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24

Typhoon Summer

VISIONS

VISIONS

23

Jacqueline Gu

here lies a classroom with four concrete walls and a concrete floor that always looked rained on because of the children who watered it, like a plant they needed to revive, every morning took the watering can and teacher look I cleaned our classroom, a classroom full of head shoulders knees and toes and the big bad wolf blowing down houses too soft to stay up, that echoed with hollers before lunch and secrets after dark, the whine of mosquitoes an ever-present lullaby, where someone with gangly limbs and coarse hair made a promise to someone who cared, something about someday, something about Boston; a room that stored pages and pages of loose ends, full of confessions, sticky like the air that was hot and wet and frequently broke into rain, where ten lost college-aged kids learned how to fall in love with something intangible, a room in a school that saw the days slip by quietly, without fanfare, until its inhabitants packed their bags one rainy night and just like that the cord was cut, the thread snapped—a room that exists now only in a handful of photos, where everything inchoate continues to ghost around the periphery of memories baby-breath blue, throbbing, still hurt to touch, still hurt to wake

Buildings Jacqueline Gu ‘17 isn’t at all nostalgic for mosquito bites.

Amy Chen, Brown/RISD ‘17 Fones Construct

Visiting the Mushroom God Veronica Ni ‘16 Digital

FALL 2014  
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