Synesthete Shawna Ayoub

When she called him into her office, he didn't expect anymore than the usual suggestions and queries. But after sitting and returning her pursed-lip smile, she got up and kissed him on the lips. He instinctively pulled back, and she looked down at him sitting in the chair he always sat in. The plush leather chair. She smiled. Not too crooked or wrinkled, but definitely too old. She pulled red lipstick from her desk and applied it thick as she went to lock the door. Now she stood in from of him, caressing his bangs with her fingertips. She took half a step back from him, and sat on the front of her desk, crossing her legs. The legs were shapely and firm, but the cerise lipstick gave her the appearance not of his boss, but of an older woman he might pick up at a bar out of a combination of curiosity and liquor. She barely touched his knee with the toe of a shoe, and he noticed they seemed hardly worn. And as she slipped off the one near his knee, the stockings appeared very new as well, like they were just put on. He wondered if she had the old pair in her purse, kept to wear again. She caressed his suited leg with her stocking foot, hoping to illicit some response, but he just sat in the chair, feeling somewhat unnerved. She stopped the footsy and slid her other shoe off to the floor. There were typical desk items swept away by her silk-bloused arm. The items were arranged in such a manner, with the black tape dispenser, the picture frame, the pencil holder, that he imagined her cleaning her desk of any important clutter before he came in, so it wouldn't really be making a mess at all, but still wanting the action of knocking the desk arrangement on the fulfillment. And she made those eyes that convey just that, and then moved behind her desk, where she was usually sitting in her ergonomic executive's edition. She leaned forward a bit. Her blouse hung loose exposing a glimpse of creamy flesh on the verge of curdling. Placing her fingers on the desk, she licked her claret lips. What an act he thought. She crawled on top of the desk and laid on her side, she gazed at him with yearning, her bent arm supporting her head. So this is what it is now, he supposed. She unbuttoned a pearl in the middle of her blouse. He was hesitant, but he saw money in her eager eyes, and it was already spent. Y.S. Ismail

It is not, to me, an opinion Synesthete but a color a shade of gray or the orange between blue and violet I should have spent the extra .30 cents. that arrives in yellow triangles I could have purchased othersfilled inside and out with black those markers that smell like their color only some don't match at all. Do you remember my magic markers? Pink and red clash to those who don't know what they taste I hid them in my mind like. so that I shout only colorful things- I prefer them together. ideas with lots of shape and meaning They feel softer than blue and yellow-more plush. and a strong, inviting odor and odor you always misunderstand.

Smoking Cohibas on the fifteenth floor of la Habana Libre, formerly the Havana Hilton before los gringos were chased out. Christmas in Cuba: Eighty-four degrees by day, Seventy-one degrees by night, sixty-eight percent humidity. At midnight the line for Coppelia ice cream wraps around the corner. Hazy rumba music insinuates up to our privileged perch. We rest our mojito-happy feet on the balcony railing and puff a meteor shower; More shooting stars than we have wishes for. Our lazy smoke wafts up to the godless heavens which belong to no one: not the CIA, not Fidel, no, not even the Pope.

Pearl Chan

Brooklyn

Playing millionaire on my roof, I watch the skyline do nothing. From this distance it is a lego city or a movie backdrop. If this scene had a handle, I could pull down on it and the buildings would snap up like schoolroom maps.

Or like the vinyl shades found during the 70's and early 80's in inexpensive urban apartments.

Shades that were supposed to be, but were never quite white. Grayed by dust and smoke.

Except the ones above the radiators, keeping in the warmth and Yellowed by heat.

Manhattan is my dirty curtain.

From my roof I get a running start and jump into the East River, the New York Bay. Swimming to the Statue of Liberty I climb and sit atop her torch. Not the torch, but on the tip of the flame, so it's a little uncomfortable as I begin to laugh.

Y.S. Ismail

Synesthete

Shawna Ayoub

I came out of my shell: cream colored, shaped like an egg, opens in fragments pushing jagged puzzle pieces away slipping out clothed only in squares and circles, surrounded by mist and friendly yellow triangles I am bright and clear and quite easy for the eye to see, but you missed me. I smelled you anyway-a quiet blue gray like the ocean waves that lick the sugary surface of green.

Frequent Frustrations

More overwhelmed than an overbooked Hell Expelling sins onto this earth that we know so well As being deceitful and pretending to treat people Like friends, but only fair-weather the earth makes them, Diminishing our trust between this bond Of pinky-swears and of hugs that forgive and forget ...

Yet, I am at the crux of my frequent frustrations Which call me, bill me, and I can't make them Cease like I want them to as I

Wail at my Hell that shrinks the little Heaven Of which I thought I was landlady,

But I guess I'm just a partial owner ...

The true donor of the shamefully rich Apple Pie, Is often the driving force behind my cry During the night, afternoon, and morning, yearning For a hint of my Judgment from Angels To know that my sinfulness, My faithfulness does outweigh ...

I desire space for Sweet Potato Pie with whipped cream To make real this truly epitomized dream Lost in chaotic responsibilities which arrange Themselves under "life," but no attempts towards a Strive for sufficient purposes except for making loyal Each soul-possessing, God-fearing man . .

Perhaps my frustrations are a sham.

Kathy Allender

Justin Lane