Black &
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Poetic Justice. Issue 25 , Volume 1.
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Black
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Issue 25, Volume 1 Editor in Chief
Head Prose Editor
Gabriel Sabol
Marisol Hanson
Managing Editor Lily Hamerling Production Editor Haley Hartner Copy Editor
Associate Prose Editors Sam Krebs, Sophia Upshaw, Laura A. Vargas Gallardo, & Soraya Esmard
Head Art Editor Zac Jacobson
Eka Knudsen Associate Art Editors Head Poetry Editor
Eka Knudsen, Haley Hartner,
Kaelyn Thomas Faculty Advisor Associate Poetry Editors Brandon McGuire, Ariana Bird, Ty Jean-Baptiste, David Gold, Melany Thomas, & Jack Tobin
Mr. Trent Laubscher
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Staff Thanks / Letter From the Editor in Chief Where do I start to even express how I feel about the staff that helps make this possible? No lie, without you guys this entire thing would legitimately be impossible to do. So I thank you, and I'm sure everyone who reads this magazine that you helped produce thanks you too. This magazine is a piece of you, and you should feel proud of it. To the readers: I hope you enjoy the magazine the lit-maggers worked tirelessly to create and put in front of you. Thank you again. Enjoy your day, and this magazine.
Gabriel Sabol October 2016
Why the Black and White Theme? Black and white is the basis of all beauty. It represents extreme opposites that draw out contrasts, which makes for some amazing inspiration for written and visual work. The colors black and white also metaphorically stand for being polar opposites, so this makes a path for many ideas that have contrasting themes.
Programs used; Microsoft Word, Microsoft Publisher, Microsoft Paint. Typefaces: Calibri, Broadway, Edwardian Script ITC
Cover Photo Credit “Eyes are the Gateway,� by Joseph Belzaguy, Digital Photography
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Black and
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Table of Contents Pg.9 Marisol Hansen ................................................................. Sugar Cane and Coffee Beans Pg.10 Laura Vargas–Gallardo……………………………………………………………………………..…… Untitled Pg.11 Soraya Esmard………………………………………………………………………………………………..His Light Pg.12 Joseph Belzaguy………………………………………………………………………………………..…... Untitled Pg.13Featured Contest Winner for Prose, Leigh Rubenstein……….... Grey Skies And Grey Mud Pg.16 Featured Contest Winner for Photography, Frankie Zumpone…………….………….… Clouds Pg.17 Brandon McGuire……………………………………………..………………. Floating Through the Night Pg.18 Featured Contest Winner for Poetry, Lauren Hull………………….……….. The Game Of Golf Pg.20 Eka Knudsen………………………………………………………………………………………….………. Untitled Pg.21 Sam Krebs ………………………………………………………………………………………………….My Mother Pg.23 David Gold……………………………………………………………………………………………….. Fake Family Pg.24 Eka Knudsen…………………………………………………………………………………………... Money Talks Pg.28 Joseph Belzaguy………………………………………………………….…………………………………... Hidden Pg.29 Jack Tobin ………………………………………………………………………………. A Bunny Hopped Along Pg.30 Ariana Bird………………………………………………………………………………………….. One Never Met Pg.32 Joseph Belzaguy…………………………………………………………………………………. Life on the Edge Pg.33 Eka Knudsen………………………………………………………………………………………………... The Spot Pg.35 Lily Hamerling……………………………………………………….. An Open Letter To Straight People Pg.37 Gabriel Sabol……………………………………………………………………………….………………... Untitled Pg.38 David Gold…………………………………………………………………………………………………. Concussed Pg.40 Sophia Upshaw……………………………………………………………………….. Before Daylight Comes Pg.41 Gabriel Sabol……………………………………………………………………………………….………... Untitled Pg.42 Lily Hamerling………………………………………………………………………….. Drowning in Existence Pg.43 Soraya Esmard…………………………………………………………………………………………. Heart Break Pg.44 Featured Contest Winner for Visual Art, Shelby Cochrane………………….….. Silent Scream Pg.45 Laura A. Vargas Gallardo……………………………………………………………………………….. Act Cool Pg.46 Eka Knudsen…………………………………………………………………………………………….. Looking Out Pg.48 Gabriel Sabol………………………………………………………………………………………….……... Untitled Pg. 49 Lily Hamerling …………………………………………………………………..……. Methadone Daydream
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Marisol Hansen
Sugar Cane and Coffee Beans She smells of sugarcane and coffee beans with sunkiss freckles dancing on her cheeks in unfathomable constellations. Her smile is warm, though it is a distant memory of mine. She herself was a rarity. I wanted to give her the world and devour her with kisses all along her spine. I wanted to clear the wicked tears from her honey eyes. Her skin was a marble slate with a slight flush of pink. I took a rope and lassoed the stars that had been stolen from her eyes, which were now pale skies. Every day without her, a part of me dies. The only blemishes on her body were bruises left on her neck from previous nights and poisonous boys who shot their venom into her beautiful veins. She hides herself away so the world can’t see her turning into a mystery, drowning in misery. Brutally, she was torn from me, leaving nothing behind, but pain, destruction, and vile jealousy. I was wrong for falling. She was the most melodic, perfectly placed collection of stardust and moonlight. And I know that god’s no writer but I swear she was pure poetry. The purest form of anything I’d ever seen. She left me, because I was not a “he” and “it was wrong.” I was crushed, beaten and bruised. All because she never really loved me.
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Untitled, by Laura A. Vargas-Gallardo. Digital Photography.
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Soraya Esmard
His Light He looked at the burning candle across from him. It held the smallest of flames, and yet had never once gone out. He ran his fingers over it, enjoying the warmth. A tear slipped out as he thought about it. About her. Her body cold and motionless, sprawled out on the ground like garbage. Her eyes empty and glasses over; hands still tightly gripping the bottle of pills. Another tear spilled, this time right on the wicked candle. Suddenly it was dark. He cried out, hands reaching for nothing, tears overflowing. It was over, his light had gone out.
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Untitled, by Joseph Belzaguy. Digital Photography.
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Featured Contest Winner for Prose Leigh Rubenstein
Grey Skies And Grey Mud The night air was cold and sharp. It whistled over the sandbags and set the clouds racing across the sky, blocking light from the moon and making the darkness over the web of trenches more complete. The dugouts were lit with lanterns and the trenches outside were dark but for the few feet of light that spilled out of the dugouts like strange shadows. The dark was deeper in the grooves and scuffs in the ground and the ammunition boxes dug into the walls. The dark was safe; no light meant no exploding shells or rifles firing. If anything the dugouts felt less safe, because the lanterns light-blinding anyone in them. Yet in a corner just in front of him, John saw light appear from nothing. A soldier crouched in the corner, rifle briefly allowed to lean against revetment as he lit up a cigarette. The light made the soldier’s face look almost corpse-like; his forehead, chin, nose, and cheekbones were all highlighted brightly while the hollows of his eyes, cheeks and temples were brushed with deep shadows. Just before he blew out the match the soldier looked up at John, and they reflected the flame like mirrors. When the match was dead and the light was gone he looked human and alive again, and his sharp grey eyes were almost familiar. “Lad.” It was not a question or a conversation starter; it was barely an acknowledgment. “You have me at a disadvantage Mr.-“ “Baker. Elijah Baker.” Eli. That was right; all the others called him Eli. “Ah, nice to meet you Eli-“ A poisonous look was flashed his way. “-Elijah.” Elijah closed his eyes and inhaled deeply from his cigarette, making the end go grey and flaky before exhaling, and lighting it up with red cracks like cooling lava. He burst into a fit of coughing. “What are you up to?” “What does it look like I’m up to? Elijah swore quietly as he tried to shoulder his rifle without spilling any tobacco from the sloppily rolled cigarette. He had a rough accent, Cockney maybe. “I’m restoring my sanity.” “A cigarette will do that?” John joked. “No, Peace and quiet does.” Elijah glared daggers.
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“I’m sorry. I’ll leave then.” “Hmph. No, sit for a while. You look like a lost dog.” John wasn’t sure if that was an insult or not, so he sat on the duckboard. It was strangely quiet tonight, and that made him nervous. The skittering of rats in the sump just beneath him and Elijah’s quiet breathing just made it worse. Elijah seemed undisturbed by the quiet; in fact he seemed to relax more and more with each minute of it. “Are you worried?” John asked him. “Worried? A man will go mad if he worries out here.” Elijah’s grey yes made John wonder if h was a sharpshooter. He had the keen, piercing look of one. “You aren’t a worrier are you lad?” “No. But it’s too quiet isn’t it? Makes you wonder if the Germans are waiting for something.” “They’re waiting for the sun to come up and dry out the mud. Same as everyone. They need to sleep too.” Elijah said this like he knew it to be an indisputable fact. “So you think they won’t do anything tonight?” “Maybe they will. Maybe they won’t. Would you launch an attack this hour of the night? On a night that’s cold even for October?” “It’s October already?” John rubbed his arms. “They said we’d be home by Christmas.” Elijah scoffed. “You don’t actually believe that, do you?” “They said-“ it sounded so childish to say; it sounded like whining. John wrapped his arms around his knees. “Who is ‘they? Parliament? Does it look like they know anything about war?” Elijah gestured to the boarded revetments, the rats scurrying around in the dark, the mud and the dugouts built into it. “But we’re not retreating anymore.” John said, trying to find some evidence that a decisive blow was coming. “Does it look like we’re advancing?’ We’ve been playing tennis with them for weeks now using draftees as balls. It looks like the only way this war will end is when they run out.” John scowled at the cold-eyed man across from him. “You want to come home don’t you?” “Oh of course I do. But they’re tightening up on deserters.” Elijah offered a twisted smile. “You’d leave us?” “You’re welcome to come with me.” “But-“ John shook his head. “You’d abandon the war?” “Is it my war? The wigged men in Westminster started it, How’s it my war?” Elijah’s grey eyes fixed on John, and despite the lack of light and their own lack of color they seemed to gleam. “What if the Germans try to invade?” Elijah laughed like a hyena. “Then the war might really be over by Christmas! The Royal Navy will blow them out of the water if they try, and they know it” “What of France? And Belgium?”
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“Not my country. And even assuming that the Germans stay, they won’t stay for long. The people here won’t let ‘em. And their soldiers will get tired of it too.” “So?” “So it’s a fool’s war. Started by fools, fought foolishly and certain to end foolishly. The only good thing about it is that there might be a few fewer fools by the end of it.” “How can you fight thinking like that?” “I don’t think when I fight.” Elijah threw his cigarette against the boards of the opposite wall, the cheap paper unfurling and spilling the tobacco over the ground. A rat crept over to sniff it, and then skittered in distaste. “Can’t think when you fight. You might start thinking about the person on the other end of your bayonet. Can’t fight like that. Not if you realize that he’s a boy from a sleepy little town just like yours who has three little sisters to take care of.” John was silent. He though of the posters and movies warning of the German Horde back home. Elijah looked up to the sky. The clouds now completely covered the sky. The wind reached into the trenches, and bit through their coats. “Rain.” He stood up. John started when Elijah hauled him to his feel. “Get in a dugout. This storm will get worse before it blows over.”
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“Clouds,” by Featured Photography Contest Winner Frankie Zumpone. Photography.
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Brandon McGuire
Floating Through the Night Suspended within our eyes. Humans made a masterpiece to fly. All alone in the opening night. The specter unfathomable, guides the balloon to the benevolent aura. Deep winter green reflecting to make an icy blue, on the crisp white flakes. Shaggy members, shields their silhouettes from the naked eye, intrudes the bellow message. Creatures, soar in the ghastly skies, make a visit to say, “Good-bye.�
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Featured Contest Winner for Poetry Lauren Hull
The Game Of Golf I take the club of golf and take my stance I swing in unison the club head like a dance I sight my target, the flag, close or far My mind calculates the wind and effect of the slop with so much hope, with a car engine speed in my mind, sighting the ball I swing and when I turn my hips around I realize that this is the real thing, head down, shoulders following through, full swing with much confidence, airborne, the ball arcs its way to the target like my hypothesis, it falls with a thump and a roll, on the green, all is left is a tap I look to my right and see I passed the sand trap. With the blue handled butterfly putter and a pat, the ball drains in the hole with a tip of my hat. I bent down to tee another, lined up carefully to the right Then I leaned into the sucker and pounded out with all my might. Once again it rose like lightning exploding out into the sky But when I looked up to see it I could not believe my eyes, saying goodbye To the tough white ball cover and a resilient core of rubber, I jump into my golf cart to follow the ball, I feel like a robber. I’m clearly confused on where the ball went, so I pull out my ball ranger Within the few seconds of waiting I try not to lose my temper, I find the ball, trying to refocus on this shot and I hit the ball onto the green, I see that I hit the ball with good contact because I need to clean My club. In the distance stood seven, Lots of tension on this putt shot but I made it in, it felt like heaven! One again I teed a ball up and took time to aim, Let her rip and hit a beauty but oh my god, it did the same!
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It disappeared beyond the treetops and my jaw dropped, I stood there trying to catch the ball with my eye, I see it plopped On top of a seashell by the seashore, hoping it’s not out of bounce. Finally I finished till hole eighteen, I get into my car with a pounce.
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Untitled, by Eka Knudsen. Photography.
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Sam Krebs
My Mother I recollect an ambling boy, With heavy heart and footsteps Whose mother Never swore in front of him, And red was his favorite color, Slashed on wrist and forearm. I narrowly recall an unknown night: No one dared bathe in the Red and white light That shone on the driveway; No one saw the tussock was still Breathing, right there in the center. From my desk shadows lurk To and fro a lamp light and steady eye Casts pin tacks upwards Upon the wall that secures news clippings. The corner is calm, Lovely. My mother screams far off And pounds the door across clearings Otherworldly and Echoes through the house, Receding therefore Quickly into the corner. Strange thing Enter the room’s loneliness And I believe they call it Doubt, I believe it consumes And makes the heart quickens pace Without precursor to immeasurable amount And a bird takes flight,
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An eye opens, The world spins and Does not wait and we cannot Consider how it could be That this is what we have, Even if it will not suffice And a tsunami cracks a city Of the righteous and sinful mass Who have a variety of gods to blame, But no, ourselves, for this Pounding, mourning Soft knocks that threatens To unhinge the door, And I can feel the thud On the back of my skull, For the knob is hard And the ropes were hidden, Yet my ties were not And the blades were sharpened And the room drips away And mother throws herself against the Door Because the red and white Lights turned off, The tussock melted into the driveway, And I cannot recollect that night or ambling boy. Only the gentle constriction of my throat Recalls that red is my favorite color, Paint something nice for me upon the door.
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David Gold
Fake Family So disappointin’ my mom killed herself to get away from me. Kids ain’t never played with me, priest afraid to pray for me. Family stayin’ away from me, what they gonna say to me. I don’t even know what to say to me, people tryna take from me. But what thy wanna take from me? I’m already loosin’ my sanity. I’m loosin’ my humanity, plus I’m loosin’ so much family. They all speak of loyalty so pointlessly, usin’ me like toiletry. At my mommas funeral actin’ so joyfully, making it worse for me. Strong arms cryin’ at the service, man that’s how its post to be. Mom in the casket next to me, fake friends be surroundin’ me. All her family bragging’ man they startin to anger me. Don’t even try to talk to me, you don’t wanna hear from me.
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Eka Knudsen
Money Talks “It’ll be only for a week or two Jen,” I said. I had to go to California for a business trip. Sadly I couldn’t take her with me. Jen was my daughter. She is 14 with blonde hair and blue eyes just like her mother. I was leaving Jen with her grandparents for a week because of a business trip I had to take. Of course, the trip was optional but I needed the money. Jen was diagnosed with osteosarcoma, or bone cancer. All the money that I made from this trip would go towards her chemotherapy treatment, which was very expensive. “Dad, I don’t want to stay with gram and gramps for a whole week,” groaned Jen. “I know you don’t want to but I have no choice. This trip is very important sweetheart.” I sighed and ran my fingers through my hair. Honestly, I wouldn’t want to stay with my parents for a whole week either but there was no other family for Jen to stay with. Jen’s mom passed away when she was only seven from breast cancer. It was a hard time for both of us but we worked through it. I gave her a final hug and got into the small cab. Waving goodbye, I gave her a reassuring smile. Jen is the strongest person I know. Not just because she is my daughter, but because she’s been fighting the cancer for so long. When I got to the airport, it was way more crowded than I had hoped; moms holding onto their little ones and teens looking down at their phones like they were magnets. It was just hectic. I grabbed my suitcase from the trunk of the cab and walked into the airport, one of my least favorite places to be. As I walked o to take this onto the plane of the security section I set my carry-on down next to me and sat down. My flight wouldn’t start boarding for another hour so I had time to just sit and relax. Despite how uncomfortable the chairs were, I managed to get, somewhat, comfy and took out my tablet to go over some sales. “ I’ll pay you $100,000 to take this onto the plane.“ I looked up to see a man, maybe in his thirties, looking down at me. “Excuse me?” I said taken back . “$100,000 if you take this suitcase on the plane.“ I looked down at the suitcase. It was a regular looking suitcase, black leather. “I don’t think so, Sir, “I said trying not to cause a scene. He looked around, probably getting nervous of his actions. He took a seat next to me and placed the bag down next to him. “It’s already been through security. No one is following me and it’s nothing illegal.” I thought about it. $100,000 to bring a plain suitcase on a plane. $100,000 was the money that I’d make from this trip, just the right amount for Jen’s therapy. “How can I trust you?” I asked trying not to sound interested.
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“You can’t” is all he said. I struggled to come to the conclusion of a yes or no answer. If I did this, I would get the money for Jen but then again, I have no idea what is in this suitcase and I can’t trust this guy. He even said to himself. All of the bad thoughts and the consequences were being overruled by the thoughts of helping Jen. She was my first priority. She mattered the most to me. “Alright, tell me what I have to do.” I said quickly and quietly. He smirked at my response which disgusted me because it’s he knew I’d say yes, but I pushed that thought away. “All you have to do is bring this with you and leave it under your seat when you land,” he said while pushing over the case with his foot. “When do I get the money?” I said looking down at it. When I looked back up he was gone. I looked around but it was too crazy to find him. Soon enough it was time to board the plane. I grabbed my carry on, and the suitcase the man gave me, and headed toward the terminal. As I got to my seat I started to get nervous. My palms became sweaty as I tucked the case under my seat. The plane ride was fairly smooth, no bumps or anything unusual, except the suitcase under my seat that not even I knew what was in it. I looked at the people around me to make sure that they were either occupied or sleeping while I grabbed it. I felt around the sides of it for a lock of any sort and of course, it was the type where you have to put a code in. I tried numerous codes, the basics like 0000 or 1234, then more complicated, random ones. None of them worked. Suddenly I felt my phone buzz, which was unusual considering I was in the air. “Stop trying to open it. You’ll never get the code.” I looked around nervously, trying to spot anyone texting. Everyone looked normal. I quickly deleted the text feeling nervous and scared. I put the suitcase back under my seat, closed my eyes, and slept until the flight was over. When we landed I got my carry-on, left the bag under the seat like I was told, and walked off the plane. I was standing at the baggage claim area when I started looking around and saw a flight attendant talking to the police and pointing toward my way. Getting nervous, I saw my suitcase and started walking towards the doors. “Excuse me sir, we need to ask you a few questions,” said the police officers. “I’m late to a meeting, not now ,” I said trying to get them away from me. Suddenly I felt one of them grab my shoulder that made me stop and turn around. “We’re doing this on our time, not yours,” they said sternly. I nodded and followed them to a room that consisted of a table, lamp, and two metal chairs. One officer nodded towards the seat. “Were you sitting in seat 63-B?” “Yes sir,” I said vaguely. “You left a black leather suitcase under your seat. Do you remember bring that on?” “ Yes I do.” “Mind telling us what’s inside of it?” the officer standing up said. “ I don’t know sir. I was offered money to bring it on the plane,” I said hoping that they
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would believe my somewhat ridiculous story. “Who?,” he said getting out a pad of paper and a pen. “ I don’t know. I know you may think I’m making this up but I can reassure you I’m not.” “There’s no evidence of anyone giving you this suitcase. The only evidence is you getting on the plane, with the suitcase.” “No, no. I have evidence!” I took out my phone and when to my messages. “Look,” I said handing over my phone. “ What? There’s nothing here.” I quickly grabbed the phone and looked over it numerous times. “Wait, no, Sir, I know this sounds bad on my part but I deleted the message that an unknown messenger sent to me on the plane when I tried to open the suitcase.” I knew they didn’t believe me. Their faces were filled with uncertainty when I spoke and told them my reason. They were all excuses to them. “Right now you’re not giving us any reason not to believe that you brought a suspicious suitcase on a plane full of innocent people. “ they said I looked down and shook my head, I knew I shouldn’t have brought the suitcase on the plane. I knew this wasn’t worth the money. I could’ve just went on the business trip and gone home with the same amount of money with less complications. “We’re going to have to take you in, Sir. Please turn over your cell phone and your suitcase so we can fly you back to Maryland for a trial.” I looked at them in disbelief. “A trial?,” I said shocked. I couldn’t go to trial. I needed to get the money somehow for Jen. She’s counting on me. Her life is literally depending on this money. “Officer, I have a daughter who has cancer, I need to make money for her chemotherapy. I don’t have time for a trial. She needs me,” I said worriedly. The officer looked down and gave me a some-what sympathetic look. “ I’m sorry Sir,” is all he said before he cuffed me and read my rights while leading me to the plane. When we got back to Maryland I was put into a dirty jail cell until my trail. Jen and my parents knew about the situation. Jen believed me but my parents never believed a word that came out of my mouth, even when I was a little boy. “You. Up,” said a guard at the jail where I was staying. I was driven, very uncomfortably, to the court house. This would be the first time I’d seen Jen since I said goodbye to her at the house. They unlocked my cuffs that connected my hands and ankles together and let me sit on the left side of the courtroom. As time passed more people started to come in, such as the lawyers and some family. Then I saw her, she walked in, looking the same as the last time I saw her, with the exception of some makeup on her face. She looked disappointed yet happy to see me, just not in a courtroom awaiting sentencing.
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When I was called to the stands, the lawyer against me started bombarding me with various questions but one I simply couldn’t answer. “Why would you bring that on a plane, do you know the harm that you could do?,” she asked. I simply shrugged. I didn’t have an answer, I didn’t have an answer for anything. I didn’t know why I even agreed to do what I did. I didn’t even have an answer for my own daughter. After the whole trial I was sentenced to five years in jail without bail. Worse, Jen was placed in foster care, which is one of the things I prayed would never happen. Over the years the foster care couldn’t keep up with the payments for Jen’s chemotherapy and she ended up passing three years into my sentence.
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“Hidden,” by Joseph Belzaguy. Photography, Photoshop.
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Jack Tobin
A Bunny Hopped Along A bunny rabbit hopped along, alone through the land. He didn’t have a care at all, until he saw a hand. It carried crunchy carrots which bunny never had seen, but far, far, far from that big hand is where he should have been. For when he nibbled tiny bites from that vegetable, that grimy hand did snatch him up for something truly terrible. it threw dear bunny in a cage with paper and some straw. And into a cold corner there, dear bunny did withdraw. Until one day a new hand came, much smaller, and quite clean. It made dear bunny feel at home, dear bunny felt serene. And then those carried him off to a new forest home. With other little rabbit friends, so bunny wasn’t alone.
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Ariana Bird
One Never Met My little brother sitting besides me, watching the tears and pained faces. I watch my uncle’s wife, her once delicate face, Now a mindless cave with eyes of a dark abyss, The once wet tears turning into dried stains that never leave her face. What once was tragic news, Turns into a cliché pick up line, I feel the cold tears that drip onto my hair, Sitting on the wooden, freshly painted seat. Getting a good view of what once was, my head tries to fill up with memories, but all I stare at is a white blank sheet, hearing the mournful cries that make your heart feel empty. I look around to see this is the third one, And I get a glimpse of the white coffin with gold birds that seem to fly up.
“He’s in a better place now” they all say. My third time hearing that stupid line, they say, “he well always be in your heart,” which has no meaning because I have no memories. Just wanting to meet you for the first time. Do I cry like I did with Cousin Kevin, Aunty Wiki, Hmm . . . I mean three times the charm. Never liked crying in front of others.
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Sitting and thinking of all the others that I haven’t met yet, I think of what they would say when I tell them how old I am, Or that my birthday’s on Valentine’s Day, or that I’m a sophomore now. I think of how this is my first and last time meeting you, I love you Uncle Buster I’ll see you soon. Tell Aunty Wiki that I’m sorry I never met her. Sincerely, Ariana
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“Life on the Edge,” by Joseph Belzaguy. Photography.
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Eka Knudsen
The Spot The sound of branches snapping and leaves crunching filled my ears as I walked to my favorite get away spot. It wasn’t somewhere ‘hidden’ or ‘mysterious’, it was a normal spot, just not a lot of people went there. The familiar scent of oak trees and pinecones roamed around the forest like dust floating in the air. The ‘spot’ was exactly 100 steps North, 65 steps West, and one hop across a tiny river. I went there every Monday, Wednesday, Thursday, and Saturday to meet up with my best friend Tyra. Tyra and I are best friends but every time we hang out and go to our spot, we have to be careful our parents won’t see us. Mommy said I’m not allowed to be friends with people like Tyra. She said they’ll hurt me and they’re bad people, but Tyra isn’t? Daddy thinks the same way Mommy does except he’s more strict about it. Tyra said her parents don’t want her being friends with me either and that’s why there is a big wall between us. Mommy said before I was born there were two types of people who didn’t like each other so they set up a boundary line, which is the wall, but when they were towards the end, they ran out of money and just decided to put up a wire fence, which is where Tyra and I met. After that day we decided to meet up on our ‘special’ days and on those days I’d always bring some type of homemade treat. Today, Thursday, mommy made snicker doodle cookies and I decided to bring those with me. “Collin, where are you taking all those cookies sweetheart?” my mother asked me. I hesitated for a second, almost saying the truth. “Just to the treehouse mom,” I said smiling. She gave me a simple nod and smile and walked into the dining room to join daddy for lunch. Quietly, yet quickly, I ran 100 steps North and 65 steps West, and of course one hop, to meet Tyra. The same surroundings were present as I ran across the forest. The brown leaves flew off the ground as my feet crushed them. When I got there she was sitting on the ground waiting for me with her head down. She usually was happy to see me but today she looked sad and worried. “Hey Tyra,” I said smiling, taking my backpack off of my back. “Hi Collin,” she said sadly, still with her head down. “What’s wrong?” “Collin… My parents found out I saw you last Monday and they won’t let me come back here anymore. I had to lie really badly to get out here today. I begged them to let me see you but they wouldn’t let me. They say you’re no good for a girl like me.” I looked at her and almost yelled. “Tyra, that’s not fair. I’m a good boy. Color shouldn’t have to separate us. I even
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brought you cookies! They’re snicker doodle, your favorite..” I said, begging her to stay. “I’m sorry Collin. My parents are probably already looking for me. I have to go.” She put her hand up to the fence with her palm open and waited for me to put mine up to hers too. Overtime we’d both go home, we would put our hands up against the fence, hoping one day it would be gone and we could have regular play dates like the other kids in our communities. Sadly, I put my hand up to hers for the last time and watched as she ran in the direction of her house, never looking back once.
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Lily Hamerling
An Open Letter To Straight People “So . . . uhh When did you know you where gay?” “I’ve always known.” But no really when did you know? “So . . . uhh How long have you been gay?” “I’ve always been gay?” No but really. “So . . . uhh If you’ve never been with a guy how do you know you’re gay?” Dear Straight People these questions are annoying, Alienating, Othering. These questions remind us we are not the social norm and that it is dangerous for me to walk down the street while holding my girlfriends hand. LET ALONE KISS HER. These questions are fueled by the mentality that created the need for the closet because the closet was the only safe place in a house that belonged to a family that believe gay is a choice to be frowned upon. These questions are the spawn of a mentality of people who believe that we are an abomination and that God will shoot his righteous bullets into our backs to keep us down. These questions burn our pride and bruise our psych. These questions invalidate our existence and leave us feeling drained. These questions make us feel like gay is abnormal and that straight is the only sexuality the world has room for. We know you are just curious, but these questions where created by a force that wants to keep us down and make us feel like aliens on out own planet.
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So, dear straight people, the next time you want to ask a gay person a question ask us how our day was, because we are still human.
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Untitled, By Gabriel Sabol. Photography.
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David Gold
Concussed I feel like I’m possessed, I gotta confess. I’m tired! I always tried my best, unlike the rest. I neva’ ley myself rest, I worked harda, to be the best. Now I’m takin a test ta find out if my brains compressed. My ears are ringin’ and my visions blurry, stop the clingin’ come on lets hurry. And I ain’t no docta’ Ms. Traina’ but whoever trained ya is insane ya puttin us in danger. You have a concussion go take a nap. Uh… excuse me shouldn’t I get an ice wrap. Shut Ya trap I ain’t supposed to sleep give me a slap. For the next two months I’m basically a handicap, runnin’ around forgettin’ my own damn name, what a shame I don’t even know what I became. I can’t exclaim my thoughts they stuck in my head.
Give me a jackhammer I need ta dig THEM OUT. What? I didn't mean ta shout. I can’t have control over my voice without my brain. I feel like Loose Yourself cuz my palms are sweaty, knees weak, arms are heavy. There’s vomit on my jersey already. Mom’s spaghetti. Right now I’m forgetting every word they all on the tip of my tongue. Someone help me I’m done right now I’m so dumb
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I ain’t able ta point at the sun, hit a drum or even my thumb. Why am I so numb? Oh yea… I gotta concussion cuz I listened to my coach. He had me runnin,’ head first like a goat just ta keep up with the kid that let me quote. “is on so much ‘roids he’d be broke if he wasn’t so rich.” Ain’t that rich?! While I was workin’ hard tryna’ make it these kids ouchea pullin’ needles tryna fake it and cheat it. Well if it,’s like that then imam beat it and imam leave it before I live in it and regret that I did it. It’s weird even though my mind is in a fog. I think it’s something I needed all along. So I’m GONE! And I’m on to bigger and better things.
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Sophia Upshaw
Before Daylight Comes The youthful and grasping light of early morning trickles in through the draping curtains, the stretching rays revealing clusters of dust particles falling like snow. The gentle hum and whir of the ceiling fan beckons the bedroom into a state of peaceful slumber. She lays undisturbed beneath mounds of cloud-like blankets all held tightly to her chest, a drowsy grin spawned from sweet dreams etched onto her porcelain-like features and scrunching up the freckles sprinkled across her rosy cheeks. She shifts, mindlessly tugging the edges of her blankets up to the crook of her neck in an attempt to claim victory against the bitter unforgiving cold air. Sleep holds her tight within its grasp, willing her to succumb to the realm of blissful ignorance and render her oblivious to the dresser being three drawers lighter, the car keys to the old Impala missing from the dish next to the front door, and the deafening heartbeat of the man standing hidden amongst the shadows. He stands next to the bedroom door, silently blending into the four walls surrounding hum as darkness shields him from detection. His eyes rake over her sleeping form, desperate to capture the exact way stray bits of golden hair fall lazily over her eyes. His mind works fast to memorize the rhythm of the rising and falling motion of her chest like a sacred lullaby, passed down from generation to generation. He years to reach out and brush the strands of hair away from her face with the backside of his calloused hand, to wake her up and finally take her on that trip to Paris that she’s talked about for ages. And it’s these dreams of happily ever after that almost allow his heart to get the best of him, that is until he catches sight of the fading bruises on her collar bon, on of many others, and reality slaps him across the face once more. Two suitcases he carries: one resting at his feet, the other clasped firmly between feverish hands. He will be gone before sunlight barely grazes the linen sheets and a century away when her piercing blue eyes spring open to greet it with open arms. When her worry reaches unavoidable heights, an entire universe will stand between them, serving to protect her from the one person who made the promise of being the one to do so long ago. He picks up the suitcase resting at his feet, and turns, heading towards the bedroom door. He takes one last look at her, memories of the beautiful girl he met at seventeen dance across his vision taunting him. Tears threatening to spill over, he fights them back and gathers himself in a bundle of nerves. “One day . . . see you soon.” He whispers, his voice dissolving into the air before it even slips off his tongue. Taking that first step, he walks out of the room, the door clicking silently back into place behind him as if never opened at all.
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Untitled, By Gabriel Sabol. Photography.
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Lily Hamerling
Drowning in Existence Brightly colored specks of gold, blue and orange dart between silky, green strands of seaweed. I reach out for the school of fish before me like a small child. Bubbles float gently past the torrent of waves caused by the wind on the brink of a colossal storm. The air has a metallic tang to it, signifying lightning and thunder are soon to come, but the storm couldn't be real since this world beneath the waves is so serene. My lungs ache for air as I make one last feeble attempt to catch the slimy fish between my hands like the child I once was. I bob up from the water and gasp for air. Soon I was beneath the surface, covered by a cocoon of bubbles in an instant. I stared up at the watery ceiling and saw tin circles forming. Rain. The storm must be here now. I cant leave the water. If I were to leave the water, I would have to admit the storm is real and that this is a place that can not shield me from reality. Rough hands pull me from the water.
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Soraya Esmard
Heart Break I looked down at the crashing waves and lifeless bodies floating around me. I couldn’t end up like them, I couldn’t. My husband offered me a weak smile, squeezing my hand and pulling our kids closer. There was only one lifeboat left. The captain looked at us in despair and spoke the words I’d been too afraid to hear, “The boat only fits four people.” My two sons and daughters looked up at me, their big eyes once filled with joy and wonder, now a mix of confusion and fear. A single tear rolled down my cheek as I turned to my husband. I could tell what he was thinking from his expression. “The kids . . . They need a mother,” He spoke, his voice barely above a whisper. I shook my head vigorously and pulled him in for a tight hug. Endless tears rushed down my cheeks and I felt a sharp pain in my chest. He held me close, his quiet sobs echoing in my head over and over again. The boat trembled and he pulled away, smiling a broken smile. His lips no longer turned up into the perfect grin I fell in love with, and I turned away, heartbroken. I could no longer hear past my sobs, and he held onto our kids one last time, something inside me broke. The captain quickly ushered us into the lifeboat. Everything went black. When I finally regain my senses, all I could see was a large, dark wave crashing down behind me. Realizations struck and before I could react, a soft, broke voice spoke out into the darkness. “Goodnight daddy.”
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“Silent Scream,” by Featured Visual Art Contest Winner, Shelby Cochrane.
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Laura A. Vargas Gallardo
Act Cool The water charged at Rick’s feet, enveloping his brand new white shoes with muddy water. Rick paid no mind to the demise of his crisp white shoes, as he was far too focused on the bus coming to a stop in front of him. He had to be the first one on the bus today. Rick had been planning to ask Mindy to sit with him since last year but had never had the courage too, but this year he was finally going to muster up the cojones to ask her. Rick had to be the first one on the bus, rain or no rain. He knew Mindy liked to sit in the third row and by God would he get that row for her. When the bus pulled up and the door opened Rick pushed and shoved, elbowing boys taller and stronger then him with no care as to how they would surely get him back later. Rick was not the first one on the bus, but he was victorious in obtaining the elusive third row that he rightfully pushed and shoved for. This was it. Mindy walked in, the raindrops on her hair made Rick swallow fiercely, his knuckles tensed. Mindy smiled at him, looked ti the empty seat next to him and brightly asked if she could sit there. Rick panicked. There she was, looking so beautiful and delightful and with so many chairs to choose from she chose to sit next to him. Rick hesitated and in those few seconds he saw his pitiful life flash before his crystal blue eyes. His miserable life could not take another catastrophe of this caliber. He was torn. Here he had his chance but were he to fail he would never be able to recuperate from his one and only love Mindy’s rejection. So he did what all boys do when they panic, they act cool. Now, mind you Rick did not appear cool in fact all he did was avoid eye contact and pretend to text his friends, leaving a confused Mindy to find a seat all the way in the back. Once Rick’s pathetic life flashed before his eyes with the addition of a fresh tale of humiliation.
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Eka Knudsen
Looking Out The smell of moldy concrete floors and rusting filled my nose as I shifted uncomfortable on my creaky, pathetic excuse for a bed. The white of my uniform was becoming overpowered by the brown dirt that hasn’t been washed off once. My hair, which used to be a light brown turned into a messy nest of twigs. My legs swung over the side of my ‘bed’. Pushing myself up towards the rusty, barred window. The bumpy texture of the bars was felt on my palms as I gripped them. Children running around and talking normally to each other came into my sight. The way lines would appear on the sides of their eyes as they laughed or the way they talked so casually made it appear that they were the most stress free people in the world. My eyes shifted down to my dirty socks. A sigh escaped my lips as my eyes fluttered shut. There was nothing more that I wanted then to be set free. Nothing made sense to me. I didn’t understand why I couldn’t be happy like them, or be outside playing, or have a normal life. These thoughts colluded my mind like black clouds covering white ones. The storms in my head would start out as drizzles then turn into hurricanes. There was no forecaster to tell me when they were coming, they just happened. One second I would be fine, staring at a blank wall, then the next I’d cradled in a ball, knees in contact with my chest, shaking uncontrollably. When I was back in middle school, my adoptive mother tool me to a psychologist to be checked out, she said it was like a regular check up at a doctors office. I thought that was puzzling because we went every week after that visit. I would sit in the black, velvet long chair and just close my eyes and tell the woman, who I didn’t even know, how my day went and how I felt. Eventually, I reached high school and I met a girl named Camilla or Camie as I called her. My Camie. She had the most mesmerizing hazel eyes that you could ever see which paired perfectly with her long dark brown hair. I fell in love with her. I fell so utterly in love with her. I wanted to spend every day with her and when we were apart I felt cold, lonely, upset. She was my first love and when I couldn’t show her how much I loved her, she’d get upset while I got frustrated. I lost her due to my frustration. I yelled at her for the little things like bumping into my side by accident or joking at the wrong things. Sometimes it would get out of hand that the next morning she would wake up with bruises and come into school with people giving her sympathetic looks. But I didn’t know why, I was just showing her that I loved her. My parents showed me their love by punishing me. They told me, “Son, it’s only because we love you.” When I told Camie that she laughed at me. She laughed straight at my face like I was some joke of a human being. After that she reported me for abusing her but it wasn’t abuse if I was showing my love for her like my parents showed their love for me. I’m still confused as I sit in this cell in my dirty uniform accompanied with my messy hair. I always hoped one day Camie will see what I meant and will come to tell them t let me out but she hasn’t. I still love
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my Camie. I still think about her beautiful laugh that would ring through my ear when I told her a joke or when we watched a funny video. I always thought that everything happens for a reason and my reason for Camie was that I loved her.
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Untitled, by Gabriel Sabol. Photography.
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“Methadone Daydream,” by Lily Hamerling. Black-out Poetry.
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Black
and
White
Issue 25, Volume 1
With Writing By
With Art & Photography By
Marisol Hansen
Joseph Belzaguy
Soraya Esmard
Laura A. Vargas Gallardo
Brandon McGuire
Gabriel Sabol
Lauren Hull
Eka Knudsen
Sam Krebs
Frankie Zumpone
David Gold
Shelby Cochrane
Jack Tobin Ariana Bird Lily Hamerling Leigh Rubenstein
Eka Knudsen Sophia Upshaw Laura A. Vargas Gallardo