sure, until the door slightly creaked open and I saw a familiar green plaid pattern through the crack. The plaid disappeared into the dark bathroom and the door opened all the way, revealing Barbara and Barbara 2.0 standing side by side, watching us. Barbara, levitating and cradling Slouching Towards Bethlehem to her breast, and Barbara 2.0, on all fours and bent over in a bridge, exchanged glances and stepped away from each other, creating a path for me and Barbara 3.0. I attempted to get 12

off the horse, assuming that the large animal would not fit in the small room, but Barbara 3.0 stopped me. Right before my eyes, the entrance to the restroom expanded, stretching until it was big enough to fit me, Barbara 3.0, and the horse. We trotted in, and I realized that not only had the door grown, but the bathroom had, as well. It was much bigger, at least three times its original size. Upon entering, the door slowly came to a close, an action it performed by itself.

Barbara 3.0 smiled and gestured for me to leave the horse. I slid off, protected from the cool floor only by my thin socks, and faced the three Barbaras. I noticed blood trickling down my wrist, and realized that the pad I was using to cover my wound was soaked through. Barbara 2.0 crawled over to me and opened her mouth, revealing another pad to replace the dirty one.

I took the menstrual product out of her mouth and replaced the old pad with the new one.

“Gracias,” I said.

“De nada,” she replied, and crawled back to her spot next to Barbara No. 1. Before I could decide how to dispose of the former, Barbara 3.0 trotted over and the horse opened its mouth.

She gestured to its open jaws, and I disposed of the makeshift band aid and watched the domesticated bronco chew it like a clump of hay.

The first Barbara spoke up, voicing a pattern of clicks and moans that translated to, “You 13

have reached your final destination.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

Barbara 2.0 interjected, her Spanish serenading me with the explanation that it was time to complete the mission.

“What mission?” I begged Barbara 3.0, assuming she would speak next. She didn’t, but merely reached into her shirt and pulled out a small grenade.

“I don’t understand.” This time I really didn’t understand. Was this how I was going to die? Had nineteen years of my life and one and a half semesters of college led up to this moment? Was I destined to die amongst three vastly different and slightly unsettling Barbaras?

Barbara 3.0 held the grenade out to me. I was hesitant. I had never been in the presence of a military-grade weapon before, let alone held one. Eventually, I took the weapon from her gentle grasp. Both of my hands were now occupied with objects that held a power no human could comprehend: a grenade, and a menstrual product.

“Barbara,” I addressed all three of them now, “why?”

They simply looked at me and nodded.

All of a sudden, the answers flooded me like it was that time of the month. I realized that it wasn’t the end for me, but for them. I looked into each of their eyes one final time, having 14

to lower my gaze for Barbara 2.0 as her head was almost touching the ground, and silently thanked them. Releasing my hand from the pad and allowing the dried blood to glue it to my wounded jaw, I swiftly pulled the pin from the grenade, dropped it, and ran out of the bathroom, slamming the door behind me. I dropped to the floor in a fetal position and covered my ears and squeezed my eyes shut, anticipating the blast. Seconds passed, but nothing. Slowly, I opened my eyes, uncovered my ears, and rose slightly. As I was about to stand, a loud boom resounded in the Barbara Walters Campus Center and I dropped to the floor. I remained conscious, but my heart was pounding in such a way that I should not have. Again, I scolded myself for leaving my inhaler behind. But that wasn’t important, not now.

I rushed over to the bathroom, the entrance of which had returned to its normal size, and placed my hand on the doorknob. I took a deep breath, turned the handle, and pushed slightly. What I saw through the crack in the door was a glow, but not a literal glow this time.

It was the glow of fulfilled hope, the glow of an unknown future no more. I opened the door all the way, and stepped into the restroom that was no longer filled with the three Barbaras, but their gift from the afterlife. Littered across the floor was menstrual products galore. Pads, tampons, diva cups, super, regular; you name 15

it, the Barbaras had transformed into it. As I admired the period products, I noticed that on the counter there was a duffel bag, and next to it a wicker basket labeled, “Free Period Products.”

Instantly, I scooped up an armful and released them into the basket. I stuffed the rest into the duffle bag and dashed out the door.

In each bathroom in the Barbara Walters Campus Center and every other bathroom at Sarah Lawrence College sat the same wicker basket with the same label, and I dispersed the gifted menstrual products into each basket.

After I emptied the last of the supplies into the last bathroom, I was suddenly transported back to my bed. My room was brighter than when I had left, and upon looking out the window I realized it was the morning of the next day. I felt like I had just woken up, like maybe I had been dreaming. Hesitantly, I felt the side of my face for the pad, and once my fingers came into contact with that blessed bequest from Barbara, I released a breath I didn’t realize I had been holding and smiled. I looked out my window again, and saw a rainbow decorating the bright blue sky, along with an array of fluffy white clouds that each took the shape of a B and a W.

16

THe worst play ever written Rachel Saruski

Blank stage. Just two men.

GEORGE I love white male rage.

Me too.

HENRY

GEORGE I think that the most imperative thing in the world is white male rage.

Me too.

HENRY

GEORGE My favorite movie is Fight Club.

17

Me too.

HENRY

GEORGE Woody Allen is one of the best people in the whole world.

Yeah.

HENRY

GEORGE My problems are the most important in the whole world.

Yeah.

Thanks.

HENRY

GEORGE

18

HENRY

Sure.

Cool.

GEORGE (Beat.)

GEORGE I think I want to teach you a lesson.

Ok.

HENRY

GEORGE When you know, you don’t.

Ok.

HENRY

19

GEORGE Glad you know now.

HENRY Sick.

bit.

They sit in silence for a

GEORGE (yelling:) AHHHHHHHH!

What?

Nothing.

Ok.

HENRY

GEORGE

HENRY

20

Silence.

GEORGE

Pizza.

Tuna fish.

Quail eggs.

Pop-tarts.

HENRY

GEORGE

HENRY

More silence.

Ok.

Ok.

GEORGE

HENRY

21

GEORGE Women are just objects.

Ok.

HENRY

GEORGE Men are superior.

Ok.

HENRY

GEORGE I am the best man.

Ok.

I’m me.

HENRY

GEORGE

22

Ok.

Ok.

HENRY

GEORGE

(Beat.)

Human rights suck.

Yeah.

HENRY

GEORGE Fuck world hunger.

Yeah.

HENRY

GEORGE I’m fiscally conservative.

23

HENRY

Good.

GEORGE I didn’t vote in the last election.

HENRY

Good.

GEORGE I THINK AMERICA IS THE BEST COUNTRY IN THE WORLD!!!

HENRY

Good.

(Beat.)

24

GEORGE (said with a sense of entitlement:) Fuck.

Fuck.

Bitchez.

Bitchez.

HENRY

GEORGE

HENRY

HENRY AND GEORGE FUCK BITCHEZ GET MONEY! END OF PLAY

25

Odysseus Massages Penelope Joseph Coleman Yes I remember now, it was evening and we heard an owl deep in the woods.

She put a sheet over the blanket, dropped her robe and lay on her belly.

My legs straddled her back, my knees pressed her lower ribs.

I poured oil on her.

The oil was cold and she flinched and said, “Ohhh! That’s cold!”

26

Things Didn’t Go as Planned Zoe Stanton-Savitz

Monday morning, eight AM, a sinkhole opened up on the South Lawn of the Sarah Lawrence campus. After four months of negligence from admin, it was Sasha’s goal to repair it herself.

Without any disaster protocol for an event this monumental, Sasha had watched as admin tried a variety of creative tactics — placing a giant fishing net over the surface, covering the top with saran wrap, building a set of stairs with rungs of metal pipes ripped out from dorm housing by campus safety, and filling the hole with wet clay stolen from the visual arts department. Things didn’t go as planned. The hole grew. It grew and grew into a monstrous pile of mud, lawn chairs, discarded metal scraps, sparsely scattered litter, and a collection of random objects that had fallen in with its expanding presence. With dismay and conceit, admin settled on placing four orange cones around the perimeter and a lawn sign warning students to avoid falling as the permanent solution to a rapidly widening issue.

Frustrated with the administration’s neglect for the dangerous sinkhole, Sasha sought out her own solution. She was only a freshman and was still learning to navigate the campus, 27

find a stable group of friends, and manage an increased workload. Nevertheless, she felt responsible for the safety of a group of students whom admin clearly disregarded.

Thursday afternoon, after her final class, Sasha took an Uber to the Yonkers Home Depot where she bought a ten pound bag of cement powder. She lugged it across campus and poured the powder, as well as a bucket of water, into the deepening depression.

Things got even worse. The next morning Sasha checked on her handywork, and found the cement broken in crumbling cracked pieces congregating in the hole with a metal yard shovel lying in the middle. Somebody had sabotaged her work.

Sasha pounced angrily, kicking masses of muddy soil and throwing handfuls of torn grass into the hole. In a moment of impassioned ire, Sasha slipped on a protruding rock, one leg jutting forward. She lost her balance and tumbled into the hole, tasting the putrid soil as her face hit the ground.

Sasha steadily stood, taking stock of the lacerations on her limbs and brushing the dirt off her clothing. Then, she screamed — a loud, disheartening scream with the grating rasp of an overlooked shadow. As she watched the shoes of students and faculty passing by without a trace of sympathy, Sasha let out a heavy breath and thought, I should transfer to Smith.

28

The Buggo — Simon and Garfunkel’s “The Boxer” Parody Dafydd Davies

I am just a buggo though my story’s seldom told I was found in your Barb salads Minding my poor business, munching leaves like you.

I’m innocent Though you scream at me or maybe The AVI, it’s hard to tell sometimes.

When I left my home and my family I was no more than a grub And I hitched a ride with strangers To come and see the world and all the lives it shared.

Scuttling round, hunting for a loose tortilla Or a shard of peppermint Not a picky eater, I’ll take what I can get Asking only for some veggies Maybe some corn-on-the-cob But I get no such luck Just the same old dust and lint that used to cling to you I do declare there were times when I was so hungry I ate Bates’ Fresh Basil Mhmmm 29

After winter, was a hopeful spring Hopeful for a change, change of diet Where the SLC food options aren’t killing me.

Food pois’ning, in my bones.

In the salad squats a buggo Who has had it really rough And he is malnourished by the Parts of quesadilla or the Chunky bits of salsa And he’s laid out in disgrace “I will not eat here again” But the Buggo still remains mhmmm

30

Samurai Gorilla Dan O’Hare

31

Dusting Didion Renée Richichi

My late mother spoke of nothing but depravity in her final years.

The 1970s were just the 1960s! Too much shit happened to cram it all into one decade. No time left. None at all; just tall men climbing into small European cars. A period you should waste no time rushing back to, Mory!

She spoke nonsense, blurting out the uncomfortable and often inappropriate.

It’s the colic that’s got me! Did you call George Schlatter about my set? Tell him it’s good enough to open for Tomlin. Better yet tell him it’ll bring the boys home from war!

My mother used to tell me the greatest gift is grief.

When I go, find Didion. She was the only one in that whole lot worth a damn.

Naturally, I immersed myself in the art of Joan Didion as my mother’s health plummeted deeper into the red, and her memoirs proved truer than any of my mother’s mumblings of her. On the surface, Didion is the inaccessible 32

fly on the wall, airing out the children of Aquarius’s dirty laundry, but plunge further into her magical way of thinking and you’ll find medical queries where grief wallows.

I stayed by her bedside each night until the night nurse arrived. I received strict instruction from higher-up orderlies, awful people, regarding the condition I should keep her in (“never agitate her, don’t let her eat past 7, and always keep the television at a low volume”), but when midnight rolled around, well, as she said, What do you think you’re doing? Don’t put a blanket on me, I’m just getting started!

For the next several hours, my mother would poke and prod tirelessly at her memory, stretching the unimaginable, forgetting her place, fumbling, yelling, and eventually resuming whatever anecdote taxied into her mind.

The year was 1975 — Americans feared the ocean, oil was 44 cents a gallon, and our men were desperately trying to pawn off the non-refundable skill of post-traumatic stress set off by a ceiling fan. Oh, and Ms. Magazine was the new Cosmo!

“Well what were you up to?” I would ask.

33

Dusting my Didions!

John, Didion’s husband, was reading Europe’s Last Summer: Who Started the Great War in 1914? and drinking Scotch before he died. Didion assured him she had not used a single-malt when fixing his second glass and he was relieved. He stopped talking and his arm slouched into an abnormal position. She thought he was making a crude joke and wished he would stop. Then she thought he was choking. She gave him the heimlich and his body slumped forward. He was dead when she dialed the number for New-York Presbittaryian.

My mother died in a rather sudden way too. She was gripping one of the “S” Scrabble tiles and leaned forward, I thought to cough, or to breathe. I’ve got to go to the store Mory. We’re out of bread again. I thought, “What would a sick woman do with bread?” I thumbed through my letter pile, gave up and walked to the living room where the nurses kept her prescriptions tucked away in the bookshelf. She didn’t like people seeing them.

When I returned, the board lay askew and her hand was resting on the pile of books she 34

kept beside her bed. She was peaceful and her eyes were open, but she didn’t make a show of it. John died slouched forward, scotch in hand, while Didion was still thinking about their after-dinner plans. It was still my mother’s turn in Scrabble. I took my “S” and exchanged her Zs for more forgiving consonants and tallied 11 points at the bottom of the cardboard box for the word ‘style’.

The will executor advised me to rummage through the old filing cabinets she stacked from floor to ceiling in the garage in hopes of recovering a will.

“It’s anything but special really, just needs to be signed and dated. Nothing nasty.”

The executor is a short man and often swallows his vowels, making his dictations nearly impossible to understand over the phone. He drives a silver Lexus, parks on the far right side of the street, and crawls out of the passenger seat when getting out of his car, making a show of his awkward length. An effort of time! A phrase my mother used to say in times of morbidity and embarrassment. I find it fitting when watching the silly man climb his way out of the 35

car, as if he’s conquering Everest.

“Life changes fast. Life changes in the instant. You sit down to dinner and life as you know it ends. The question of self-pity.”

A line that sits, nestled, in my brain between the rational and the unknown. I envy the way grieving people write about grief. There’s a sense of spontaneity that no other emotion in the human canon possesses. The broken pattern of a Sunday afternoon, the busted taillight on their car that’s still sitting in your garage: the feeling remains. The culprit, a slippery road, a clogged artery, a disturbed mind, they’re all still there: jumping in front of you, yet it all happened suddenly.

I start with the southwest corner of the garage. I pull down the small bins that sit like misshapen hats on top of the cabinets, and let CVS receipts litter the ground. The cabinets are discolored and weathered from decades of ear-pinching winters and non-ventilated summers. I knock each one down one by one, and let the echo of each crash displace me, in hopes of shaking myself awake. I’ve yet to cry.

When my father passed, I threw out every 36

clock in my apartment. Every minute that went by without him felt unnatural. If I didn’t know the hour, nothing was lost. Everything was just — right — there; untouched. We would talk on the phone until there was nothing else in the world either of us could say. Reaganomics, Cheney, my mother, Cheney again (he always forgot something), what Mother cooked for dinner and what my father wished she cooked for dinner. I remember one phone call, he had just been put on disability from a freak accident at the quarry, and I was furious with him, because my mother told me he hadn’t voted since Nixon. He droned on and on about diplomatic hypocrisy and the country’s lack of meritocracy. I told him those were all reasons TO vote.

I heard my mother chuckle somewhere in the background and I knew he was smiling when he said: “I’m not trying to change the world, Mory.

That’s a young person’s game.”

At his funeral I memorized the way people moved or spoke to each other, so when he called I could tell him everything. I could tell him about the way Aunt Craven pursed her lips before criticizing the way Mother laid out the food, or how cousin Mike stopped wearing the 37

cross on his neck when he left the church, but still carries it around in case Uncle Franklin makes a ghostly appearance (we have a way of treating funerals like family reunions). I felt incredibly lonely when my father died. I convinced myself that every cough or sneeze was a part of some bigger plan that I didn’t have the rights to. Nothing could replace the vacancy my father left. So I got a puppy.

My mother was a semi-successful actress in her time. She worked with Faye Dunaway, Ellen Burstyn, and was rumored to be a close admirer of Holland Taylor. She was known for her performative stunts on the carpet: After John Lennon’s new-found divinity amongst outraged bible-thumpers in middle America, my mother wore a faux-nun’s dress designed by Diane von Furstenberg. It was the sacrilegious statement of the night, even before she revealed the habit reading “John Lennon’s My Savior” in red fabric paint.

I had an obsession with my mother’s versatility during my second year of graduate school.

Tabloids reported that she was enrolled in an MFA program at Columbia University in the early 60s. There’s only one photo and it could 38

easily be any Jane with bouncing curls and books stuffed in her purse, but I think I wanted it to be her. She was pretty much disconnected from the conceivable world by the time I figured out she had been a household name, but when lucid, I brought up her education and why she wanted to be an actress. She hoisted it on generational trauma: “But why? Why movies and television?”

I dunno. It was just something we did. Back then, you either fought for this country, or died trying, auditioned for film, or burned your bra, and that was more Gloria’s game.

“What’s she like?”

Gloria? A horrible poker player. She had a poor memory for the simple things. I used to tell her, ‘If you’re gonna take inventory on our lunches at least bring a pen and paper!’

“I didn’t know she quoted you.”

She didn’t. Not in any sort of way that would have been public. She knew better than to write down any of my babble, but she certainly was a magnet for the profound.

“And Joan Didion?”

Skinny. The girl never ate! Smoked her way 39

through the West Coast, leaving a trail of unreplicable work and ash everywhere she went. She was the only one that really knew how it all worked. I used to joke that she recorded every conversation she ever had and transcribed the essay-worthy portions into a yellow legal pad at some dingy bar somewhere off of highway 138.

I’ve found myself quivering at the phrase “One day my mother drowned”, as if the following morning, on a new day, their mother would be cooking a proper breakfast, sopping wet.

My mother was insistent on me reading Joan Didion to cope, but I didn’t understand why; she wrote about grief in the most journalistic style conceivable. When John died, Didion consulted several medical journals and theories on the grieving brain. She didn’t let anyone visit her once John’s death became the front page of every paper coast to coast. She answered phone calls politely, and lay in bed contemplating the empty space next to her. She was, as John’s doctor described, “a good griever”. But she also kept his running shoes. She thought it cruel for him to return one night and not be able to take a jog the next morning.

40

I sift through Mother’s old things, but turn up with Sears catalogues dating back to the 80s, a hefty stack of Life magazines held together by yellowing twine, a pair of old pointe shoes, and a leather journal. The journal is filled with incoherent lists and her old SAG card tucked neatly between two pages: both titled “Thank you to my dears.” The pages entailed the following: Thank you Martha Gellhorn for keeping your name!

Thank you Phyllis Schlafly for making liberation the married woman’s enemy.

Fuck girls who do TV! Thank you Scorsese.

Thank you Joan Didion for keeping the world honest. You truly are an enigma to fact and a blessing to fiction!

Crumpled in sort of a haphazard square was an ode to Didion she typed up on her old typewriter.

It read:

41

This is a story of the rescue of one soul I wait for something to pick up scene by scene line by line. the plot is an inner sense of a particular moment.

I’ve tried to make outlines, but I end up with visions that are crude, generous, beautiful, vicious In the chaos, I lift the small pleasures of literature, and allow the naked and hopeless world to work out as neatly as I think it will such a miserable sight, I have in mind the scene and I sit down at my desk to write.

I sit in anger on the garage floor. She really could have been something. She could have done something meaningful, created a legacy that stretched beyond the bounds of carpet theatrics 42

and quiet allyships with the bread and butter of the ERA movement. The year she won an Emmy, the ERA was ratified in 37 states. She thanked the Academy, gushed about a possible bun in the oven, and made a passing joke about my father being a quarryman from a small town in Indiana.

My mother could have been a trailblazer for women everywhere, but instead, she performatively read Didion and kept a list of thankyous to the political and Hollywood elite. I can’t leave her words untold and her life unfinished.

I roll over and forage my purse for a pen and write: When my father died, I got a dog. When my mother died, I read Didion.

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EGG

Lily Marshall I lift my hand And a strand Of egg yolk hangs, then Stretches and snaps Apart.

Watching the detached Strand drop, I lift my hand over— Dripping the tail of My hand’s strand back Into its mother.

Does this answer the chicken and egg question?

44

FIRE AND BRIMSTONE INCORPORATED Zoe Stanton-Savitz

Welcome to Fire and Brimstone Incorporated. Step into my office. I know it’s a little hot in here, but really that’s hard to avoid. No AC down here. My name is Belial and I’ll be your go-to guy for any of your employee needs — managing paychecks, scheduling, tending to any on-site injuries — former employees have had some issues with burn scars. I’ll be your right hand man, your aide-de-camp. Except for PR. We don’t have that here so if you have any complaints about workplace misconduct I’d suggest you take a swim in the River Lethe.

Now, you’re the new babysitter, right? So, the boss has to eat every other hour or else he gets cranky and when he gets cranky he throws a temper tantrum. He doesn’t like to bathe so if he throws a fit just light a match or squirt a splash of “Envy” or “Lust” in the tub to lure him in and calm him down. He likes playing games — Twister, Sorry, Trading Souls — but he gets very competitive so don’t make any bets.

And you should let him win because if he loses 45

he’ll throw a temper tantrum. His next snack should be in fifteen minutes and there are some fresh babies in the pantry — nice and crunchy the way he likes. Be sure to cut off the feet or he won’t eat them and he’ll probably throw a temper tantrum. If he throws a tantrum, worst case, he opens up an earthly pit into the depths of hell and swallows some humans. That rarely happens. He might, however, conjure a hellhound or a thousand tarantulas to burrow into your flesh, or maybe create a world-wide famine or a plague of locusts. That one really sucks. The last guy left the job because the boss scooped out his eyeballs and ate them with a spoon. So maybe confiscate any kitchen utensils? Anyway, I’m off to my weekly bridge match. If I’m late I’ll never win back my soul. Good luck!

46

dragon’s dungeon Dan O’Hare • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •

A random man wanders into my lair I toast him Two knights come to slay me I roast them Next, they send the town army Looks like a tasty meal for me They decide to send a party of adventurers The sorcerer was spicy; is it cannibalism if they had dragon scales on them?

More adventurers, what a surprise One was a dragonborn, but those aren’t technically dragons. Still feels cannibalistic Whatever other dragons’ eggs hatched into dragonborn must be very sad dragons Another set of adventurers. All of them are either dragonborn, lizardfolk, or kobolds Okay, alright, how am I supposed to eat all of these guys. They look too much like me I talk to them: they’re all reptilian, they must get me They blast me with fire. Stupid reptiles, I’m a fire-breathing dragon It should be very obvious just looking at 47

• • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •

me. I’m red Oh right, I forgot I painted myself green I burn them to a crisp anyways Haha those morons, they must’ve been expecting me to have poison breath instead Haha Ha I’m so lonely Oh cool, another adventuring party A lot of them are tieflings. The one human clearly has fire-resistant armor Please I just wanna talk They fight me anyways. Ohhhh my god fine I breathe fire They survive I smash them with my big dragon fist They die Is this really all that there is? Just killing and eating people?

I emerge from my cave and take a look at the nearby town Immediately they start firing their bows at me I sigh and pick a spire off of the church I eat roasted people off of a church-spire skewer 48

• • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •

This is kinda sad. I don’t wanna kill people Maybe I need a new lair. One without many people nearby Stupid tempting people. I’ll just eat owlbears or something I fly across fields I fly across deserts Ooh look a cactus I love cacti haha I fly across tundras So much flying. Good thing I’ve got big wings I find a nice place in a grassy field in the middle of nowhere. Ahh, peace and quiet I burn a forest for dinner Pick the branches out of my teeth Dig out a cave and hibernate I wake up Huh, looks like it’s spring See people building a town nearby Oh no.

49

IT’S JUST BASEBALL Hazel Kipps

Sam’s eyes shot open. She was sitting in some sort of office with slightly off-white walls, peeling paint, spartan wooden furniture, and several banged-up filing cabinets. She was seated in front of a desk, behind which sat a middle-aged man with a receding hairline and small, round glasses that gave him an owlish sort of look. He was dressed in a pinstriped suit and a red tie, and was sorting a pile of papers in one of the desk drawers. Either he didn’t notice Sam, or he was ignoring her.

“Where am I?” Sam asked, looking around in confusion. “Who are you?”

The man looked up. “Ah! Hello, Samantha.

My name is Greg, and I’ll be getting you started today. Here’s your bat.”

He grabbed something from behind the desk, and then reached out, setting a wooden baseball bat down on the desk. “…What?” Sam frowned. “No, I—where am I? Last thing I remember, I was walking to work, and—the light was red, but that truck 50

didn’t stop. It was barreling towards me, and…

Oh god. Is this some sort of hospital?”

Greg laughed, a series of big, nasally guffaws rolling out of him. “A hospital! Funny!”

He took a second to adjust himself, waving a hand in the air. “No, no, Samantha; you’re in the afterlife.”

“Oh.” Sam let that sink in. She hadn’t even made it to thirty. That was kind of sad, but she supposed it fit with the general vibe of her life so far. Or, well—the general vibe of her entire life, she supposed. “You know, um. I can’t say this is exactly like I expected. They don’t give you, like, better offices in purgatory? Or wherever we are?”

“The Office of Admissions isn’t very high on management’s priority, unfortunately,” Greg explained. “Anyway, here’s your mitt.”

He reached under the desk again, this time producing a leather catcher’s mitt. He set it down next to the bat.

“I’m—okay. Um.” Sam blinked. “What’s with the baseball stuff?”

“You’re in the afterlife,” Greg said simply.

Sam raised an eyebrow. “…And?” 51

Greg titled his head slightly to the side.

“And what?”

“Okay, nevermind.” Sam brought a hand up to her temple, letting out a sigh. “So, like… is this a heaven and hell situation? Where am I going from here?”

“Oh, well, that depends on your division,” Greg explained. “If you’re in the lower division, say with the Tartarus Hellhounds or Sheol Succubi, you’re going to take the elevator down. But if you’re in the upper division, maybe on the Eden Owls, or the Valhalla Dragons, then you’ll take the escalator up to the higher planes.”

Sam squinted at him. “Are those… sports teams?”

“Baseball teams,” Greg confirmed. “We’ll sort you onto one in just a moment. Season 63,720,573,027 is just around the corner, so you won’t have to wait very long before seeing play.

Exciting, right?”

“What? What? No. What?” Sam’s mind reeled. “Why am I playing baseball?”

“It’s the afterlife,” Greg said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Everyone joins one of the teams.”

52

“So… is this like a moral thing, then?” Sam asked. “Like, I go to one of the hell teams if I was a bad person?”

“Hm? Oh, no, we don’t really care about any of that,” Greg said, waving a hand. “We put you on the team we think you’d fit into best.

Team cohesion is very important!”

“I think this is the absolute stupidest way my eternal soul could be judged,” Sam grumbled. “So, what, if I get arbitrarily sorted into the lower division or whatever, I just get tortured and there’s nothing I can do about it?”

“Torture? Absolutely not!” Greg exclaimed, eyebrows shooting up. “Whatever gave you that idea?”

“But isn’t that what you do in Tartarus and stuff?” Sam protested. “Torture people?”

“No, no, no! We would never. It’s just baseball.”

Sam stared at him. “It’s just baseball,” she repeated.

“Yep! You’ll have practice every day, and a few games a week, usually.” Greg reached under the desk and put a baseball cap down next to the bat and the mitt. “Here’s your cap, by the 53

way.”

“Wait, no. We’re not done talking about this,” Sam said. “Why is the afterlife themed around baseball? That doesn’t make any sense!”

Greg shrugged. “I don’t know what to tell you, Samantha. It’s always been this way.” He chuckled. “Heh, I remember when we first realized you humans were recreating baseball—that was a hoot! Crazy coincidence. I mean, there’s five bases, not four, and games are thirteen innings, but, hey, you got most of it right! Oh, and eating peanuts while watching the games?

Ingenious. We totally stole that one from you guys after you started doing it.”

“This is insane. You’re insane,” Sam said, pointing a finger at him. “You just condemn all of humanity to, what, play baseball for all eternity? Why? I mean, baseball isn’t even good!

My Dad dragged me to some games when I was a kid and they were all so boring!”

Greg gasped, staring at her like she’d just insulted his mother. “Samantha. Don’t say that.”

Sam stood up, slamming a hand on his desk. “No, I will say it! Baseball is a stupid sport!

It’s way too complicated—it’s, like, a nerd sport 54

for nerds who couldn’t make it in a real sport!”

Greg scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Oh, please.

That’s rich coming from a varsity volleyball player. I read your file.”

“Volleyball is a great sport! It’s simple, it’s fast-paced, it’s competitive—way better than baseball.”

“I can’t believe this,” Greg grumbled, furiously scribbling on one of his many papers.

“You are being so disrespectful right now.

Maybe I should put you in with the Elysium Archers, those holier-than-thou jerks. You seem like their type. Or, or, yeah, or the Gehenna Devils—bunch of weird little freaks. You’d fit right in, what with your stupid hair and bad attitude.”

“What’s wrong with my hair?” Sam muttered, brushing it back self-consciously. “Look, dude, I don’t want to play baseball. Can’t I just, like, chill?”

Greg ignored her. “Stygian Snakes, maybe?

No, they’re far too classy for you… Netherworld Imps would do, though.”

“Hey! Are you even listening to me?” Sam snapped her fingers in front of his face. “I’m not 55

playing baseball for the rest of my existence, and I’m not going to join any of your weirdo teams!”

“I’m afraid that’s not your decision, Samantha,” Greg said curtly. “Everyone plays, no exceptions.”

“Oh yeah? Well, I’d like to speak to your manager.”

Greg froze, his eyes drifting away from the forms he was scribbling on and locking with hers. “Are you sure about that?”

“I—” Sam felt a brief wave of hesitation, but shrugged it off. “Yes. I’m sure.”

“Alright, then. Fine.” Greg reached for the rotary phone at the edge of his desk and entered in a number, bringing the receiver up to his head. It rang once, then twice, then picked up.

“Hey Christine,” Greg greeted, voice monotone. “Got a new player here who wants to talk to you. Yeah. No. No, yeah. Alright, thanks.

Great. See you.” He set the receiver down.

“She’ll be with us in just a second.”

Sam let out a breath. “Good. Hopefully she’ll—AH!” She screamed and threw her arms over her eyes as there was an explosion of bril56

liant, blinding light in the corner of the room.

“What the—” “I told you she’d be here in a second,” Greg said matter-of-factly.

When Sam was able to open her eyes again, she was stunned to see a vaguely human-shaped mass of swirling light and color standing to Greg’s side, iridescent and ever-changing in a way that made it hard to focus on. It was also, somehow, paradoxically, wearing a baseball cap with a penguin on it, and a jersey that read, ‘Go Paradise Penguins!’ How a being of seemingly pure light was able to wear baseball merch, Sam couldn’t even begin to guess.

Samantha, a voice spoke directly into her head. We are Christine, Director of Admissions for the League. What is your concern?

“Okay, that’s creepy,” Sam said, pointing a finger at ‘Christine’. “How are you doing that?”

You are not capable of understanding, Samantha. Your human mind is too limited. Now. What is your concern?

“Um. Well, um.” Sam swallowed, her confidence from earlier seemingly nowhere in sight.

“I don’t want to play baseball?”

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Why, child?

“Because it’s… not… fun?”

Christine’s body began to swirl, various lights of different colors cascading around each other like a supernova. Blasphemy. The insolence of this one. What is her assignment, Greg?

“I think the Gehenna Devils would be best for her, ma’am.”

Then as it is written, so it shall be. Christine began to shine brighter and brighter, until Sam was forced to shield her eyes again. Play ball, Samantha.

Samantha screamed as the light reached a crescendo, and she briefly felt like she was burning alive, until everything cleared. Hesitantly, she opened her eyes; she was now sitting in a dugout, looking out onto a baseball field surrounded by a giant stadium of cheering spectators. The game was in session, with two teams of players throwing balls, swinging bats, and running around the five bases.

Sam slowly backed up on the bench.

“Wha… what?”

“Hey. You new?”

Sam turned to see a woman sitting next 58

to her, with curly black hair pulled through an ash-gray baseball cap with a red pitchfork logo.

She was loudly chewing on a stick of gum, and was wearing a gray and red jersey that read, ‘Gehenna Devils’, along with a big ‘18’.

“I… yeah,” Sam muttered. “I’m sam.”

“Mackenzie. You doin’ alright? Didn’t look like you came here from the elevator, exactly.”

“I’m—I’m okay,” Sam breathed. “I just…

Why is it baseball?”

“No one knows, girl,” Mackenzie said, blowing a bubble. It exploded with a soft pop, and she let out a sigh, staring out towards the field. “No one knows.”

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Hark! Shit’s Going Down at Medieval Times Dinner and Tournament™!

Harry Saroff

Ah, Medieval Times, a unique attraction: a dinner tournament organized on tradition— albeit on traditions far preceding our own, times of knights, jousting, and monarchs on thrones.

(Though time is subjective in these sorts of shows; the mismatched eras interposed betwixt their trite, old-timey prose, can give proper historians painful throes.)

A sand-filled arena makes up center stage, with seats on all sides, filled with fans quite engaged.

Enter six Knights, who’ve donned armor of color, all competing, through joust, for their shot at honor: The Red knight, the Yellow, Orange, and Green, the Blue, and the Violet, eager to be seen, as they prance out the gate, each on back of a horse, armed with lances and shields—a mighty display of force!

Soon those shields to lances shall repent 60

as guests chow on lamb… money well spent!

And of course, no silverware, ‘tis meat on the bone, the same meal as the Queen’s, who shouts from her throne: “May the tournament begin!” with fanfare to boot!

The Queen bows to the crowd, and knights follow suit.

The audience murmurs, mulling for whom to root, as the waiters, done waiting, each pluck at a lute.

The head waiter, Finn, quite loves his job; there’s no greater honor than to charm such a mob!

In fact, tonight he was working overtime, with no other motive than to spin more rhyme!

For some it is quite a mighty feat, serenading guests and serving meat, but to him, this job is far from hard.

Forsooth, Finn’s surely a natural-born bard!

But something this night was quite awry, for an unwelcome guest dear Finn did spy: Ian, his ex-boyfriend, of less than half a fortnight.

But “ex” could be hasty; last they spoke was a fight, in which Ian bestilled Finn’s anxious heart, and said, for now, they should just stay apart.

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Maybe for good, maybe a break, ‘long as things remained static; Ian didn’t want anything too dramatic.

Yet here Ian was, making an appearance, and something more was simply beyond coherence: On Finn’s fragile heart it truly did grate, for his darling Ian was there with a date!

And a woman, at that, was this new transgressor— a face Finn recognized: Ian’s hairdresser.

By god, such a scourge, sitting to Ian’s left, inconsolable anguish left Finn feeling bereft, and not only by dint of casual treachery…

Finn knew Ian well: he was gay, certainly.

“That sleazy bastard,” Finn bitterly thought.

Was the ‘break’ Ian proposed really all for nought?

There was no time to think—it was his chance to pounce!

Henceforth, all his gripes Finn shall loudly announce!

A warm welcome to Ian, our guest of dishonor: whom I used to respect, revealed to be a fawner!

Finn?

62

Shit.

I didn’t…

You don’t usually work this late on Tuesdays.

Ah, I see, what a quaint excuse, but ‘tis not enough to call a truce!

Plain to see you’re a liar; now I’m on the attack!

You’ve broken my heart, and I won’t hold back!

It’s not what it looks like, and even if it were, It’s not a big deal.

We’re… taking a break.

It shouldn’t matter.

Look, can we just talk about this later?

Please, Finn?

Oooh, you want mercy? Afraid not, unfortunately!

After all, ‘tis your doing, your responsibility!

Really? Responsibility?

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Seriously?

You’re trying to lecture me about responsibility?

Do you remember Mittens?

And how I asked you to feed him while I was away, and you simply Forgot? …On my life I could’ve sworn I had a new cat in your lap come morn.

God, you even have to make a performance out of…

Accidentally killing my goddamn cat.

If it even was an accident.

Hell, you were probably jealous.

And now you’re the victim?

Seriously?

Seriously?!

This is so like you, jesus…

Their exchange overcame the sound of splintering shield, 64

Finn was making a scene, and had no plans to yield!

Now that the audience was clearly involved, Ian gave a huff, and showed his resolve: after all, ‘twas only a matter of time ‘fore Ian would show that he, too, could rhyme.

You know what?

Why not?

I’ll sink to your goddamn level.

I’ll give you what you want.

Fine.

AHEM! Hear ye, hear ye, one and all!

Your senses this fiend wishes to appall, with verses redundant and downright banal, but don’t fret—I’ll ensure his swift downfall!

Ohoho! It seems the bastard’s found some guts!

Nonetheless, I’ll prove him a verbal klutz!

A public attack—a cliché affair!

In our fight, your feelings I wished to spare, 65

but I should have told you right then and there that your opulence and excessive flair border on psychological warfare!

Ha! Of course you’d target my ‘opulence’ as if you yourself would not take offense to being seen for who you truly are: a fraud, a hack, a wanna-be star!

But, oh, my bad! Why, it’s debonair to court the one who tends your hair!

And a word of advice to your new lady-friend, before her heart too you decide to rend.

Your reputation will surely be smeared, lest you be content in your role as a beard.

A warning of his bed you creep towards: My dear old Ian prefers locking swords.

Finn and Ian keep at it, unsurprisingly loud, and by now the pair’s gathered a sizable crowd!

Meanwhile the tournament continues on, with lances and shields still making liaison.

“What a fine competition!” the Queen does decree.

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The audience roars, still feasting with glee, blissfully unaware of a lone missing knight, who slinked off backstage without joining the fight.

You see, Medieval Times is scripted, of course: Every swing, every clash, every clop of a horse is calculated to form a most stunning array, even the winner, but it is not his day…

Now you, the reader, may wonder: “Why?” So upon the dressing room we shall scry, where a coat of bile is splayed across the foyer, whilst the costume crew waves away putrid air.

In the midst of a vomit-spewing rampage, the Green Knight, planned champ, traipses around backstage.

Egads! He collapses, writhing in pain!

‘Twas not by lance his stomach was slain, but by that which the chefs had overlooked: His leg of lamb was undercooked.

And so his fellow knights devised a plot to get dear Finn bothered and hot and e-mailed Ian a deal at which he couldn’t scoff: “Tonight Only - Medieval Times - 80% Off! 67

You’ve been awarded a coupon by the red string of fate; but there’s a catch—you must bring a date!”

Oh, to see a past lover on another’s arm…

Surely the fallout would do no harm?

Nay, but of course, on that they did account.

In fact, a spurred conflict was paramount!

And, oh, ‘twould be one to make an audience gawk: Good lord that pair can’t staunch their talk!

A new main attraction to rule the night, and take the load off their cherished green knight.

Finn and Ian were predictable, indubitably: the ex-couple’s gone off on an insult-hurling spree!

In light of this, the whole joust has subsided; over new competition the crowd’s been divided!

As Finn and Ian make their way to center stage, the audience roars, entranced by their rage, and the backstage crew shares a collective sigh, for a plan so perfect could never go awry.

You coward, you scoundrel, you pitiful knave!

I’d ask for apology, but you’d not be so brave!

68

Yes, I did spearhead our most recent fight, but could you even consider you weren’t in the right?

You always act like you’re the protagonist… an egotistical prick, you get the gist?

Listen, for once, without trying to dodge: Perhaps our love was all a mirage!

Finn takes a blow, and is taken aback, unable to muster a counterattack.

The audience gasps! Was that too far?

A wound so deep would surely scar.

Finn’s mortally injured, ‘tis plain to see…

But through his quivering lip parts: “Not to me.”

Ian utters “Nor to me” as his demeanor thaws, prompting a barrage of audience “Awws.”

The lovers’ hearts feel a mutual ache, and thus would end their lovelorn break.

As they recall time together, well spent, their bitterness does quickly relent, and paves the way for future bliss as Finn and Ian share a kiss.

69

With the lovers’ contempt fully exiled, the invested audience, of course, goes wild, and when their blushing faces part, that’s when the questions find their start: Why did you come?

A coupon.

And… your hairdresser?

I needed a date.

For Medieval Times?

The one where I work?

Really?

Were you… trying to make me jealous?

With a chick?

Not all medieval folks had beards, y’know.

Heh. I’ll give you that one.

70

I was getting a trim, coupon said I needed a date, and she just happened to be there.

She said she always wanted to go.

I dunno.

It was kinda weird.

Last minute.

My name was on the coupon and everything.

Personal invite.

Did you…

Tell them about me?

Us? No, of course I— Actually.

Wait.

Yeah, no, I did.

In arduous detail.

Night you left, I got drunk after the show.

Told em’ all about it.

‘Break’ and all.

71

I mean, I think I did at least.

I was— Wasted?

Wasted.

Interesting…

Suspicion garners their collective mind, and the guilty culprits they soon shall find.

Emerging from their emotional daze, Finn and Ian turn their gaze upon those who had the conniving gall to stir up drama that envelops all.

Between lovers and knights, a glance is shared.

It’s clear from offstage—none shall be spared.

And so, in fear, the knights exeunt, whilst raging lovers follow suit!

With their anger towards each other spent, the pair found new cause to be malcontent.

72

They pursue the masterminds through the night to blame, and thank, them for this fight.

The audience, delighted, finishes feast, and marvels at love, that fickle beast.

Perhaps the greatest pleasure of them all is not to see combatants fall, but to glimpse into that sullied pen; Though metal-clad, knights are but men.

With hearts on sleeves and armor doff ’d, even the brutal can grow quite soft.

Belay jousting, clashing, or bloody brawl: love’s the spectator sport to trounce them all!

73

staff EDITORS-IN-CHIEF

harry saroff is in the liminal state between

a sophomore slump and junior jam. They don’t know what class year they’re in, and SLC administration doesn’t know either. They suggest that you do not ask. Harry would like to thank the staff of The Croaker, his friends, and Sonia from the BWCC. Even when he tries to use 5 meal swipes at once on a Saturday night, she greets him with a smile regardless. God bless.

Sophia Baldassari is a second-year from

Hoboken, NJ. Publications with The Blue Marble Review, Poetry Juicebox, Bridgeink, Teennews.net, Le Journal Français, and Teenink (Top Poet of the Month, Staff Pick). She currently interns at Saturday Night Live.

EDITORS

Ash Freeman is a poetry and art editor, as

well as a copy editor for The Croaker. They are also the editor-in-chief of Love & Squalor.

When they are not editing journals, there’s a good chance they’re tending to their snails.

Hazel Kipps is an avid writer, editor, and bio-

logical woman who got her start wandering the Cursed Plains of Malaise and Regret for years at a time in search of the Unholy Amulet of 74

Wizard Destruction. She didn’t find it, and decided to become a prose and copy editor for the Croaker instead, which is pretty neat, because she likes frogs a lot. She wishes you a good day.

JAMIE CHEN is a senior at SLC studying cre-

ative writing and technical theatre. Her special talents include saying the alphabet backwards, solving a Rubik’s cube, and listening to audiobooks on 2.5x speed. When she grows up, she hopes to be cool.

Jane Scheiber is currently a sophomore at

Sarah Lawrence studying creative writing with a focus in poetry. Her pride and joy is her collection of Beanie Babies. Their most valuable is the Princess Diana special edition bear, but their favorite is Lopez, an otter holding a piece of felt seaweed. Though she loves them all, she fears the possibility of their sentience.

Kate Kenworthy is a senior at Sarah

Lawrence College with a focus in creative writing and theatre. Their main hobbies include memorizing stand-up routines, referencing aforementioned stand-up routines too often in conversation, and not knowing how to juggle.

One of their biggest shames in life is having a TikTok platform.

Katin Sarner (she/her) is a first-year hoping 75

to become an English teacher after college. Her writing has appeared in The New York Times, Harpur Palate, The Hellebore, Pink Panther Press, Scholastic: Choices, and Pear Shaped Press.

Syd Sukalski is a sophomore studying screen-

writing and film here at SLC. Currently, she works as an editorial assistant for Effervescence Magazine and spends all of her free time writing (or watching Buffy the Vampire Slayer).

Zoe stanton-SavitZ is a Junior studying

literature, creative writing, and theatre. In addition to working on The Croaker, they also do layout for SLC Review and work as an Editor-in-Chief on The Emanon. They’re writing has been featured in The Croaker, Love and Squalor, and Math Magazine. They are a Pisces sun, Sagittarius moon, and Scorpio rising and they dream of spending their life as a secluded writer in a cottage in the woods with several dogs.

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Contributors Dan O’Hare is a digital artist and character

designer who specializes in colorful characters with painted-on shading. He’s a big fan of video games as a whole, and is a two-time champion of Sarah Lawrence’s Super Smash Bros. Club.

Dafydd Davies is a too-old-for this, soph-

omoric walking contradiction. They’d like to thank their cat, Scarfy, their goldfish, Stahl, and their mother, Brennan Lee Mulligan, for getting them to this point. They hope you hold on tight, Spider Monkey.

Joseph Coleman MFA Creative Writing

SLC‘22 - Poetry. Jane Cooper Fellowship.

Lily Marshall is a rising junior at Sarah Law-

rence College studying Psychology and Political Science. They enjoy writing short, nonsensical pieces that play on the edge of the classic “college student in existential crisis” movement, hence the root concept of “Egg”.

Rachel Saruski is a junior at SLC studying

theatre in literature. She would like to think she is funny, but you can be the judge of that.

Renée Richichi is a writer from Louisiana

whose work predominantly focuses on magical 77

realism and non-fiction. She is a first-year at Sarah Lawrence and is studying writing and film.

Roni Endres is a first-year student from

Pennsylvania who doesn’t really know how to describe herself. She laughs a little too hard at fart jokes. And farts a little too loud.

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