THE MAIN STREET JOURNALWinter 2013

SHORT STORIES

A Shiver by Dylan Gallimore...............................................................................8 Thoughts on Planning From a Planner by Victoria Snare...................17 Condemned by Rachel Carey...........................................................................19 Fridays by Caroline Moore................................................................................24 Lily by Katharine Woods....................................................................................27

POEMS

As Easy as Cherry Pie by Lauren Hanak.....................................................32 Surrender by Keith A. Greer.............................................................................34 Drowning by Lisa Tetrault................................................................................35 Enrico Caruso at the Monkey House by W. Gosnell................................36 Lazy Dreams of Lazy Beams by Christian Mallon...................................37 Explore by Patrick Reed.....................................................................................38 Capture a Photo by Lisa Tetrault...................................................................39 Untitled by Marilyn Carney..............................................................................40 The Washing Machines by W. Gosnell..........................................................41 #3 by Patrick Reed ..............................................................................................42 Tel Aviv by Orion Kobayashi.............................................................................43

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

Skins by Scarlett C................................................................................................44 Wordsmith by Keith A. Greer...........................................................................45 Universal Solvent by Orion Kobayashi.........................................................46 Guilty by Association by L.W. Kelts................................................................47 Devil by A. I. George.............................................................................................48 Lexical Gap by Lilly Bonasera..........................................................................49 The Dragon on the Wall by Jason Hewett...................................................51 Countdown by Ramona DeFelice Long........................................................53

ART

Beat’s Mountain by Laurie Tobia...................................................................56 Torn Tree by Laurie Tobia................................................................................57 Boy and Jaguar by Jaye Luntz..........................................................................58 Francesca by Jaye Luntz.....................................................................................59 Bridge in White Clay Before Rain by Sean Dowling...............................60 Mischief After Hours by W. Gosnell..............................................................61 Mufasa by Kate Huffman...................................................................................62 Old Old Man by Chip Keever.............................................................................63 Untitled by Patricia Johnson............................................................................64 Water Tower by Patricia Johnson..................................................................65 Warehouse by Julia Eppes.................................................................................66

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Co-Editors

Short Story Editor

Poetry Editor

Copy Editor

Graphic Designers

Art Editor

Public Relations Officer

Treasurer

Selection & Editing

Audrey LandmarkChristine Barba

Lisa Tetrault

George Iannuzzi

Cosimo Faella

Stacy BernsteinRachel Glasser

Emily Green

Jake Kairis

Charles Jenkins

Lilian BonaseraJulia EppesDylan GallimoreMatthew MichalekYingda PanNicole PetroneVictoria Snare

STAFF

SHORT STORIES

The brass of the knobs stung his hands as he twisted them and pulled the heavy, clanging doors shut, closing out the world. The cold air beyond the threshold of the funeral home ripped at his upper lip as he shuddered away from it. The night was particularly dark and customarily cold, he noted, as his footsteps echoed through the hall and slapped against the tiles that lined his path. There was a draft, and his determination to find it and cut it off outweighed his will to go home to Millicent. He turned sharply around the corner, walking into total darkness. He knew the hallways well and trusted his adjusting eyes and moving feet to carry him back to his office. The sound of the howl of the wind danced in his ear as he approached his desk, knocking over his nameplate. The moonlight flashed across it, and his own name slid through his fingers and across his mind. Bending down to pick it up, he finally detected the source of the draft that tortured him—a window in the corner above his bookshelf. As he closed the taunting window, his mind raced backwards in time—had he opened the window? Had somebody else even been in his office that day in order to open the window? It was so far off, so obscurely placed. He could not recall pulling it open, yet he shrugged the question from his mind and turned towards the exit once more to move through darkness to his car, awaiting in the frigid cold to take him to Millicent. Plunging his right hand into the deep pocket of his pleated trouser, he fished around for his medication. Dr. Mulligan had recently prescribed him a heavier dosage, citing his growing anxiety and depression. He knew nothing about psychiatry—he knew nothing

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A SHIVERby Dylan Gallimore

about running a funeral home either. And yet he found himself in the midst of both fields, mentally flailing about, thrashing and clamoring for any ounce of success in either. In the psychiatric scope, he trusted Dr. Mulligan with his life in a sense; she listened, responded, and scribbled prescriptions on little pieces of paper. Those little pieces of paper turned into little bottles of pills, and the pills inside those bottles dissolved in his stomach, pumping his brain and blood with foreign chemicals of unknown effect. All this so that he could keep his anxious head above water. The funeral home—the dark cloud of stress that had slowly begun to claim him—remained an investment that was yet to pay off. Payments and payments and payments attacked his wallet, and income was choppy, unreliable, and ultimately thin when it did appear. The recession took him out of his comfort zone. But by buying the funeral home, he sold his comfort itself. And so he was an expert in neither of the fields that dominated his life. His brain, an influenced one, saturated with Dr. Mulligan’s prescriptions. His livelihood, an incompetent foray into the first morbid business that showed any promise of matching his old salary. “Bonn.” The wind whispered with a scream, dashing down the hall and tearing through him as he headed for the front door. He stopped dead in his tracks as cold sweat saturated his pores. The hairless tip of his head felt suddenly cold and barren as his name echoed in his ears, spoken by an unknown element. The door was within running distance. He was alone. No one would see him dash for the exit, fearful of the strange sounds the wind makes as it howls through an old funeral home, and though his feet were heavy, he picked one up and began to move towards the exit once more, employing a panicky speed. “Bonn.” He spun around and stared down empty hallways. Nothing—not even death—hung around the home after hours. His mind flashed to the open window above his bookcase, now tightly faceted shut. Where was this coldness coming from? What unearthly voice was calling him? “Bonn.” “Who is there?” Bonn uttered into the darkness, timidity infecting every syllable of his words. “Please, show yourself. I will not be mad.” The response came slower than the first utterances of the exchange. “Bonn…” He felt his name slide through the air towards him, gliding

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past the doors and windows and paintings. The old lamps that hung from the ceiling shook gently as she skated past them, her beckons bouncing off of every nook in the hall to land in his ears, completely intact. Their eyes locked as she descended upon him. “Bonn.” A silver wisp of lightning, she glistened. He was struck and terrified by her. A hallucination. A vision, brought on by a higher dosage. “I’m Bonn.” “Bonn.” She laid her hand upon his chest, cooling his skin and melting him. It was a touch that cried out for help. An investment of trust that he would make her better. “You aren’t real.” Quivering words fell out of his mouth and shattered on the floor silently, inconsequential. She would not be shaken by his timid utterances. Within moments, they were upon each other, moving gracefully throughout the halls of the funeral home. His eyes needed no light, for they themselves were illuminated, her light shimmering across his irises and dancing in the space between them. She was smoother than anything Bonn had ever touched—almost slippery, so he was forced to hold on to her just as she held on to him. His office spun with them as the rogue window flapped open and closed, granting allowance to the screaming blasts of arctic wind that seemed to comprise her. Sound was muted. Darkness was light. A shiver, then she was gone, and he was alone.

* * *

The loveless meal that passed his lips was fitting. Across the table from him, Millicent slowly moved the food from her plate to her mouth, avoiding any visual form of pleasure or happiness brought on by sustenance. He glanced at her as the unnamed and mysterious vegetables she had prepared to accompany the dry poultry dinner rode her fork to her tongue. The silence between them parodied their ailing love. “How was your day, Mill?” She shot up, a small creature detecting a predator. Careful not to appear as taken aback as she was, she chose her words. “It was fine. I actually talked to Billy about a raise. So that might be nice.”

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He took a bite of the bitter chicken francaise, washing it down with unknown steamed produce. “That would be nice. Congratulations, Mill.” “Well, we’ll see if it works out. Times are tough for the office.” His mind flashed to the moment he realized he was being laid off. Then to the moment he bought the funeral home. He didn’t need to be lectured on the toughness of the times. Reaganomics had become a noose fastened tightly around his neck. “The home should help. We’ve definitely seen an uptick in business since we bought it. I know it’s been hard on us. But I think it’s going to pay off, Mill.” “I hope so, Bonn. I don’t know if we can keep on like this.” “I don’t think we’ll have to.” She nodded and returned to the flavorless meal on her plate, doing little to show her disagreement. Her pessimism ripped at his brain, a pack of vultures shredding a roadside carcass. The clang of silverware against ceramic plates and the silver sink was as distant from him as she was as he washed the unloved residue of his dinner down the drain. The television hummed gently as she sat down to watch the news, only to give up and change the channel to something unbearably gossipy. After leaving his plate in the dishwasher, he trudged over to her and sat delicately on the cushion next to hers, enduring half an hour of televised drivel before she went to bed and he proceeded to fall asleep on the couch. A shiver, then she was gone, and he was alone.

* * *

He snapped the window shut as flurries hustled in and sprinkled themselves across his face. A shudder dripped its way down his spine slowly—a product of both the cold and the growing concern over who might be tinkering with the window in the upper corner of his office. He stepped down and looked over his desk. Everything was in order—the vile of medication bounced around in his pocket, and he felt it slip around as he took the gloves out of that same pocket and slipped them over his fingers. As he departed from the office, he recalled that he needed to take one of the pills inside of that vile. The little oblong piece struggled down his throat without any water, but he choked it down and pushed towards the exit of the funeral home. Haste marked his every movement romped across the black and silver tiles on the floor of the hall. Fear gripped him. He did

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not want to see her again. “Bonn.” “What are you?” The lights that he had deliberately intended to leave on overnight flickered and vanished, as she slid down on a moonbeam. A specter. “My Bonn.” Fear and anger swirled around in his stomach, dissolving the pill that aimed to level his anxious thoughts. The image of the spirit that descended towards him succeeded in nullifying any chemicals effect. “I’m Bonn!” He shouted. “What are you? Why are you here?” Faster than any wind, she swept towards him, illuminated only by the light of the celestial punctuations of the night sky. “My Bonn.” She placed her hand on his shoulder once again, tracing his chest and trusting his ailing heart. “Please…just tell me your name.” Her eyes came into focus, and for a moment he almost believed in her as much as she believed in him. His skin chilled and relaxed in her presence as his heart raced a thousand miles a minute, threatening to burst out of his chest. “Are you a ghost?” “You don’t believe in ghosts, Bonn.” Her voice slid out of her mouth like a siren song, slipping down his throat and freezing his insides. He was fixated on her. “I’m Annabel.” As she traced his frame and he moved his curious and bewildered fingers through her living silver shadow, his brain caught up with reality. His disbelief in ghosts was trumped by his disbelief in the moment unraveling itself before his very eyes, and he grappled with the idea that she was a spirit from another world. Or a spirit from this world. As his clothes dissolved from his body and lay in their graves around the floor of his funeral home, the calming coolness of Annabel’s touch brought him to life, as his amazed and terrified eyes refused to close even for a second. He separated his lips from hers. “Where are you from?” She ignored his prodding, refocusing her lips upon his neck. But his determination was far too hot for her cool seduction. “Please. Annabel. Are you real? I need to know.” “Yes, I’m real.” Her voice was a stream gliding across thousands of smooth rocks. “I’m as real as you are.” “Are you…dead?” Annabel stared into him, reading his face and peering into his brain. The waters of the stream turned red with anger. “Are you?”

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A shiver, then she was gone, and he was alone.

* * *

The door practically pulled itself shut behind him as the wind slammed it angrily. Bewilderment and disappointment racked his brain; he set his briefcase down on the counter. He scanned the kitchen for Millicent who usually was almost finished slaving over some putrid dish for the two to eat in silence. But the kitchen showed no sign of cooking or Millicent’s abominations. “Bonn.” He spun around, hating his own name as it haunted him. Millicent stood in the hallway, a black and red silk robe draped across her otherwise naked body. An unfamiliar vulnerability floated in the air about her as her eyes spoke to him, sorrowfully begging for him to love her once again. “Hey, you.” He sighed and smiled at her beautiful body. “I know we’ve been…stressed. With each other. With everything. But…” She made her was across the living room and let the folds of her robe reveal everything he had not seen in so long.

* * *

Their bodies laid next to each other, just as physically distant as they had always been, but closer than they had been in months. Worries of bank accounts and bills and funeral homes and raises and Billy and offices and even Annabel melted away as his mind relaxed with more success than any of Mulligan’s pills could achieve. Hearing her breaths heave in his ear brought him satisfaction and pride, and he looked at her naked body, glowing and alive, perfectly shrouded in the darkness of the unlit bedroom. Everything was alive and how it should be. Every breath and drop of sweat and blink and kiss was the product of her beating heart. He reached across the sheets and placed his hand on hers as she turned her face towards his. It was lit with a grateful smile. She was enlivened with the knowledge that her gamble had paid off, and the two could still share a beautiful moment of physical honestly. “Bonn, that was wonderful.” She kissed his cheek gently. He returned the kiss. Her cheek was warm and blushed. He smiled and put his arm around her. “How was your day, my dear?” He asked with a friendly sarcasm.

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She laughed. “Not as exciting as yesterday. At least not until now. Bonn.” She paused and selected her words, careful not to crush the delicate moment. “I still love you. You can still tell me anything. We can still have nights like this one. We can still be happy.” The sentiment reached into Bonn’s heart and gently activated it. It flashed signals to his brain, and the fresh memory of his affair tantalized him in the worst possible moment. “Mill.” “Yes, dear?” “You think we can still tell each other anything?” “Bonn, you just told me everything I need to know.” She smiled, expressing her belief that their sexual acts had fully repaired their relationship. “I don’t think so, Millicent.” “What’s wrong?” The air left the room, frightened by the impending conversation. The airy romance was dead, and their naked bodies devolved into coverless shells. She lifted her head and peered at him, distressed that he had chased away their moment already. There was no way to express what he wanted to tell her. “Mill, tonight, and last night…as I left the funeral home…there was a ghost.” “A ghost?” “Well, Dr. Mulligan increased my dosage last week. She could be a hallucination. I don’t know. But her name is Annabel, and last night I had sex with her.” A thunderbolt of obvious and expected disbelief struck Millicent’s face. “You did what?” “I…I know it doesn’t make any sense. It doesn’t make any sense to me either, Mill. But she just appeared and took me over. I don’t know. You said we could tell each other anything.” Millicent had no words. She left the bed, the room, the house, the heart. A shiver, and she was gone, and he was alone.

* * *

The tires treaded the street under him, sticking to the pavement as he sped away from his dead home. Everything there was gone, and so was he. His hand fumbled around in his pocket for the vile from Dr. Mulligan, which he pulled out and set on the dashboard. It stared him in the eye, looking him up and down. The late night roads were empty, and the green lights were long. They guided him willingly to the funeral home that awaited him.

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The snow began to fall heavily as he snatched the vile off the dashboard and parked his car in the handicap spot in front of his home. He looked up at it—a house of sorrow and death, containing the spirit of Annabel and any other untold ghosts. It called to him, and he called it home as he burst through the front door. The lights that Annabel’s presence had blotted out were back on, and he stomped across the tiles of the hall towards his office. The handle of the telephone was cold and unforgiving. His watch told him that it was far too late for him to expect Dr. Mulligan to be awake, but he called her anyway. A weary voice answered. “Hello?” He was excited and relieved that someone answered. “Hello? This is Bonn Portman. I’m a patient of Dr. Mulligan’s. I really need to talk to her—” “Dr. Mulligan is in the hospital. She was in a car accident this morning.” “I just need to talk to her. Millicent just left me, and I’ve been seeing things. Things were going good for a moment but—” “Mr. Portman. She is in a coma. Dr. Mulligan is in a coma. Please.” Bonn’s raving brain absorbed the information, and to his horror, he realized that there was nothing he could do to convince the owner of that weary voice to turn the phone over to Dr. Mulligan. “I’m sorry. I…” “Goodnight, Mr. Portman.” The weary voice gave way to static. Bonn placed his phone on the receiver and sat down in his large comfortable chair. He opened the top drawer to the right of the desk and pulled out the photograph of Millicent and himself at the lake house from years ago. It fluttered to the floor. After a long moment of silence and darkness that very much resembled his life, he reached into his pocket and pulled out Mulligan’s bottle of pills. That bottle used to be a little piece of paper. Before that it was just a problem that haunted Bonn Portman. He pulled off the cap and emptied the bottle into his mouth, washing the pills down with memories of Millicent and their dead love. Then he slipped back into his long moment of misery, his eyes scanning the dark wasteland of his life. “Bonn.” Knowing the specter that awaited his glance, he looked up. Annabel leaned in the doorway. Her arrival was far less momentous this time, and she appeared to be apprehensive. “Please. Come here.” Slowly, Annabel glided across the floor towards him. She

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rested next to him, placing her head on his shoulder. She knew what he had done. She placed her hand on his chest. “Bonn.” “Annabel. Please just stay with me.” He heard her sigh, a sigh of ice and regret. “I can’t.” Suddenly, she pulled her head away from him, chasing the moonlight towards the door. Her silvery shadow dimmed in the darkness his vision slipped in and out. He called after her. “Annabel!” She turned in the doorway, looking into him once more. “Will it hurt?” His heart accelerated and palpitated. “Annabel, what will it feel like?” She had an answer ready. “A shiver.” Then she was gone, and he was alone.

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My Dear Owner,

I’m no expert. I’m really only a few pieces of paper bound by a plastic spiral. But if I may say so, you need to slow down.

Study Schedule 10/27: King Lear (entire play)—look for nature imagery! (4-6pm) Western Civ. from 6 to 7pm—chapter about the barbarians. 5 minute Oreo break (2 DOUBLE STUFF max!!) Make anthro study guide til midnight—focus on main ideas and any key terms!

You spend an inordinate amount of time writing in me. My every page is very nearly filled. Meeting with study group for Spanish lit exam in lounge!! Though some might applaud your organizational skills, I can’t help but wonder if you go a bit too far. Career open house from 8 to 9pm—never too early to start networking... Make that way too far.

The flawlessness of your lists, the meticulous detail of your schedules, is borderline disturbing. One is led to ponder what chaos might ensue should any event disturb your painstaking planning. Stop by grocery store–need more yogurt and poster board for project!—check with professor about guidelines. It’s as if you take up so much room on my paper with your plans that you don’t leave any room for living.

There’s such a thing as taking it too far. You probably sailed past this limit seven or eight chewed up pencils ago. Shakespeare lecture in Gore—room 103! Take that essay, for example, that keeps showing

THOUGHTS ON PLANNING FROM A PLANNERby Victoria Snare

upon the to-do lists you inscribe in my pages. Essay analyzing Edmund’s character—5-7 pages. You don’t have to let that become just another task to cross out, another empty box to check off. Enjoy the action of typing out those words. Relish in the process of letting your ideas flow through your fingertips, onto the keyboard and onto the computer screen. Then, once you’ve finished, take a moment to admire what you’ve created. Instead of mentally jumping to the next assignment on your list, pause and appreciate being able to do something you care about.

Squeeze in time to work out after lunch—40 min cardio minimum. Fill out Blue Hen Ambassadorapplication... Due Monday! Write out study plan right after class.

I’m sorry; did you just plan in time to plan? Seriously?

You may find there’s a lot you miss when you’re hunched over me with a furrowed brow and that felt-tipped pen. Why don’t you put the pen down and look up every once in a while? The fact of the matter is this to-do list you obsess over will never be completely crossed out. There will always be something else that you should be doing, some other assignment that needs to be completed. Instead of sprinting to try and reach that mirage-like state of being “completely done,” accept that you will never quite reach it, slow down, and enjoy the journey.

But then again, what do I know? I’m just an assignment notebook.

Respectfully,Your Agenda

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My car stopped in front of the house at the end of Ascot Court. I got out and the leaves died a second death under my combat boots, and the pavement sagged like quick sand, threatening to pull me under— as if we were both born to receive punishment for my arrival. The last time I’d been there was forever ago, and that was when my whole world shattered. The slamming of doors and the scattering of feet upon hardwood floor resurrected from the past and punched me in time with my steps. The punches got more and more painful as I got closer to the stoop. That night, my father’s voice beat against my swollen eardrums and Ryan’s sweaty palm mashed so tightly against mine that the tips of my bitten fingers purpled in the moonlight coming through the blind slats. Mom screamed and then it was silent. And I didn’t realize that I was singing, singing so loudly, the words of my favorite book’s rhyme, until the house crept into silence: I love you forever/ I’ll like you for always/ As long as I’m living, my baby you’ll be. Ryan pressed his free index finger over my mouth then, said be quiet sissy. You’d think a 7 year old would have less common sense than that, but we’d pulled each other through so much. My aunt came upstairs, her crimson face encroaching in contrast to the pitch, and I felt her hands around me and Ryan’s fingers tearing away. The house had been white during my childhood, but the shingles were smudged so badly now; the long wait after I rang the bell just made it clearer—how much had disintegrated since I left. She finally came and decrepit hands pulled the door open by the

CONDEMNEDby Rachel Carey

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upper corner in a measured manner, tapping their fingers slightly, before relenting to reveal her face: kind and ugly amidst the dust and shreds of house surrounding her. I immediately noticed the lack of wedding ring on her finger, and the way the sun was no longer attracted to her or anything on her. The sparkle was gone, torn away because it held memories. And the blinds were cloistered so tightly throughout the entire house that the scant daylight from the outdoors made her skin look translucent, blue and veiny. Her lips parted into a smile, uncertain yet endearing, as she took me in, starting at my boots. It wasn’t until her eyes reached my own, saw their mirrored reflections in the pools of green that were opposite theirs, that she showed her teeth: metallic but beyond fixing. “Mom.” I stepped forward and she imitated my movement backward. “Clare. I wasn’t sure if you were going to come or not….” She hesitated, juggling the door between two flat palms, and turned her feet inward, before shaking her head. Then, she moved forward to stretch her arms toward me. “Please. Come in.” I stared down at my boots and counted the number of buckles as I stepped over the threshold. There were four. The dust filtered through the air whenever I stepped, before settling back into its original spot, pooled around my feet. To my left, picture frames were cracked and piled against the wall, and to my right, hanging on the post of the staircase, were the coats—pink for me, blue for Ryan—of our childhood. I breathed in sharply. “What. Why? Coats.” The sentences deserted my tongue before they were formed, and I dared my boots to spawn another buckle. It wasn’t my mother, but some other pulseless being that was standing in front of me. Even though her sagging chest was filling and dilapidating, trying to prove otherwise. The metal of my boots clinked, and the house resisted it so heavily that the weight of the noise fell instead on my shoulders, and I was stapled to my spot. “I was just cleaning out the closet. It took me a while to find your coat. I thought you might want it. But then…” Her eyes filled with water, and she stepped clumsily backward, reaching her hand out blindly to finger the coats as if she’d done the same thing thousands of times before. A smile formed as her fingers glided over the zipper. The polyester greeted her touch hungrily with a swish. “But then…” “That wouldn’t fit me anymore.” I finished, disowning it. The

one that I was wearing was leather, made to look old from the start, through the wrinkles pressed into it at the factory; I held it closer to my body, tracing a synthetic age line across my middle until I hit the zipper. “But…how long has it been? Tell me.” The coat detached itself from the banister, but she clung to it. The zipper resisted against the ground with a metallic thud and her eyes opened further, staring into me. I started counting the years, stopping when I got to the decade mark. A shiver crawled up my spine and slid down. I didn’t want her. “Where’s the guy,” I cleared my throat, “Where’s the guy that called?” Her lips started trembling, and she rubbed them for a moment before pointing her index finger toward the ceiling. As she sat, she smacked her knees together repeatedly to an inherent rhythm, focusing on the coat that she continued to run in her fingers. “The guy…?” Her eyes traveled to a picture frame near the door, one full of smiles and colors without blemish. A picture of the past. “Oh, do you remember when you had that pink sweatshirt with a frog on it? You just loved it. I remember your father went to Target after his late shift at work one day…” The words flowed freely, trailing off. Her smile was huge. I remembered it. But I didn’t move closer. I didn’t even look at her. The floorboards creaked in the kitchen, and the sound of a pen rolling off the table led me away. Her eyes dove into me, still expecting to find memories, but I kept walking. There was a broom perched against the kitchen counter, a mass of fuzz and gray hair trailing from it across the tiled floor. A loaf of moldy bread sat open on the stove, a buttered knife threatened to fall through one of the burners. The tile crunched under my feet as I walked, threatening me as I moved forward. Images of the ground giving way wouldn’t leave me alone, but that was the least of my worries. The fridge was still olive colored, the magnets still consisted of one from Disney Land, a chipmunk with his conniving head and annoying grin protruding from a cookie jar, but there were some new ones too. An elaborate thirtieth anniversary one, with a castle and a rainbow in the background. A magnified family tree, with my name nestled right next to Ryan’s, and right below Mom’s. Gene. My dad’s name was Dillon. I wondered how the house was decorated for the wake; pictured my Aunt Marie making her meatball sandwiches and my Uncle Josh holding my mother who was trying to keep her composure but failing. I pictured Ryan, a stranger standing with his hands folded

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into his pockets in the corner near the television or sitting at the dining room table out of ear shot of the gathering, trying to call me. I’d ignored him, threw my phone against the wall of my apartment. A throat cleared from the corner, and I tripped over the loaded dust pan at my feet as I spun to face it. The table was piled with phone books. Bright yellows and oranges of their covers contrasted disgustingly with the brown of the table and the floor, and the off-white of the walls. Lounging at the table was a man in a suit; he had a tie with money signs on it, and legs so long that his knees jutted up into the table. When he saw me, he crossed them in a business-like manner, trying his best to smile, but the table bent upward unnaturally and the books avalanched to the floor. He moved to pick them up, but almost fell out of his chair in the process, so he decided against it, standing up instead, leaving a footprint on one of the covers. “Mrs. O’Brien?” He offered me his hand, but I refused to take it. “It’s Ms. O’Brien,” I spat. And he sat back down. “Right. It seems that your mother has been living alone in this house for years.” He dried his hands on his pants, taking a deep breath before continuing. “She is unable to take care of it any longer. Because of her medical condition…you’re the only one she, uh, remembered to call.” He cleared his throat, trying to bury his guilt by furrowing his eyebrows and focusing on the table, but it didn’t help. It was his job, after all. His words echoed painfully, the house throwing them back at me before I could dodge them. Small, cautious feet slid across the floor behind me, begging to be pushed back into the hallway, back into a bedroom with the door shut. She didn’t stop near me, but walked over toward him, protectively almost, standing behind him, hand gravitating toward his shoulder, before he slid forward to rearrange his stack of papers with shaking fingers. Daring to look once, I saw the tears. “I just want what’s best for you, sweetie.” “Well, I live in an apartment downtown. It’s kinda small. What about Ryan?” Nothing. Mr. Moneytie looked at me wide-eyed before stamping something with red lettering onto an official-looking form. “I assure you, the state will be in contact with you within the week,” he said, “but until then, we do ask that you vacate the premises.” He got up,

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carefully replacing the phone books on the table before he left, and when the door slammed, the noise absorbed itself so familiarly into my bones that I flinched. “Here, mom,” I said, holding out my hand impatiently and tugging. “Let’s go grab your things.” The bedroom was full of pictures of her and dad, at ages that had never existed in them for me. One picture was of them at the beach, dressed in white, her tanned hand around his bicep. They were smiling and the ocean was beautiful, swelling around them, offering to swallow them up. Another was of them on their wedding day. The veil reached the ground, his hand weaved behind her back and was able to support her other side. Their smiles, their wedding rings, the mass of people behind them and before them, standing, laughing and congratulatory—I wondered, if they knew what they both know now, if they’d offer to do it all again. I guessed not. Her tired announcement from within the closet pulled me from the picture, and I walked to the opening where she was mouthing something to her shoes as she shifted from side to side. “I don’t know what else to take….there’s a bag in the—on the top shelf, I—” She leaned forward on tip toes, nearly collapsing forward, and I almost had to move to catch her. But she righted herself against the wall, mouthing thank you to the decomposing, seventies wallpaper. “We’ll come back for it tomorrow. You just need stuff for tonight,” I lied. Eventually, I watched as she packed a small overnight bag with a toothbrush, hairbrush, hair dryer, pajamas, and slippers. I helped her zipper it once she told me she was done, careful not to get her fingers. The red lettered stamp on the paper he left spelled out the word, condemned, and her barely legible cursive handwriting scratched its blind permission on the signature line. I looked out to see where she was, and she was standing near the car, wiping her tears and messing with the strap of the bag, moving it from shoulder to tired shoulder, before finally letting it down onto the ground. The fire started consuming the dilapidated house as soon as I walked away. When we got into the car, mom started to cry, crumbling over and into herself; singing a song that I drowned out with the radio as I twisted the key into the ignition. And when we got to the front of the neighborhood, I looked back through the rearview mirror so that I could watch it burn.

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“I only drink gin.” A mop of red hair cascades over mischievous brown eyes in front of me. Young for a bartender. But kids are getting younger all the time. You can tell this one’s only here for some fast cash, big tips, and free alcohol. “No ice? No nothing?” he asks. He stares at me expectantly, as if waiting for the punch line of a joke that will never come. Kids these days want everything to be funny. “Just the gin.” I loosen my tie, take off my jacket, and drape it over the back of the stool. The kid sees me, a balding man, most likely tumbling toward his forties, nowhere to go on a Friday night other than a washed up bar. I’m dressed well enough; maybe he can score a large tip if he chats up the pitiful, middle-aged loner. He looks like he will, a bubble of words forming on his lips, puckering, building. But he merely clanks the glass on the dingy counter, filled to the brim with gin. I stifle a laugh. Must be new. “No, kid. You don’t give me that much.” The kid shrugs, shakes his mop. How can he see through a wall of hair? He doesn’t move for a while. His face is directed away from me, angled outward. His lips are pursed like he’s intrigued. Who knows where his eyes are resting? Could be closed. Can’t tell with all that hair. I swallow down the contents of the glass and turn around to see what’s caught the kid’s attention. A girl—ha, typical: sultry expression, pin straight hair, red dress, stripper heels, alone at a corner table. She looks at the paint-splattered wall in front of her like she couldn’t care less if it transformed into a castle or an

FRIDAYSby Caroline Moore

elephant. She is shrouded by indifference, and the kid is captivated. I turn back around, and the kid adjusts his hair and flicks his eyes at me. “She’s here every Friday. Never orders a thing. Never does anything, but stare at that wall.” “She always dress like that?” I ask. “Seems like she’s waiting for someone real special.” The kid shakes his head, and his hair flies. “Nope. She’s here till close, always in the same dress. And when I tell her to leave, she doesn’t look at me. She looks through me, like that wall. Like she doesn’t register my presence. Like I’m a ghost or something.” The kid is flustered. “Ah, kid. She’s the ghost,” I say. We both look at her, with one leg crossed over the other, a porcelain doll misplaced in a grimy bar. “Can’t you tell she’s empty?” The kid doesn’t answer at first. “She’s a blank slate. No history. No future. Only eternal Fridays. She never misses a Friday.” “Empty,” I reiterate. “Empty as this glass.” The kid tops me off. “Not empty, I don’t think.” His eyes are lost in his hair again as he gazes at her, the expressionless mannequin. “She comes here to become empty, to escape. But you can tell it’s difficult for her. Just under her mask, it’s all bubbling there, waiting to surface when I give the cue.” The kid can’t be right. She’s on some drug; something’s got to be wrong with a face that emotionless. “People come to bars to drink,” I say. “She never orders. That’s unnatural. She could at least give you a tip for keeping her company from across the room.” The kid stares at me: a mop, brown eyes, pursed lips, and an expression that begs for a joke. But he doesn’t talk. The bubble of words silently pops, and again he shields his eyes with a curtain of hair. He fills himself a glass of beer from the tap. “Nothing but gin?” he asks. “Nothing but.” And we cheer to that. The kid watches the girl. I join him. She un-crosses, crosses, un-crosses, crosses her legs. She is unimpressed by the wall, but her impassive stare bores holes into it. Her hollow gaze hovers, no substance in her eyes. Empty, like my glass. The kid fills me up. “You come to the bar to drink,” I say again, downing my glass. “So drink up, girl, drink up!” I say it loud enough for her to hear, but she’s unfazed. Her ears are as empty as her eyes. That gives me a good laugh. The girl turns, sees me, a balding, middle-aged man,

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tumbling out of his seat. I scramble, hands and knees, the floor rushing up to meet me. Cigarette buds, gritty wood, and dirt: old friends. My companions from past Friday nights can always find me no matter the bar I enter. I remember the girl. “Not so invisible now, am I, doll?” The cigarette buds laugh along with me. “Am I!?” The mop picks me up, pushes me onto the stool. “Looks like those kicked in fast,” he says. “Let’s see what kind of bills you carry.” “She didn’t drink,” I tell the mop. “People come here to drink.” “You came here for a conversation, and now you’ll pay me for my efforts.” A mop with eyes and bubbly lips. It talks. The kid. The mop talks. Young for a mop, getting younger all the time. The cigarette buds laugh. They giggle, yippy sounds. The floor rushes up to meet me. My friends. My friends. A porcelain doll with caves for eyes. The mute speaks; she moves her plastic lips. “Sir, you make an easy target.” Her words echo, bounce off the paint-splattered walls of the empty bar. Empty. She was empty. She was on drugs. My vision pools, swirls, fantastic new colors. The cigarette buds don’t laugh anymore; they cry ashy tears. The gritty floor smears my face. The world blends together in a muddled puddle. I roll and tumble. Something gone from my pocket. “I like his jacket, babe.” The mop in a jacket. What a world. What a sight. How can he see with all that hair? “It smells. Buy a new one.” “Does not,” I try to say, but darkness enters my throat. No room for words. No bubbles on my lips. The bar is empty and restless, tossing and turning. My jacket lands on the floor, another friend. “Who only drinks gin?” My body is limp; my head is rolling on the floor of a washed up bar. The mop and the doll, arm in arm. They stroll to the door, a whir of clicks and color. “The night is young, pops. It’s an eternal Friday.”

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As a child, Lily radiates stillness. Sitting to the side of the playground, she listens to the other children shrieking and giggling in their snowball fight. The other children ignore her. They have given up on her playing with them. They whisper that she lost her voice one day and never found it again. Her teacher has always noticed that she never joins the others. How she stays alone under the bare trees with her unkempt hair and improperly buttoned shirt. Lily clasps her arms around herself as if holding herself together. The teacher asks Lily if everything is all right at home. She answers with silence. Lily knows the hinge on her jaw has rusted shut from lack of use and she doesn’t have the key to open it. The teacher wants to report Lily’s appearance, but can’t. She is silenced by protocol and lack of evidence. The teacher’s own muteness haunts her. When the shrill bell rings, marking the end of school, Lily trudges home. The bitter chill bites her face, her fingers, anything exposed. It whispers through the bare trees, blowing off the dust of snow that barely covers them. The naked limbs suddenly seem obscene. But still Lily is lingering, like the scent of maple sap that slowly drips into the cold metal buckets. Lily breathes ghosts that swirl back and haunt her as the warmth leaves her body. She pauses at an iced-over pond, tosses a handful of pebbles and watches them skitter across. All the other people notice the frozen top layer but forget the fish just beneath the surface. They don’t remember them until spring when everything melts and the fish bring attention to themselves. Lily is one of those fish. She treads water mutely waiting for someone to crack a hole in the ice, waiting to swim to the surface.

LILYby Katharine Woods

The rays of the sun begin to fade into dusk. She has to leave soon or her mother will call, asking how it would look if her daughter didn’t come home until after dark. Asking what the neighbors would think.

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Lily is a little girl. She has frost forming on her eyelashes as she tries to delay the inevitable. But eventually she continues the journey home. She doesn’t find it, but she reaches her house. The smell of peppermint and freshly baked cookies permeates the walkway. Lily doesn’t open the gate. She stands under the exposed oak tree; its branches rattle in the wind. There are no evergreens in the yard, nothing that remains covered in winter. Flurries drift onto her pale, translucent skin, and Lily shudders, though not from the cold. She finds the snowflakes cool and soothing. They hug Lily, enshrouding her in an icy quilt. Eventually she becomes numb, numb enough to unlock the gate. It springs open on well-oiled hinges, not like the gate to the backyard. The gate to the backyard is rusted shut. Lily’s parents don’t worry about it because no one else can see the entrance hidden from view. Her mother hung Christmas lights all around the door and front of the house, creating an unnatural glow. A neighbor passes by and compliments the festive cheer. Lily simply nods. She wants to mention that one light bulb flickers, threatening to darken the entire string, but can’t. The words clog her throat like the snow-covered road before the snowplow comes. Lily tentatively walks towards her house. Smoke wafts from the chimney, the miasma wrapping around Lily and clutching at her clothes. Lily glances at the lamplight shining through her bedroom window. She knows her father is home. She takes a deep breath, but inhales the smoke and coughs. At seven, Lily steadies herself and opens the door. Her mother flashes Lily her usual feigned smile, red lipstick plastered on her face and offers her daughter cookies. They’re iced in bright red and green frosting with colorful sprinkles, but they are tasteless and crumble to powder in Lily’s mouth. Lily never speaks a word to her mother, doesn’t even want to look at her. Reluctantly she climbs the stairs, avoiding the top step that creaks. It creaks every night when her father comes to put her in bed. Slowly Lily creeps into her bedroom… To the naked limbs. Three months later, the snow melts. Lily wears short-sleeved

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shirts to school again. Reveals flowering bruises that bloom on her arms, purple and finger-shaped. Her teacher finally breaks the silence, makes the call. Lily is now eight. The trees are no longer bare. They’re covered in green leaves. She has moved to a new house, a home. And finally Lily opens her rusted mouth……and speaks.

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POEMS

AS EASY AS CHERRY PIEby Lauren Hanak

Dying is an art -Sylvia Plath

I am the mother of two. They need their mother, as all children do. Baking a cherry pie may seem daunting at first. The only way to begin is from scratch—the crust.

From the outside I am composed. (You see, I’ve never made a cherry pie before) I pretend I know this world— Like a mother should.

The crust: two cups flour, two sticks butter, one teaspoon salt, sugar, and a half cup water. The perfect facade for a published pie.

The cherries: pluck the stems, then pull out their pits, beating blood red, and toss the hearts into the trash.

Mix together the cherries, sugar, vanilla, butter and a dash of salt.

Your children can help stir. This is your filling.

The doctors tell me that pie is a comfort food. (But the doctors tell me lots of things.) “It warms the soul and sets you free.” But I sold my soul in printed word, to publishers who gobble up all my pies and still demand more. Time to check, to take a peek— A wave of heat, and sweet truth fills the kitchen. But under that golden shining crust, red blood boils and burns.

Make a pie and you’ll have something to show.

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The world will applaud and beg for “More!” But my oven is small and pies take time.

When my children grow old enough, I’d like to teach themhow to make a cherry pie—to wield a knife with care, tofold the dough, to pit the seeds, to feed the peanut crunching crowd.

I pray for their happiness. Like a mother should.

When I open the oven, the pie is black, hair burns—I have perfected my Art.

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SURRENDERby Keith A. Greer

I give into thoughts of shapes.Day-shapes dancing in the sun becoming the husks of night-shapesI give into shapes.Geometrical signs eclipsing reality traversing this transient twisted torn fleshscape.Shapes crumble into poems.Something about train tracks and girls draped in ropes,Wondering if the hero will make it in time, Or if there even is a hero at all.Something about dreams and red and flamesAbout shapes in ash,And how maybe, just maybe, they once had names.Like father, son, brother, Rabbi.But I know, this star knows no chains,Just the sickly sweet soupy sticky smell of gas and flames.I, I know what holy is:The knowing looks between friends,Laughter in good company,The naked flesh in-between a lover’s thigh.And so I give into thoughts of waves.Changing tides bending like sun beams in prismsSomething about metaphors about life and sandcastles.I give into waves,Seashells to my ear sounds like the cavity in your chest.And so I’ll wait,Till all is shapeless reclaimed by the waves.

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DROWNINGby Lisa Tetrault

A tiny boat, paint chipped and faded.A fast approaching stormbringing discontented wavesthat smash and batter.Dark furious thunderclouds,a deluge of rain and hate.Ocean, frothing and rabidoverturns the vessel,heedless of the sailor.His rasping shout for helpunheard over the angry wind.A mob of waves grasps him,pulls him under.Water burns,pours into resisting lungs.A heated struggle, panic,then reluctant surrender.The man drifts, eyes lifeless,already part of the sea.

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ENRICO CARUSO AT THE MONKEY HOUSEby W. Gosnell

He came from ItalyOn a rainy day.His ship tossed and turnedAs it made its way toBrooklyn heightsIn the middle of the night.He sang a little Opera toContain his fright.

The Great Caruso’s career took offAs he sang and sang despite his cough.He was always the outgoing manOf the city.Always doing his bestTo Always look pretty. But one Saturday afternoon at half past twoThe Great Caruso went to the Bronx Zoo.He said to himself ‘ Am I a man or a mouse?It’s high time I went to the Monkey house.” But instead of looking at the chimpanzeesThe Great Caruso got down on his knees toSee Mrs. Graber’s shapely behind. He grabbed it and groped it which was most unkind. The cops soon arrived at the dark Monkey house toArrest the Great Caruso who was really a mouse.He was found guilty of groping Mrs. Graber’s behindAnd in return he was slapped with a ten dollar fine.

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LAZY DREAMS OF LASER BEAMSby Christian Mallon

In our days when foam swords could slay the constructs of our mindOur blankets could protect us from the nightmares in our closetOur hands and belts the pistols and bandoleers of an old westernWhen worries were limited to the uncertainty of ice-cream after dinner

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EXPLOREby Patrick Reed

wanderlust, fernwehaching for unknown worlds, livesmy bags are all packed

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CAPTURE A PHOTOby Lisa Tertault

I want to kidnap you to capture this moment.It won’t hurt—I’m just stealing a piece of your soul.I’ll hide it in a little dark room,bathe it in chemicalsuntil finally, permanently altered,I can expose it to the light once more.But only to be locked up,kept under glass, hung on a wall,or tucked away in a bookwith my ever expanding collection of souls,taken just like you.But it’s a small price to payfor memories we’ll look back onin the years to come.I’ve made surethat this is a momentyou’ll never forget.

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UNTITLEDby Marilyn Carney

There’s a time I like to think of,When my world was at peace.And this memory hugs me likeThe embrace of his past love.We sat there side by side,Watching the dance of the Water upon the rocks,Talking about the futureAnd longing for the past.We scaled the slope andLeft the mark of our love,And the earth welcomed it,As if all of nature was on our side,Until the wind whispered to usThis moment could not last.But we silenced the tauntsAnd clung to our mid-day delusion,Because sometimes you justNeed to hope everything willBe like that day, the day when Fate and Time briefly held handsBefore reality came crashing through

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THE WASHING MACHINESby W. Gosnell

I love the Laundromat.There’s nothingPretentious there.Just a jury of washing machinesAnd dryers and I love them becauseThey’re neverCrude or obstreperous.There’s potential forA lifetime friendship there.The washing machines have No need to attend A.A. meetingsBecause those angels haveBeen sober all their lives.Austere and dignified.They never stumble in the doorLate at night and make Everyone miserable.I choose to worship And pray with themAnd no others.

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#3by Patrick Reed

Moments of quiet, of solitudeOf introspection, of revelationOf daydreamed adventuresAnd revisited nostalgia These brief seconds of lost timeThese breaths in-between Become rare truths Slipped through the cracks Of complacent lives

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TEL AVIVby Orion Kobayashi

My well oiled bones pace the streets,with their walls painted withthe events that have come and gone.Meticulously I read over and over,graffiti markings of infidelities

I look under cars, in back alleys,between neon lights and streets signs,for my fingers taken in love letters,my hair and scalp lost in disillusion,my ears that lead me to jealousy,

The crowds at bars shout “she never loved you!”slowly each night I replace my blood with liquor,walking oozy steps that sweatin the heat the struggle to find some chocolate.I went home with nothing.

I search for genies at bottoms of bottles wishing to forget this month, myself, my ego, just to have you again. It would be bittersweet,quenching endless wandering.

If only dawn light would come,that swelling ember overthe skyline of red tiled roofs,if it could swallow up all thosemistakes I sit with.

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SKINSby Scarlett C.

How strange,that people are never happywith who they are, where they are--always thirsting for the life of someone else.

If I measure my happiness to yours,what a sorry life I have lived.Every day, the world buries mein trivial distractions.I wake upgroggyand drag myselfinto the shower, andto the kitchen,force the coffeedown my throat.Steel myself for another day.

The computer screen taunts mereminds me that somewhere out there is a shiny worldwhere people love youjust because they can--where people never feel like strangersAnd younever feel alone.

If I were to put on your life likea skin—would I be happy then?

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WORDSMITHby Keith A. Greer

They say birds sing to call back the moon, But what do they know of suns, moons, love,Or the reason for songs?What is it about songs that remind us of our own mortality?The repetitive cycle of rising, falling, rising, fallingOf suns chasing moons chasing suns chasing moons that fell for the stars.Of morning dew becoming morning frost.

Say the word destruction and give it a new meaning,Call it hope or call it despair,And paint a picture of what it means.I prefer seeds to flowers the promise of beauty unknown,Memories are only the formation of reality.Lets take these memories and paint with them.Paint with the monthly cycle,And call it love, truth, compassion.Ignore their stares; they can’t understand what they see.We, we know what we see.

Invent a name for this and call it resurrection,A resurrection of the human spirit,Of words thoughts and deeds.Invent a name for that and call it us,Us, we who chase shooting stars,We who are shooting stars.

They say songs are what bring back the sun,But what do they know of time?When we think of creation,Think of ankles awkwardly conducting symphonies. Think of creation and invent a name for it.Call it me, call it you.

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UNIVERSAL SOLVENTby Orion Kobayashi

Bathroom fan humsmoisture licking the mirrorblurring reflections

I soak in a bath– melting musclesthe unseen pale skinslipping under waterI see the life of cloudsthe dances of vaporsoceans breathing in tides

the emerging body evaporatespast the bathroom ceilingdrifting higher and higherbelow the hands of coastscups the vast bluethe world so fluid

at this distancea vast hummingbecoming singularcondensing in asigh – stretch suddenly water goes up my nose

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GUILTYby L. W. Kelts

Everyone at least once wanders down a wrong trail one way or another and becomes a suspect sorting alibis for reason.

Doc came of the opinion that you are who you pose with, and positioned to know William Leonard he did so and so found himselfaccused of robbing a stage.

Caught mingling amongthe Earps he found himselffirst a patron of law and order, then an advocate of ends over means, and, without meaning, Doc found himself astraddlethe Law, and, unable to balance,suspended and out of breath, he stood his hand hoping to bluff death and play out his cards without being raised.

Life’s no zero-sum game.Odds are they find youguilty at the end of the end.

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DEVILby A. I. GEORGE

I fancy myself to be a bit of a devil.I lie, cheat, and steal, because It is in my nature (as a devil) To lie, cheat, and steal.I major in empty threats, with a minorIn manipulation. And you better listen, Or you don’t want to know what will happen.I spread discomfort like black tar from a cement truck,Slowly creeping over the conscience of my latest victim.And there is no dish tastier than gossip,A medicine taken every day, twice a day,Or I simply would not survive.I have an unexplainable lust for the dramatic,I am drawn to it as though it is the God and I amIts most loyal of followers.And I crave that you are unhappy, becauseThen maybe you are a devil like me,And then I’ll have a friend,And we can burn eternally together.You see, devils are not disgusting freaks, menacing societyUntil we turn you all just like us.We are simply ourselves, and because you have learnedTo hate the devil, you hate us for what we are.Every now and then I start to think that I have not been cursed,That being a devil is not something awful.Luckily I have all of you to remind me that it is.

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LEXICAL GAPby Lilly Bonasera

—inspired by the French poem “Déjeuner du matin” by Jacques Prevert—

The spoon clinked against the porcelain coffee cup, Milk churning in the blackness Like the beginnings of a summer storm. With a soft tear, You opened a packet of sugar and added it toThe swirling, muddied mass. I clutched my cup between my cold hands, Let warmth seep through my fingers,And watched silently.Your hands, worn and weathered by your work, Held your cup between two palms, Your fingers curling around it Like a wall. You lifted the cup to your lips, the contents Still spinning, and took a sip, Then set it back down with a barely-audible clink. You stood, reaching into your pocket for a pack of Marlboros— Just one left, your last. From your other pocket you fetched A half-broken lighter. The cigarette sat between your lips idly, And with slow, deliberate precision, You lifted your lighter, flicked the wheel, And let fire consume the end.My coffee lent me less and less heat as I watched. By the time you’d finished, my hands felt cold again. Then you unhurriedly sipped the last of your coffee, Until the cup was still and empty. The chair squeaked as you pushed past it, And I nearly jumped. I stole my eyes from yours to glance out the window. The clouds discarded les gouttes de pluie, The tastes of rain that it did not want, The sky blotted grey like tearstained ink. You did not spare me a word or a glance

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As you donned your coat And walked out the door. The irregular beats of raindrops filled my ears as you left, And when the door clicked closed I was left withAn empty cup where you had sat, Cold coffee, and the Downpour.

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THE DRAGON ON THE WALLby Jason Hewett

There’s a scary pattern staring at meThrough the wallGnashing three tongues Half a row of teethMocking is apparent Of self-pity and the painStill I smile all aloneSittin here ashamed

Ain’t it just a feelingI’m too old now to cryToo much a man to show a weaknessToo wise to wanna dieAin’t it just a feelingScratchin at my headI’m alone, but I ain’t better off dead

There’s a winter sky above meA solace down belowI dig to find the weakness growing Like a cancer in my soulThe fires just don’t warm meLess I burn another bridgeGot plenty leftover revengeRottin in the fridge

Ain’t it just a feelingI’m too old now to cryToo much a man to show a weaknessToo wise to wanna dieAin’t it just a feelingScratchin at my headI’m alone but I ain’t better off dead

Scratching just gets LOUDERTearing at the wallThe creature disappears as if

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He was never there at all.The twisted tonguesPeeling off the locks to this—Twistedness,Emergence,Useless…I’m uselessI’m just a boyA broken toy

Ain’t it just a feeling,No danger in thatBut if I win this rat raceI’m still a fucking ratIf nothing else I’m still a manDoing the very best I canJust gotta scream,WORLDLet it be knownI got a something scratchin at my headI feel so very much aloneBut not quite dead

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COUNTDOWNby Ramona DeFelice

Breakfast for three. One mom. One dad. One baby.Three plates. Three cups - two coffee, one sippy.Three forks on three napkins.Three minute eggs. Triangles of toast. Dad is late. Three minutes. He sits at the table.Pats baby on head. Eats. Speaks.Three words: “Time to go.”

Lunch for two. One mom. One baby.Two bowls. Two glasses - one iced tea, one no-spill.Two spoons on two napkins. Double noodle chicken soup.Twice-baked biscuits. Mom calls Dad. No answer. Dad calls back.Two words: “Late tonight.”

Dinner for one. One mom.One wine glass. One bottle of Zinfandel. One exercise routine. One movie on demand. One shower. One bestseller. One side of the bed.Mom starts text to Dad - many words. Mom hears baby cry. Mom checks on one-year-old. Mom thinks of one income - one parent.Mom writes new text. One word: “Goodnight.”

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ART

BEAT’S MOUNTAINby Laurie Tobia

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TORN TREEby Laurie Tobia

BOY AND JAGUARby Jaye Luntz

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FRANCESCAby Jaye Luntz

BRIDGE IN WHITE CLAY BEFORE RAINby Sean Dowling

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MISCHIEF AFTER HOURSby W. Gosnell

MUFASAby Kate Huffman

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OLD OLD MANby Chip Keever

UNTITLEDby Patricia Johnson

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WATER TOWERby Patricia Johnson

Warehouseby Julia Eppes

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The Main Street Journal is a student run literary and art magazine at the University of Delaware. We create and distribute a biannual publication of creative writing and art from the university community and some outside contributors.

If you would like more information, please email UDMSJeditor@gmail.com, or visit us at facebook.com/MSJnewark.

Cover art by Chip Keever

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