La Mosca- Summer 2023

La Mosca Literary and Artistic Journal

Cover art by Jessica Gertler “3 Qu33ns” - 40 by 40 in.

Acrylic and Oil Pastels

La Mosca would like to make it clear that we do not stand for racism, homophobia, transphobia, islamophobia, ageism, sexism, ableism, imperialism, nor xenophobia.

We strongly support free public expression and protest while also encouraging all to hold conversations with those closest at home, working against internalized racisms and intergenerational injustice among our closest communities.

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How to submit: We accept submissions via our La Mosca google submission form. This can be found on our website, instagram, and by contacting us via email.

La Mosca wishes to pay tribute to their predecessors, it is important to note that we would not be the journal we are today without all of this publication’s rich history. Our activity is dated back to the early 70’s and continues to publish work from all throughout Chicago.

We were formerly known as: Seeds, American Goat, Apocalypse, and Odyssey

Scan here to access submission form and La Mosca Instagram:

Email: lamosca.neiujournal@gmail.com EIC Email: cecofre@neiu.edu Website: www.lamosca.press

STUDENT MEDIA BOARD

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Table of Contents:

Short Fiction- 37

Hybrid-

Thalia Piseaux- 38 The Golden City

Ilsa Tucker- 10 Hug Pink Adobe The Sky is Not as Beautiful

Jennifer Terry- 39 Montgomery Mouse

Mark Behringer art by Mason- 13 Breeze Timothy Garrison Empty Branches- 14 S.R- 21 Scatterbrained

Creative Nonfiction- 22 Rachel A. Hale- 23 Black Friday Death Count Thalia Piseaux- 26 Blackout Philip Kostov- 27 Mr. Bubbles Money *Ja-Hee- 29 Gunviolence Maribel Cruz- 30 Cinderella Boy *David Wales- 32 What Prison Can Teach You Mark Behringer- 34 What Makes It a Good Day at The Ballpark?

Maribel Cruz- 45 Excerpts From Imperator Furiosa’s Diary Megan Benitez- 48 The Eye of Wisdom Amina Murati- 51 A Tree to Hold On To

Poetry- 54 J.J. Posey- 55 Aubade Sophia Leonard- 57 Ashamed Indigo- 59 Let’s Kill Each Other All Rise Cyn- 64 A Storm Within Timothy Garrison- 66 after “How to Tame a Wild Tongue” Upon opening the window for you after “La Herencia” yarrow yes woods- 69 Isle SC[ ]M[ Long Toenails Jaritza- 75 nocturnal enemies remains lure

Frozen Blossoms *Ja-Hee- 80 True Dat Scott Andrews- 81 Mind Head

jake steven james The Witch- 36 Sergey Turzhanskiy Untitled- 47 Untitled- 65

Cean Gamalinda- 82 Paradise Lost

I Cofre Seattle Hannah- 63 Covered Bridge- 87

Michael Cainghug- 91 Odeto a Music Box

Dessi Vasevski happy things- 79

Hana Urban- 85 four am in darien illinois Stephanie Ruelas- 86 Thumper Ayushi Kumar - 89 A note to yourself Jasmine Rodriguez- 90 Untitled Clay Cofre- 91 The Sun Will Come Up Maribel Cruz- 92 The Fool Emily Flood- 94 Since Pluto isn’t a Planet Anymore Zebulon B. Hurst- 96 Lament

Visual Arts Madeline Pasek Untitled- 8 Untitled- 53 Untitled- 93 * Statesville Submissions

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6 Letter from the Editor: This is the release that officially closes off our first year with our new team at La Mosca, and I could not be more excited to share the work that it contains. La Mosca to me is so much more than a literary journal, it’s a community of the people I love and feel blessed to create alongside.

This collection of work deals with topics of alienation, longing, and belonging. I like to believe that this release can act as a sort of home for the experiences that fueled these pieces, to keep them safe or to put them to rest. Thank you to our staff and to all the contributors who trusted us with their work, we hope you enjoy our Spring 2023 Edition.

Clay Cofre Editor In Chief

Letter from the Managing Editor: Editing this magazine has been a joyful experience and has taught me what it means to build radical community around literary editing and publishing within an academic space. I was truly mind blown by the submissions we received and am so excited for this book. Among many other things, the pieces in this magazine explore relations to self and world through embodied writing that stretch across a wide variety of genres; subverting genre, mixing genre and also playing within the depths of the surface of form and content. Thanks to all the Seeds staff for being awesome and dedicated and thanks to the contributors for contributing amazing literature and art.

Phil Kostov Managing Editor

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© Copyright 2023 La Mosca Literary and Artistic journal Northeastern Illinois University 5500 N St Louis Ave, Chicago, IL 60625 Contents: Quicker Printers 1208 W. Glenlake

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Hybrid

10 Hug Ilsa Tucker If I wrote about some of the things we did Don’t write about me. shared People wouldn’t say Friend The boundaries blurred definitely Though that’s a word I had also yet to discover, comprehend But like most of my life The evidence That something may not be ______ Was not concrete Tangible in our hands Physically evident No marks to show the jury so they can Declare a verdict Friend Lover Dry Intensity Someone who made an impression – not all bad A good time A hurt person trying to be less hurt like all hurt people

[Pause]

[Look at your own hands]

[No, really, take a moment to look at them.]

Pink Adobe Ilsa Tucker Little hard unripe guayaba A hint of pine The woman is crying because she doesn’t have enough money to keep her little fruit shop open Rachel said, “It sounds like she’s in love with you.”

Wooden stool Mulberry Ani D. Three women living in less than a studio, a room really We laughed about the fantasies men might concoct about that Two women, one girl, barely woman, girl woman, broken girl women Mother/Mother peeping Tom Trailer park outside Scottsdale guy grabs ass Arizona sucks Let’s get home Trunk full of grapefruit Your brother was nice Turns out your brother was on meth again, again Rachel said, “It sounds like she’s in love with you.”

Journey concert, Adam Something is different Promiscuous, say it like a snake Your Midwestern shame is showing Jealous?

You say he must have a nice body.

He does Mother/Mother

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12 The Sky Is Not as Beautiful Ilsa Tucker I don’t doubt you see things, know things, see into things I feel things, feel into things, so that’s not the part I doubt Trauma is a new word people use to describe these things it wasn’t too long ago But we didn’t use that word know that word, yet It’s beautiful But people go there to die That’s what I always used to say people searching people die A few end up where there’s less dust but the sky is not as beautiful Maybe that’s how it is Maybe there has always been a word But when you’re in it you have no words It’s only later if you make it to later That there’s a word For what before just happened

[Rest now]

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Empty Branches Timothy Garrison This is about the body, and some of the movements inside and out, and across generations, but first, a clipping of a phone conversation: [“...doing some of our genealogy.”] hWhy? My sister is on the phone and wants to know why.

(My sister, who is old enough to be the older sister who changed my diapers, is on the phone with me, who is old enough to be the one who changed the diapers of her children years ago, who’ve long since grown old enough to have children of their own, and she laughs Why when I tell her what I’ve been doing.)

I’ve been trying to fill in some gaps on the family tree.

She laughs a little with the Why? (I don’t mean she laughs and then speaks. I mean the laugh is the whuh part of why : ) hWhy? The laugh and the why come out at the same time, the sense of question and sense of humor at once. The syllable laughs and asks

one plosive

breath doing both asking and laughing

and please understand:

I do not feel laughed at.

I understand.

(I think) I understand her laugh to be laughing at the boldness of her own question while simultaneously and genuinely being a little baffled at the futility of the genealogical project, since we know so little about Daddy’s side of the family. And why don’t we? Because after he was gone his side didn’t show much interest in us.

So honestly, why should we bother to know more?

But I don’t feel laughed at by her laugh.

In all the years I’ve known her, I don’t recall

feeling

laughed at by her

at least not in the way you feel a

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laugh that separates what’s outside you from what’s almost outside you. even in the years we didn’t talk much, when I was waiting for her to get over her homophobia and accept me, I didn’t feel that kind of laughter.

What I did feel back then (and not just on the day that I came out to her but across those years):

I felt her confusion,

I would even say

ignorance, if you

can hear me say that in a way that doesn’t judge because if anyone can understand the ignorance of homophobia, self-repression, and confusion, it should be me. I know enough about working through that ignorance to know that it’s a very personal journey, and not one that anyone could have taken on my behalf. I don’t know everything about it, but I know enough not to step into traffic. Let them whirl back and forth with it. In this arena, confusion in others is a state I don’t feel troubled to trouble: I don’t need to straighten it out what I mostly mean when I talk about that ignorance it did. & her.

Somehow, and confusion: It’s the way it isolates you. & Me

and it must have

been gradual or at least I

don’t remember any one moment that changed everything for the better but something did and now we talk

even though we live miles apart

and rarely and I don’t mean

16 see each other we talk everyday

but when we do

I can hear a bend in her laughter where

if I just

told you I said something and she laughed

you might not hear the bend in her voice but

I do.

So of course I respect her question and all the breath

behind it, even the muscles in her body that pushed

it out:

why try to fill in the gaps of some past?

why bother to know more

Why –

and this is the question that must have gone from

her brain to her diaphragm and made the syllable

just come out with it –

Why would I want to

go back to him? not to say it’s just but

about his side, I’m also looking why not at the maternal side of the tree

but honestly that side satisfy myself has fewer with the fulness gaps needing of half filled in a tree?

Is it not enough?

and this really is the question; or rather, the question that came to the ears in my head is similar

but flipped (from the echo):

Is enought

not it?

Mama’s voice came into me, and instinctively I wrote enought

and I spelled it the way I heard it the way she might have said it , her Middle Georgia coming

through with soft teeth to close the question on the word itself Is enought not it?

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Maybe I have enough and don’t need to keep looking.

Stirring.

If not, then what am I looking for?

Here’s what I’m not looking for: Completion Precision Confirmation Satisfaction Why now would I expect that from this?

Two things about Daddy that haunt me . and and I don’t I - - it mean haunt does not as in chase. escape me What face can we that the writing down of such (things) put, really, if I could hardly defend things that are so close to to the haunter, it me the body us being the object, were /not mine, the object of pursuit? although they are close You know more \or were\ to my body, to my eyes/ and more about so close the thing if you’re

that they remain the one doing the chasing, forever in my brain, I suppose. but can you really know very much about what’s chasing you? Can you ever get close enought to it? The most you ever really know about that type of haunting is the moment its teeth get you, and only fleetingly would the knowledge come then–it would come down to the chemistry of your cells decoding the composition of the saliva dripping off the teeth, and that being the last thing your blood cells read before they are conquered–and absent the fatality of that moment, you would know, could tell, could even write it down. But even then, all the moments leading up to it, the chase, the haunting, were moments when the teeth of the thing were just an idea.

And this is not at all my meaning of haunt. These things don’t haunt me because they don’t chase me. But they are ghosts, in the sense that they remain.

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The body of them was there.

And his body is long gone. But they’re here.

to close (1) his ing .(2) his hand try- phlegm white stuck I’m which a in the that he would spit into door cough up and

p n o a r i cel

his hand being pressed his throat-snot having been expressed

the doorframe

and the cup

Someday, when all is lost of me and old age has wrecked my synapses to rubble, There glint dust may yet be a in the and

these things even these grotesque memories of Daddy will remain.

So it’s this remaining that I mean, the remnant.

Not that they haunt me, but that they ghost themselves into my mind still.

And what remains is something of shame in that doorframe, that cup– which is ironic because there’s something about that shame, something I don’t think he ever figured out about himself.

The force of my shame pressing all its weight on the door, and the weight of his shame, something so big he couldn’t swallow.

coffee cup ( his cup ).

When I started looking at genealogical records, I wasn’t sure how much I’d 19 find in all these old documents, but I didn’t plan on finding his shame or mine in any of them. And I haven’t yet.

(But I already have those ghosts anyway.)

Surprisingly, so far, I’ve found more than I expected. A photo of the gravestone of a woman he rarely mentioned: his mother. An 1899 family photo that

includes my Daddy’s grandfather, when he was a baby. Census forms that tell

me where Daddy lived at age nine. But these artifacts don’t get me closer to his shame or his pride, not that I could expect them to. A gravestone selected by a loving or dutiful family is not going to present the worst of a person. To have

a gravestone at all is a record of some shared value or appreciation. Posing for that picture in 1899, they’d’ve had a great deal of interest in selecting the pose

and the face that could last the longest, for the fullest exposure. A census form, filled out in 1950 by a civil servant who’s knocking on that screen door, would reflect the answers given by the housewife who answers. As clinical as the

form might be, her answers would convey the best possible picture, even to the point of a white lie, whether by her private embarrassment or by some collusion with the census taker, both of whom want to paint the simplest picture:

if Pa gets laid off at the mill one day and the census-taker comes the next, we won’t see that on the form.

And while there’s no guarantee that I end up with much more than statistics, what I have of him now is not the prettiest picture

. so why try precisely enought to make more because is not of the pressed enough what hand and the is I’m looking glob of phlegm not for it

what I’m looking for isn’t out there anyway

it’s not in or the the grave or the census stone actual

pictures family picture but what from 1899 can I (a remarkable find do with that?)

What I’m really looking for, and I keep in mind that I’m also resisting this,

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and therefore might not get there,

is the easy comfort I feel my sister felt when she conveyed almost all of this in one laugh.

I’d like to be able to see more and more of what I came from and to be just as comfortable seeing all that I came from, as she was in her desire not to see any more of it.

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Creative Nonfiction

Black Friday Death Count Rachel A. Hale

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http://blackfridaydeathcount.com/ is a site I found in the midst of quarantine boredom. Two years later and the count has grown. 17 lives and 125 injuries doesn’t seem like a lot compared to the Ukrainian War casualty count, or the amount of black men murdered by police in the year 2021 alone; but these are lives directly impacted, directly taken, for the celebration of profit and consumerist greed. I wonder if we’ll ever be capable of seeing the harm our own greed brings us. I wonder if the ambulance wailing past my window as I write this– coincidentally on Black Friday–is headed for the Walmart a few miles down the road. I wonder how high the death count will have to climb before something changes. If anything changes.

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On Black Friday in 2008, Jdimytai Damour, 34, was working at a Walmart in the early morning hours before the store’s opening. He had been asked, or ordered, by his employer to use his 6’5” body to hold back a tsunami of frothing holiday shoppers pressed against the store’s sliding-glass double doors. Under the combined weight of over 2,000 people, the doors shattered.

Jdimytai Damour was thrown to the floor and trampled. The holiday shoppers did not halt in their frenzy nor did they concern themselves with the man they literally murdered on the way in. Some even complained of having to wait too long to purchase their items.

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That same Black Friday in 2008, I, 9, was desperately clinging to the tail of my father’s Bears jersey as we veered through a mob hurtling toward half-price DVDs. He turned around to snap at me to keep up and stay close. As if I wasn’t already running to keep pace. There were so many people, I imagined the store looked like an ant farm from above. Rows and rows of people picking things off shelves. Things they didn’t need. Things they thought others would want.

Things they wanted for themselves. They waited in ques that went on for centuries. There were so many people that it was hard to keep track of where we were going and what we were even there to get. I hated Walmart’s fluorescent lights and bleached tiles and splashes of blue along the walls. I hated the stray elbows to the side and the odd foot crushing on your heel. The woman standing too close to me in line smelled like a perfume soaked ashtray. Then it was finally our turn at the counter. I stared at the lackluster candy display while my father fumbled for his wallet. We waited outside in the cold for an hour, he lamented, it had taken fifteen minutes just to find a place to park and now your card machine is broken! An uneasy tension filled the shoppers in the queue behind us, and it was as if they all subtly leaned in to hear the cashier say: “No, Sir, I believe the problem might be your card.” The whole place was a circus, inside and out. And after enduring all that, we still left empty handed since my father was too busy arguing with the bank to care about the brand

24 new Xbox 360 he’d left for the wolves.

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The year after the tragic and senseless death of Jdimytai Damour, former Nassau County District Attorney, Kathleen Rice, moved to file felony reckless endangerment charges against Walmart. But a few months later, the multi-billion dollar company agreed to pay nearly $2 million to settle the case and avoid criminal prosecution. That settlement included $400,000 to compensate Jdimytai Damour’s family and (4) other injured shoppers.

Around this same time, the U.S. Occupational Safety and Health Administration (OSHA) concluded Walmart committed a “serious violation” of rules requiring employers to make sure their workers are safe from hazards. Walmart went on to spend nearly six years and more than $1 million battling against a $7,000 fine and federal citation.

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Ten years later I found myself on the other side of the rat race. This time battling the dread that gnawed at my nerves. My manager had told me to block off the gap between the entrance and the cashier counters with shopping carts so that no one could cut through to take the shortcut to the 40% off flatscreen display. I was then told to make sure no one broke through the line of carts once the doors opened. As a teenage girl considered to be of average height I had no idea how she thought I alone would be capable of holding back dozens–if not hundreds–of rabid fully-grown adult bargain hunters. The moment those double doors opened and the cold wind rushed inside, people poured through. Sure enough, the first wise-ass to think he could cut ahead attempted to hop over the row of carts, only to get his leg stuck. He was forced to retreat and merge back in with the blob of limbs, faces, and flesh. The second wise-ass, however, thought instead it was better to just push them over. The result was dozens of people choosing instead to hurdle over a row of overturned carts and blitz towards the electronics section as if they were some Madden character made real. They didn’t pay me enough to try and stop that shit.

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In 2011 a Target employee, 36, drove her car into a 20-foot-deep canal after working the night shift on Black Friday. She was lucky to survive. But the car accident came after a slew of retailers, including Target, made the decision to open at 12 a.m. on November 25 to accommodate Black Friday shoppers. This required employees to arrive at 11 p.m. on Thanksgiving to prepare the store for an influx of shoppers.

Though Target never changed its opening hours, the petition (by employees)

asking for reasonable working hours over Thanksgiving went viral and received over 100,000 comments from across the country.

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Trapped behind a register on late Thanksgiving night or early Black Friday morning, I asked a man through a caffeine fueled smile if he wanted to sign up for a red card. Signing up would give you a 5% discount every time you shopped at Target! The man clearly only heard the word “discount” and not “credit card” because as soon as he finished signing, and his discount went through, I handed him the pamphlet with the card information and he looked bewildered. He asked me what it was and I told him it was for the card he just signed up for. He asked if he still got his discount and when I told him yes, he shrugged and left. Five minutes later my manager placed the corporation’s mascot–a stuffed white dog with a red ring encircling one eye–on my lane with the public announcement that I’d been the first to sign a customer up for a red card. She said that I would get a $10 gift card as a prize, and that there were only three more giveaways left. The look on her face told me I should be happy, proud even, for doing such a great job. But all I could feel was sleep deprivation and shame. I’d persuaded that man to take on around $500 worth of debt. Debt that he’d have to pay off at 25.9% interest…for a $10 gift card, a pat on the back, and a stuffed dog that judged my every move–until another coworker finally signed someone else up for a red card.

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Nowadays, the only time a major retailer closes a store for Black Friday is if an employee commits suicide while on the premises. No mass shooter, drunk driver, stabber, or trampler has that kind of power to get in the way of Black Friday profits.

26 Blackout Thalia Piseaux When the television set went full black, I saw my reflection. The quickness of the blackout reached the entire house, later the neighborhood, then the city, and finally, the whole country. The empty darkness made for a terrifying companion. A feeling of nothing and everything, all at once. The heat caused so much sweat, you could feel it radiate off the other family members in the living room. The whispering of the low wind struck at my face with full pleasure.

Outside, in the barrio, the street became inundated with people. They flocked together, creating small groups in each corner. They fled away from the heat inside their small homes. They hoped the timid small winds of the street would reconcile their want for cold. But they mostly fled the darkness. They sought refuge in the light given by the virginal whiteness of the moon, or the heated red fire of a person flicking a lighter to smoke their cigarette.

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30 Cinderella Boy Maribel Cruz The last I remember from my dream is being buckled into a seat along with four other pilots next to me. When the pressure starts to shift, the weight is so great that I can barely breathe. I manage a short gasp as I’m expecting to be crushed completely; little did I know that the end of it would complete me.

When I woke, the mass persisted that my head started to hang high, unnerving the roots that were held by Earth. I couldn’t help but strike the rattling that came from inside, but it simply accelerated the chain reaction.

The butterfly underneath struggled to break free.

My cold fingers fixated against the bony feel as if to stop a spill.

The worst feeling isn’t a heartbreak but a cranium undoing its own chrysalis.

The delay— like a premonition, a birth on the verge of death.

I prayed to Michael I prayed to Hahuiah I prayed to Nithaiah to Yemaya not in the house of God, but when I received exactly what I conspired.

Still, little benumbed ruptures incubated my palpitating aerial layers and apparently proved dire profoundly affecting the womb with unrelentless gunfire.

Outside of liminality, I was mourning the loss of someone alive.

When the barrier was cemented and crossed, it didn’t matter if I was forgiven because I couldn’t forgive myself.

She would look at me the same but I could never be the same.

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Luring people to their deaths wasn’t what I had in mind.

Disgustingly dainty devils spellbind the whereabouts of my absent teary eyes.

Frozen in a spiral of timeless knowing, unknowing how to charge.

I thought I restored while I slept, but it was Samael who arrived without request.

The pricking pain was gone, I might’ve forgotten to pray to that one.

I woke up again and again and again until the running faucet settled.

An activation that always believed in me and that always metalled.

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What Makes It A Good Day At The Ballpark?

Mark Behringer I don’t really get into the stats and strategies of the game of baseball.

I like going to a ballpark, especially on a decent day. Sun out, nice breeze. The drunks are all in some other section. When the wind is right I can smell the greenness of the freshly cut grass mixed with the funky smell of the floor in the stands. The stained gray cement is never truly clean or dry. There’s always a dusting of cracked peanut shells and bits of plastic wrapper. I like the sound of the creak the folding seat makes when I pull it down. I don’t like the hardness of the hard plastic seats. I miss those old wood stadium seats.

When I watch a baseball game, I like to see it as the performance of a giant dance or ritual. All the moving parts interplay to make a rhythm, reinforced by the noise of the crowd. The pitch, the swing, the hit, the run, the slide, the tag. About the deeper complexities of the game itself? είναι κινέζικα για μένα. When I go with friends who are fans, they try to share statistics with me about the players on the field, the team’s ranking, and who’s getting traded or acquired. It falls on my deaf ears. If it’s someone who knows me, I can just shake my head and glaze my eyes.

For me, the real, true reason to go to the ballpark is a meal I can’t get anywhere else. At some point during the game, I get up to find the little vendor cart in the area behind the scoreboard; that widened joining of the aisles along the top of the stands. That cart sells just one thing: A ten-dollar hotdog. For ten dollars, it is surprisingly unfancy. But it is an incredible meal. And it is a meal.

The hot dog is a big fat foot-long, draped with sloppily grilled sweet onions. It arrives on a chewy bun that complements the dog and grilled onions perfectly.

I step up to the cart. There’s a glass shield between me and the line of cooking sausages, spattered with grease and bits of fried onions. That wonderful smell rising from the grill crowds out everything else in my mind. My mouth actually waters and muscle memory starts to make my jaws chomp an imaginary hot dog in anticipation.

I order the standard offering, a grilled dog with grilled onions on a grilled bun. It’s ten dollars, as I’ve noted. They sell a lot of ten-dollar hotdogs from this cart. Once I was stuck with only a hundred, and the woman running the cart took it and gave me nine tens without blinking. Trading my ten-dollar bill for the steaming sandwich, I turn to jugs of mustard and relish and, strangely, horribly, ketchup. I pump out a thick yellow zigzag. The mustard cart is spattered with yellow drips and clumps of the unnaturally green relish. I skip the relish. Somebody once told me it glows in the dark, and I believe them.

There’s no red dribbles. It occurs to me that in all the games I’ve attended and

stopped for a dog, the level of the ketchup jug has never changed. Ah, Chicago.

There’s a stand close by where I buy a cup full of Pepsi-flavored ice and start back toward my seat. Just before I step off, I take that first fantastic bite. The sausage pops juicy, and the onions crunch sweet, and hot and the bun and mustard hold it all together, and I close my eyes and chew. It tastes good. It tastes great. It tastes like baseball.

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Short Fiction

38 The Golden City Thalia Piseaux I come from a small town, but they call it a city. It’s enthralled in a map of forbidden knowledge, shaped unto hills and mountains, reminiscing of past conquering ways. Hut-shaped houses, roads of mud, and fragmented concrete.

Strangers roam the city, in search of tepid answers. While the locals submerge themselves in a melancholic dissonance.,the strangers joy themselves in the sizzling heat, while the locals avoid it like flying butterflies. The strangers gasp with intellect and curiosity as they stare off into a forbidden river of gold.

The locals cannot see the river nor the gold. They have yet to find copper, or even think of steel and bronze. The strangers drowned themselves in lavish, most wore shoes and socks. As the locals dragged their shiny callused feet through the dust matted roads. Blood soaked between their toes. The locals lived to serve the strangers. They feared the crippling sensation of loneliness, they wanted the companionship of these strangers. That vile, jealous companionship. The kind that did not reciprocate. But most of all, the locals wanted to leave with the strangers. They wanted to escape the city once and for all to never return. They despised the strangers for their ability to leave and like hummingbirds sing of the wonders of the city. The strangers called it a city of gold, the locals obliged in hopes of their return. When the strangers leave, there is silence. A golden city does not thrive in silence.

Montgomery Mouse In A Rainy Day Jennifer Terry

I.

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The Old House

The rain tapped a gentle rhythm against the windowpane. It was a gloomy day. Clouds hung dark and gray in the sky, casting the morning into shadow. The neighborhood was quiet as the rain restricted anyone who wanted to stay dry to the confines of their home. Even the birds were quiet this morning. Outside the window, the sidewalks gathered puddles of water, rippling as the falling raindrops joined them. Lining the street were family homes in many colors, separated by picket fences and swaths of yards that were turning green.

It had been a long winter, but the snow and ice had finally relinquished their hold on the sleepy town.

At the end of the street, there was a particular house that held a different character than its neighbors. It was older than the rest, which showed in the peeling paint of the front porch and the dainty second-floor balcony that overlooked the flowers of the front yard. The siding was salmon pink, accented with red shutters and white trim. Surrounding the house was a sprawling yard with hedges lining the inside of its white picket fence. In the backyard was a swing set made of shiny metal bars, and a vegetable garden recently planted. Beyond, the neighborhood disappeared into a lush green forest. This house was the home of Montgomery Mouse, known to friends and confidants as Monty.

Monty was just under a year old, still young for an inside mouse. He was tiny, gray, and fuzzy from the top of his head down to the tip of his tail.

His ears were his defining feature, as he had never quite grown into them.

They sat big and round on either side of his head. Between them were his eyes, dark as night and shining with stars. A pink nose punctuated his snout, framed with long gray whiskers that helped him feel his way in the dark. Both his front and back legs were skinny, leading to small rosy feet with a sharp claw at the end of each toe.

Montgomery Mouse was well equipped for his life as one of the world’s most underestimated creatures.

While Monty may have been the only mouse that resided in the old suburban home, he wasn’t the only creature, big or small. In the years past, many generations of mice had called this house their home. The human family, however, was a relatively new addition. At first, there were two of them. They were tall with long legs, and their bright laughter filled the house with life.

Monty’s ancestors had learned to hide, and they watched from the shadows as two became three, then three became four. The children started small and

40 pink the same way mice did, and they seemed to grow just as fast. The older child was called a boy, and the youngest was called a girl. They took after their Mother and Father respectively. Monty had been born just a few years after the younger child.

When the children had been smaller, they had left a trail of crumbs wherever they went, sometimes whole crackers or pieces of fruit for the mice to claim. His great-great-great-grandmother’s generation was born at this time, and the population had boomed with so much to go around. The children had eventually grown up enough to follow their Mother’s commands, and now snacks were in short supply. After the family had become aware of the presence of mice in their home, they’d become obsessively clean for a short time, reducing the food supply even further and increasing the difficulty of obtaining it. Monty was born then, small as a jellybean, and never grew to full size as a result. He had spent his life watching the family with curiosity, even as the other mice moved on. Eventually, he had become the only mouse left in the peculiar old house.

On this particular day, Montgomery Mouse was sneaking around in search of crumbs. As a solitary rodent, he didn’t have much competition, and the family wouldn’t bother him if he stayed out of sight. It was a lonely existence, however. The lack of playmates left him with a propensity for boredom, and he had nobody to share his chores with. Montgomery was responsible for building his nest, finding food, keeping clean, and staying warm. All the rewards were his, but so was all the work. Shortcuts were necessary to get everything done, so he had learned to follow the family in case they dropped anything. His favorite reward was crumbs, of course. He watched as they fell to the floor from the humans’ table or hands, and he would clean up the mess once the room was empty. Monty had chosen to follow them this morning, but he had been unlucky so far. The family had risen earlier than usual, moving slowly through the house and yawning with bleary eyes. Breakfast had been a few bowls of oatmeal spiced with cinnamon that Mother meticulously watched over as they ate. Not a drop had been spared.

After breakfast, the family gathered at the front door. Monty sneaked along behind them, blending into the gray carpet of the hallway. They were well dressed and solemn, pulling raincoats over pressed shirts and cotton dresses. Feeling brave, Monty watched from under the umbrella rack as the little girl in her shiny black Mary Janes stomped her feet, whiny from early-morning fatigue. Mother had tucked her curls into a rain hat that matched the yellow vinyl of her coat, promising ice cream for good behavior. Father and son were quiet as they opened the front door. They led the family out into the spring rain, leaving the house still and silent.

Monty ran his small rosy paws over his snout, cleaning his whiskers and thinking. An empty house was a rare opportunity. He could clear a lot of distance in a short amount of time if he didn’t need to hide or sneak. At the end of the hall, the heirloom grandfather clock chimed eight times, a deep and resonant sound that echoed through the old house. Monty knew the family would be gone until well after the big hand passed the topmost point of the

41 clock face. He had time, but not enough to waste. The little mouse crept out from under the umbrella rack, darting black eyes back and forth along the hall.

Particles of dust floated in the lamplight. Only the sound of the rain filled the empty space. Emboldened by his solitude, Monty made his way down the hall toward the kitchen. The sound of his footsteps was muffled by carpet as he hurried quickly and quietly to his destination.

Mother liked to keep a tidy house, and the kitchen was her pride and joy. It boasted shining granite countertops and modern appliances, accented with yellow curtains and a vase of flowers from the garden. Monty took his time scouring the floor. He looked under the table and in the crevices beneath the counters, but came up with empty paws. Frustrated, Monty scampered up one of the wooden chairs and leapt to the surface of the table. The plaid tablecloth was soft, and his claws easily grasped the fabric as he climbed. His new vantage point revealed a sink full of clean dishes and a broom leaning conspicuously next to the pantry door. The kitchen was immaculate. If he wanted a meal, Monty was going to have to work for it.

With a closer look, Monty discovered that someone in the family hadn’t shut the pantry door. It seemed like one of the children had swung it closed after breakfast without pushing it far enough for the latch to connect.

Monty scurried back down from the table and over to the pantry door, sliding across the linoleum. Beyond the door frame, the pantry was dark, and a cool breeze curled itself between the panes of wood. The door itself was made of a much lighter material than the heavy oak doors in the rest of the house. Monty gave the bottom corner of the door a trial scratch. It hardly moved, but it was enough to fill the mouse with determination.

Set on his mission with gusto, scratching rapidly at the crack in the door, images of cookies and crackers dancing in his imagination. The door swung forward just enough for him to lodge his tiny paws into the gap between the door and frame. He put the full weight of his body into a mighty push, earning a creak from the old hinges as they relented. The crack had grown a little wider. With a deep breath and a complete exhale, Monty vaulted forward, off the floor, clinging to the inside edge of the door, as he set to squeeze himself through. He wiggled and stretched, swinging the door just a little more with the force of his scratching paws. With one last kick of his back legs and a final squirm, his tiny body squeezed itself inside the pantry at last.

II.

Risk and Reward

The little mouse hit the floor of the pantry with a soft thud. He shook his body back into its usual shape and checked to ensure the door was still open before returning his attention to the space before him. The inside of the small room was dark and dry. Shelves lined the walls on each side, filled with boxes, cans, and plastic containers sealed with bright red lids. Monty wrung his paws and sneezed. He was unsure of where to start. The shelves themselves were bolted into the wall, providing no clear way to climb up. Stored on the floor were cleaning products and unopened bags of cat food. He wasn’t desperate enough to spend his precious time chewing into a bag of kibble just

42 yet. Monty crawled around the perimeter of the pantry, sniffing around each container and scratching for an opening. He climbed up on top of the tallest bag he could find and scanned the area with his shiny eyes. In the far corner, hidden from plain sight, he spotted his prize - a perfect cube of cheddar cheese.

Monty squeaked and wiggled his body, leaping from the bag of cat food and scurrying over to where the cheese awaited. Exhilarated, he reached forward to claim his beautiful gift, when the object it was perched upon caught a glare of light from the kitchen window. The thin wires of the metal contraption gleamed silver, rigid with tension, glued onto a wooden base. Monty stopped dead in his tracks. It was a trap. He had seen these before. There had been a time when there was a whole community of mice in the old wooden house, multiple clans with a new brood every week. Now, thanks to the cruelty of machines like these, he was alone. Monty wrung his paws, thinking of his mother and his twenty-four siblings. Some of them had opted to brave the wild rather than live in fear.

Others hadn’t been so lucky. They wouldn’t want him to risk it.

The cheese, however, sang to him a melody of salty cheddar goodness.

His tiny stomach growled. As the only mouse remaining, the spoils of any raid were all his to claim. Monty had never had a block of cheese all to himself. He had spent most of his life living off crumbs and cat food, and he knew that a suspiciously placed gob of peanut butter could cost him his life. But cheese?

Cheese was uncharted territory. The little cube was placed at one end of the apparatus atop a metal plate, connected with a single wire to the other end where the trap was held at the ready. In the middle of the trap was a horizontal coil of the same type of wire. He supposed this coil must control the mechanism, snapping the jaw of the trap over the other side when the bait was taken.

Once, many months ago, he had watched the most clever of his siblings acquire a chunk of apple from one of these traps. His brother had approached from the side, leaning over to bite into the apple and lift it from its place without ever touching the wires or the wooden base. The trap hadn’t sprung because he never stepped on it. That had to be the trick.

Monty figured if he could swipe the cheese from the plate without applying any pressure, he could claim his prize and live to tell the tale. The little gray mouse gave the trap a closer look, circling the machine and sniffing around its edges as he formulated a plan. He knew he didn’t weigh much.

He lifted his tiny pink nose to the block of cheddar and gave it a good sniff.

It smelled sharp and salty, making his mouth water. The cube itself was solid and heavy with milk fat, resting comfortably on the trap’s pressure plate. If the cube wasn’t heavy enough to set it off, Monty felt confident that his feather-light touch wouldn’t trigger it either.

With a determined twitch of his long tail, Monty decided it was now or never. He took a step back, rising up to his hind legs. The cheese was before him, beckoning. With a hop, he closed the distance between himself and the trap. Another hop and he was aboard, the claws of his back feet tightly gripping the edge of the trap’s wooden base. It had not even moved from its place on the tile floor when his weight was added to it. Monty leaned forward, paws stretching out to grip the cheese, only to discover that he couldn’t reach it.

43 He opened his mouth to bite into the cheese with his two front teeth, the sharpest and strongest in his jaw. They reached far enough to sink into a corner of the cube, and oh, it was delicious. The cheddar was rich and nutty, sharp enough to add a tang without overpowering the smooth flavor of whole milk cured to its most delectable state. A shiver of delight ran down Monty’s back, bristling his short gray fur and curling his tail. He bit down with his lower teeth next. With his jaw’s grip firm on the cheese, he went to lift it up and over into his paws. His tiny heart beat fast with anticipation. Monty raised the cheese up the tiniest bit before the strength in his slight jaw failed him.

The cube dropped with the force of gravity and the added weight of his skull following it, bearing down on the pressure plate. The wires of the trap groaned and Monty squeaked in terror. Time stood still.

Monty wondered what happens to mice when they died. Was there cheese in mouse heaven? He didn’t want to find out. His heart beat once, and then twice, and then a third time, and he stopped counting. The trap hadn’t sprung. Adrenaline coursed through veins in his body that were thin as a human hair. In a panic, he released his bite on the cheese and leaped off the trap. He ran his paws over his face, snout, ears, and neck, confirming that everything was still attached. With his heart pounding, Monty plopped down and scratched behind his ear, sighing when he was finished. It had been a very close call.

But... had it really been that close? Maybe the trap wasn’t as sensitive as he had initially imagined. It was quite large, wider than his height and nearly twice as long. The plate had pressed down and he had seen the wires move, but he still had his head. Monty crept forward, sniffing once again, catching a whiff of cheddar in the air. He looked up at the cheese, noticing that his teeth had left a distinctive mark on the cube where he’d bitten it. So far he’d only had a taste of victory, and it wasn’t enough. Monty was determined to claim his prize.

Montgomery Mouse shook his entire body like a wet dog, fluffing up his gray fur and banishing the tension from his muscles. His heart was still beating fast. With a final twitch of his whiskers, Monty stepped forward, leaping up onto the trap once again. The cheese was radiant in the dark of the pantry, beckoning him forward to seize it. Monty took a step further than he had before. He paused, looking between the snare of the trap and the bait, holding his breath. With trembling paws, he reached out, and the tips of his claws brushed against the glossy surface of the cheddar. He shuffled just a bit closer. Monty sunk his claws into the cheese, leaned forward, and bit down.

With the combined strength of his jaw and his paws, he slowly lifted the cheese from its place. It rose up, firm in Monty’s grip, a gift from the heavens. Walking backwards on his hind legs, the mouse stepped back once, twice, then stumbled. The cheese had thrown him off balance, as one of his back paws slipped on the edge of the trap and sent him tumbling. He held tight to his prize as his back legs scrambled for purchase, kicking off from the trap and slipping on the tile. The momentum sent the wooden mechanism skittering across the floor as Monty rolled away from it.

SNAP! The trap sprung, and lifted off the ground with the lethal force of the mechanism. Monty jumped with a loud squeak, dropping the cheese and

44 scurrying away from the sound. It clattered back down, the jaw now clamped down over the end of the trap where the cheese, and Monty’s head, had been just a moment before. Monty trembled, frozen, staring at the trap. His brother had made it look so easy, but then again, his brother had been bigger, stronger, and smarter than Montgomery. The little mouse held his cheeks in his paws and waited for his body to stop shaking. At that moment, he missed his family more than he could ever want something as insignificant as a snack.

There were still snacks to be had. The block of cheese waited on the spot where Monty had dropped it, liberated from the trap, illuminated by the ray of light that streamed in from the cracked pantry door. As the dust settled, the quiet returned, and Monty could hear the rain falling on the roof of the house. The steady beat of raindrops overhead reminded him that, for better or worse, he was on his own. There were no brothers or sisters to share with.

The sweet, glossy piece of cheddar was all for him. Monty shuffled quietly over to his prize. It was still just as perfect as the first time he had seen it. He sat back on his hind legs as he picked up the cheese with his front paws. His fear had turned into excitement, and all the risk seemed worth it as he started to eat. Each bite was better than the last. Montgomery Mouse had never tasted anything so delicious. He ate faster than he intended to. By the time he finished the cube, he was so full that his stomach hurt. Monty plopped down onto the floor with a happy sigh. He closed his eyes for a moment, just for a little rest, he thought. However, the little mouse was exhausted from his meal and his eventful morning. Before he knew it, Montgomery Mouse had fallen asleep.

Short Excerpt based on the film Mad Max: Fury Road (2015) From Imperator Furiosa’s Diary: Maribel Cruz

45

I tried to move with love but was met with scarcity. When I was enraged at the lack of nutrition, I outgrew the hold, como las plantas que crecen sin agua. I never healed, but there was no anger, no resentment, just a potion that allowed me to see one way and one way only: a veiled tunnel baited by karma’s pheromones. I started to follow the scent as a slow and steady moving bullet, woefully slicing through anyone but the girls.

The Dag starts mumbling a prayer about being grateful for Danu’s company. At the brink of each utterance, she drags the whispers from herself and swiftly releases them, creating continuous waves with her slender hands. I imagined the waves of the water from the Green Place, saturating the same lilies that my mother would use to adorn her hair when I was a child. The smell of wet earth in the morning would be my first taste of breakfast before joining my guides for the seasonal hunt.

When we arrive, I’ll sit by the water once more, this time in relief at the sound of the girls’ laughter at their breaths of freedom from coercion as wives.

As we drove in the mechanical silence of War Rig’s engine, sometimes my arm brace would itch, and the scratch would summon visions of Immortan Joe watching and waiting for my arm to be removed as I came in and out of consciousness.

When I first tried to escape, I was speeding in some kind of four-by-four when the tires popped. As the truck moved ferociously from side to side, I kept my foot on the gas, and fired out the window at an approaching V8 Interceptor. I was pinned between the two vehicles on either side, firing at both was futile.

One of the War Boys tried to pull me out of the driver’s window by the arm, but when I shot him he had already secured a sturdy handcuff on me that was chained to him. When his lifeless body receded back into the V8, the driver started to pull away. I didn’t have time to fire through the chain when my wrist snapped. The red-hot pain came and dissipated for a second after both roaring machines violently crashed together with my mangled arm in between. When I woke up with half of a limb, I felt invisible tears in my eyes. I could help but smile at the sight of Immortan Joe screaming obscenities at the War Boys, angry that I was no longer perfect enough to be a breeder.

We came across a man with no name today, it’s the first time I’ve let anyone borrow the War Rig, but it was out of necessity. He doesn’t say much, but he says and does enough to let me know that he wants to escape as much as I do.

Splendid was killed today after protecting this strange man’s life. I couldn’t mourn her in front of the other girls, not now when Joe and his fanboys are closer than before. My tired eyes begin to close but I force them open because

46 I cannot leave this man driving the Rig unattended. He occasionally mutters and looks off to the side like he’s interacting with ghosts. I’m not the only one haunted after all.

The Dag is asleep while The Knowing is eyeing the new weapons and ammo we took from the last fight. Capable and Fragile are quietly discussing what it would be like to have a loving family. Capable asserts that she would only have a family with someone she loves, but Fragile thought she was talking about having parents and siblings somewhere in the Wasteland, not about having children.

If there is anyone else other than us and the cult, I hope they can at least be a home to the girls. I had thin hopes of finding my mother alive, but enough that all of us would make it alive on the way back home.

Max saved my life today even though he didn’t have to, and I realized that the girls were the family I wanted all along.

47

48 The Eye of Wisdom Megan Benitez I sit next to a dying man. As he lays in bed he coughs and sputters in between every other word like an old car trying to start. He was someone once, a son, a husband, a father, but now he’s nothing but a dying man all alone in the world save for my presence.

I turn and look out the window across the room. Snowflakes fall in a sensual slow dance with the wind as the world progressively gets coated in white. It’s a peaceful scene, even I can admit that much, but true peace isn’t a beautiful scene outside a window.

“Sarai,” I turn to look at the old man, his eyes open but glazed over. He once lived in this house with his wife and children. He’s told me they died many years ago from fever and at night he dreams of them. He believes in the afterlife, and while I myself don’t, I have never denied anyone else’s beliefs.

“Sarai,” he pauses to cough, “Why has it come to this? Why….why must I die in a time of such turmoil?”

I stare into his eyes, thinking about what he’s asking. Despite the peaceful scene outside his window, the world is at war. It started with three things: a prophecy, words, and fear. Human beings have always believed in higher powers, but with the Oracles around, people had a direct connection to the Gods. The Oracles gave people words, two words which described you and your life. Some words were as simple as Love, others were as complicated as Loyalty. The problem was the words could mean a multitude of things and it was only as you went on with your life that you might make sense of what they meant.

Many years ago, the Oracles foretold a war that would be bloody and long. In order to prevent this, the representatives of our government made a list of words deemed too powerful, too risky to keep alive. Anyone with those words, even if only one, was taken away to be executed. It was called the Prevention Act and because of it, thousands upon thousands of people were executed.

I was five-years-old when I received my words. Life and Death. As one can imagine, it was confusing, they were seen as direct opposites, how can they make any sense? Not to mention the fact that both those words were at the top of the execution list in the Prevention Act. Two words, deciding my fate.

I had committed no crimes, but was a criminal all the same. My mother had pushed me away from her like I was a disease, refusing to look at me even as I screamed for her as I was dragged away by soldiers. Get that thing away from me! She’d screamed that over and over. I can hear it now in the silence between my thoughts.

I was taken to a facility somewhere deep in the woods. I stayed there for weeks, listening to the sound of others being murdered. One day I was dragged out of my cell and pulled across the wet grass. I wailed as loud as a child of five could, the soldier’s grip on my wrist only got tighter, it felt like my bones would break. The ground fell out from under me as I was thrown down

49 into the pit. It was filled with snakes and all of them were venomous. The most dangerous of them all were the ones they called Bel Por which meant blood eater in the Eternal language, the language of the Gods. The Eternal language, for the most part, is only spoken on special occasions.

The minute my body hit the ground I felt their fangs penetrate into me.

The Bel Por didn’t consume flesh but rather sustained themselves on blood.

Their venom causes their victim to bleed out through all their orifices. I felt my blood come out of me. I was choking on it and cried tears of blood. Most people die within seconds, some last a bit longer than that, but only one-in-10 billion are immune. I spent two days, staring up at the sky, contemplating my life before it all went wrong. I was half alive and half dead, walking the line between the two.

After two days another girl was thrown into the pit, but she had managed to struggle with the soldier, and as she was thrown down into the pit with me, a knife fell down with her. I listened to her choke on her own blood as she was being strangled and drowned at the same time. I remember grabbing the knife and slowly making grooves in the earth for me to crawl out of the pit.

After I was out, I stumbled back to the facility. Once I had come into view of the facility, the head of the facility grabbed his gun as soon as he saw me. Pointed it straight at my head as I stared straight into his eyes. Go ahead. I thought. I don’t care anymore. A gunshot rang out but it was him that fell. One of his subordinates had shot him, and soon he was shooting any other man who picked up their guns. I was surprised though I was too weak from the loss of blood to react in any way. He and the remaining soldiers brought me to an Oracle who lived in the closest village. She looked at me and carved the mark of the Eye of Wisdom into my hand.

The Eye of Wisdom was a mark made to one’s left hand. Those who earned it earned it through suffering, for suffering is the path to wisdom. She called me a child of Life and Death and told me that Death had gifted me Life.

My purpose from then on was to provide wisdom to those who asked. For you are a wanderer among wanderers, she’d told me.

Sadly, the killing of those with powerful words did not prevent the war, but in some ways, it started it. Our world broke into two groups, the Vaya and the Ula. In the Eternal language, Vaya means “Just” and Ula means “Holy”. The Vaya broke away from the Ula believing the Ula to be murderers and liars. The Vaya believe that the Ula are twisting what the Oracles say in order to support their own personal gain. The Ula believe they are doing God’s work.

Personally, I think both sides are wrong. They treat the Oracles like Gods, but they aren’t Gods, they are human beings. They make mistakes, lie, and twist the truth until it’s beyond recognition. I don’t even believe in the Gods, for where is the proof of their existence? Surely they can’t be real just because the Oracles say they are.

I just travel between the two groups, offering up conversations to those who ask. I don’t see myself as wise, but I talk to people. The old man I’m staying with now knows this, we have talked for months as he lay dying. He wanted to talk with me because he was dying, and wanted wisdom. When I

50 told him that I don’t think of myself as wise, he’d simply smiled and accepted the conversation despite what I may think. His time is near now and yesterday he’d told me to take what I want from his property, in exchange for all the conversation I had given him. I think back to his question: Why must he die in a time of such turmoil? I look towards the window as I answer him.

“I don’t have an answer to your question. However, terrible things happen every day, and I believe everyone who dies, dies in a time of turmoil.

Better to look forward to the peace of death, of nothingness.”

“It is nice to think of peace, even if your own idea is different from mine. I hope to meet my family in the afterlife, I can feel them waiting for me. I’ll tell them of you, Sarai, and of your wisdom.”

“I am not wise.”

“You may not believe it, but you are, you are to me.”

We sit in silence, and we stay that way till his breathing stops and death fills the air around us. I sigh into the air and lift myself from the chair beside his corpse. I do not touch him as I exit his bedroom and walk downstairs. I grab my bag from the kitchen chair and walk outside to the stables. I saddle up a single horse, for I won’t take more than I need.

As I ride away from his home, I think back on all our conversations.

Over time all the conversations I have with people tend to sound the same. We talk of death and life, the afterlife, and the war. The old man wasn’t the first to tell me I’m wise and I’m sure he won’t be the last. I know the truth, if not for the mark upon my left hand I would not be called wise, and suffering does not bring wisdom, just more suffering. I have seen the worst of humankind and I am indeed a wanderer among wanderers. I only look forward to my next conversation and the eventual release of death, for death is true peace.

A Tree to Hold On To Amina Murati

51

Ding–pop! The toaster popped the last two pieces of bread out just as the coffee maker was finished brewing and the microwave was done heating up the plate. mrs.

Brown had just finished taking the rollers out of her hair and pinning down the loose hairs as Mr. Brown made his way down to the kitchen.

“I can smell the Rogers’s finishing up their eggs across the street.

Maybe I should join them,” he said as his swollen eyes were slowly opening up as he entered the sunlit kitchen. mrs.

Brown quickly grabbed the top plate in the cabinet as she placed the steaming hot toast on the plate. Her next two steps consisted of getting Mr. Brown’s gray mug and pouring him the coffee. The microwave beeped again because it still has not been opened. With Mr. Brown sitting at the table, mrs.

Brown circled around the table, to the microwave, where she took the plate of soggy leftover pancakes for herself to the table across from Mr. Brown. mrs. Brown quickly ate her breakfast after she realized what time it was. She was excited to phone call her parents to wish them a happy anniversary. She wanted to call them before they left for their trip to Hawaii.

“Looks like it’s going to rain all weekend, folks,” the weatherman said on the radio.

“Damn it! Carl and I are gonna have to cancel our fishing trip this weekend,” Mr. Brown said. “Let me call him now, I don’t wanna forget by the time I get to work.”

When mrs.

Brown insisted on her husband telling his friend about their fishing trip at work. She wanted to catch her parents before they left.

“Yeah right! And what, let you cause the phone bill to be a crazy amount,” he said. Mr. Brown unplugged the phone from the wall and took it with him as he left the house for work.

With nothing that she can do, mrs. Brown carried through the day as she cleaned the house. She first went up to the bedroom where she noticed she had to reorganize her husband’s drawer after he got ready this morning. She eventually made her way downstairs where she tidied up the living room, and finally the kitchen.

mrs.

Brown was delighted when she saw that she finished earlier than usual, leaving more time to herself. She made her way up to the attic where she had a small and wobbly children’s table at the far edge of the room. The legs of the table were short enough where she was able to sit on the floor with the table being at just the right height for mrs.

Brown to work on her drawings. On days when she would finish her chores early, mrs.

Brown would come upstairs and drag her little table to the front of the window. She found comfort in looking out and seeing her favorite tree that stood alone across the street. She drew the same tree, over and over again on sunny, cloudy, rainy, and snowy days. She collected all of her favorite drawings in a box that once used to carry her jewelry. Mr. Brown emptied the box years back when he needed the money to buy a new car when he got his new job out in the city. mrs.

Brown dreaded the Beetle Mr. Brown bought so much,

52 that she never stepped foot in it since he bought it.

To mrs.

Brown, her drawings showed more than just her favorite tree, but her tears from days when she remembered how alone she felt, and her blood from the blisters on her hands after a hard day of chores. mrs.

Brown had nothing else of her own except her box and her drawings.

The tree meant so much to mrs. Brown. It reminded her of the tree from when she was proposed to by her true love. Todd proposed a day before he had to leave for war, and promised when he would come back the two would get married. He died in the war a month later, and mrs.

Brown had an arranged marriage to Mr. Brown shortly after.

On this particular day, mrs.

Brown sat down to begin drawing the tree on the cloudy day they were having. The Smiths were renovating their house and extending one part of it. This required the tree to be taken down and pulled out of its core. mrs.

Brown paused looking out the window for a while. She reflected on all of the days she came upstairs and looked forward to having something to look at, and have it look back at her. The tree gave her its presence, but now that it was gone mrs.

Brown had no reason to stay in her house any longer. After vigorously gathering all her drawings, mrs.

Brown went downstairs to get her hat and change her shoes. mrs.

Brown walked as fast as she could outside of their neighborhood and took the first taxi she could find. She used her shawl that was tied around her neck to help cover her face so her neighbors wouldn’t see her. None of them would ever defend her against her husband in a situation. mrs.

Brown never spoke to any of the other women in the neighborhood, and they never spoke to her. She was the only wife not invited to gatherings and meetings that were held by the other women when their husbands were at work. Everyone feared her husband, and that was that.

“Where to, ma’am?” the cab driver asked. mrs.

Brown let him know that she wanted to be taken to the art gallery downtown. She read in the paper that they were looking to buy new art to put up on display. mrs.

Brown had considered the option when she read the advertisement, but she was not sure if this was something that she wanted to do. However, with the tree being gone mrs.

Brown saw no other option.

Before walking inside, mrs.

Brown took the top drawing of the tree, folded it, and put it in her purse. She walked inside and a man greeted her.

“I see that you have some drawings with you today. We would be happy to buy anything you have for us. Let’s see how much we can offer you,” the man said.

After seeing all of the drawings for five cents a piece, Mrs. Brown was able to collect $39 at the art gallery. All of it belonged to her, and no one could take it away from her.

Mrs. Brown held the money tightly in her hand as if someone was trying to take it away from her. Other than her final drawing that she kept, Mrs. Brown had nothing

53 that she felt like belonged to her. She went to the nearest thrift shop to sell her old jewelry box that she couldn’t carry around with her. It was empty anyways and she could use all the cash she could get since she didn’t know how long her journey could last. Mrs. Brown had dreamt of escaping somewhere, anywhere for a very long time now. Going back home was not an option at this point because her husband would be arriving home soon and he would see her walking in. There was no turning back now and Mrs. Brown was sure this was something that she wanted to do, something that is overdue.

Mrs. brown went to the nearest train station. She looked at the map and all of the destinations that she could go to. She’s never had more options in her life to choose from, causing her head to spin from all of the possibilities.

“Where are you headed ma’am?” asked the gentleman selling tickets.

Mrs. Brown saw at the bottom of the map a little picture of a silhouette of a tree that looked like the same one she drew.

“Here,” she said, pointing to the tree.

54

Poetry

55 Aubade J.J. Posey It was a weird pink hole on your shoulder.

But still you laid, as if not feeling pain.

Maybe you were.

I didn’t know.

What did I truly know?

About you.

Your kind.

Quietude expression, I helped you rest; Smoothing you.

“Don’t pick him up”, my ma ordered.

The hole got bigger, I cried more, worried more.

Did something bite you?

Attack your fur? fatigued, you laid, peacefully, composed.

You didn’t eat, but you drank, You didn’t meow, but you blinked.

“We have to take him.”

Away.

“Away”, they said, “to get him checked out.”

I was hopeful.

Mata Ne. “I’ll see you soon.”

But I never heard back,

56

my dad is slow with updates.

So naive.

Afraid to bug people, I said nothing, They will update me.

“Yes, Tokyo...”, I said your name, two weeks later...

Should have been sooner...

I didn’t want to be a bug, I wanted to be mature, things take time.

“They put him down...”

As if I was suppose to know I didn’t, how could I? They knew.

Didn’t they?

That I was hurting.

I didn’t say bye.

Sayonara.

Tokyo.

Mata Ne

Ashamed Sophia Leonard I seek success But never grasp it All I want is a home Of our own for us But I don’t even Have sticks to build a shoddy hut Will you love this poverty When we are enduring a Chicago winter?

57

58

Lets Kill Each Other Indigo

59

Haunt me I want you to arrive like metal, between my legs and up my sternum.

You don’t even need the F-sharp, but I think it suits you well.

Wake with me. Mourn for me.

There’s no coming back after the development of the first movement, and my God you live to develop.

We’re hyperextended, we’re set in motion.

Flux and twine, Perversion and the all get going get going going go now.

When we’re like this, we are our truest longing.

I would love to fuck you but I think dying for ourselves is even better.

I don’t want you to arrive Henry, I want you to come in.

And the first rabbit is normal, And the second doesn’t think.

They’re both very good.

It’s exactly what I want, what we’re doing.

I want to commit to the art of disconnecting, I want to commit to nature and become the happening, happened, happen to.

We could breathe the forest of our longing and really take it up a notch.

Will you release this tension for me?

Do you have any resolutions for the great ending?

If we’re not moving in we’re moving down. Out. I want out.

So flick the damn lighter behind your back and tell me you’re still interested, take these twigs and call it folk. Take these strings and call it one.

Please, for fucks sake, just tell me you want to drift into dark and nothing and

60 irony and foil.

I will take you there. I know things.

You see, We’re in the wrong room, we always have been.

We have left the sticks and the twigs behind, We have ventured into our ovens blackened.

I want to pull you aside and show you my disappointment.

I will not be hasty, I will be automatic. I will grind against your head and you will deliver.

Do you think the rest of them eat like we do?

Don’t panic.

I will not be hasty, I will be automatic.

They have been waiting.

In fact, I think the F-sharp thinks you’re everything and more.

So say the wrong words at the wrong time, and when others ask, don’t tell. It’s between us and the darkness.

I’m hungry, Henry.

I just wanted to open you up, I wanted to see what I could contribute.

How could I have been such a fool It’s already here The world has never not been here I have to step forward and plummet into the gift it has given me.

All Rise Indigo

61

I feel as though there’s something you’re not telling me, Henry.

The hands, they give it away, don’t they.

There’s something about the hands.

You’re not moving right.

You’re too smooth; you’re stoic in all the right places. You’re automatic, you’re unwrinkled.

You’ve actualized.

There’s a good blackened branch in the corner, You can still pick it up.

Somewhere wet. Somewhere dark.

Your clothes are dripping, Henry.

You’ve been out all night and you’re older now.

The twigs have blackened, and the trust in your hands has run to your mouth.

I would close it, but I don’t think you can hear me anymore.

I want to suggest something, Henry. I want to know you can do something, anything that isn’t good.

I’m asking you to leave.

I’ve laid out instructions, I’ve been working out The Whole Scheme.

Are you ready?

All rise.

Take this gun, Henry. Take it to the spot I never told you about, to the hollow string inside the paradox I never broke into, out of. Take it to the dead raccoon I never showed you, to the ducks that never met the Moment because I never had any food on me.

Meet the Moment, Henry.

Tell it that it belongs to you now.

62 Tell it you see exactly what it is, and then tell it you are going through something and simply cannot bear to do the thing.

Drag it against the road you aren’t supposed to be on, inside the moment you aren’t supposed to witness.

Trust yourself and become the captain.

This is sacred, Henry. You’re scaring me.

I can feel you changing the whole thing.

I can see it now, standing in front of me. I will dance with it, I will seize the day and all it has to offer me. I will bring peace to my woes. I look at my notes, and I see strings.

I can see it all so clearly, now.

I can see you all so clearly, now.

You’re just so fantastic.

And it will say, “I feel as though there’s something you’re not telling me, Henry. You’re not moving right. There’s an ending, and there’s a willingness to say it. There’s a captain.”

And it’s bigger than you.

And so, you lift up your pants, and you walk a little faster.

And so, you tie your boots, and you grow a little taller.

And the man you thought you were, is exactly who you will be.

Can you feel it?

The shift is nearing.

Hold well, and become the shaped.

I’m doing this for you.

Roland Topor, you are so dear to me.

63

64 A Storm Within Cyn This weather makes me nervous, It almost feels like the calmness before the storm it’s anxious. I’m anxious, and you can’t calm me.

I feel like the storm, and it’s not going to stop any time soon.

The wind is deafening. My heart beating so loudIt almost drowns out the wind and world around Almost,. But it’s not enough. Nothing has been able to The storm within never stops and never will stop There’s nothing to be done except let it pour.

65

66 after “How to Tame a Wild Tongue” Timothy Garrison Languid denim wealth, indwelt, indulgent, Untwangled and modulated to what white.

Thawed in a hewing age, A whine delating the outed ego, The weight lightened, the ghoul whelmed.

Mew-met at home, Unweaned and in need o need, We two hum, leaning, and meeting in mode.

Unwhite, unmelting All gold, alight.

Not in need of eluting, and gut unheld, gone idle.

Upon opening the window for you Timothy Garrison Years ago, I read an old story about la mosca.

Yesterday my boyfriend laughed while saying the word.

I wonder if that story I heard is true.

Do you come to remind me?

The story is not mine to tell, his laugh, not mine to repeat.

His family, on this continent longer than mine.

Can your words fit in my mouth?

I have fumbled at tracing our pathways.

He is local, and my white sister asked me his nationality.

I wonder if she knows what that word means.

Did you mean to fly there to remind her?

The autumn was warm but snapped colder.

This is no place for warm hearts to be alone.

At the office, a bigger one got in.

My co-worker: but how? if the windows don’t open?

At home, you buzz with a vigor.

I tell him about the one in the office, fat and sleepy.

Maybe that’s what he laughed at, not your name.

Is it a burden to carry us these messages?

I’ve misplaced a particular pen, So I come looking and see you by the window.

I found it! Right after asking, with all tenderness, Wouldn’t you like to die free?

67

68 After “La Herencia” Timothy Garrison Ah, reach ache, rain: Learn a carnal niche.

Can I hear a relic, clear?

Char, inhale, crane here.

Lie, lean era: Rich in reach, a lichen lace, an inch can ceil, arch air.

69 Isle yarrow yes woods

Isle // 1 of 2

descent into madness the fantasy became necessary to survive, she sews together several long swaths of heavy fabric and hangs them over the years. between them the dust we touch the Shop-Vac to, modified coil and beak to brush. when the cloth waves it makes blue notes on the carpet. outside the cardinals and blue jays. the robins. an old green riding lawn mower stuck up a tree. when it is hot the fabric multiplies to keep the cool air in. when it is cold, the fabric multiplies to keep the cold out. in between the pollen and noise, the storms the rain the wind shake the old roof. not a minute to spare the crystal angel trinkets have turned in the mirrors above the mantle The mantle scorched the days forget when the vacuum caught the cinders the callused mirror the candles lit blackening the walls wax articulating the sound of possibility. someone could have broken in the alarm systems have doubled and signs thereof tripled. fantasy is the beginning of the most powerful magic she shows me a photo of a man and tells me his life His life returns to her. she tells me of their fates and why the stars say it has already happened. when i meet him i’m trying to imagine his belly like a bed and his arms and terror strength as something that could protect. why is it he pounds on the glass of the car windows? i’m trying to learn something about respect the gravel screaming doesn’t help. he says Why did you bring your kids and the threats grow in specificity. Should i be alarmed he says This is the first time they’ve seen each other in months and she insists they’ve spent weekends together and roadtrip vacations. when we return home she says Love is like that sometimes and why we can’t take the car: my father has been loosening the lugnuts and cutting the brake cables. oh. it is that animals breed more dangerous animals? my teeth sharpen themselves and my tongue cuts itself like grass. It’s all about power for the thread and needle basket opens without a latch and the alcohol won’t swab for sanitation the closer we get the more apparent the lack of touch and when we touch its pain is overwhelming. Why should the cops be called on the pre-teen and barely teenage siblings? The attic is so hot and humid and the asbestos. To access the attic fans one must unscrew the old, heavy, wooden covers. I stand on the old red hairdressing stool and brace myself. If it is 3 am, it is a good time to call the police again. The threats amass and the children take turns being shoved into a corner and kneed in the groin and hit in the face with the rings and bony parts of a hand.

The pigs arrive just as everyone has settled into hiding from the person they think is hurting them: the children in one room tending to the fresh wounds, door locked and furniture against the door; the mother similarly barricaded with a long knife and spray can and lighter. The pigs have a strange way of eating a body. They don’t have the means to deal with the bones. See the marks because the mother is a woman and the children look like they aren’t, the police treat her reality as unstable, false, and ruinous. Were i to know anything of wilderness, i wonder what it would mean to say i learned it from her.

70 A broken lock is not so pretty as a broken window, nor as dangerous, which i think is both redundant and reductive, but the questions continue and the pigs have begun snuffling around the edges of her home already lost in their idiosyncratic labors pooling the fleshstate within they feel each fold of curtain with cankerous hooves.

Amelioration! It is 88 degrees inside the house and the children are sweating sitting on vinyl-reupholstered wicker chairs. The bright red against the dried pale plant fibers seems to anger the pigs. One of the children thinks of the pornographic killing scene in Lord of the Flies. Are they called pigs because they sometimes savage their young? Sows or first-time farrowers only ever do this in high-stress environments, say, like in crates or pins or loose-dirt enclosures as they grow to slaughter. A leading theory concerns whether young gilts or mature sows have been able to form sounders and experience normal birthing practices. Maybe the Isle // 2 of 2 savaging is a rejection of their future suffering, a shortened lifetime of torture, i don’t know i don’t think anyone could say. it would have to be something i would consider. Some studies have suggested that pigs allowed to raise each other in a free-roaming environment might not kill and eat their newborn babes, but there are questions about how economically feasible this is. when i was small, i believed in pigs eating each other this savaging to be the most visceral traitorous act--why officers of the law got that name--but now i know something of savagery, and i know it to be the most divine, the most devout and necessary form of love. In their letter, they say “...devouring--only because consuming you whole is the only way I can resolve the cognitive dissonance I feel when caught between my hunger and my utter satisfaction.” He pours the water into the decanter to make a red jewel, sure a ruby it’s the only one i know at golden hour. Because I call them by their only rightful name, is an expectation that the tight circles of bite marks are to protect me?

From the satiation from the savaging of our own desires? And my blood diluted into water to feed the plants on the long windowsill? This is for their safety? That can’t be right but it is true. The cold concrete is painted forest green when I return. Should it stain my bare feet? The oxygen the nourishing the pleasure returning with the sunlight. i return to my deepest terror with a second armor. So the wound opens and appears as shadow, the liquid red crowding out yellow and white rose petal. So the skin hardens and softens. Restoration is not made toward replica. Not a seamless overlapping. i write a letter to the home and the fear ever new inside where i always am. Am i wrong to say this again? To make a wall is to make the idea of an entrance.

The more impenetrable the wall, the graver the idea of encroachment. It doesn’t have to be stone, or in this case, brick. It can be fluid like water, or blood, or a the footfall dampening of fabric. So then i thought everyone else thought pigs were just dirty, wallowing in filth and flood. And then i think of captivity. And of a monkey wrench on the table near the woman’s hand, the broken wine glass stem and the sharp wire of a guitar string beside the child. Now i see that the pigs got their name from sniffing around, the ways the animals do. And they do. place their snouts to the fabric, they put their breath ravenous only vaguely conscious searching to every bend and every swale. They root through ever corner of the woman’s face, nothing of savagery, nothing of the devout or the divine in their grunting, nothing of protection and nothing of serving in their glut, and they open their drooling, half-bearded maws and eat everything they touch.

SC[ ]M[ yarrow yes woods

SC[

71 ]M[ // 1 of 3

SC[

]M[ // 2 of 3

no this can’t be it • there has to be more for us eternity begins here again? spit polishing along the floured floor, scrubbing two-handed, IS THIS HOW DOES ONE RECEIVE THE KISS OF A GOD AND NOT BLISTER scrape the wax relics from white baseboards, somehow the door closes, oh Love could this be it? eternity in threes begins With a whimper, it swells and gums recede nothing is lower more lucid than bone There was my friend on the porch and the light

72 you invented [the more i mean?] and the ash in my mouth. same night i earned my whiskers tallow barrow blush abey because I need [it] I am scared, Keeper. i can no Longer wait for the blessing and i no longer Believe [ ] in revenge fullflesh threat THIS CAN’T BE IT DEAR PITY A CALL FOR SAFETY PROPERTY ACCEPTANCE no there is more i hide some wax drops along warm

SC[

]M[ // 3 of 3

thighs under tights it melts into me i have always been a thief and a [ ]ward against [ lowercase ] loss for Love fills its container like a [ r ]eam slung fist and each opens to let it [ ]ill every doubt dread every recess shadow How polish doubles the light

73

74 Long Toenails yarrow yes woods Why because i want to believe in dissonance? Barn swallow hatchlings under the bridge?

Little laughter scream i kiss you on the mouth? What am i feeding the gaping yellow for.

Long Toenails // 1 of 1

nocturnal enemies Jaritza sun, tormentor of my dreams,and reliever of my nightmares. tortured ghosts inhabiting my memories shame me for letting my soul grow fictitious “this is all a hoax, isn’t it?” there’s no reply. time ages the sky into deep darkness. insomnia crawls into my sleepless bed, allied to ward off, nocturnal enemies.

75

76 remains Jaritza the plants turned to corpses dry as bone. the snakes into butterflies flying alone. they land on remains disguising such morbid sights. the stench roams like spirits they won’t say goodbye.

77 lure Jaritza despite all attempts against it the life you need is yours even the ones you’ve orchestrated in your tangled mind. when the fog was too dense to clear & felt like all the ghosts of your past were coming out of the woodwork in an attempt to lure you back into its haunting grasp. not everyone you love hates you. no ones out to get you. and hell’s not going to break loose if one day you choose to be selfish.

78 frozen blossoms Jaritza my body in the snow, blood-crimson roses grow out my mouth. my skin transforms blue with frost, frozen to the ground. my last breath lingers in the air, my throat’s torn to shreds by thorns.

The screams he provoked continue to bloom.

79

80

Mind Head Scott Andrews

81

It’s amazing how the human mind works. The mind is like a depository of information and a machine inside of an industrial complex. Its complexity is a collection of consciousness like a concubine of flowing information. Our human minds can learn not by doing but by making errors or terrible life-altering mistakes. Truly this level of thinking could only be conceptualized by a higher power. You see, I have realized that God has given us all the tools to be successful in our lives. There is truly no adversity we cannot overcome in time. Everything we need to succeed is already within ourselves. We just need to find it. Once this level of thinking is realized, life becomes so clear, and it’s easier to face future adversities and life itself.

82

Paradise Lost Stranger Than Paradise (1984) Cean Gamalinda what else can i say? it’s an overrated but solid understated comedy, 4 stars. a love it or hate it sort of endeavor, 4 stars. not a lot to it, certainly, but the dry humor is delicious, 3 stars. it’s boring & that’s not even the point, 1 star. stranger than paradise sick of feeling like life is not enough it’s strange as hell to feel strong doubt rings like a busy line & i tailgate an ambulance through traffic never enough loud in my lungs when you said “jeez” really emphatically i couldn’t tell if you were just stressed or if you meant that like everything else you were saying it would be a good name for a band who brought a necromancer to the weekly housemate meeting? i am the object in your mirror & i am closer than i appear my demons clap my hands when i don’t know what to do with them & people more optimistic than me mistake it for applause laaura was right we weren’t invited we were tolerated in heaven everything is fine & arrogance is just as bad as insecurity & there’s supposed to be honey instead of water & the streets are made of ... ??? i am trying hard to like you but even your dj looks embarrassed i think every artist should have a piece called snakes

83

i wonder what this says about me here comes the wind i close my eyes paradise deferred for one lukewarm moment of peace milton who made his illiterate daughters read to him in five languages til they heard the news he would marry again & said they would rather hear he was dead milton who turns even Paradise Lost into an autobiography that gets so boring i have to find other things to talk about in translating it even though Bookdragon Sean on goodreads.com called it the poetic behemoth of prophecy if i use my earbuds a certain way, there’s a method by which her voice drowns out the world & i can stand the rain because the reality of my understanding of happiness is that the opposite of anxiety seems to be just not feeling anxious less strange than paradise, sure but i wasn’t ever supposed to go to paradise anyway

84

Ode to a Music Box Michael Cainghug Fragile, acrylic glass. So

close to the

Touch.

A child, fascinated and entranced by the strings.

My first symphony, lullaby.

Shimmering white, almost angelic.

Intense melodies pop out, Who would have known?

(I keep calm) Shh, she shushes my lips and cradles me with care in her arms Plucking it like a Bird. One by one.

The tiny crank mother turns.

Tick, crick, tink, *music.

Glowing memories of

Her warmth and

care.

Lodged somewhere in a hidden place.

Neither near or far.

Abundant strings shoot out of it Crack! The symphony stops.

I Close the box.

four am in darien illinois Hana Urban four am in darien illinois i am fifteen putting one sour patch kid on my tongue and sucking the sugar off eyes glued to the eight-inch tv two feet away i am fifteen contemplating what pose i might strike on the third step down of the next! bus and what three fun facts should other fifteen years olds know about me i place another sour on my tongue but i forget to suck trying to find something fun about myself under mtv’s judgment but i can’t think of anything not a single goddamn thing i am fifteen but i am fourteen and eleven and six and i can’t figure out how to contain all my selves into one person fifteen seems like i’ve lived for so long already all the versions of myself have collapsed in on me i am fifteen and everything i know is so heavy so hard to sort through it all to find three fun facts for next! the candy reminds me it’s there on the back of my tongue so i swallow flip phone says five am in darien illinois the tv screen zips closed i do too

85

86

Thumper Stephanie Ruelas You grew old in a tiny brick home.

Your family made a small room just for you. They kept you warm and safe, and fed you caldo de pollo on the coldest winter days.

“Be careful. He’ll bulldoze you,” they said about you. Lots of people are scared of breeds like you, but I knew

when I saw your caramelized honey fur and wrinkly smile that you were just a bundle of

tenderness.

Thirteen years of life, I only knew you for four of them.

In the springtime, thunderous storms would attack your home, and it drowned you with anxiety.

You let me be your guardian.

I let you sleep in the big bed with me.

You lay by my feet.

Thunder roared, and lightning illuminated the room from the street.

You jumped on my legs and stayed there.

Later in the night, my legs became numb.

I’d say, “Thumper, please move.” “You’re a big boy. I can’t feel my legs!!” You only stretched your

87 big, furred body more on me.

I cackled at your stubbornness and slept the rest of the night just the same.

88

A note to yourself Ayushi Kumar Ask yourself what you are most afraid of.

I am afraid.

I don’t know how to write it down on paper, or explain it to another person.

I am afraid of doing anything.

I am afraid when I am talking to someone.

I am afraid to pick up the phone.

I am afraid to close my eyes when going to sleep.

I am afraid of all the thoughts that run through my head.

It is not the people I am afraid of.

I am afraid of the quietness before the storm.

I am afraid of the question rather than the solution.

I am afraid of the cause of the problem more than the outcome.

I’m afraid of the truth, not the falsehood.

I am afraid of death more than life.

I am afraid of the beginning more than the ending.

I am afraid of love more than hate.

I am afraid of myself more than the people in the world.

I am afraid of myself because I am too weak.

Am I really afraid, or is it just my state of mind?

I am sorry.

I am tired, but I’m not giving up on trying.

I am trying to let go of years of this build-up.

It is difficult to let go, and to hold on when you have nothing to hold on to.

I am afraid of holding on too.

But here I am, still holding onto your pinky finger, and promising to believe.

More than me, I am holding on just for you, even if I am afraid.

89

90

Untitled Jasmine Rodriguez My back descends like a flight of s t a i r s.

My spine spirals bending into a narrow helix.

Hallow stone castle tower, its steps are worn down to the soles Of the future, the past, and the present.

Years of weathering erosion from the tears of a mourning daughter.

My vertebrate collapsed into a spiral vortex.

A greenery walkway cascading with stepping stones.

A staircase, a cathedral.

The Sun Will Come Up Clay Cofre My morning began with my brain in the dirt, goopy, jumbled up, all puffy and wet.

My dogs name is Timmy, hes got a disorder.

Wipe the mud off his paws, wipe mud off his paws.

You say that youre cleanI dont really believe you.

Late-night-corner-pickupRide-in my-back seatI-know who-you-areI-see you-watching me.

Flash me your teeth, theyre stained brown and yellow.

The smell left me queasy, I head out the room.

The lights make me dizzy, I put my head down, And the sun will come up.

And the sun will come up.

And the sun will come up.

And the sun will come up.

91

92

The Fool Maribel Cruz Young words were sliced out of my tongue.

My lucky voice still sung about all the times my perky peepers fell in love.

When the heavy silences anticipated the pearl of adoration that hung loose on my breast: malleable-dressed, camouflaged within the seethe of the rest.

My alchemized seed harmonizing lavender From the pressed to the freed.

93

94

Since Pluto isn’t a Planet Anymore Emily Flood I cannot fathom the idea of space.

This three-dimensional extent with objects so colossal for an individual’s minuscule eyes to see.

Float around with little to no gravity.

But space is no comparison to my misshapened thoughts of you.

And how every time you touched me I felt a million stars bursting in my heart.

Do you remember when we looked through our telescope at the stars and how they were toppled on each other with no space inbetween.

That’s how I want to be with you all the time.

But I can’t.

In reality stars are light years away from one another.

Although, we are only a couple of miles there is no gravitational pull anymore.

You said you were the sun and I was Pluto and since scientists declared Pluto not a planet..

I guess that means I can’t circle around your solar system any longer.

And I really really want to!

I know there is an uncountable number of stars in this universe.

I’m sorry that I wasn’t the brightest one..

But man oh man I could have been.

You were my supernova.

A rare celestial phenomenon that emits vast amounts of energy.

Yet I was only the sound of it.

Did you know that there isn’t any sound in space?

All I want is for us to collide again.

Like the Milky Way and the Andromeda eventually will.

But that’s in two billion years and I know you like to travel.

So I’m picking up the pieces of your catastrophic destruction of many shining stars in this illuminating night time sky.

These extreme concepts of space are becoming clear.

While you.., I still can’t see through.

In space, if unprotected pieces of metal touch each other, they stick together permanently.

Like you and me.

Oh wait just me..

Since you are the sun… I can still feel your warmth.

But since I am Pluto and the average temperature is negative three hundred eighty

95 degrees.

It gets pretty chilly being me.

Space is so unreachable, unattainable.

Like you are to me now.

I’d say Pluto’s temperature is reaching an all time low.

Your rays of brilliant light can’t get to me anymore.

But maybe one day..

A meteor will crash into Pluto, share it’s igniting rock.

Completely the opposite of yours.

And we can stick together like unprotected pieces of metal.

So since Pluto isn’t a planet anymore..

I can’t circle around your solar system any longer.

But that doesn’t mean I really really want to.

96 Lament Zebulon B. Hurst so much happened but all i see is that little face, all i hear those deliberate words: me and my mom and my brothers was on the street when i was little.

Child couldn’t be more than 10.

but now we not.

He’s an activist bc if we don’t have an earth, we don’t have a home. + What is a home if not a place to see the waning shell of the moon turn to Nothing, turn into Something, turn in and out of Their lover’s arms in the great bed of sky what is a home

if not a light in the window? halfway between mosswood park + macarthur commons i learn the phrase ‘secondary homelessness’ + many years of peaceless sleep come rushing forth: Poverty controls how you think, so that you can be poor in your mind. last thing that should be on a child’s mind, money. or at least the not having of it. turns the stomach into a clock, makes each beautiful dream an hourglass. the back to school list becomes a bayonet, a joke slick with blood + sweat.

City Employees stand with those striking for housing reform. underpaid overworked bus drivers pick up Our children whose mamas, zaddies, daddies get served papers + take watch as Our babies dream, curled against windows clouded w their light, quick respiration it’s always for them, it’s all for Our children - potato bread from the food pantry they might grow to hate, easymac until the electricity turns off + then canned fruit, bread with jam, the cooler in the backseat beneath blankets full of workplace yogurt + pudding cups.

we want them to grow old someday, Our children. Elderhood not spent riding transit all hours + instead drenched w sunshine during those twilight years. every place is saturated with a past that doesn’t quietly bow its head. streets lined with homes vacant of all but bitterness. there are no children drawing on bedroom walls. no uncles radicalized around card tables heavy with food. no young fathers or cousins or aunties surprising their beloveds with ice cream while the baby finally sleeps.

Whose streets ? OUR STREETS Whose streets ? OUR STREETS

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Whose streets ? OUR STREETS

it sounds too good to be true, saying anything could happen. all i really know is that this? this won’t keep. i don’t want to write about sorrow. i want to write about mothers. clasping a baby tight to her right hip, she thanks us for our Bodies. and what of her Body? the one she has made a door, a pool from which emerge brown eyes + elbows? she can’t hear me but i thank her anyway. her daughter whispers into the other microphone + waves, beads strung along her braids sonorous like her laughter. tears come hot + quick, stinging every second. she stands on the bed of a truck and another mama, the same who rouses us into chanting with easygoing ferocity, raises her fist into the sky + we lock eyes. She, protector of futurity, smiles. my mother is never far from my heart (even if my mind folds her shape into a palm-sized square) + i feel her here, i smell the scent of laundry soap that clung to her morning + night for years. she worked earlybird shifts at the university to clean + press scrubs. she would wake me before the Sun graced us with Her face + we would pray together. every morning psalms 1, 23, 91, 101. proverbs. eventually there are other speakers but i am transfixed by the mamas who tickle the baby’s neck. the sacred pearls masquerading as toes.

Baby’s curls catch the wind as they kick out in joy + laughter bubbles from my ankles upwards. to see you, i want to say, is to see the Divine. to smell you. to hold you. what do you like to eat? who do you like to sing to you? where is your nose? where is your mouth? when Our children are ill + Our mamas can’t call out of work to murmur blessings into a fevered brow - one that only unfurrows at the sound of her voice - Power wins while Our Future loses.

Over a thousand units and only 11 are “affordable”, raffled off in a lottery to a family that must have a 90k yearly income to qualify.

G-d protect + keep the child called ‘taxpayer’s burden’ instead of the true secret name, Sweet Love. why am i searching for beauty in the immense disgrace of greed?

98 why am i always searching? i majored in the wrong romance language but even i can tell that this man fails to translate capitalistas.

YOU DO A DISSERVICE TO CONCEAL TRUTH YOU HAVE SHORN THE FIELD TO WISPS + ASH COMFORT IS NOT THE PRIORITY WHEN THERE IS DEATH ALL AROUND ALL AROUND ALL AROUND

i cried on the bus this morning while eating slices of persimmon because i want to slice one for everyone i’ve ever loved + put honey in my eyes to see as newlyweds do feeding each other challah with honey for Shabbos for a full year i travel in my dreams to a dry yellow sky + it is writ across the horizon in sour milk: Holiness is in Rage.

Holiness is Engaged in knifeplay, non-staged physical combat.

Holiness is in Cages + prays rosaries fingertip by blistered fingertip. i wake with every name on my tongue. tell me, when you are swollen shut, who shall i ask to apply the poultice? who has deft enough hands to apply bandages to a wailing heart that capsizes after taking in all manner of water? all bilge + murky bile? have we any beekeepers, any bakers among us? a Maker’s hands, a Mender’s hands can heal. i know it. i know it. and what if the death of the Sun comes at night?

We could be beneath a full Moon sharing a cigarette or mug of tea beneath that soft silver glow so bright We can’t see the constellations every morning the world ends + every night i find myself in love for the last time. when you touch my hand i can’t hear a thing you’re saying but i can see everything. i can. the young buck raises his head as owls pluck squirrels from their perches just north. if we don’t find a way to live with each other we will die together instead. the great Ripeness flickers, dims.

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Staff Editor In Chief Clay Cofre (he/they) Managing Editor Philip Kostov (they/he) Lead Section Editor Jasmine D. Rodriguez (she/her) Section Editor Thalia Piseaux (she/they/he) Section Editor Indigo (she/they) Production Manager Savannah Owens (she/her) Assistant Production Manager Xareni Uriostegui (she/her) Production Team Kayla Suess (she/her)

Summer 23