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Transcript of Fall 2015 Chronicle
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Fall 2015
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The ChronicleWells College
Aurora, New York
Chronicle Board
Cover Design by Indy Harrington
Editors in Chief
Senior Visual Arts Editor
Senior Poerty Editors
Poerty Editors
Senior Fiction Editor
Fiction Editors
Senior Non-fiction Editor
Non-Fiction Editors
Senior Design Editor
Julie Cavanaugh
Tegan Watson
Windy Wells
Kylie Nishioka
Patrick Munroe
Windy Wells
Julie Cavanaugh
Morgan Weigal
Cristina Moreno
Tegan Watson
Patrick Munroe
Leandra Campbell
Courtney Brindisi
Emily Badger
Cristina Moreno
Windy Wells
Tori Russell
Courtney Brindisi
Elaine Gwathney
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Table of Contents
Home by Kailin Kucewicz (short story ).......................................................... 6
When We Took to The Streets by Missy Brewer (short story )........................ 7
She Remembers by Audrey Woolver ( poem )................................................. 10
Missing by Christina Moreno ( poem )............................................................. 10
winter song. by Michelle Lee ( poem ).............................................................. 11
New Beginnings by Julie Cavanaugh ( poem ).................................................. 11
Wells College Aerial View by Kylie Nishioka ( photo ).................................. 12
Almost Home by Daleysha Lockhart ( poem ).................................................. 12Brother, Dear. by Michelle Lee ( poem )........................................................ 13
Again by Kailin Kucewicz ( poem )................................................................ 13
Scars by Atiya Jordan (poem)...................................................................... 14
Bird Bath by Abena Poku (photo).............................................................. 15
First Date by Raea Benjamin (short story).................................. ...................... . 16
Naos by Katt Corah (poem)........................................................................... 18
Stairway Down by Indy Harrington (photo)....................... ..................... ......... 19
We Are Not Strangers Here by Atiya Jordan (short story)......................... .... 20
the inbetweeners by Michelle Lee (poem).................................................... 21
The Life. by Christina Moreno (short story)...................... ..................... .......... 22
Archway by Abena Poku (photo).............................. .................... .................. 23
Smoke and Ash by Michelle Lee (short story)............................. ..................... 24
Blue Skies and Dusty Boots by Indy Harrington (photo)........................... ...... 27
For Those Who Need A True Story by Atiya Jordan (poem)...................... ... 28
Coal Mine by Katt Corah (short story)............................................................ 29Straying with the Night (Tasmania , Australia) by Kylie Nishioka (photo)........ 32
how to bake bread. by Michelle Lee (poem)......................... ...................... .......33
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Editor’s Note
This semester has certainly been a learning experience! Windy Wells
and I both joined Julie Cavanaugh as editors-in-chief, and after
working out some kinks our amazing staff has pulled together this
semester’s Chronicle: Nostalgia. With autumn fading away and graduation
already on many of our minds, we’ve been feeling nostalgic lately – and
whether you’re just starting at Wells or you’re getting ready to go into your
final semester, we hope this issue will serve as a welcome reprieve from the
stresses of finals, resume building, and general adulthood ennui.
We received a fantastic amount of submissions, and we’re very excited to
present them to you now. Special thanks to Elaine Gwathney for her design
work, and congratulations to our contest winners Indy Harrington (visual
arts), Kailin Kucewicz (nonfiction), Michelle Lee (fiction), and Atiya Jordan
(poetry)
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HomeKailin Kucewicz
Ilost my home years ago, and I don’t know where I put it. I searched and
searched and I finally made a home out of him. I made a home in his college
level apartment, in the room with the black mold that I never knew about. I
made a home amongst beer bottles and Xbox games, next to childhood books
and dirty laundry. I made a home in between his roommate and our co-workers.
I made him my home, and then he left.
So I continued my search.
Two years later you found me. You found me in the heat of the summer.
With your toothy smile and sly one-liners. You found me, and my love for cats,
my comfortable boyfriend, and my fear of settling. You found me attractive and
funny, and I was this wild beautiful thing that you could only dream of.
Then I found you, found you on the dirty hardwood floor with the sticky mess
of least weekends adventures next to four week old food stained dishes. I found
you on the other side of me, sandwiched between you and my comfortable boy-
friend. I found you and your toothy smile and the smoke on your breath and
the alcohol sliding down our throats. I found you charming and attractive in the
most unconventional ways.
I found my home. I found my home in the scent of your skin. I found home
in the way you look at me like I am your whole world, like without me the sun
would never shine again and all of your happiness would be drained, and the life
would be sucked from your soul, like without me you would die. You looked at
me as if you had never known joy until you saw my face. I found home in your
gentle kisses and your tight hugs. I found home in your words and your pres-
ence and your love. And I know that I am not supposed to make homes out of
people, but just this once, I think it would be ok. Because when I’m with you, I
am at home.
When We Took to The StreetsMissy Brewer
W e couldn’t contain ourselves. We couldn’t possibly stay inside our neat
little homes when darkness fell, cool air broke the relentless heat of the
day and the street became empty. Clearwater Drive was ours for the taking, and
we did not let the opportunity pass us by.
My brother, Tyler, and I were never forward enough to instigate the night’s
activities, so we would eagerly await the knock on our door. We could always
expect it between eight and nine o’clock at night and we would act as if we had
been doing extremely important things, all of the important things that an eleven
and fourteen year old could be expected to do. In reality, we had been watch-
ing the clock, anticipating the appearance of Jackson’s and Jacob’s faces on the
other side of the screen door and the invitation to run across to the neighbor’s
yard and get our last companion, Braden, outside.
Without fail, we would start by playing hide-and-go seek-in-the-dark (we always
added the last phrase to distinguish our nighttime adventure from the daytime
game of children), and that’s exactly how one summer night—the most memora-
ble—started. Jacob, the best seeker of the five of us, had just finished getting all
of us out when Jackson, his older brother, commenced his usual complaining
and desire to just stop the game then and there. Very rarely did we stop there,
but Jackson was a proud thirteen-year old who hated being beat by his younger
brother. The rest of us agreed to move on to a different game that particular
night and I, the only girl, was simply happy to have kept a place with this group
of raucous, adventurous boys.
Jackson’s complaining stopped the fun of hide-and-go-seek-in-the-dark as
without him playing we lost our makeshift leader. So we sat. And we thought.
On the concrete porch of Jacob and Jackson’s house, we laid out all of the pos-
sibilities of the night before us. Go inside and play video games: No. We had far
too much energy and not using the open space before us would be a waste. Start
a game of football: No. Throwing a ball in the dark is never a good idea, and
I was a liability to whichever team took me. Invent another game that involved
running, hiding and chasing: Maybe. But, we could never agree on what the rules
should be. Explore the wood: Now. That was exciting.
Behind our three houses, there was a wood that extended to the next main
road. During the day it was easy enough to navigate through the trees and brush,
but the night opened up many more mysteries. Braden and Jacob were the
strongest advocates for this idea. They were excited by the darkened wood that
we hadn’t yet tackled, and they could imagine all of the hidden adventures in
those shadowy corners. Jackson was hesitant because while his brother
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and best friend could see the exciting opportunities, he could see everything that
could go wrong. Tyler also was not too keen on the idea, but that was because he
was, quite frankly, too scared. He used the excuse that he was the oldest of the
group and that he had to watch out for me, his little sister, but we all knew that
he was the most frightened of the dark and the unknown. And I just wanted to
impress the older boys. Through all the nights that we spent together, my great-
est fear was that I was holding them back, preventing them from doing more
daring, adventurous activities because I was the only girl as well as the youngest
by six months.
Braden and Jacob won out, in the end. Well, by winning, I mean that Jack-
son allowed the two of them to scout ahead and then agreed that the rest of us
might follow. The remaining three of us sat on the porch, awaiting their return.
Tyler alternated between going back to our cozy home, but he couldn’t stand
the thought of his little sister being braver than he was, so he stuck it out. And Jackson stayed, I believe, to make sure that his brother came back safe. Despite
the boys’ differences, they were a pair that could not be easily broken up.
The two adventurers returned about ten minutes after they left and they did
not come back disappointed. As they came running around the house, panting
heavily, Jackson, Tyler, and I knew that the wood didn’t only contain whispering
branches and leaves. Voices, they said. There were voices coming from some-
where in the woods. These voices were excited—it sounded like they were having
a gathering or, more accurately, a party. We were not really sure what kind of
party they could be having in the middle of a wood at ten o’clock at night, but the
idea that there was actually something to explore was thrilling and unexpected.
Into the wood we went.
The night only seemed to grow darker as we made our way to the wood, and
the beams of our flashlights were ineffective against the black of the night. As
soon as we stepped into the wood, our quiet, safe suburb disappeared. We were
locked in a thicket of trees and the only way to get out was to move forward. In
a single file line we walked down the path—Braden, Jacob, myself, Jackson and
Tyler—all holding on to the back of one another’s shirts. My heartbeat quick-
ened as I felt the thrill of danger and I could hear the boys’ breath becoming
steadily faster. Each of us knew that this was the most daring thing that we had
done yet. Finally, we had escaped the confines of the yard and ventured into wild
territory that belonged only to the animals.
Voices of young men reached us as we rounded a bend in the path and we
stopped in our tracks. It would have been easy to turn back then. It was enough
to have heard the voices that Braden and Jacob had heard. But this was a night
for the unknown, and with only a few more steps we would turn into the clearing
from which the voices were coming. We couldn’t gather enough breath to talk
to each other, but we turned the flashlights off and continued to walk as one
towards the disembodied voices.
The men in the clearing had enough light with which we could see. As we
crouched in the bushes, we could make out the small gathering of men who
were talking and laughing, smoking and drinking. They were not worried about
keeping quiet, either. The five of us glanced at each other, trying to decide what
to do next. Jackson made the motion to head back, there wasn’t much more
that we could do. Going into the clearing would be foolish, as we were kids and
they were—at least—in their early twenties. As we were turning to go back down
the path Tyler, being the most nervous of the group, tripped and fell as he was
getting up.
The strangers immediately stopped their chatter and looked at our hiding
place. One of them shouted at us to come out, and that’s when we ran. In a fren-
zy of panic we ran without thought back towards the house, our safe spot. Leaves
hit my face, branches snagged my clothing and roots in the ground threatened to
trip my clumsy feet. In a rush of pounding feet and heavy breathing the five of uspoured out of the wood and into our quiet neighborhood.
We could still hear the distant voices of the men, but no one was pursuing us.
I suppose they didn’t think it was worth chasing after a group of kids that were
most likely harmless. And we were. At the time, we didn’t understand much
of what they were doing, though we came to find out later that the clearing was
partly a marijuana field, cleverly hidden within the wood. For the time being,
though, we were more than satisfied with what had happened that night. The
thrill of discovery, the overwhelming adrenaline of the escape and the success of
returning culminated to make that exploit the best one in a long series of night-
time escapades.
As we grew older we ultimately grew apart as we melded into different friend
groups and the knocks on the door came less often. Braden moved and Tyler
went to college, followed by Jackson. In the same year that Jackson went to
college, Jacob died in a snowmobiling accident. It was sudden and awful and a
terrible reminder that life could be taken far too early. Tyler and I saw Braden
and Jackson at the funeral after years of separation and I just cried, because
nothing could be the same. I left our town for college a year later and the loss
eased without the house as a constant reminder. We five have split in a way that
is devastatingly permanent. But I’ve always remembered those nights when we
ignored everything else and came together to take the neighborhood.
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She Remembers Audrey Woolever
Puffs of dandelions dance delicately in the breeze and
land lazily atop the pond.
A dragonfly perches itself on a lily pad while
a swan bathes its marshmallow body under the bridge.
He takes her hand and pulls her close.
They are against a tree. Their tree.
The wind picks up and sends a shiver up her spine.
His breath on her neck warms her immediately when he
says I love you and tickles her neck with
quick kisses. But those words can’t take the war away, can’t
keep him here with her.
She remembers this with hot tears running
down her face and the feeling of the stubble of his beard she
hated so much but never made him shave off because
he loved it so. The feeling of his skin against hers and the bark
of the tree against her back.
Those feelings that she will never have again.
Missing Cristina Moreno
Beaten up and drier than an old forgotten paper towel, his large numb hands
type away at a keyboard. It always took a long time to write with only two long
fingers, but he had the needed patience to continue his work. The house was
heated and the animals lay nearby, yet it still felt as desolate as a long forgotten
building on a winter’s afternoon. While the typing grew slower, he stared blankly
at the empty IM box, one question hanging in the air; was he missing his child?
The sound of footsteps answered the silent question and tears came to his eyes,
but when he turned to the doorway, the usually stubborn water was gone. She
was there and the warmth was back.
winter song.Michelle Lee
eomma eomma I am so tired of carrying the fault lines carved into my back of
construction paper people and plastic places holding up memories that feel l ike
dust caught in the light eomma do you know how to stop what we are doing to
ourselves or is the answer in a glass bottle drifting in the ocean eomma I have too
many words gathered in my brain but my mouth is filled with feathers clinging to
my throat did it feel like dying sometimes I feel like I am dying and being reborn
again and again and I can’t get out eomma are you this tired too.
New Beginnings
Julie Cavanaugh
Take the breath from my lips,
whose color has faded.
Be the light in my eyes,
which age has dimmed.
Let your voice resonate in my ears,
drown out my melancholy tune.
Take me in your arms,
hold my fragile frame.
Bring back my youth,
which was lost to time.
Make new memories with me,
combat an unforgiving past.
Give me your patience,
so I can learn peace again.
Grant me your love
and I’ll shine anew.
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Wells College Aerial View Kylie Nishioka
Almost HomeDaleysha Lockhart
Slowly waking from bed I rise
Stretch and rub my eyes.
I fall clumsily from the top bunk in a lazy state
I know what morning it is, even before I fully wake
Rumbling and feeling a tummy ache
“Ma! I’m coming, don’t let her lick the bowl!”“You woke up too late, it’s after noon, maybe next time you’ll learn.”
Brushing my teeth with eyes closed
Bright lights behind lids since sleep still has a hold
Mommy’s making Sunday dinner, the cake is already poured
I feel like home and it’s tugging a bit at my soul.
Because I’m miles and miles away but I’m waiting until she’s stirring food,
And taking a swipe at the mixing spoon
Knowing then that she could see me but she allows it with a smile
“You’d better have an appetite.”
I smile and nod while I pour my cereal
We’ll be eating at six, but I won’t be home
Because I’m only here in my thoughts
But the smell of red velvet batter brought me close.
Brother, Dear.Michelle Lee
My brother holds a cavern
of ash under his chest but
I know his hands are lighter
than mist and at dawn he
withdraws his anchor of
a spine vertebra
by vertebra.
They forced him in
with steel while thelarge thumps of water
caught starlight and I
watched while the fire
burned I just watched—
forgive me.
AgainKailin Kucewicz
Nothing in this world
haunts, like never getting to
say goodbye, again.
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Scars Atiya Jordan
Nobody in the world, nobody in history, has ever gotten their freedom
by appealing to the moral sense of the people who were oppressing them –
Assata Shakur
A smoldered
gun barrel
kissed twin scars
directly beneath
her breasts
where two bullets
are still cradled.
That mighty
boned sista
body wiped
clean of age
sage skin of
mahogany
clay stained
dreadlocks
splayed out
and open
trailing scents
of grapefruit
and orange pulp.
She has known love
fugitive love
slaves wishing to
caress freedom
catch a taste
of sweetness
beyond urine-
stained bars
silent wounds.
In the thundering
of night murdered
voices of comrades-
in-chains pull her
dreads back
to lick her
tender scars
the corners of their
lips shaped like Africa
tongues dripping
defeat and hollow echoes
of shattered generations
white-washed
trapped in this new age
of raw gunshot wounds.
Forty
one
shots.
Scars pulled back nestled with old
battered ones
shall no longer
be
SILENT.
BirdBath Abena Poku 14 15
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First DateRaea Benjamin
Ihad started my pick up truck a thousand times before, but this time my hands
shook a little and I struggled to get the key in the ignition. “Breathe man,
breathe” I whispered to myself before turning on the radio, rolling down my win-
dow and backing out of our long, bumpy driveway. Worries whipped through
my mind like the hot July wind whipped through my shaggy blonde hair as I
drove down the familiar dirt road. I peered out the window as I drove past the
Parkinson’s house. Their kids, Sarah and Tommy, were running around the
big pine tree in the front yard. When I glimpsed at them through the passen-
ger window, I was briefly overcome with memories of childhood carelessness.
I don’t exactly know why, but something about seeing those children almost
convinced me to turn my truck around and go back home. Maybe I could call Jenny and tell her I wasn’t feeling well and then spend my evening on the living
room couch next to my younger brother, watching Jurassic Park for the eighth
time this month.
I knew in the back of my mind that if I canceled on Jenny, I would regret it for
the rest of my life. Maybe it would have been okay if I had been on my way to
pick up some other girl for a date, but not Jenny Hawkins, not the girl I’d loved
from afar since the third grade. I could hear my mother’s voice ringing in my
ears while I sped past the familiar mailboxes and front porches that decorated
my neighborhood,
“You can’t just sit on the sidelines your whole life, Russ. You have to put your-
self out there. Show people what they’re missing! You’re a great kid!”
I took a long, deep breath and shook my head quickly, trying to get the hum
of those last few words out from inside of my ears. Maybe she was right. Maybe
I should start to put myself out there more, meet new people, try new things.
But, she was also wrong. She was wrong because I wasn’t a great kid. I wasn’t akid at all. I could hardly even remember the last time I felt like a kid. I could
remember how being a kid felt, sure. I could remember being worry free, feeling
happy and hopeful every day, but I couldn’t remember the last time I had actu-
ally felt that way. For years now I’d been hearing my parents, my teachers, my
peers, almost everyone I knew tell me to “lighten up,” “have some fun,” “live a
little.” For some reason though, no matter how hard I tried, I could never seem
to shake the constant feeling of uneasiness.
And here I was, still trying desperately to fight off that same feeling, and still
failing miserably to do so. Worrisome thoughts seemed to rush over me with ev-
ery breath I took. What if she thinks I’m weird? What if I can’t think of anything
to say? Oh God, what if I trip in the movie theater and spill popcorn everywhere
like I did that one time with uncle Dave? “No. Stop. Just relax” I mumbled to
myself under my breath, desperately trying to reassure myself that everything
would be okay. I couldn’t afford to get worked up and panic, not now, not here,
not in front of Jenny Hawkins.
I could feel my heart starting to beat faster as I got closer and closer to Jenny’s
house. I was sincerely worried that I was on the brink of having a heart attack.
I did my best to keep my cool while simultaneously sweating through the dress
shirt my dad had lent me the night before. My palms were slipping and sliding
all over the steering wheel of my truck. I was trying so hard to relax, but I just
couldn’t focus. I couldn’t compose myself. My stomach felt as though it was
doing summer salts and my eyes, though they were staring directly at the road,
wouldn’t seem to focus. I felt like I was going to puke or faint or both and so I
pulled the truck over. I was less than two minutes from Jenny’s house.
“I can’t do this, I just can’t do it!” I shouted, my eyes welling up with nervous
and frustrated tears. Feeling defeated, I rested my pounding head against thesteering wheel. I hated myself more than I ever had in my life. Here I was, two
minutes away from picking up the girl of my dreams and I was giving up, just like
I had so many times before. But this wasn’t supposed to be like all of those other
times. I wasn’t trying out for the soccer team or going stag to the homecoming
dance. This was different. I was doing this because I wanted to, not because I felt
like I had to or because my mother had been nagging me about it for months. I
was doing this because it was Jenny Hawkins. Jenny Hawkins, who I never in a
million years thought I would have the chance of taking on a date. The mere fact
that she had agreed to go to the movies with me was a goddamned miracle! Was
I seriously about to blow it?
I knew that this was the only chance I would ever get to make Jenny someone
more than the girl I secretly stared at during fifth period. I had to at least try;
if I didn’t, I knew I would never forgive myself. I picked my head up off the
steering wheel and wiped away the sweat left behind by my forehead. I took a
deep breath, rubbed my eyes, and ran my fingers through my hair. I turned the
key, started my truck, and pulled back onto the road. Regardless of how the date
went, I knew I had already accomplished something. I rolled my window down
and as I drove, the soft summer wind felt cool against my damp face. I clicked
on the radio, turned up the volume, and, as I pulled up Jenny’s driveway, I was
surprised to realize that I was even singing along.
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an ocean
of death’s pities, soft as spring.
With her love she plucked those seeds.
Dark half years
and cold winds
and Chaos.
But those were lies her mother sold
in dark halls.
Who gave her throne
uncontrolled?
Whose gilded crown?
All his loves drown
in seas below.
Stairway DownIndy Harrington
NaosKatt Corah
From the land
came
the sun.
Could none deny
soft spring?
Among the flowers wide
the glade
was shadowed
and Chaos.
She tended
life.
Who sent her prayer?
Beauty,
a bud for the golden naos.
All was good
up above.
Soon:
Chaos.
She was gone
and without the dawn.
Cry, love,
beyond
and mountained.
The deep
had no plans.
Who loved his
Chaos?
Godly blood
all life
back down,
to dark and home.
A fruit grown in
her soul.
Her love would voice
six seeds
of Chaos.
Claim her stole,
down deep,18 19
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Speak her name and gently touch the souls of our ancestors.
We Are Not Strangers Here Atiya Jordan
The more the truth was deeply hidden behind imprisoned walls and shaking
branches, the terms “urban” and “black” became interchangeable. Then
and still now it is even easier to believe that our history originated in the cities,
and that we are a people of concrete jungles, far re-moved from the mango trees,
rivers, and the grasslands. But as an Afrikan first, searching for the connections
gives me hope. As a woman next, I want so badly to carry the earth in my womb
and give birth to strange, yet divine fruit. And lastly as a poet renewed, I write
letters to my ancestors with no anticipation of getting responses. I immerse my-
self in our binds to nature, those that haunt and those that nurture and renderingthose scenes throughout pages and pages.
I miraculously became drawn to the spirit dive. Not embarking on such a dive,
I became drawn to a black man’s story of his connections to the natural world. A
young boy, faraway from the sea in his Detroit hometown, dreamt of exploring
the world of the deep seas. As he reached into adulthood, the historical con-
nections he would discover went beyond any childhood fantasies he once had.
He and a group of black divers began to explore the wreckage of the slave ship
Henrietta Marie. The bittersweet feeling was inescapable for these divers. Diver
and journalist Michael Cottman shared his story in his memoir, Spirit Dive, in
which he proves that we as a black people are no foreigners to the natural world.
And I consider myself a spirit diver.
I’ve immersed myself into the old-growth woods that is far from yellow cabsand empire state buildings. The decision to go to school in Aurora, NY had be-
come an escape plan to take a break from the New York City life. Where I have
resided for twenty years, my birds are jarring sirens and metallic gunfire. Their
broken wings stained the walls of bricked houses and sidewalks. Cornfields and
deep pasture are all I see here. There are no bodegas on the corner where dice
is being tossed and brown paper bag bottles lined against curbs. And glass shat-
tered on the ground. Here there are fewer cracks in the concrete because the
good green rolls deep. There are no crooked streetlights and lampposts. Trees
are good for something here.
The lakes up here may not be the bluest, but a city girl like me made the de-
cision to dive into the Cayuga Lake one afternoon in August. Its body stretched
across horizons and the way it curled around the wooden boardwalk, I was
amazingly fearful. The waves jived to the warm ballad of the wind. A good friend
and I counted the steps until we were at the edge of the boardwalk. We dived
in. Zebra mussels snagged onto my toes, but invited me to explore the myste-
rious depths of the lake. It was dark underneath. But I realized how slowly my
blood intermingled with the rhythms of the water. The Cayuga and I coexisted.
Although I may not historically connect, it doesn’t matter because but it was still
an experience where I found myself in becoming apart of natural environment.
As an urban girl, nature had never been that spiritual experience where I
could run to. New York City is full of parks to indulge that experience, however
I had never felt that spirit dive. I have enjoyed long walks on Jones Beach where
I would create silly languages in the sand. But I hated the sand in my hair. I loved
swimming and never would put a time on when I became tired of feeling the wa-ter soften my limbs. I’ve been apple picking too. Fall has always been one of my
favorite seasons because it gives me the chance to jump in puddles of colorful
leaves. Trees are made for something in an apple orchard. I would climb sturdy
branches and pick apples until I cannot fit any more. The crispy grasses beneath
my fall boots were always a pleasure.
But the stars dim no matter where I am. Stars, I imagine my ancestors dreamt
about cuddling with in the shackled depths of slave ships. Cottman was able to
see the truth within the shackles eaten away by the salt. I want to write a poem
like I have dug dirt with my bare hands. I want to dive into the soils and let
nature expose the truth within itself.
the inbetweenersMichelle Lee
there is nothing in the
history books about us
and our existence only lives
in the spaces and the pauses
between words. we are
shivering from the ocean
clinging to our pores what
monstrous deeds have we
done.
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The Life.Cristina Moreno
Iopened my eyes to a new day and to see the person I happily serve everyday.
This may seem a simplistic thought, and you may be right, but not in the way
you would think. The disheveled man before me is my boss and manager. I
don’t exactly get paid, but I am happy to do my job for Him.
As far as I can remember, I’ve helped Him throughout His everyday, happy
to be depended on and in turn cared for. While I get to cook, clean, and sing
for Him along with everything else that I do, He makes sure I stay awake and in
top health. Even when an accidental injury happens, He makes sure I’m treated
immediately.
Yes, I believe that I am very lucky.
Today is a day like any other for this time of the year. He wakes up a little
after the sun and eats His breakfast that I made for Him after a short shower.
He always tells me it would “wake Him up,” though He’s already awake. I don’t
question it, of course. I just enjoy the sounds of knowing He’s walking around.
Normally my kind isn’t allowed in an office or workplace without some sort
of permit or badge, but He always said I was special. In reality, He’s the spe-
cial one. He owns the building He works in and I help Him with paperwork
throughout the day. He told me a long time ago that the work I do for Him was
done by some person called a “secretary”. That sort of job is rare now and only
seen in poor areas.
As it is know, there are many rules that I have to follow as part of who I am
to stay within my job’s guidelines. One of them is to keep the unreasonable side
to my programming, my “emotion” in check. A relationship with Him would be
forbidden.
But He has shown me love.
If anyone were to find out, I would be dismantled piece-by-piece until my
main processor was all that was left. I would be thrown away, left to be without
Him- without the Master I know- left to worry if he’s being cared for and helped
throughout His day.
Out of all the human emotions that I have been programmed with, I believe
I know this one best: fear. Next to that, frustration and anger.
And hurt.
He never came after me.
He didn’t try to save me.
He didn’t argue the Love.
He didn’t fight for the Love.
So’s the life of an android.22
Archway Abena Poku
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Smoke and AshMichelle Lee
It was a warm day in August when your parents dropped you, two suitcases, a
hamper full of sheets, and a box full of food off at college a few hours outside
of your hometown. Mom insisted on helping you set up the room, and Dad
stood in the corner mumbling about how you were growing up and needed to
figure out how to put on a fitted sheet by yourself. They hugged you in front of
your dorm building before leaving and you tried to remember the floral scent
of your mother’s perfume even though you knew you would be seeing them in
a few weeks during Family and Friends Weekend. When Mom was distracted
by parents she sometimes plays tennis with, Dad told you he had snuck a box of
condoms into your suitcase, and you’re still pretty scarred from that experience.
You met her during orientation for first years (the administration and a ma- jority of the students were against the term “Freshmen” because they didn’t be-
lieve in conforming to the institutionalized sexism in academia), when you were
placed in the same group as her. Max, cool senior and group leader, said, “I
know people hate ice breakers because they’re awkward as fuck but it’s an oc-
currence in life that you will have to accept like taxes... or free radicals. So, name
and fact. I’ll start off. I’m Max and my mother used to make me wear dresses
because she wanted a daughter. Next.”
You said your name was George, and you didn’t like the taste of caramel be-
cause that was the first thing that ever burnt your tongue. And before Max could
move on, the girl sitting next to you asked if anyone called you Georgie and you
said a couple people had tried, but it never stuck. It still never sticks. She told
everyone to call her “Jack” because her real name reminded her too much of
her father’s side of the family. Plus, she was against the idea that names had to
be gendered, and you thought she was so amazing that you just nodded along
and said, “Cool.”She looked at you with a raised eye, took out a pack of cigarettes, and said, “I
would offer all of you one, but I’m a st ingy bitch and can’t really afford to give
the fifteen of you all a smoke. There’s my fact,” before lighting it. The smoke
burned your eyes, but you didn’t really mind because you had never met some-
one like her and she was so impressive it scared you. From her black leather
jacket to her fraying jean shorts and her chipped black nails, you thought she
screamed nonconforming rebel. But then again, you never were any good at
reading people.
Thanks to a couple shared classes and close living quarters, you were pretty
confident that you could call her a friend to other people without her reacting
negatively. Sometimes you thought you were her only friend, but then you would
see her laughing with a group of girls and when you caught her eye and waved,
24
her smile would falter and it would be like she just stared right past you. Other
times, she would hold your hand and lead you around campus to do her errands
with her.
By Thanksgiving break, you could have told a stranger her favorite song and
season, her favorite brand of smokes and tights, but you couldn’t, for all that you
tried, understand where all her darkness came from. To be fair, teachers always
said you never lived up to your full potential.
Your first fight happened during finals week just before your first semester
ended, when you were in your room, studying the only thing standing between
you and sleeping for a week. Your roommate spent all his time in his boyfriend’s
room and thank fuck, because that meant you could blast shitty pop punk music
and cry over your biology notes in solitude. She slammed your door open and
started talking about how her philosophy professor was a fascist. You could feel
the tension manifesting itself into a headache at the base of your skull when you told her you didn’t have time to deal with her fictitious problems right now
so she poured her tea over your sheets. You slept on a makeshift bed made of
sweatshirts that night.
When you went home for winter break, Mom asked when you started biting
your nails again and said how she wished you wouldn’t because it had taken you
so long to break the habit. You didn’t talk to Jack for the rest of break because
you lacked the nerve and she was too stubborn to admit to any wrongdoing.
Once you thought about sending a text that said, “Hey,” but even that seemed
like too much.
When you got back to your room after the first day of classes, she was sitting
on your bed with a bag of chips talking about how no one has the decency to
be honest anymore and the potatoes might have been grown environmentally
friendly, but what about the undocumented workers that worked on the farm?
Jack hated spring. She hated how the wind got in the way of a sunny day. She
hated how there was mud everywhere. She hated how the ants had started to
come out, and she hated how much spring reminded her of change.
On Thursday nights, you watched the newest episode of some inane televi-
sion show about teenage werewolves because Jack insisted it was no fun to watch
alone. She would provide popcorn and lie on the bed with her elbow propped
up while you sat on the rug, squinting your eyes and trying to figure out the plot.-
One night, when your girlfriend asks about the last person who broke your
heart with nothing but honest curiosity in her voice, and despite how long it’s
been, you can only think about Jack. You think about the late nights spent in
her room telling her how organisms are categorized over illegally obtained wine
in lieu of actually studying for the exam. Sometimes she would bring up Gloria
Steinem and Judith Butler, but they didn’t really mean anything to you, so you
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26 27
would nod and listen to her voice and feel her fingers run through your hair.
You can’t remember the sound of her voice or the color of her eyes and you
realize you didn’t really know her at all. You can’t remember her mother’s name
or where she grew up because you don’t think she ever told you. You know her
relationship with her father fell apart sometime during high school, but you can’t
remember why.
It’s only been six years since graduation but lying in your bed, staring into
Veronica’s brown eyes, remembering Jack, seems like trying to remember a
dream. Bits and pieces are clear, but so much seems to be missing. And when
you tell her about Jack, Veronica smiles and laughs and says she must have been
one hell of a woman and you think the two of them would have gotten along.
-
You get the invite for your ten-year college reunion, and you can’t really
process how much has changed. You wonder if she’ll be there. You wonder if
she still thinks about you.
-
“George.” You hear her voice and can’t remember how you could forget it.
It’s still confident but a little huskier, and you think she might not have stopped
smoking. You turn around and see her, still looking amazing and still wearing
mostly black.
“Jack-”
“Fuck, no one’s called me that in ages.” She smiles at you and runs her hand
through her hair, still long and a little darker.
“When’d you stop going by Jack?”
“When I hit grad school. I go by Emily now, but call me Jack tonight. For old
time’s sake.” She laughs and the smile lingers on her face but her eyes drift off
past your shoulder.
She looks back at you and says, “So. Did you do the whole married by 25,
white picket fence, 2.5 kids and a dog business? Tell me about your life, George.”
“Um, well.” You rub the back of your neck before continuing, “Yeah. I teach
high school biology, and I love it. You know, I love the kids, and I got married a
couple years ago. Veronica. She’s amazing. You should meet her!”
She gives a shrug and says, “Sure.” But you won’t hold her to it. You wonder
if you still have her number in your phone. Jesus, you wonder if she even has
the same number. You can’t remember deleting it, but you can’t remember not
deleting it so you make a note to check after. She looks at you with a half smile
still on her face, so you keep talking.
“And she would be here right now, but the doctor ordered bed rest and travel
isn’t good for someone as pregnant as she is.”
“Congratulations. When’s she due?”
“In a couple weeks, actually. Do you want to see a picture?”26
You’re halfway to getting your wallet, when you hear her say, “Maybe later.
Do you want a smoke?” You let out a laugh, loud and only a little forced because
under Emily is a hint of Jack.
“No. I’m okay. Thanks though. So how did your life turn out? You said you
went to grad school? I don’t think I even remember you applying.” And you
can’t. You can’t remember if she applied or what her thesis was about. In all
honesty, you can’t remember why you stopped talking.
She gives a small shrug and lights her cigarette. “Yeah. Took a year off and
traveled. Went to grad school. Figured my shit out. Worked out family prob-
lems. Life’s been good. I write screenplays and it’s great.”
She looks at you and you look right back and you doubt you’ll see her again
outside of reunions so you tell her the thing that kept you up more nights than
writing papers during school.
“Jack, you know, all those years ago, I think I loved you.”She sighs and gives you a sad smile. “Oh, Georgie.” She stamps out her ciga-
rette and places a hand on your cheek. You can smell the nicotine on her fingers
and the honey sweet smell of her perfume clinging to her wrist. “You can’t put
someone on a pedestal and call it love.”
Blue Skies and Dusty BootsIndy Harringtion
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For Those Who Need A True Story Atiya Jordan
of most strange haunting
a photograph
the man a momenthistory begin
Bronxin its 30’s
disturbed a white poet over the edge over the edge for days into music
painfullyBillie sing:
Southern bear Blood leaves Blood Black body swinging
Strange fruit Bulging twisted
magnolia sweet fresh burning flesh
crows pluck
for the sun rot a Bitter crop
like stillborn fruit yet head
lines old maple
seedlings dug up lined along
hundreds in his own
garden.28
Coal MineKatt Corah
The mood was as dead as Harvey Wright, Loving Father, Rest in Peace....Too soon?
I am given a withering glare from my sister.I shrug.
She knows by now that I deal with my grief through the power of laughter. I suppose she was right in a way I wasn’t actually excited to be going to my
father’s funeral.I am not, after all, a horrible person.
It just sounded like a fun thing to say in my head, and I lack the control to notsay it. Words tumble from my mouth, a waterfall of improperly chosen words
in improperly chosen ways.
My grandmother is giving me the stank eye.I give her a halfsmile and a wink. She sniffs, holds her pocketbook to her chest as if I am planning on stealing
it from her,and turns away from me to stare at the open grave, above which hangs the darkly
painted coffin. Within is my father.More precisely, the corpse of my father.
I don’t truly think we can claim people are still the same when they no longerhave the ability to connect neurons.
To speak, to breath, to touch. When you die, you aren’t a person anymore.
Your body goes cold and stiff, the life that made it buoyant seeping from theflesh in
search of something more. Your skin shrivels and decays.
But before the decay sets in, people fawn over how you look like you’resleeping. Nonsense.
My father never slept in a tuxedo.
When you die you become an object. All the things that made you who you were are no longer there.I think people should just not have funerals.
Should remember the last time they saw their loved one alive, breathing, vibrant, warm. The last memory of what was my father should not be this
unearthly thing. This frozen doll, silent and cold, empty flesh in a tuxedo, surrounded by
flowers that I amallergic to.
(He was allergic to these flowers, too, but it doesn’t matter anymore because hisbody no
longer produces the reaction necessary for allergies.Death is the ultimate antihistamine.)
People are crying.I am not.
My father wouldn’t want people crying over his body, and even though these29
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30 31
peopleknow that, they can’t help themselves.
Struck down in the prime of life.So said the newspapers, anyway.
The prime of life is really more along the lines of 30. He was 50.He liked to say 50 was the age at which people used to be dead by.
I think talking like that became something of a selffulfilling prophecy.Maybe the guy who murdered him heard him say i t once, gave him the idea.
(That guy, what’shisname, fancied himself a supervillain.Like those even exist.
My father was no superhero.He was a detective.
Not the World’s Greatest Detective, either. Just a detective.
In all honesty he was a pretty shitty one, I mean who can call themselves
a detective andnot be able to tell when their child is contemplating becoming one with thesidewalk.)
The priest is intoning something about ashes and dust.My father was an atheist.
He would be pretty pissed to know that some guy was sermonizing over hiscorpse. But my grandmother is Catholic as the day is long, and wouldn’t listen
to anything my sister and I said to the contrary when it came to how and where he was to be
buried. He wanted to be cremated.To avoid the grasping ground, the greedy pull of maggots.
But here he is, mannequinstill and preserved like a leaf pressed between bookpages. When you live to be as old as my grandma, I guess you get the right to be
an entitled assand completely disregard the wishes of your dead kid.
My sister whispers to me, tells me that I’m glaring at my grandma.I am.
I shrug and turn my attention back to the coffin.
I remember my father before he was a stiff cadaver, laid out before the eyesof my
extended family like a painting to be viewed.They all talked about how great he was, but they never mentioned the bad.
It was disingenuous.My father hated when people were disingenuous.
(He had said once that if you never mentioned a person’s faults, never noticedthem, then
you could never truly love them.Because love means loving someone despite all their faults.
Accepting them, working with them.He said a person is the sum of their faults.)
For his sake, I calculate the sum of his faults:He was always working.
He never had time for his kids.Never had time to speak or connect or care.
30
(I think he didn’t care, but he probably did in his own, distant, way. After all, it’s hard to be a single parent.
But when the hospital called him, after I had a ride with the cops, a millionquestions
about why I was at the edge of the apartment roofhe had stared at me like I was a stranger wearing the skin of his son.
He never asked me why I wanted to die.I don’t think I’ve ever gotten over that.
The only person who asked me that question was the hospital mandatedtherapist.
I couldn’t answer.There wasn’t an answer.
Sometimes, you just do things, even if they’re stupid, or if they hurt, because you can. Sometimes, it even feels like the right thing to do.
But after the fact, the reason was long gone.
The answer was the action itself.I think I know that now.)He was too loud in the quiet, too quiet in the loud.
Cared too much for strangers and too little for family....I think that’s what drove mom away in the end.
I don’t even know where she went.No one does.
She evaporated from my life like water in the sun.Not a trace left of her existence.
I don’t remember what she looked like.There are no photos of her in the house.
I think she really broke my father’s heart, smashed it into pieces so small thathe couldn’t
piece it back together, not even for his children. My father was sad.I inherited his sadness.
My sister, meanwhile, had dodged that particular inheritance. She could manage to be sun on a cloudy day with no effort needed. (But not
today, and not the day before, nor the day before that.
She had been thundering since they found dad’s body.)The priest is wrapping up his sermon, thank whatever.I think that whole “ashes to ashes” thing is outdated, anyway.
My father had not been born of ashes.He had been fire.
He burned.He burned out.
They lower the coffin, and with it I feel a sense of unresolved issues. Well, they’re not getting resolved now.
Grandma is blowing her nose noisily into her cloth handkerchief. Who even has those anymore, I ask my sister.
She elbows me in the gut.I want to roll with the hit, fall to the ground.
I don’t, because I don’t want more relatives thinking I’m a nutcase.I feel like I’m not sad enough.
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tempest inbetween my ribs.
Grief isn’t onesizefitall, anyway.Perhaps my grief is its absence.
Maybe it will hit me tomorrow that my father is dead.Or maybe next year.
Or when I walk down the aisle, watching my bride or groom being walked bytheir father,
will I break down then, with the sudden realization that my father will never dothe same for those of us left behind?
My father had not believed in an afterlife, and neither do I. I believe we live andthen we die.
Lather, rinse, repeat.Maybe we’re reborn into something new.
I think my father will be reborn as a canary used in a mine. Able to detect the
deadly. Also the first to die.My father will be reborn as a canary.
It’s a thought so ridiculous that I choke on it, and then realize that I’m sobbing,despite my best efforts to keep my eyes dry.
My father as a canary.He fucking hated birds.
Straying with the Night (Tasmania, Australia)Kylie Nishioka
32
how to bake bread.Michelle Lee
gather a stone from all fifty states
bottle storm water from a shore
hold the salty sea breeze in your
alveoli while counting the steps
from here to there take that
number and divide by the years,
by the days, by the hours you
have waited in a house built
of birch wood where you have
answered every telemarketer to
build good credit with the universe
taken in the stray spiders swaying
in windows placed on looms half strung
with yarn made from your mother’s
mother’s silver hair unleash the
breath molding in your lungs
when you lay tonight under a
patchwork roof dripping starlight
stare at the glare of the moon and
whisper all the secrets curdled in
the lining of your skin making
muck out of your veins.
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Back Cover Design by Kylie Nisioka
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