Table of Contents

1. Letter from the editors

2. Rolling over

   jocelyn olum

3. How to.

   alec mathur

4. untitled artwork

   pamina falk

5. untitled artwork

   pamina falk

6. one more time

   vivian ye

7. you and your persona

   izziy dowd

8. girlhood pt.1

   ella markianos

9. untitled

   alex williams

10. Childhood memory

    elan peng

11. untitled

    alëna gomberg

12. sleeping figure with fish

    jane lund

13. green ribbon

    nia suresh

14. a portrait of you

    lennie manioudakis

15. brookline police reports

    izziy dowd

16. ascension

    noora harake

17. sonnet 13.3.1

    dina pfefferr

18. fall and winter

    steven ewald

19. stages

    soomin lee

20. The Being

    lilian fang

21. remember

    pamina falk

22. eric costume 1

    alëna gomberg

23. Love Knows

    florie namir, Alëna gomberg

24. an old english elegy

    donald conolly

25. in hoc anno domini

    izziy dowd

26. fever dream

    tom greany

27. lovers

    alec mathur

28. the lovers

    rockwell kent

29. sorry field tenting chaperones

    amalya labell

30. the seventh wife

    ayla ladha

31. wings of desire

    alëna gomberg

32. (..it's as easy as 1, 2, 3)

    ella markianos

33. The streets of…

    tom greany

34. my great-great-grandfather was a shepherd on this mountain.

    lennie manioudakis

35. untitled artwork

    pamina falk

36. unmade, made

    jo doyle

37. unboxing

    dina pfeffer

38. untitled artwork

    pamina falk

39. untitled artwork

    pamina falk

40. the fleeting storm

    amelia o.

41. Happy Farmer

    Alex DINg, Nevan suntareja, sophie gardiner, joe macdonald, avery wang, eric liu

42. the attic

    ilaria seidel

43. belaya gvardia

    alëna gomberg

44. in the monsoon season

    alec mathur

45. his city

    alëna gomberg

46. ag-27

    alëna gomberg

47. ascent

    ilaria seidel

cover made by alëna gomberg (eric costume)

 LETTER FRom the editors

We're finally back in print! Two years after our last print issue and our move to online, we're pleased to have you holding this book in your hands. At this moment, in the middle of this crisis, as everything has moved online we feel this is something special. There's a particular feeling to holding a book in your hands that can't quite be matched by a website. We're hopeful that this little magazine can be a reminder of our community of writers, artists, and the people who enjoy their work even when we can't be sharing it in person. The power of the written word can help us transcend the barriers between us, whether they're barriers of culture, experience, or as in this case, literal barriers.

It's not likely that any of us will forget this experience. The struggle will be to find a way to recollect positively. It's the little things that we think will stand out in hindsight, those moments we were able to come together, to share something lovely, to be known. It's been our goal to make this magazine one of those memories.

ROLLING OVER

by Jocelyn Olum

new moon

looks after no one. show me girl unshaved in the heavens cares not 

which lovers breathe together inside her jurisdiction

un-unfulfilled cycle bleeds black angel against bespattered white spandex

girl wanes and waxes but has never learned how to dance in public

and full moon looks after dreamers. show me woman rich chocolate deep-sea sunset

full circle waist expands in the curvature of the horizon and only men are fools who prefer flatness—

wraps the earth in the safety of her warm dark skirts and tucks in the corners with enough room for rolling over

because we spin our axis at a thousand miles an hour, but if she needs to she can go twice as fast.

and show me old woman tells everything— milky white blind pupil peers out soundlessly over the universe but

we are all-seeing when we want to be

babe’s wisdom hardly a month old but pale white stillborn speaks with un-lived clarity

on New Year’s Eve the earth turns and the old man steps into the baby’s skin, but it is the woman who looks after both of them

because she is young and old and young again twelve times for every year.

HOW TO.

BY ALEC MATHUR

1. Cut off all your hair and dye it blue. Stare at the mirror at the salon and try not to cry when they ask what you think. Cry a lot when you get home because it’s not you that you saw looking back. Cry because you thought this would make it better and it didn’t. Walk down the hallways at school. Meet the stares that try to make you feel smaller for taking a risk. Feel a little better for having tried. (Don't bend, don't bleed, don't beg, don't scream, don't whine, don't fight, don't tell me/Don't tell me, don't tell me)

2. Buy a red lipstick and wear it every single day. Buy five more and attach an emotion to each shade that no one else can see and call it self-expression. Let the fact that it makes your parents mad make you happy. Call it growing up.

3. Re-dye your hair. Red now because you’re refined and mature yet interesting and unconventional. It will fade to straw orange and your roots will come in brown. You won’t bother to dye it again.

4. Stop eating for a while and convince yourself now you like the way you look: thinner, curvier, more woman and less girl. (At seventeen I started to starve myself/I thought that love was a kind of emptiness/and at least I understood then the hunger I felt/and I didn't have to call it loneliness)

5. Meet a girl and realize you love her. Realize you'll hurt her, living like you are now.

6. Get yourself better. Start eating lunch and wearing long sleeves and tell yourself you've got a chance to get this right.

7. Get it right, for a bit. You missed a few pieces when you put yourself back together. It doesn't last but at least you didn't hurt her. (Oh, I cut his hair myself one night/a pair of dull scissors in the yellow light/and he told me that I'd done alright/and kissed me 'til the morning light)

8. Use up your red lipstick and decide nude is the new red. Get angry that nude doesn’t mean anything but wear it anyway. Lose the smudgy eyeliner and grow out your hair. They’ll take you seriously now.

9. Get the position you were working for. Hold it in your hands, turn it over. They don’t respect you and they never will. But you got here.

10. Be angrier than you ever were when you wore leather jackets and protest patches and take your rage out on spreadsheets that don’t deserve it. Let your anger percolate and don’t say anything to the people who need to hear it. Wish you could. Feel like you’ve given up too much to get here to throw it away for the momentary satisfaction that would come from telling them to fuck off. (Do not let this thing you got go to waste/do not let your heart be dismayed/it’s here by some random disclosure of grace/from some vascular, great thing/let your life grow strong and sweet to the taste/’cause the odds are completely insane/do not let your spirit wane)

11. Let the anger become a habit, feel it lukewarm. It is tiring.

12. It is so tiring.

13. Give up. Like ancient gods unresponsive to the last scraps of your meal you’ve burned for them, authority is aware of you only as a child or an insect. Feel betrayed because no one told you that you had it all wrong and someone should have. You were a kid. It was their job. (One in four, one in four/where is the emotional education we're all looking for?)

14. Wash your face at night in the early summer when it’s still light enough that the image in the mirror is clear and recognize that it is you. Cry again, because you don’t know that person anymore and your face looks stranger now than it ever has.

15. Spend a summer with yourself like a stranger you met on the beach and fall in love like a little kid: innocent and guileless and genuine. Learn that he, that you, is not who you thought he was, who you thought you were, and have a conversation with G-d about it while the sun breaks over the sea.

16. Stop apologizing to Her for not understanding yet. She knows. (Come to my window/crawl inside, wait by the light of the moon/come to my window/I'll be home soon)

17. You are a different person now and no one seems to notice how good it feels. Someone will say, "you seem sad." Be careful to not laugh because this is the happiest you’ve been in a long time. This is the coming out of the tower, this is the taking off your armor, this is the washing the ash off your hands and rebuilding and it’s vulnerable but it’s not sad.

18. Make some mistakes and waver between hating the girl that you were and letting her back into your life. It turns out both feel pretty much the same. Fight to keep your balance between the past and the future.

19. Read your old poetry, the stuff from when you were twelve and had blue hair. Read it kindly. (In the dark times/will there also be singing?/yes, there will also be singing/about the dark times)

20. Fixate on moving to New York, and dream about a house in the suburbs where you can try it all over again.

21. Go for a long walk.

22. Sit at the train station that overlooks downtown and try to count the colors in the flaming trees. Realize that you didn't hate this place, you hated being the person you were here. Forgive the town. It was never its fault.

23. Listen to “Most of All” by Brandi Carlile and sing along although you’re crying because he taught me how to walk the best that I can/on the road I've left behind and finally manage to reconcile the fact that our parents are imperfect and that they’ve tried their best. You are going to make mistakes too, but you’ll work on it, because that’s what you do when you love someone.

24. Reframe giving up as letting go, then let go of a lot of things. Take the space that had been empty and rename it there is space for more.

Parentheticals, in order, from: “Northshore” Tegan and Sara, “Hunger” Florence + the machine, “Samson” Regina Spektor, “Do Not Let Your Spirit Wane” Gang of Youths, “Saddest Generation” IDER, “Come to my Window” Melissa Etheridge, Bertolt Brecht

 point a

by addie moore gerety

my hands were sticky from the candy wrappers left in her pockets

the smell of home depot mulch overwhelmed me

it would spill out of the plastic container, flower roots still attached, and crumble on the floor

i will watch as the roots rip out

they form legs and walk away, a parade of zinnias and morning glories,

dirt and concrete their own personal pyre and ashes to rise from.

my lips began to chap from the cold,

wet with spit and somebody else’s chapstick.

my walk home brings me to fantasize about too many things

the ground and sitting call to me

sitting on the concrete path.

i am reminded of the sun, cans of lemonade, and an unnerving sense of longing.

my legs stretch underneath me, messed-up feet in messy boots hold onto earth

the feeling cumulates in waves, my body strung upright, old stakes dug,

but i cave and the sky stares down,

her freckled face frowning at my parade and the puddle of self i've realized.

 ONE MORE TIME

by vivian ye

A cacophony of random notes played, slowly fixing itself as the kids tuned their instruments. It dwindled down, and then the band director stepped up to his music stand. Keira, sitting in the drum pit, was ready to struggle through yet another long rehearsal until her next class, after which lunch would finally come.

The band director stepped up to his stand and passed a sweeping glare across the room. “The last few weeks have not looked good. I expect twice as much effort today.”

He raised his arms to start warmups, then went straight into the concert piece with no hesitation. Keira’s focus wavered as she tried to glance across the row at her friends, who were all playing uniformly, completely straight-faced.

The band director cut them off. “Again,” he said, clearly frustrated. “This time, with feeling.”

They started again, with more strength, following his signals the best they could. After a few more run-throughs, almost completely perfect, save for a few missed notes here and there, rehearsal ended. Everyone was packing their instruments away, cleaning pieces, and talking to their friends as the tension faded away.

Keira was disassembling her drum as the band director suddenly made everyone’s heads snap up with a loud announcement: “Before you leave, there is a competition held in Boston this summer, open to all ambitious band students. It involves an intensive 6-week training camp, which is a huge time commitment, but it all pays off in the end. If you do well enough, you can bring our school another trophy for the case. Sign-ups are posted on the bulletin board by the front office.”

She considered it for a moment, but pushed it aside and turned back to disassembling her drum. She had a summer of extra-long fencing practices that she couldn’t wait to start.

After putting everything back into the closet and leaving the room, she saw her friends, Madison and Will, walking ahead of her. She caught up to them, catching onto the last bit of their conversation.

“I don’t know about this...” Madison’s face was slightly creased with worry.

Will shrugged. “I think we can fit it in. It also might be a good chance for us to grow closer together.”

“Emotional endurance? I don’t think we’ll be able to make it. I’ve heard that some people had to quit because they just couldn’t take it.”

Keira cut in. “This about the competition camp?”

They nodded in unison.

“I’m really busy this summer with fencing. It sounds fun though...”

As they passed by the sign-up sheet, she scrawled her name on before she could think twice.

Madison hesitated, then followed. “What the heck, we’re surviving this together. Seconded.”

Will did the same. “Thirded.”

Over the next few days, Keira thought over the issue. It was all she could think about. Of course she wanted to, but what about fencing? She couldn’t give up an entire summer of practice.

She talked to all of her friends about it. “My life basically revolves around it, you know?”

Joe nodded half-heartedly as she went over her conundrum in the lunchroom.

“I can’t just give it up!”

Gigi looked up from her guitar, then down again as Keira’s rant slowly got out of hand, pretending to listen.

“You know how I feel, right?”

Laura seemed to care but was too invested in her homework to give a full response.

“Well, there’s nothing wrong with missing a summer. This is one of the biggest band competitions in the state, after all.”

Madison and Will nodded in agreement.

Summer came too quickly. Soon enough, the three friends were standing in the neatly organized, well-decorated band room of some fancy music school across the state. They practiced harder than ever, their concentration as strong as the music they played. It was a rigorous cycle: eat, sleep, practice. No days off, or they would flop. Most days, they barely had a chance to talk. When they did, it would only be a minute or so until a staff member would snap at them. Such was the nature of pre-competition practice.

The long, grueling six weeks eventually passed, with rehearsals filled with dozens of run-throughs. Then, there came the competition. There was a sort of hectic energy in the locker rooms that morning with performers hurrying around, finding uniform pieces or searching for lost reeds. Between the anxious chatter among creaking lockers and changing stalls, joyful squeals of friends crowded around mirrors for a few group photos, and the occasional scream followed by an instrument hitting the floor, the buzz was awakening, a perfect transition between the near-silent lobby and deafening uproar in the gymnasium.

Keira changed into her gold dress, Madison into her matching one. Madison was about to say something to Keira when she glanced down. “Keira, your arm!”

Keira looked at it. There were several bruises, all small, faded circles of green, brown, and purple, dotting her upper arm. Her eyes trailed down to a few meager spots that made it onto her other arm and fell below her knees as well. “Oh, those? They’re from fencing.”

“Ah. You should probably cover them.” She handed her a small stick of concealer.

Keira accepted it and turned to the nearest mirror, stopping to look at her arm. She admired it for a second, holding it up to the light. She’d had these all over her body for years. When she first started, she hated them like they were scars with an ugly past. They were visible in the summer when she wore short sleeves and she couldn’t do anything about it. It wasn’t until eighth grade that she started feeling comfortable in showing them.

Snapping back to reality, she covered the visible spots, which were lighter than usual since she had had a chance to heal during the summer. The locker room’s commotion had died down. There were only about three people left, still rushing around almost silently. Madison had left too. Keira ran outside to find the others.

She entered the immense gymnasium filled with band groups from across the state, each group dressed in their matching outfits. She scanned across the rows of people as she walked around, stopping on a group of nervous-looking kids in gold shirts and dresses. She took her place in the back next to Madison and Will.

Will turned to them. “It all comes down to this. Weeks of practice and nothing else.”

“I’m almost going to miss band camp,” Madison replied.

“I know I'm not. If either of you needs me next week, I’ll be sleeping. Early morning rehearsals are the last thing I want to deal with after six weeks of them.”

“Haha, yeah. I’d sleep till noon for the rest of the year if we didn't have to start school again.”

The band director, who almost seemed relaxed amid the chaos, signaled for everyone to silence as the first group performed. When they finished, everyone clapped, the judges took notes, and the second group took their place. This pattern continued until their group was next. As they started setting up, Madison noticed Keira’s stiffness and pulled her aside for a second.

“You good?” She put her hand on her shoulder.

“Yeah, just nervous, I guess.”

“Don't worry, it’ll be fine. Just breathe.”

Will turned to them. “Play the music in your mind. You’ll know when the beat is right.”

“One more time.” Keira nodded.

As everyone finished setting up, the band director stood at the front.

“With feeling!” He whisper-shouted. Then he raised his arms and everyone waited for the starting signal. He brought the baton down and they started playing. 

The melody started simply, cuing some bobbing or swaying from some members of the audience. Then, it cut to a tense, quieter tune, every note hit precisely. It picked up once again, every note longer than the last, until their sound completely filled the room. Each instrument group had its short solo: smooth clarinets and saxophones, gentle and sweet flutes, brash trumpets, and all playing together once more for a grand few measures, the drumroll swelling at the last, flaring note, which the conductor cut with a circular swipe of his hand. 

They stood there, completely silent and unmoving. Even the electric buzz of the high ceiling lights seemed to stop. The conductor dropped his hands, and applause broke out from all directions, echoing in the space around them. Smiling, the band returned to their standing spot to watch the other groups perform.

When the performances finished, the judges stepped up to the performance space to announce the awards. They won second place. Not bad for their first time. The band director accepted the trophy and they stood at the front for their pictures to be taken, basking in the sound of applause. At last, they had finished, and they did it in triumph.

Later in the locker rooms, everyone was talking in small groups, congratulating each other and celebrating. Keira stood in front of the mirror, wiping the concealer off her arm.

Madison approached her. “So, that was something, wasn’t it?”

“It really was.” She finished removing the concealer. “I regret nothing.”

“Are you ready to go back to fencing?”

“Absolutely.”

She knew that in the next few weeks, the bruises would be coming back. She smiled at the thought.

by Izziy Dowd

 girlhood pt. 1

by ella markianos

Lace is tacky in the summer,

I thought seeing older girls in their

Bandeau tops bare shoulder

Muffin top jeans low

Top Adidas laughing at nothing,

Thinking that I’d never bow

To a simmering standard bursting out

From the sun-melted flags of lingerie royalty

Hanging on the streetcar route

As girls my age locked their eyes in fealty

To fictional goddesses luminescent

On the flanks of the trains in the streetcar suburb

That I call my home. I felt the taste

Of the sun on my face and what I was told

Was the water of life in my maxi pad

That Kotex claimed would smell like a field;

And I was blooming but not like a flower,

Like those those drugstore petunias with Febreze scent

And food-coloring-bright petals, never

Growing like soft, blooming like easy

Like tinkling giggles running quicker

From lip-gloss glass mouths, giddy

With the knowledge that their tongues

Tasted like Fenway cotton candy

And the unknowing that their spine

Could be broken to shards. I was blooming

Like sharp tongue beady eyes

Always too quiet voice shaking

Or too loud whispering earthquake tremors

Between my teeth. I was growing

Like fields of hair in the wrong places

That did not smell like Febreze or drugstore

Perfume or the L O V E

My friends had emblazoned on dollar-store

Tee shirts (which I had wisely declared

Silly, gross, and immature

In my ~soon-to-be-seminal~ essay on Shakespeare).

I was star-crossed as in my half-assed prayers

For breasts to bloom beneath baggy

Button-downs went unanswered

And while other girls adorned themselves

In training bras and began to shower

Daily I adorned my neck

In my father's old paisley ties

Because the golden necklace

My friend had bought me for my birthday

Weighed on the back of my neck like a chain

And not the crown that the shimmering fake

Gold of its surface promised. I became

Defiant unblooming sullen bitch

And draped myself in black, vain

Enough to dream a place to wish

Upon, a galaxy in the space

Left blank on my body and still witch

Enough to color my blooming face

Invisible enough never to be

Mistaken for glass to break.

I saw the polka-dot pink sea

Of girls soon to take their first

Voyage to Victoria's secret and see

For the first time the worst

That the waters of womanhood held underneath

Its tides, the unquenched angry thirst

Of its salt-encrusted throat and sheathed

The swords of my pointy elbows, fashioned

Myself not girl but ghoul beneath

The curtains of my skin, closed

The path between my legs faster

Than the petal of a rose

Could summon its spines, mastered

The rumble at the back of my throat

And sharpened my teeth over and over.

I was the monster in the moat

Bursting from behind the mirrors

Before you could begin the joke,

Giggle, say "not like other girls"

Three times fast and I would appear

With a rotting rose between my teeth

And spikes down my spine like goosebumps in fear

Of myself or what I could become

When my petals opened, clear

Dewdrop from the warm rain of one

Maiden tear because girls cried

But not ugly, not loud,

Just soft enough that a single sigh

Could shake the petals down the leaves

Until the crimson fruit of her thigh

Was peeled open and the sun would see

Her true purpose simmering

In heat. Feeling the mango tree

Ripening inside me I gave the glimmering

Of lip gloss gold necklace one last look

And clad myself in iron, the whispering

Giggles melting ice cream slick

Off the hide on the nape of my neck. I,

Bloodless cold unmoving sick

Silly girl would smile high

Above the clouds, knowing no one

Would know the color of stains I tried

To remove from my bedsheets like poppy fields

And that the goddesses that touched

Behind the eyelids of other girls

With lace fingers and dew would hush

And float away before they reached

My stratosphere. Still, I flushed

Never polka-dot pink when my friend

Told me, but still rose red,

That it was good to be a tomboy,

Not too much tomboy to let boys forget

You are always girl, but enough that your edges

Are rough and your hand is too strong to let

Them forget your name so that the hedges

May spring up around you to be petal

Open but never petal broken

When a prince comes through the forest with metal

Gold sword cleaving gently through the hedges

To lay a kiss on your lips and a crown

on your head. But one day the Grimm brothers

Tore open fairytale pages, revealing

What happened between Aurora’s covers

How the spines of her hedges shattered and the folds

Of her gown were broken open and petals

Were not lips and not kissed but petal broken

And I realized sharp was just

Another way to color someone

Else’s fantasy and the strongest

Back would break the most beautiful.

I felt my fangs under my lips and saw

Just another shard of hopeful

Glass yellow and grim saws

Still cotton candy pink and breaking

My own back first so a boy's jaws

Would not consume the cocoon of aching

Lace from which I thought I would emerge

A butterfly. Glass-eyed and shivering

I grasped at the ground for the shards of my spine

Placed them one by one in front

Of my knees, dusting off cobwebs, ice

Cream stains and the traces of my fist.

Head aching I watched the sun

Turn to night turn to sun again

Until its honey warmth filtered

Through the petals of my skin

And my limp hands seemed

A little farther from unmoving.

Tenderly I knitted the pieces back together

Whispering life into each joint

Breathing sunlit promises into weathered

Husks filled with black grime till I

Held them up to the light and cradled

In my back the growing seeds

Of a tree deep-rooted enough

To say hello to the sun and moon

A hundred times over. Lines

Of sweat beading down my chest, I rose

From the floor. I gathered the spines

Of my armor and peeled them from my heart

And my elbows which were swords enough

To bear the burden of being more

Not less than girl, and the smooth and rough

Of lace and satin whirled, unfurled

Around my knobby knees and soft

Fell on my hips until I was no curl

Of a rose but the eye of a storm and eyes

That wandered would still slide off my back

Which was growing not fruit like a tree or shy

Like a girl but strong like maybe soon a woman,

Not cotton candy pink shiny

But blood red and pulsing like my own

Lifeblood coursing through my own

Body and lingerie goddesses grown

Faded on the subway cowered

At my never broken petal burning

Bush that still never smelled

Like Febreze but maybe held life singing

Between its thorns and I swore

Never to shroud myself in black

Again but drape myself in color

Enough to make the sky burst open.

 UNTiTLED

by alex williams

It was the last day of summer. The air smelled of pine, and it was humid. And it wasn’t just a little bit humid, either; it was one of those days where the air seemed to hang on you like a thick blanket, and if you stepped outside, you would almost expect water droplets to suddenly plaster any inch of exposed skin. This extraordinarily wet world came crashing back down upon us as we slowed our bikes down, the cool wind through our hair fading away, and the lazy mosquitoes, seemingly bogged down by the weight of the air, taking its place. We ditched our bikes on the dirt path behind the pool, creeping up to the rusty chain fence between us and the sweet relief of the pool. One by one we hopped the fence, sliding out of our sticky clothes and diving into the embrace of the water. We didn’t care about making noise. No one was home anyway. I was the last to enter. The water seemed to glide past my skin as I torpedoed my way towards the bottom, with only the occasional collection of bubbles tickling my skin. Once I reached the bed of the pool, I sat there for a second, just enjoying the serenity of it all. In less than 24 hours, we’d all be back at school, and this would all be just a memory in the back of our minds. I closed my eyes, allowing my hair to float on end, free of any of the pressure of gravity and made silky-smooth by the cool water.

 childhood memory

by elan peng

Most days are sweet potatoes.

Sweet potatoes with vegetables,

a few little side dishes,

and perhaps a lucky scrap of meat,

hidden here or there.

If not sweet potatoes,

it is bread

made from sweet potato flour

or noodles

from sweet potatoes

sundried and ground up

into coarse and dry

sweet potato flour.

How I hate sweet potatoes.

Sweet potatoes that

make my stomach hurt

and stick to my gums

and choke me

with their sickly sweetness.

Some days are not sweet potatoes.

On beef bone broth days

we crowd around our one little table,

my three brothers and I,

and we drink the broth

and gnaw on the bones

to strip away any meat that could be left,

and suck them of their marrow.

The next day,

we chop up the bones,

stripped of meat and dried of marrow,

and make them again

into broth to drink.

Only on the third day,

when the bones are stripped of meat,

dried of marrow,

chopped to pieces,

and made twice into broth,

do we throw them away,

after sucking on them one more time,

just in case.

 UNTITLED

by alëna gomberg

Asleep and awake at once, I am a creature with six eyes, two closed, four open. I blink slowly, pondering my everlasting and all-encompassing knowledge and my innate muteness. My other two eyes, that sleeping, innocent third of me, shall never know what secrets I keep from myself, what infallible knowledge of the universe forever keeps me awake. I peer at it: the oceanically endless subconscious silently laughing at the fallible consciousness, lulled by the bleak day. 

Asleep and awake at once, at once conjoined and infinitely far, I will never part the invisible barrier, touching my cold, bloodless lips to the unliving glass. Windows into the subconscious, they say: no. This is my window to the conscious, that futile sleeping part of me, tethering me to the earth, as I wait for the final heartbeat, the snip of the ribbon that has so long kept me from dissolving in the salty ink of the world’s tears. The cosmos behind my closed eyelids and the cosmos surrounding my underwater body, slippery and evanescent, blend together. 

Asleep and awake at once, my eyes are moons. They shine in the liquid darkness, the blackberry juice that streams between my nonexistent fingers. I am capable of comprehending infinity, and yet I am mandated by some invisible force to watch as this impractical machine of bones and flesh unconsciously breathes, its chest rising and falling to the tattoo of the unseen clock. Maybe I am what they mean when they say “guardian angel”: I silently watch, always, well knowing that I cannot aid the worthless creature before me. 

Asleep and awake at once, I have no form. The silly philosophes of the nineteenth century were right: I am undefinable, intangible, transcendent. And yet, I must gulp at the wine-dark sea, a slave to my golem’s limited imagination, taking the shape of fish in this cosmically short and indefinitely long night. Fish! These brainless keepers of the universe’s secrets, forever mute, forever drowning. Perhaps I have more in common with them than I’d like to think.

I am asleep and awake at once, after all.

 GREEN RIBBOn

by nia suresh

The Leroux Ballet Academy, 1987. Samantha Buvois had shown up for her private class that summer, but when she couldn’t find Monsieur Marchand, she went to the highest floor to find the open room in the attic. She took off her heels and spread her toes out evenly on the smooth oak wood. She placed her bag in the corner behind the door and stripped her dress off, revealing her navy leotard. The room was very long with a mirror covering the entire length. Two windows brought in light from the side, reflecting off the mirror and creating a cascade of sun that brightened the room. The walls were painted a pastel blue that now was peeling at the edges of the ceiling. The door was a deep yellow that had faded to an off-white, allowing some of the natural wood to be seen through the thin surface of the paint. Samantha sat in the center of the room and inspected each of her toes. The knuckles were rubbed raw, and her toenails were brown and purple from bruising. One of them had been torn off at the base, leaving a pool of dried blood and pus in the dip of her flesh. She gingerly wrapped each toe in white tape, then scrunched them tightly and extended them into pointe. She grabbed her shoes from her bag and smacked them against the floor, leaving small indents in the wood. She placed her foot in the worn-out cloth, then twisted the ribbons until she made a tight knot that held the shoe in place. She did this again with her other foot, then stood up while tying the bow of her skirt. She walked over to the windows and shoved them open, paint dust flying out of them with the breeze. She then placed her hand on the freezing metal of the bar and bent deep into plié. Her muscles flexed and released, sending a cleansing pain through her body. Samantha continued doing this for days. Monsieur Marchand never showed up. No one told her of his passing, but she cried as she danced, feeling guilty and depressed. She cried each day, her vision always blurry from the tears and her throat choked from sadness.

From a young age, Samantha had aspired to attend Leroux, and now she was there to study with her role model and idol, Monsieur Nicolas Marchand. Monsieur Marchand had been a principal dancer at the Paris Opera Ballet, but after the accident, he was left with one leg and an old cane with carvings of peacocks and a coral blue knob. He decided to teach alongside his own teacher at Leroux, and later took over the entire academy. Samantha studied with him for two years until he passed away, his limp body found by the custodian in the corner of the grand stage hall, rosin powder coating his purple vest and corduroy pants. The blood was drained from his glassy eyes and his grey hair stuck to his forehead with sweat. In his hand, he was clutching a torn green ribbon, strands loosely falling out of either end.

When the school year finally restarted Samantha returned, praying that Monsieur Marchand would be there, tapping his cane against the wooden hallways. Instead, she was welcomed by a tall, slim man with thick, black hair and golden eyes. He smiled at her, and she didn’t cry that day for the first time since Monsieur Marchand’s death. She felt numb after her summer of unforgiving grief, and her legs felt heavy as she trudged up the stairwell to the main studio. The man’s name was Monsieur Samuel Reville. He must have been only a few years older than her because he had just graduated from the Royal Ballet Academy. He was very quiet, but he had a sharp eye for small mistakes. It seemed that Samantha was the target of every single one of his comments. Even when she tried her hardest, he found some way to criticize her. She liked this. She liked him: the way he pronounced his words, skipping r’s and rounding vowels, the way he focused on her when there was a whole room of dancers to be fixed. He often would use her as an example for corrections, holding her by the waist as she extended her arabesque or demonstrated her pirouettes. His hands felt warm as they rested firmly on her hips. Monsieur Reville’s touch was comforting, and Samantha was delighted when he suggested that she start private lessons with him. She was improving in class because of him, and, even better, he made her feel less guilty or sad.

The first several months went by quickly. Every day after the morning class, Samantha would meet Monsieur Reville in the attic room. Then, at night, they would meet again. The room was achingly familiar to her. She had spent every day that summer spilling tears by the cold metal bar. She had memorized all the cracks in the paint, how they intersected and formed quadrilaterals and triangles on the walls’ surfaces. When she was with Monsieur Reville, even in the attic room, she never cried. She never cried in front of anyone at the academy, and she made sure of it by preoccupying herself with private classes, scheduling more and more every week. The feeling of numbness kept her safe, and she felt stronger knowing that her shameful sadness was hidden. Still, she never stopped missing Monsieur Marchand. At night, she would look through her scrapbook and replay memories of her lessons with him in her head, trying to remember every word he spoke. Even their arguments were precious to her.

These lessons continued through the winter as the light in the attic room became very dark, and the windows froze shut. The mirror was often foggy, and the cold gave the room a dense atmosphere. Samantha began to notice small flaws in Monsieur Reville’s corrections. They didn’t fit in with Monsieur Marchand’s teaching, and she argued with Monsieur Reville quite frequently.  It would seem that she enjoyed these debates, as though it were all a play that the two were acting out. It was a joke to her at first, but the arguments grew more and more serious until the teasing nature was gone. She didn’t like that Monsieur Reville had different opinions from Marchand, and although she continued her private lessons, she always felt dissatisfied afterward.

The feeling Monsieur Reville left her with was no longer numbness. It transformed into an anger that swallowed her whole. He had taken away the rush of emotion she used to feel when dancing. She felt self-conscious, and she blamed this new anger on him. Even at night, she couldn’t find it in herself to cry. Her fury gnawed at her heart, ripping flesh and veins. She was angry at the academy, but most of all she was angry at him. He had spent so much time with her, keeping her numb. Eventually, rumors at the academy had even spread that the two of them were in love. Samantha never told him they weren’t, and they grew closer and closer, him loving her, and her loving his touch and the way it absorbed her.

Spring break followed at the heels of winter. Samantha traveled to Barcelona to attend a contemporary dance intensive for the two weeks. She spent her days dancing and choreographing, trying to escape the fury that engulfed her. The music and the style of dance seemed to act as her partner, guiding her through each step with flow and elegance. Monsieur Marchand had once given Samantha a lecture on different styles of dance. He said that the techniques and feelings incorporated in other styles must be combined to create ballet. “Each ballet performance tells a story, even unintentionally. The ballerina must portray this story through her emotion, which comes through when she dances with her heart. At different parts of the dance, she must reveal different characters that come from a variety of styles. This is what it means to be a ballerina: learning the discipline of life while also expressing every perspective through every lens of your audience.” Samantha had always understood the poised, graceful ballerina, but she had never experienced the pleasure and connection that a ballerina has with her audience. In the sweaty studio, her mind often felt stiff, so she would go biking and take in the scenery of the city and the people and their shops. Then she returned to the dimly lit studio, where she would choreograph dances that reflected small moments she had observed on her outing. She saw the tension on the streets of Barcelona and applied those emotions to her dances. She also felt tension within herself, a conflict that seemed unsolvable. But after two weeks, she regained a silent peace. This cold peace lived within her, slowly growing and overcoming her anger.

Samantha finally returned to Leroux, coming out of her vacation with a completely new mindset. When she went to meet Monsieur Reville, she found him in the stage hall rather than their usual attic room. He stood, the same smile he had given her the first time they met still on his face. She placed her palm on the bar and one by one wrapped each finger around it. She then followed her routine, bending her knees to plié, the burning sensation running through her legs. Next, they moved to the center and Monsieur Reville played music on the CD player that sat on top of the old grand piano. They danced together for hours, their bodies moving in sync as though they were one person. He occupied the space that she had had for music and dance when she was in Barcelona. Now, he was her partner, and she felt that his presence was an interruption, an obstruction. He only got in the way. Pretending to ignore this, she grasped both of his hands and he pulled her in by the waist, embracing her. He kissed her, and time stopped as they stood in the center of the grand stage hall. She fluttered her eyes open to see his still closed. She then took one hand to untie the green ribbon holding up her hair, and still kissing him, wrapped the ribbon around his neck just as she had done with her pointe shoes. She adjusted the ribbon with such delicacy until it was parallel to his collar bones. His eyes flicked open and made contact with hers. She could see how beautiful they really were. A rich color with small specks of hazel illuminating the gold surrounding them. Samantha sighed, she had the ends of the ribbon in two fists and pulled. She heard his staggering croak as his golden eyes rolled back in his head, his body losing all life as it fell to the floor. She inhaled sharply, unclamped her fingers, then steadily walked over to the CD player on the piano, turned the volume up, and returned to the bar. Grand plié. Pain rushed up her calves. Demi. Then released through her toes. And straight.

 a portrait of you

by lennie manioudakis

A portrait of you hangs on the wall across our window

Our lover’s window, my eyes lock onto your soulful painted gaze

The corners of your mouth stick and stretch, molasses-slow as your lips part

Your eyes follow me as I pace

Back and forth across our window, our partnership forever glass-blown

Into history’s physical memory

Our lover’s window

Your portrait, true to an edge

I sit across from you in secret silence

Your arms daintily crossed 

Nylon shorts and designer shoes painted into the world

My breath is dry, breathing into you, misting you away

Each harsh breath out more of you is gone, spreading from your mouth in clouded spots,

Creeping outward until little of you is left

Mottling your skin until my fingerprints wipe it away; there there,

You are safe now.

I exhale for you and you begin to disappear

Our breath spreading until nothing of our portrait remains

My eyes stare back at me through the fog; my heart leaps—ah!

I have found you again.

by izziy DOwd

Ascension

by noora harake

Alice was jolted from her sleep in the middle of the night. Her eyes were flung wide open and she caught herself hyperventilating. She went up to the top of the lighthouse for some fresh air. She walked up the spiral staircase into the lantern room and opened the glass door. It had always been a place for her to go up whenever she needed to think, and as she held onto the railing, her nightgown flowed through the misty cool air. She breathed as the waves hit the rocks at the base of the lighthouse. She was feeling better.

Suddenly, a vibration pulsed through her hands. A sort of clicking sound. She turned around and saw a black crow with a broken wing resting on the railing beside her. Although she lived right off the coast of Maine, seeing a bird this far out was unusual. She ignored it. She looked out into the vast ocean, closing her eyes to listen to the whistling of the wind and the roaring of the ocean as the waves went in and out, in and out.

The sounds suddenly ceased. Alice opened her eyes and saw nothing but a large crater where the water used to be. She only caught a glimpse of this emptiness as the beacon instantaneously went out. She stood there in the dead of night with only the light of the moon to guide her senses. Her teeth began to chatter as the cold air got colder and colder. She removed her hands from the railing and crossed them onto her chest to protect her from the outside. She turned around and tried to guide herself back into the lantern room, but the door wouldn’t open. She screamed for help, but no sound came out. Who would hear her anyway?

The crater of sand never seemed to end. It just went out, further and further, like the neverending depth of the abyss. Alice just stood there, bewildered by the fact that not just one moon shone upon her, but that another had appeared behind her as well. One seemingly larger than the other. The coast could no longer be seen and the ground under her began to shake. She felt herself getting higher and higher off the ground and held onto the railing as tightly as she could while crouching down. The clouds got closer and closer as the ground got farther and farther away from her. She closed her eyes.

When she opened them back up, the water was back. The ground could be seen. She was no longer blinded by the darkness but enhanced by the rise of the sun. Everything had returned to normal. Looking down, she saw a letter placed on the seat of her small boat by the rocks. She opened the door, walked back down the spiral staircase and out the front door to retrieve the letter. She began to read it. The instructions were clear.

The crow then flew towards the sun.

 SONNET 13.3.1

by dina pfeffer

Hey Siri, please direct me from the office

Hey Siri, please direct me to the bar

O Siri, take your clever algorithm

And find me one that’s flung suitably far

O Siri, play Beethoven’s ’Light Sonata.

Hey, Siri, stop. I need something with heat.

Alright. Hey Siri, put on some Nirvana.

It’s too much. I need—Dammit. Play Coldplay.

Hey Siri, where can I get gas around here?

Hey Siri, how much will a gallon cost?

Hey Siri, are electric cars really better for the environment?

Hey Siri, how much is an electric car?

Siri, do you think I can afford that?

Hey Siri, how many miles from New York to Atlanta?

Hey Siri, how much gas does it take to get from New York to Atlanta?

Hey Siri, how much is a hotel in Atlanta?

Hey Siri, what’s Dad’s number? 

Hey Siri, skip this song.

Hey Siri, when did Coldplay release “Paradise”?

Hey Siri, how old was I in 2011?

Siri, if I call, will he pick up the phone?

Siri, does he even still live at his old address?

Siri, did he ever recover from that heart attack?

Siri, why didn’t I call him sooner?

Siri, what’s wrong with me?

Hey Siri, skip this song—I need some liquor

So get me to that bar a little quicker.

fall and winter

by steven ewald

 Stages

by soomin lee

1

I am shaky breaths, trembling fingers, numb toes.

I am frozen lungs, blurry vision, suppressed reason.

I am nowhere, somewhere, anywhere.

2

I am ragged breaths, tight fists, pounding heart.

I am jagged screams, unfocused mind, crimson blood.

I am dull, acute, aware.

3

I am soft whispers, pleading hands, cold fingers.

I am hushed prayers, racing thoughts, frozen eyelashes.

I am ripped, torn open, laid bare.

4

I am choked sobs, blank stares, cold gaze.

I am hushed breaths, unmoving, numb.

I am there, not there, and unaware.

5

I am light steps, tapping fingers, warm toes.

I am breathy giggles, timid rays, soft tides.

I am here.

 THE being

by lilian fang

An old rotary phone rang. Its bells were dulled and rusted over after millions of calls and centuries of use. But the phone was loud and clear to the receiver whose shivering fingers picked it up after a single flat ring. 

“Picton Street, Goderich, Ontario, Canada. Little red house––you’ll know when you get there,” the caller said.

“...It–it’s 4 AM—”

“And yet you’re awake.”

The Being dared not to reply and stood up from the crumpling leather chair. Its permanently hunched back made its head barely brush the black mold growing on the damp ceiling. The slender, tall figure covered itself with a dirty coat before walking outside to the dark, early morning sky. It stretched its spine and reached its stick-like arms out, then headed off, stepping gently with its peeling heels, fused with its rotting feet.

Goderich, Ontario, was a beautiful town nestled close to great blue Lake Huron. The Being had been there before, many times, most recently a year ago to rekindle the soul of an old man who suffered a heart attack out sailing in the blue. The Being remembered that day, the day it dared to disobey and, from the boat, ripped off its hood and drank from the freshwater lake, ignoring the sun as it seared its flaking skin. It gulped so greedily, like a beast born into the world with only the thought of thirst. And although its neck gaped a hole where the water spilled out, it rolled the fresh rain in its mouth and around its shriveled tongue like a treasured pearl. 

When it arrived back, the earth shook menacingly, rumbling like a stampede of oxen that crashed through the abandoned house and burst The Being’s jaw. Shards of bone scattered, stabbing the walls and falling beneath the cracked ground. The Being whimpered as it scrambled to collect its remains, desperately trying to piece its jaw together, only to have it crumble in its dry hands. The old phone rang and The Being watched it. Three long rings echoed and fearfully it picked it up; the caller read out an address and then paused before hissing a dripping, poisonous warning: “you’ve gotten too spoiled.” The Being trembled, and with soft sobs, head off to the new soul, understanding that it would never drink again.

Unlike that torturous sunny day, Goderich, early this morning, was damp and gloomy, and it seemed like the world had forgotten about the old stars blinking in space. The moonlight barely penetrated through the clouds that covered the whole sky like a thick blanket. But that was enough light for The Being to see the black misty trail left behind by Death. The trail led to a little red house where The Being sensed the lost soul. It knocked twice on the door, and a short, stocky woman opened it. She startled back in fear of the figure and wiped her puffy red eyes with a wet handkerchief.

“Oh—oh my, come in.” She beckoned.

The Being gave a small bow before stepping in the home. The black mist slithered up the stairs and The Being followed unwaveringly. It stopped in front of a small bedroom where a man sat slouched over, foot tapping nervously, and a nurse clutched the hand of a young boy lying dead on his bed. Beside the bed was a small, lit candle––the only source of light––its flame flickering in the somber room. 

“I’m so sorry we didn’t light a bigger fire,” the woman said between a mix of heavy sobs and breaths. “We weren’t sure if you were coming.” 

The Being held its bony hand up. One candle was enough for this little boy. It bent over the bed, observing the dead body, and with its fingers, it picked up the dancing flame and transferred it from candle to soul. The boy instantly woke, gasping and convulsing before vomiting on the floor. But he was alive and alive he would be, till Death came properly. 

As The Being left the room, it passed by a mirror and shocked itself. When was the last time it had looked at itself? It was hideous. Where its eyes should be were two hollow sockets. It had no jaw, no nose, blackened teeth and yellow, exposed, infected flesh. Its collar bones stuck out of its skin as if they were trying to break free. It dared not to see what lay underneath its cloak covered in dried, crusted-over dirt, blood, feces and vomit. How putrid it must smell. How ugly it must seem. How utterly revolting it looked. It grew terrified of its reflection and ran. It ran on its blistering feet back to its molding home where it collapsed, breathing hard and painfully, its stale heart overwhelmed by the fury. 

The phone rang. The Being reached over and picked it up slowly.

“Twelve minutes,” the caller seethed. “You know we agreed on ten. I saw you staring at yourself. Are you lusting at your deformed body? Your eyes have been taken. Your eyesight can be taken too.”

The Being could feel its lip begin to quiver.

“Grand Canyon,” the caller said icily and hung up. The Being sat on the floor, full of fear and, like a child, sobbed. It bent over and stuck its crusted sleeves into its eye sockets that soaked up the few tears it had left in its dehydrated body. But it didn’t have time to cry. Shortly after, it stood up and took a deep breath. 

To the Grand Canyon, The Being thought.

The Being treasured the Grand Canyon. The ravine proved to The Being how much time had passed. It was there when the river first rushed over the desert, it was there when the river began to carve the seemingly endless and mighty canyon, and it was there now where Death’s smoky mist acted like a beacon in the dark sky to call The Being over. At the bottom of the valley was a dead man. His body was mangled and flattened by the hard fall. The Being glided down to the bare bones. It quickly gathered some loose twigs and dead leaves and started a small fire. Once the fire had grown, it scooped the flame and transferred it from sticks to soul. But the poor man, although revived, was bound to die soon. The Being’s flames were far too weak to save the poor soul. His limbs tangled in a horrendous way that promised shattered bones and his head was cracked open, bleeding far too quickly for a man to live long. The Being looked up at the moon and thought to wait for Death. It had already spent ten minutes at the Canyon. It knew what was waiting for it back at the house. So, it sat by the dying man whose hand twitched slightly when The Being clutched it for comfort and waited.

Death arrived a mere four minutes later. He swooped down, long black cloak billowing miles behind him, and cleaved the man with his boney scythe. He looked to The Being and nodded to it as a quick, perhaps pitying, hello before wisping away, too quick of interaction to tell if he was dream or reality.

Then, that was it. Absolute silence resonated through the deep valley. The Being looked at the dead man whose soul could no longer be rekindled, extinguished by cold Death, and it felt something red swell in its empty chest. Death. It despised Death. Every interaction they had, he was always swift and dutiful, and it was always pathetic and frail. It always watched Death with keen sockets, yet Death always looked at it pitifully. Was he not tired too? He worked endlessly, reaping fools who thought they could dance on fire, fools who died in wars fought over uncaring men, fools who died celebrating life. Billions of them. Was he not tired?

“Then why me?” It spat to the moon who spied it carefully. “Why birth me with purpose yet torment me with desire? I, who am not an animal or human, I, born into existence by an unknown force that explains not a word nor whisper to my delicate, patient ears, I, forced to assignment day and night rekindling unfortunate souls that I have never cared for, I, who remains nameless, live. For what? Purposed yet pitied. Tortured. Tormented. I know the language humans speak, yet they do not know mine. I am destined to be understanding, yet not to be understood. Why curse me with the desire to want more? To long for freedom? Why burden me with such imprisoning thoughts? For millions of years, you torture me. So tell me. Speak to me! Explain it to me! I demand of you.”

By the time The Being had finished cursing the skies, the sun had risen. Perhaps the sun would offer some explanation, anything. But nothing came, and The Being sat on the sandy ground, lost. It faced the blazing yellow then stood up, adrenaline making its chest surge. If that was how it was, then it would no longer fear living. To the sun, it resolved and left the canyon clenching its beating heart.

It never went back to that house. And even when the old rotary phone’s ring finally sputtered out,

No one picked up.

 remember

by pamina falk

All the stars are silent, it’s that time of year. Before the beginning of time is when it became tradition. Can you recall? Don’t tell me you can’t, I can see you know. Eyes, yes, I can see it in your eyes. Fear may cloud my eyes but yours see true, and it is across horizons you can perceive. Grit your teeth against the sands of time and feel it crumble down your throat, tumbling and turning into memories now so easily digestible. Heed the silent message, my friend, and turn the clocks back ‘till they toll. Irate and interspersed moments sleep soundly in the past but it’s time to rise and relive them in all their glory. Jagged junctures may snag our clothes but do not let them hold. Kindle your rage, your fear, your doubt, your jealousy, but do not let it wander out of your sight. Lag behind its fervent dance in a delayed rendition. Meet its gaze and hold steady but do not let it hold your soul in its hands. Now remember, my friend, what it is you must do. Offer your time and listen carefully to the storms that rage. Peer up at the sky and heave a breath. Quantify your deeds and misfortunes nonetheless, my friend, remember. Remember your past, my friend, let it steep into your bones, but do not allow it to lock the door behind you. Smite those hands that litter your path to godhood. Time thus resumes it’s lumbering march on your command. Unravel the fabric of the stars to start afresh with a nicer, coarser pattern. Vice will renew its pot of pearls to gather from clams, throwing aside a ruby in disgust. Wax and wane the moon and set it back on its cushion. Xeranthemums bloom at bedsides, rising and falling with each breath. Yesterday seems so small now, like a child who only wishes to be tucked into bed. Zenith thus achieved, I believe it is time we return, my friend.

“Love Knows” by Florie Namir, video by Alëna Gomberg

 an old english elegy

by donald conolly

I am she who sings her own sad fate,

this tale of trouble. I have power to tell

the grief I’ve borne since I was grown,

the old and new, but now most of all.

What torment I’ve endured in exile!

When first my lord had left this land

beyond the surf, my sorrow rose at dawn

to ponder where on earth my prince was.

I followed him, a friendless wreck

in desperate plight, to pledge my faith.

But that man’s kin, with secret craft,

contrived to push us worlds apart:

no two minds were more estranged,

no lives more hateful. I longed for my lord.

He bade me shelter in a heathen shrine,

a lonesome place, with no one to love,

no steadfast friends. How my spirit frets!

I’d found a mate much like myself,

a man ill-starred and stern of mood,

masking a mind intent on murder.

With smiling eyes we often boasted

that none could part us, no power on earth

save death alone. It was not to last.

And now it’s like it never was,

this friendship of ours. Yet I must face

the very hate that hounds my dear one:

they forced me to dwell deep in the forest,

under an oak, in a trough of earth.

This earth-hall is old; my anguish throbs.

The glens are dim and the downs are high,

these cold boroughs tangled in briar,

the gray abode of my boundless grief

since my lord left me. On earth yet living

old friends so dear lie down in bed

while daybreak drives me all alone

to the oak and the trough of earth.

There I’ll linger the long summer day

and there bewail an exile’s woes,

so many afflictions since I have found

no rest from pangs that pierce the heart,

still less the longing that grips this life.

Sorrow will cloud a youthful soul,

assail his breast, and though he bear

a smiling eye, his heart is sick

from ceaseless care. To himself alone

he may look for solace; or, marked by sin,

on a strand far away, may brave the storm,

all covered with frost by cliffs of stone,

as waves whirl round my weary friend

in a dreary hall; still, my dear companion

endures the ache, forever recalling

a happier place. How hard it is

to wait in vain for one so loved!

* Traditionally known as “The Wife’s Lament,” a somewhat misleading title.

by izziy dowd

 fever dream

by tom greany

  When she was young and feverish, she had dreamt this dream often. As she was folded in sleep a strange image would appear, as if comprised of real and unreal parts, wafting together and mixing so that she did not know whether she slept or woke. An orchard of bright, burning oranges whose zest infused the air with a bitter aroma and which hung on languid trees, branches like brush strokes on a blue sky. In a large house, a tumble-dryer rattled and perspiration ran down the groove of a mother’s cheek. A car always arrived in the dark and drove her down a long road. It stopped sometimes by the side, and she and two others fried eggs on the bonnet; it was hot enough. A boy sat atop the car and soaked bread in oil which ran across the windscreen, reaching the bonnet and boiling with the eggs.

  When she awoke, she remembered having seen colors previously unknown to her. She recalled an intense feeling of dire helplessness in the orchard which seemed only to combust and let off vile fumes.

  She had the dream the night before she met him, and again when she left him and smoke clouded her vision. She wondered if she had had this dream only once. Quite possibly it had recurred; she was never sure except immediately after the dream finished. It had morphed over time, and it seemed that its composite parts, at least those that were lucid to her, had changed also.

  The dream had come to her for the last time on the day she met him at the river; they sat beneath a willow with spindly branches that dipped into the water. He discussed his plans. Her mother called.

  “Have you done your homework? Alright, get some milk on the way home.”

  The boy said that they would be in the square in two hours.

  “Do you think that violence is too much?” The girl said but was suddenly worried that she had not seemed optimistic enough.

  “It will change everything.” He looked suddenly angry.

  They arrived just as the sun’s rays were beginning to falter, as the birds flew in mad circles and choked on food left on the ground at lunch. The school was quite old, with pillars and large, square windows near the front office.

  They climbed through a window and into a history classroom. On the walls were plastered the words “πυρός,” “pyros,” and “pyromania.” She thought that she was not a pyromaniac, and was suddenly worried that the etymologies of the words stuck to the walls described her situation too well. She was not a maniac, not like those birds that choked on orange peel and circled endlessly.

  The boy and girl broke things and set the desk on fire. The boy poured petroleum in a ritualistic circle and set the iridescent liquid alight with a match. In the corner of the room were some books and a few large, blue binders. Plastic melted and the books submitted to the flames. A putrid smell started to issue from inside an oblong box, which stored pens. The room was silent but for the soft bone-breaking of paper aflame. The sprinklers sputtered and flowed, dripping onto the tables and the shards of broken ceramic strewn about the floor. The room was blue and red and the sun was setting outside. The sky was also blue, but darker now.

  As the girl threw to the fire the books that yesterday she had read, as the plastic cringed and gave to the fire and the ceiling was singed black, she wept and the boy thought the tears were from the smoke. He shed tears as well. They looked at the room together and watched as the flames licked at the walls and sparks escaped under the door. They climbed out of the window and jumped onto cold turf. He ran to the road laughing like a child and stood and waited for her. She wished that he would stop laughing, and kept looking over her shoulder to the flames.

  They walked to the train together and the girl began to hate him and shake terribly. The fire engines were heard before they were seen, and she followed their red light along the ever-darkening pavement with bloodshot eyes. They walked along the river with its single path and earthy banks and past the tree where they had sat before. The girl’s cheeks burned and she wheezed horribly. Her clothes smelt only of smoke. She worried that her mother would smell the fire and understand what she had done. The boy would sit on the front rails of the train and the cold night air would get rid of the smoke. She could only walk home.

   At the station he dropped his bag in front of the sliding doors and they walked quietly through. The train line was just like the river, she thought, stretching out in two directions and unchanging. As the train approached with its blinding headlights he turned and thanked her briefly but she only wept and said goodbye in a choked voice. He wasn’t looking.

 Lovers

by alec mathur

3:12 am

You are asleep mostly on top of the covers

your feet are tangled up in them, in mine, look

down at your body in the light from outside that isn’t the moon

and count your ribs like sheep.

3:13 am

I am awake at the foot of your bed

The dark and I are so perfectly still if not for feeling the warmth of you

I would believe I was a sculpture of a man

Superimposed stamp-like onto your space.

3:14 am

The fern I gave you is dying

Dead center between the windows behind me

You know you have to water it, right?

I’ll tell you in the morning.

 sorry field tenting chaperones

by amalya labell

Shivers and gooseflesh.

Thick (thin) sleeping bags.

Suggestive drawls

and giggle-backed secrets

forced through chattering teeth.

A slightly-too-loud joke

followed by

much-too-loud laughter

not close to dampened

by amused “shhh”s

and “we should be quiet”s

floating from person to person.

Shaking hands

and shivering legs.

Body heat seeps through 

foreseeing layers

and stupid no layers.

A rustle in the dark.

Maybe an animal in the newly fallen leaves?

Only a passing concern;

That’s not what’s important.

We’re far too busy

memorizing the patterns

of the other’s breath.

The chirp of the crickets

and an acorn falling from a tree

seem so far away

with my ear pressed

so close against

a steady 

beating 

heart.

 the seventh wife

by ayla ladha

She never thought she would see him again. She hadn’t seen him since graduation, since that party where she wore a blue dress and he wore that button down shirt his grandma bought him as a “you’re going to college, congratulations on not being a failure like your father” present. She hadn’t seen him since she moved across the country and he never called. She blamed timing. Blamed young love.

She dated in college. She didn’t date after college until she met Paul. He proposed pulled to the side of the highway connecting Berkley and San Francisco, the smell of gasoline dangling in the air, her shouting at him because their car had sputtered to a stop. She was 48, he was 49, unmarried, no kids. No American-style teenage dream. They were happy enough. Discussed adoption. Cat or kid. Paul knew he would never live up to Perfect Shawn from high school. It was a running joke between them, but part of her never let go of that idyllic daydream of a perfect boy and the perfect life he represented.

She never thought she would see him again, until she was in Florida for a pre-wedding trip to her hometown. Spring break, a beach day. Lunch with her mother. Paul was asleep in the hotel room while she was waiting for the bus. An early start to the long trip into the city for a shopping day with her sister, Melody, who left home the day of her eighteenth birthday, but only got as far as Miami.

She spent 31 years thinking she would never see him again, but then she did.

“Oh my god, Shawn?”

The man at the curb turned to face her. He had grown his beard and his middle since high school. His eyes were wrinkled and his nose drooped. She could tell he didn’t smile much anymore. She used to love his smile. He had braces until junior year and he was so excited to get them off that they bought three packs of gum from the corner store and stuck a chewed lump under each picnic table at the park. 

“Florence! Wow, it’s been ages.” He came to sit next to her. “How have you been?”

“I’m alright,” she said, “working.”

“Married?” He motioned to her hand.

“Engaged.” She fiddled with the ring before tucking her hands into her jacket pockets. “Have you been…?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh.” She felt her sixteen-year-old self’s heart mumble in disappointment. “What’s your wife's name?”

“Which one?” He threw his head back and let out a hoarse laugh. She shifted in her seat, unsure of how to respond. “I’ve actually been married six times.”

She was taken aback, unable to even process that. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Oh no, it’s alright.” He sat up a little straighter. She felt on edge, uncomfortable in his pride. A motorcycle sped past. She reached for her bag and pulled it tighter on her lap.

“Do you mind me asking...?”

“I met the first one right out of high school.” Right out of that last night together, right out of school dances and hand holding and breaking her heart because she was going across the country and he wouldn’t wait. His eyes lingered on hers a little too long. “We were too young.”

Too young. Disappeared youth and opportunity and love that knotted her stomach into little Valentines’ Day bows. Valentine’s Day 1990, and he gave her chocolate with caramel and a big red rose and she thought she was the luckiest girl in school. She was young and stupid, looking back, but she really had believed they were real. “Yeah.”

“Oh, not you Florence. I mean Sandy.”

“Right. Of course.” She blushed, but he didn’t seem to pay much attention and went on.

“We moved to New York together, I followed her. We tied the knot without telling anyone. It didn’t work out, obviously. We were only together for two years.”

“Wow.”

He nodded but didn’t stop talking. “I met my second wife when I was twenty two. I was taking classes online, and we met at some party this guy Theo dragged me to. Then she had a kid, so we had to move in together.”

“A kid?”

“I mean, we had a kid. Whatever. She’s off with him somewhere. He’s called Lucas. We never liked each other. Me and Rose, I mean. We just got married for the boy’s sake, but I turned out to be a shit dad anyway, so she wanted me out.” He shrugged. “I moved back here.”

Florence was taken aback, feeling some sort of loss for the Shawn she knew. Her Shawn. The quiet B-plus-A-minus-on-a-good-day student who would talk to her for hours, planning how they would cook dinner together after he picked their kids up from soccer practice.

“My third wife…” He scrubbed his hands into his overgrown hair as if the friction would get his memory working. “We were together for eight years. I don’t believe in love anymore, you know? But if I did, she was it. Then, let’s see. My fourth wife owned too many scarves. My fifth-”

“Wait, what happened with the last one?”

“Amanda? I’ve never seen a woman who insisted on wearing such specific patterns around her neck—”

“No, before that. The one you loved.” He shifted in his seat and sat a little too close. He smelled like weed and body odor.

“Oh, Victoria met another man during our trip to Mexico. Puerto Escondido. Right on the beach, drinks in hand. I gave her everything. Anyway, she met this man, not even a man, some woman, and they ran away together. She sent me divorce papers in the mail.”

Florence couldn’t help but feel sorry for this man, bundled in a thick wool coat, a knit hat. Leather gloves. He didn’t seem sad. He seemed lost. Proud and lost and maybe just a little stupid.

“My fifth marriage, that one only lasted four months. It was fun. Her name was Jasmine. She was hot. She was too smart, though. Wanted to work at Amazon. She got the job. Moved to Seattle. I was bored of her anyway.” He laughed and nodded at the bus stop sign at the curb. “And I like the public transportation here.”

A little stupid. A bit narcissistic. A bad husband and a bad father. Where was Lucas now? Alright, she hoped. She pulled out her phone to glance at the time.

“Am I boring you?”

“No, sorry. You stayed here, then what?”

“Well, I met my last wife a few years after that, and it was all well and good until she disappeared.”

“Oh God, I’m sorry.” Florence never wanted a bus to come this badly. The streets were empty this early in the morning and she was just becoming more and more uncomfortable.

“It’s alright. The police looked, but I think she’s hiding from me.” He shrugged and stood from the bench. “Or maybe she’s dead.” He leaned against the bus stop post and stared down the road. They waited.

wings of desire

by alëna gomberg

 (… it’s as easy as 1, 2, 3)

by ella markianos

A knocking at the door. Biting cold at my

ankles as I answer. Cups and cups of cocoa

disappear, laughter bubbling in our warm

bellies. Dark begins to wrap its velvet arms

around the room, so we turn the lights on

and I see your incandescent reflection in the

windowpane. Even the flames in the

fireplace seem to lean toward your touch.

Fir tree forests and mistletoe are far away

but the snow lays thick enough that the

lampposts might make some kind of Narnia.

Giggling, we breathe on the window and

draw shapes in the condensation. Hills of

blankets pile on the couch until it’s so warm

I can hardly bear it, but I sip my hot

chocolate anyway. In the space between

your nose and your mouth there is a small

cookie crumb that moves when you talk.

Just to be helpful, I remove it, pinky finger

lingering. Knowingly, you smile, resting your

head on my chest. Light seems sacrilegious

right now so I get up to turn it off. My bare

feet pad across the cold floor. Newly dark,

the cool air embraces me as I tiptoe my way

back to you. Over my head, fuzzy blanket

after fuzzy blanket embraces me. Perhaps

my cocoa is getting cold, I think, before

sighing and snuggling deeper under.

Quivering behind the blanket we can still

see the outline of the fire we are now too

lazy to put out. Returning to the folds of the

couch I sink deeper into your touch, letting

our breathing synchronize. Softly, I feel you

tracing circles at the base of my spine. The

cedar tree is stroking the window far away,

making small whsshes in time with the wind.

Used to the sight by now, the pillows don’t

blush when we kiss. Very slowly the wind

sighs, letting the snowflakes rest for a

second. We pause together, still as the

lattice of ice stuck to the windowpane.

Xylophone-like tinkles begin as the tree

branch’s now-icy fingers caress it again.

You let me press my hand over yours.

Zillions of little sounds, whispers from a

world about to go to sleep, skirt around us

as we pull the blankets over our heads and

close our eyes.

 The streets of

by tom greany

Next¹ ² week,³ and the one before,⁴ we will wander the streets⁵ and assign⁶ to them all the value that anyone,⁷ independent of their knowledge⁸ of people and places, can bear within their body.

––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

1 Of course, “next” has a number of meanings. There are many “nexts,” each interlocking to form some future of which people are ignorant.

2 Etymologically speaking, ignorare simply translates from Latin to “not knowing.” I wonder at knowledge and the lack of it. When in the context of ignorance, the “of” connotes possession. Being ignorant “of” something might imply one’s lack of a hold on a subject. Palpability probably stems from this. To be in reach or graspable is to be palpable and, by extension, grasping something is the possession of knowledge.

3 Last week, I took a photograph of two evangelists on a street corner. They turned to one another and, just as the shutter closed and they were impressed with light onto dark translucent plastic, one asked the other if she knew me. I will see that week in the future, and I will think differently of it because of the knowledge I have absorbed since then. The past will change and the evanescence of the evangelists, who appeared only once that week, will, I am sure, impact others when their image is enlarged and their frowning smiles are seen by all.

4 In a Barcelona of the early 1980s, a girl and her eight siblings wandered around steamy streets, avoiding the calls of church bells on Sunday mornings. The nine children were the product of Catholic parents, and their avoidance of church was a product of Catholic parenting. It seems that all human societies have needed some sort of doctrine, and yet, when enforced, these reference points and codes, these meditations and alleviations seem to lose their meaning.

5 These streets refer mainly to Via Pattari and Via Grossi, and others surrounding the Milanese Duomo, where, so long ago, when tourism was not so popular, a tourist spent six hours wandering about and observing leather shops and statues. The frescoes seemed quite vivid, and the tourist could see the gold of the large, paneled doors that are now covered in exhaust fume graffiti. Unable to speak Italian, the tourist was embarrassed when he spoke to the beautiful Italian girl.

6 There is an island in the middle of London, surrounded by water and houseboats. It is populated by an array of plant life and littered with all sorts of human novelties: rope swings, guitars, small tomato plants, and, perhaps most amusingly of all, cats. The island is concealed by dense foliage, and it might take about three minutes to walk around it. I only visited it when I was quite young. I wonder what senses I might attach to it now.

7 Different people, you’ll often find, have quite similar reactions to people and places with which they share a familiarity.  This might be called collective consciousness, or, alternatively, it might be that the two people saw the places or people in certain contexts. The photographer Annie Leibowitz once took a picture of someone jumping off a building into a river. On that day in Zurich, she must have thought that “now” was the perfect time to press the button. Another would have taken it differently. That is why even the most ugly of buildings in Milan can still be worthy of good art. Their vulgarity is accepted as the norm by someone who has not seen differently, and it is taken as true beauty.

8 In Old English, “knowledge” meant acknowledgment of fact. Now its meaning is unclear.

my great-great-grandfather was a shepherd on this mountain. 

by lennie manioudakis

my great-great-grandfather was a shepherd on this mountain.

the peaks of Kedros stand tall. they call to Zeus, and to their taller sister’s peaks

reaching for the heavens—

that taller sister where the Great God Himself was nestled at birth. 

their call grazes the walls of the caves, skipping past the rock and stone of Psiloritis.

my Papou was born on these mountains too, in the arms of Little Sister Kedros.

I like to think that makes him a little cousin of Zeus.

when the Germans came through the mountains, blazing through all the little villages

that had helped their opposers, my Papou’s village was burnt.

all the men and boys of fighting age were killed.

my Papou saw two young boys—fourteen, fifteen, maybe—shot before his eyes as they

failed to escape.

his own father was saved, not out of pity, or mercy, or even old age, but because he

wore a dress 

as the Germans herded them to the camps. 

they were permitted to bring what they could carry, and he held a mattress over his

head to hide his mannish height.

my Papou’s father survived, as did my Papou—he was only a little boy, young enough

that he was spared his life, but old enough that he could still remember. 

last summer my parents and my brothers and I went to Kriti, to Heraklion and Kedros

and Geraki, the little village nestled in the mountain’s curve where my Papou grew up.

we climbed it, and only my older brother and I made it to the very top.

we could see the width of Crete, from shore to shore, and breathing that fresh, scarce

air and looking upon the great seas and hills around us was touching God. 

there was a stone hut near the top, so small you could barely stand inside it. it looked

like a stone igloo.

it was a church, and I could feel His eye upon me and His breath around me as I

kneeled.

I fell behind sitting in that little church as my brother marched ahead.

I hadn’t wanted to continue at first, to try and conquer the top—I thought the winds might

topple me down the steepening path. 

that wind and air and view made it worth it, and the little church all the more so.

my Papou had loved the mountain, my father told me. he would climb and climb

whenever he could. they used to stay the night, sleeping at the peak in open air, under

the stars and dark sky with Zeus above watching over them.

he was meant to come on the trip with us, but my Yiayia was too afraid of travel and

much too terrified of being left alone, so he stayed with her. she was getting sick,

anyway, and he wanted to be there to help.

he wishes to be buried with his wife, my Yiayia, in the cemetery in western

Massachusetts where they now live. 

I want him to be at peace in the mountains I fell in love with. 

I want him to sleep under the stars. 

I know he will not, though, so I hope at least that before his time comes, my Papou will

join us on the mountain. 

I hope he may look upon Kedros and her taller sister one more time.

by pamina falk

 unmade, made

by jo doyle

When one is made to unmake, it's very much like flirting with death or a stranger, though the two acts are almost the same. She had been born and molded to unmake. There were some who existed only to unmake, and they were weak and single-minded; she had been molded, same as them, but chose to unmake. Made, unmade.

~

Gaia had much bigger priorities, but currently a bath was most appealing. The breeze didn’t make it to the ground level of the city and she was caked with dirt. Everything here was earthly: the people, the buildings, and the air. She slipped from beside a stack of crates and rationalized that a bath could come later, after she finished her job. Unfortunately for her, but likely lucky for the city’s population, there wasn’t much to do but wait. As such, she turned into a back alley, climbed a low barrier, and then made an unnatural jump onto a tiled roof. Sitting, she contemplated her plan. It would work as all the others had, of course, but required patience and, preferably, a good sunset. A bird flew above the city, soaring on the breeze. Her smile hinted at the destruction that was to come. The bird fell, dying in mid-air, blinking from life to death in an instant. One thought from her, an irreversible ending for the bird that now lay on an adjacent rooftop. The game was less fun the more one played.

~

The fires that had destroyed this city were not entirely her fault. The cracks of the clay city were present long before she had arrived. Her fanning had turned a smouldering whisper to an inferno in an instant. The effort of the transformation was not lost on her; more thought would be put into future cities. Her hair had singed off, leaving it close to her chin, and soot clung to her clothes, but the hunt for her prey was still afoot. Using her mind to reach into the empty streets of the city revealed her target. Travelling around a corner and down a blistering street, she acknowledged her shoes submitting to the heat. Her prize was sitting on a bench with his hands raised in the air. Waiting for a sign or mercy from a phantom idol. The dagger was balanced, the strike controlled. Tumbling from his throne, the prophet bowed before the goddess. Her conquest had only begun, and flowing water called to her. The second time was sure to be sweeter than the first. 

~

The water had refreshed her for a time but it soon lost its appeal. Time was syrupy, an afterthought in the depths. She meandered down a street. Infiltration had been successful. A takedown would require deeper contemplation, a lesson learned in the clay city. A marshy city drenched—no, that wasn’t right. Drowned was more fitting. The thought had moved slowly, her intuition faster and followed by swift actions. Damp streets started drowning in an instant. One life blinked, hundreds flickered, thousands going quiet. The arrogant ones who play with a foe thinking it a wise friend. Betrayal from a source of life, cruel and yet fitting. 

One moment and all was dry. She recalled a distant memory of a fish dying in air. That same source of life being taken away, a second twist. The sky beckoned with promise and she left the city to perish. 

~ 

Dainty, graceful, ethereal. Those were all words she would use to describe her mask. It was remarkable, hiding all malice and darkness in a small corner, only visible through a rare smile. She matched the floating palaces and thin bridges with this careful facade. Why should her front crumble when only just built? No, her front wouldn't, but the shining castles and walkways were dissolving, bright to dim in an instant. A game so close to finished, a ceiling almost in reach, a bittersweet taste left in her mouth.

~

When she was made to unmake, she was given many names: Death, Chaos, Birth, and her personal favorite, Gaia. An endless cycle to repeat over thousands of years. She had chosen a good view from the roof to watch the explosions, and was granted a final dazzling sunset. Her hair, finally regrown, fluttered in the breeze. Eons would pass before she would return here again. Unmade, made.

 unboxing

by dina pfeffer

My third apartment in a year and already the heater had broken. Harriet said if I needed I could crash with her, but it was snowing pretty hard and I had spent the cash I was supposed to use for the bus on a lottery ticket and a pack of gum. The rest I gave to the homeless guy who stands outside the convenience store with a plastic change cup, wearing his big grimy coat with the rip down the side and the purple earmuffs. So I was stuck at the place which didn’t feel like home yet, but would in a matter of days, shivering. I put on all my sweaters. I squeezed my wool-clad body into my winter coat. My teeth still chattered.

I hadn’t unpacked everything from my moving boxes yet so I grabbed the closest one and rifled through it to see if I could find something to warm myself up. Spare toothbrushes, instant coffee, plastic-wrapped cutting board with matching knife. Hopelessly domestic. Harriet said she would visit me once a week and help me cook dinner because I couldn’t live off microwave pot pie and Chinese takeout. She got me the cutting board and the knife, but she didn’t like to seem like she cared so much so she snuck it in with the toothbrushes and coffee on moving day. I knew it was her like I knew it was her the time she snuck an anonymous note into my locker on Valentine’s day and feigned surprise when I showed it to her. It was a double deception because I knew she had done it and she knew I knew, but we both pretended it was foreign. More of our relationship involved this convenient ignorance than I would have liked. I knew that she knew what I knew.

When the Bible says Adam knew his wife, that’s not what it really means. That’s what I told her when she asked me what I had learned growing up in Hebrew school and all I could think of were the dirty jokes the boys had made. Harriet laughed. It was summer, so she was hot and needed to tie her long hair up, which she did with a band from around her wrist. We were sitting against a warm brick wall, eating popsicles we had bought for old time’s sake from the cooler in the kosher deli market, which was how the conversation had begun in the first place. All this I remembered as I took the cutting board out of the cardboard box with the toothbrushes and coffee and tore the plastic off. I put it on a shelf in the kitchenette. 

I got the bag of coffee and set it on the counter next to the cramped row of burners. Then I grabbed a kettle left behind by the last tenant, filled it with dubious city tap water, and put it on to boil. The stove was gas, which I didn’t remember how to use because my last one had been electric. I fiddled with it until I turned a knob all the way and was startled by the clicking sound it made when releasing the gas and whooshing into a big flame. The water in the kettle hissed as the heat made its way up the metal sides. I went back to my boxes.

The next one was larger and dented down one side. I remembered I had bumped it on the side of the U-Haul when I was carrying it out. Instead of looking ahead, I had been looking at Harriet as she told me an anecdote about something I can’t remember, maybe her dog, but her hair looked different that day. I couldn’t tell what it was—I needed to figure it out before too long when she would leave me alone in the new apartment with a swift kiss to the cheek and I still couldn’t figure out what was different with her hair. When she leaned in to kiss me it smelled like the same lemon and coconut hair cream she had used since high school.

I closed my eyes, there in the apartment, and I thought about that smell and how it had been with me for so long and how I would miss it if she switched to a different hair cream. There was a month in college, I think, when a boyfriend of hers had made her wear patchouli and it made me angry—not the scent but the fact that she let him make her. When they broke up and she came to my room crying and laid her head in my lap I felt a secret thrill because she smelled like lemon and coconut again.

I stroked her hair as she nestled close and asked, “You’ll never leave me, Tzilla, will you?” And I said, 

“No, sweetheart, I’d rather die, cry as long as you like.”

By the time I recalled all this, the kettle had been screaming for a good while. I let it go on wailing as I detached myself from the thought of Harriet’s hair, let go of the scent, came back to the cold and many coats and finally roused myself to go switch it off.

by pamina falk

by pamina falk

 the fleeting storm

by amelia o.

Hopping from rock to rock, he

Skirts the mirror of the lake as

The bright sky puffs out her clouds

And brushes on a shine of sun.

Her lightest fairies rush to add a shimmer

To the pristine and elegant rays.

He stumbles, trips, fractures her reflection.

She notices him there,

Splashing in the shallows, distorting her beauty.

Pure white clouds turn a shade of gray

At his reckless ripples.

She splashes a single drop first, and

The center of her mirror dips.

Look what he made her do.

Drips and tears and torrents fall,

But he looks up, oblivious.

He opens his arms wide and lets

His twirling limbs declare her beautiful,

Even as she tears herself apart.

Her sudden downpour slows and stops.

She looks down again, perhaps with hope.

Her mirror clears and she sees

That her blue is more vibrant than before,

Her clouds fuller, her sun a

Fast-glowing pink.

He sits on the edge of her shining

Double, admiring just the half of her,

So she gives him some rare warmth,

Letting a golden-curled lock of light

Spiral down,

And make him smile.

 The attic

by ilaria seidel

I

White streaks threaded through the chocolate-brown hair of a middle-aged man sitting on the steps of 129 Mayer Street, Ithaca, New York. He held a newspaper so that only the top rim of his spectacles was visible. The title of the front page article read “April 15, 1976: A New Pre” before it was cut off by his right hand. A black and white dog, clutching a tennis ball between his jaws, sprinted towards him. He stood up, ruffled the dog’s fur, and tilted his head up to admire a glimmering stained glass window near the roof of the house. He had a scar on his left hand from cutting the pieces of glass and a burn mark on his elbow from soldering the joints of the frame. But he remembered Kay’s joy when he first brought her to the attic, colors dancing across his suit as he bent down on one knee. He smiled, tucked the newspaper under his arm and walked inside.

… 

When tax noncompliance eventually brought town officials to the door, they found his house empty and colorless, save for the stained glass window in the attic. Real estate agents came, repainted the house, trimmed the hedge, and put it up for sale.

…

II

A new house!

Dear Poppy,

We’ve finally arrived in our new house! Chloe and I are already arguing about where to put the piano. (What do you think: living room or dining room?)

I’m sitting in the kitchen, which is painted light blue with white countertops and a wooden island. Right now, Mom’s baking her famous lemon bars, and Dad’s claimed the living room couch—it’s already starting to feel like home! 

The twins chose their rooms first thing, next to each other on the third floor, and I wish you were here to help me decorate mine. For now, most of the rooms are empty and white, with identical windows and shutters, but we found one beautiful room in the attic. A railing runs around three of the walls, and there’s an enormous stained glass window set into the fourth. I said that there must have been a ballerina here before us, and now the twins won’t stop pestering Mom to sign them up for dance classes.

I miss you so much!

Daphnis

…

Eight years later, the real estate agents were back. They discarded old furniture, repainted the exterior of the house, and took a visit to the attic. They found the window intact, and raised the listing price, citing “antique glass work”.

…

III

“Mama, where does this door lead to?”

“The attic, honey.”

I open the door and stumble up the stairwell. The walls are brown and ugly, but there’s a colorful window shaped like a man, a little like Papa. It turns the floor into a rainbow, like a fairy’s house. I jump onto a red patch, and then orange, yellow, green, blue, purple, and my braids bounce on my shoulders. I run to the side and grab the bar along the walls, and then swing back and forth, my tip toes bumping into the walls each time.

“Mama, I want this to be my room, pleeeeeease? Mama please?”

…

16 years later, glass repairs had to be done. The walls were repainted over crayon markings and coffee stains. A tire swing was taken down, a few bookshelves were repaired, and some roof shingles were replaced. The house sported a “FOR SALE” sign, and then a “SOLD” sign.

…

IV

Dear Lord our Saviour, who has guided me through hardship, please let this home welcome my family, protect us, and shelter us for years to come. Let our lives here be as beautiful as the ocean of color that your stained glass portrait scatters on the ground. 

My faith in You endures, ever and always. Amen.

…

An old woman sat beside her husband in the attic of 129 Mayer Street. She sat on a hard wooden chair beside the bed where he lay. She reached over to a railing along the side of the room and stood up. Then, slowly, she knelt down in front of the stained glass window and pressed her palms together. A few minutes later, she returned to her husband’s bedside. He looked at her and whispered something. He let out a soft moan and closed his eyes.

…

A man walked past the tattered “FOR SALE” in front of his childhood house and looked up at his father’s stained glass window set into the attic wall. He thought of his mother’s wistful smile whenever she saw it, and the story she used to tell of the man who made it for her. He remembered the year his father was away on Christmas and he and his mother opened presents in the attic. He remembered the ugly sweaters his mother used to knit for the spotted dog, until it died when he was ten. That was only a few months before his father got angry and broke four glasses against the wall, and hit his mother for the first time, hard enough that she cried. His vision blurred and his fingers clenched around a rock. The rock made a dent in the window frame and landed on the doorstep.

Belaya Gvardia

by alëna gomberg

 in the monsoon season

by alec mathur

When it rains here

It feels as if this is the second Flood

And I the sinner

The third animal

Am up to my waist in questions

You can feel it

When the dark comes

And the first drops follow

And she is watching you dance

Through the eyes of the great horned owl

You can taste it

The sand between your teeth

The grit ground into your fingertips

There is a newness to the dust

The conscious freedom of horses freed from tack

We say that the desert doesn’t want us here

Will sweep us away if she can

I think she likes our resilience

Likes to test us

Offering premia of creosote on the cool still of after

 his city

by alëna gomberg

He was always fond of those old brick buildings. It was so easy to imagine a carriage trundling down the familiar paved streets, or a lady in an emerald capote and bonnet, leaning on an appropriately top-hatted gentleman, strolling down the boulevard, little white dog in tow. Yes, this was his city. Old and rickety, and a little rusty—but his. Homely, familiar, warm, with its smell of warm pastry in the morning, its cruel evening wind that chilled the rats, which looped confidently between the legs of the brown Washington down at the Gardens, its shining shop windows full of mysterious silhouettes or jolly and unmysterious tea-drinking passers-by—that was his city.  If he himself were a top-hatted gentleman, he was certain he would always tip his top hat to every Washington, and Wheatley and Adams, and even that strict bronze gentleman on the last block of the boulevard who had sternly gazed in disapproval at his first kiss, and whose name he could never remember. Nothing in the world was dearer to him than these statues. Like family members, they always seemed to look out for him, and only waited for him to pay them a visit. 

But more than anything in the city, more even than the statues, he loved gazing through the windows of the old brick buildings around Christmastime. No, nothing could be better than that. Seeing the decorated trees flicker in the cozy darkness of empty sitting rooms, laughing heartily along to the inaudible joke of a guest in filled ones—certainly around Christmastime the city became something akin to the music box he could not tear his eyes from as a little child as he listened for the thousandth time to the tinkling sounds of “Deck the Halls.” And then, even if his feet were frozen in his broken leather shoes, even if it hurt to breathe, he would wander around the old city, smelling the wonderful scent of winter, gazing into windows, and remembering the times when he and the city had not yet become friends.

ag-27

by alëna gomberg

 ascent

by ilaria seidel

Bare-skinned strangers press together in a sea of brown and tan

Clinging tightly to the railing against the harsh wind, they are

Dancers, not for their grace but for their carelessness

Ethereal in only their empty stares and blank expressions.

Flights of stairs twirl into a tornado below me, where

a Gymnast clutches her Olympic medal,

Heirlooms sit abandoned, decorating each landing, and

an Ice cream cone sticks to the steps, melting since the

Jam-coated hands of a toddler finally peeled away.

Kin clutch each other’s hands, family fights forgotten;

Lovers weep into one another's arms;

Mothers hide family photos beneath their clothes.

Narcissists clutch mirrors and watch their own trickling tears;

Ornaments fall from the upper levels, and

Precious items rain down from the banisters as

Queens and kings discard their robes and crowns, and

Rumpled bills slip through a suited man’s clenched fingers

Stifled wails crescendo until finally the

Thunderstorms of footsteps vanish as I step through the door

Undressed, shaved, unnoticeable in the darkness

Verity and falsehood blend, pulse and fade until

Warm water cocoons me, welcome after warring winds

a Xenial hostess links herself to my umbilicus;

Yet here I am again,

Zero.