Thoroughfare Magazine Fall 2015

THOROUGHFARE

FALL 2015

Small Hands

somehwere i have never travelled, gladly beyondany experience, your eyes have their silence:in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose methough i have closed myself as fingers,you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens(touching skilfully,mysteriously) her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i andmy life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,as when the heart of this flower imaginesthe snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equalsthe power of your intense fragility: whose texturecompels me with the colour of its countries,rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closesand opens; only something in me understandsthe voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands

e.e.cummings victoria yeh

Table of ContentsCover: Dichotomy— Victoria Yeh

Indulgence— Victoria Yeh

Murph— Katie Luo

Distress— Haldo Trevino II

I Walk on the Ledges You Built— Hannah Cowley

Diary— Katie Luo

Magnum Opus— Kat Lewis

Adams Yellowstone Lake/ Heaven Go Easy on Me/ Down in the Valley— Gareth Evans

Why Are You Here— Keven Perez

Things I wish I didn’t notice, but I did and now I can’t stop thinking about them— Lauren Kranzlin

Homecoming/ Let’s Be Still/ Golden Hour— Gareth Evans

Pawn to King— Brandon Fiskel

Stages of Man— Laura Grau

The Spanish Coastline— Lauren Blachowiak

The Worn-Out Couch— Emily Dorffer

Hands That Hold His Own Soul— Hannah Cowley

Tampa— Kat Lewis

The Ugly Stepsister— Ayesha Shibli

Silver Shivers— Julia Wargo

Reemergence— Angelica Morgan

Enslaved— Katherine Jia

Even in November, You’re Lovely— Hannah Cowley

Kona Village— Emily Dorffer

Are Louder Than Words— Hannah Cowley

Even Mary was Bruised— Lauren Blackowiak

Springtime— Gareth Evans

Downtown— Kat Lewis

Spice and Wolf— Julia Wargo

Bottle Blondes— Allision Comotto

Exposed— Hannah Cowley

Back Cover: Skull— Andrea White/ Stark— Victoria Yeh

MAGAZINE CONTRIBUTORSPresident: Ruth PortesVice President, Secretary: Katie RobinsonVice President, Treasurer: Keven Perez

Prose — Lydia Youngman, Keven PerezAlyssa MeffordAnita LouieMeagan PeoplesSamantha IgoAshley ZhangSabrina PyunLukasz GrabowskiSaena SyedKat Lewis Poetry — Annie Cho, Josh KatzMichael FederAbby ShegelmanHannah ManleyCasey PetaAleksander GuzinaMatthias Gompers Art — Samantha Igo, Victoria YehElena House-HayCandice GardLauren PadillaThaara Shankar Layout — Hannah IngersollHannah ThorpeThaara ShankarElena House-Hay

Blog Coordinator: Lydia YoungmanContest Coordinator: Kat LewisPublicity Chair: Kat Lewis

idon’tthinkyouknow

howmuch

youmean

tome.

spun out in strains of sand thrown in shrieks and screams to the silent wind, ichase ceaselessly through the epochs and eras of our ages, stretching thin, reach-ing in, pulling out, grasping tightly trembling intentions collide against coagulant trenches in the loving embrace of endless space.

ineedyou,

please

let me find you. please let me

Murphsomewhere in the howls of self nurtured horrors screeching across my shivering form, trapped in the hourglass that flips and spins and cracks and shatters-- upon the groundless gravity of a churning abysmal black hole, in the slowly converging arms of dying stars about me, i can’t see. i can’t see, but i can see,

i can see,

we can crawl to the back of my mind. like the trails of dust that dance their way across the bookshelf wearing sunbeams like spotlights,(the tears may run down my face, but in the absolute zero of darkness outside only the glass reflecting my own visage back at me watches my grieving,) do you remember when the particles first began settling do you pretend i was never there at all

should i believe this collapsed supernova spreading itself before me, taking flight with passion and a soothing whisper, spiraling into life at the strike of one atom against another,has swallowed me whole, but did it do so for you, too?

benevolent time draws its tongue across my vision,tyrannical time drags its claws against my fleshfatal time tightens its grip upon me

by Katie Luo

and takes me away, from you, at speeds greater than light, with the spaces deeper and farther than life, a life spent away, from you :

chasing shadows cast by stars, shimmering in distant seas of space . . .

like gravity i crawl across dimensions,quivering with time and sobbing, a sun flare storm catalyzedby the gravity of the imploded star surrounding me,by the gravity of the exterminated love dispelling me,by the gravity of the eviscerated hope within me

i crythe tearsdrift aimlesslyin the space around me.

please

let me come back to you

if every tear is a vow theni may forever be forsworniwillcomebacktoyou

if every tear is a vow thenmay they forever be upheld

if every tear in my soulis a price to payto see you again- to hold you close again- to tell you i love you again-

if every tear in spacetime is a resolution, thenmay i forever spin in the hurricanes of gravity and lightmay the massive stars collide, may monstrous galaxies clash,shall whole universes collapse-

spun out in strains of sand thrown in shrieks and screams to the silent wind, ichase ceaselessly through the epochs and eras of our ages, stretching thin, reaching in, pulling out, grasping tightly trembling intentions collide against coagulant trenches in the loving embrace of endless space.

iwanttotellyou

howmuchyoumean

tome

Haldo Trevino II

HannahCowley

DIARY ENTRY 44: 8/11/11

I saw him before. He was - he was hanging around the trees. In the trees next to the towering wire fence. Dunno how he got out, doc. Dun. Dunno. Stop asking me. Um, I think he was crying. I don’t, I don’t know. I heard sounds coming from the leaves. They were rustling and - brushing up against one another like sick pale hands squeezing and fondling the bodies of dead children. The pine trees weren’t all like vomit green and brown. One had white in it - he was hanging around the trees. It smelled like pine leaves. Then it smelled like pain, you know, that sharp scent of hurting life, like flesh is on fire or an eyeball is being ripped out of a living socket, you know? I don’t know. It’s because I left him. He was crying and laugh-ing. He sounded like he was choking - guttural throaty cries and hoarse shouts and, something was going on, he said something about moving on. I wanted to go up to him and see what he was doing but his cries were too much. He was hanging around the trees. In a place I couldn’t reach.

But I miss him. I miss him. I really really miss him. I want to go back and coddle him and tell him everything will be okay and tell him that, tell him that, I love him and, Jeremy, Jeremy Randolph Dickinson, I never meant to leave you, not after the way I always touched you, or how you always made me feel so welcome and big inside of you, I love you. Please don’t leave me. I’m coming back for you. Wait for me. Wait for me. We’ll leave this place together. Please wait for me.


Edward, what are you doing here. Edward, please put that down. Edward, c’mon, don’t go in there. Edward, let me take you back.

It’s all Edward do this Edward do that Edward Edward Edward listen to ME Ed-ward listen to ME

DiaryThey can’t hear him crying at night or when I look out the window they can’t see what I see. His face is staring back out at me through the break of the woods I can see the glow of his pale gaunt face his lovely, lovely face. He always stands there and watches when I get my outside time and then he turns around and he’s beckoning for me I know it. Wait for me, Jemmy. Wait for me and I’ll be there. I will be there to hold you again. As soon as I get what I need. As soon as I get what I need to go I’ll be there. You’re such a good boy.


He cries out when I try to touch,But don’t he know how much I loveHe screams out when I put it in,Is it because I’m screaming too?He knows, he knows how much I love.He knows. I tell him all the time.He knows and waits for me out there.I’ve got to get to him right now.


I saw him again. The outside time. I got to slip out. I did. I did. Excitement flew like wings on my feet I soared through the grass crawled when I needed to slap slap my feet against mud. Snivels. I could hear snivels coming from the woods. Jemmy I’m coming. I tried to call out but I knew he wouldn’t hear and the Oth-ers would so I kept it in, I kept it in.

Patter patter patter patter I loved the way my skin felt against cool wet grass the recent rains have really made it cold. Jemmy I hope you’re okay out there. You should’ve taken a blanket. You should’ve taken

I can’t say you should’ve taken me because it was me who left you. I’m so sorry. So so so sorry

I’m racing to meet you. I can see you. You’re hanging around the pine trees again. You always loved the pine trees. You loved staring out our window and talking about the way the trees looked and your poetry thing, you wrote poetry about the trees and their leaves, I even tried some poetry after you were gone, Jemmy!

I hugged you and I smelled you you smell so good you smell just like the way that white wall smells like after our bodies are pushed against it all the time haha I guess it’s because it’s our bodies right? It’s us after all. Jemmy, I love you, I say, and I’m going to start crying, I’m so sorry I left you. You say it’s alright. You’re sitting on a tree so it’s hard for me to hug you so I stop. I wish I could continue. I’m going to climb up the tree and sit next to you. You’ve got a nice smile on your face, Jer. I lean in and I hug you close again and your lips feel so good your scruff feels amazing I want to feel it between my thighs again but now, now we can’t do it. We can’t do it. We’re hanging out in the trees after all. So silly. Jeremy. Jemmy, I don’t want to leave, but they’re going to start questioning where I’ve gone, they’ll notice I’ve been gone too long,

Jeremy please keep waiting for me. I love you. I want to leave this place with you so bad I really do. But now... now is not... now is not the right time I got out but I’m not ready. Jeremy, keep waiting, keep waiting. I love you.


I want to see you again JeremyI was thinking about what you always say about the trees. How nice and strong branches are and how thick the leaves are and then about how green and dark and lovely they look and how strong and supportive the trunk is oh my. I miss those times we were together but we’ll be, we’ll be together soon again, I know it, I know it Jeremy.

I remember those nights and, those nights when we’d room together because the Others let us, and we’d share the covers. We always played cat and mouse. You liked that game. I know you liked that game. It was a lot of laughter and yelling and fun, fun for me to catch you and take you in, and we’d both be screaming in pleasure by the end of the night, those were fun times,

I swear I’ll get to you again

It’s so good the Others don’t know you’re missing. They don’t know yet that you’re hanging out by the pine trees. That you’re waiting there always for me. Jemmy you are the best.


I had another nightmare without you

You were screaming again, and, you were, you were, doing that thing I hate it when you do that thing when you begin to claw at your face and your tears, I really hate how helpless you look, and then you shriek that it’s my fault and you throw the covers at me and then you fly off the bed and back against the wall and then my rage peaks it always peaks even more than my smaller me when it’s just about to enter, and I hate you so much then even though you love me and I love you and I fly towards you and you keep on trying to hit me and throw me off and you’re having one of your fits again and I have no choice but to subdue you and always, always in this nightmare, you’re shrieking your voice off and clawing at me with those same nails that left bloody marks on your face, you are not allowed to hurt yourself Jeremy, when I hurt you it is with love and the bruises and marks on your body are artworks I’m an artist you’re the poet we’re lovers of the finer things, but you can’t see this, you can’t see this, you can’t, I, I have to, I end up, flesh shakes in my hands with hot hot blood

and it tastes like iron prongs are stuck on my tongue, I love you so much, I drag my nails down your body and leave scores of wondrous beauty down your precious skin, I lick you up, I kiss you, I kiss you, I take you in and I love you and I’m sob-bing, we’ve done it again, Jeremy, we’ve done the thing I swore I would never do again, but, but, I broke it, but I love to hurt you, your arms are wrapped around my shoulders weakly

I miss you Jeremy. I’ll be out to meet you soon. I swear it, this time, this time I am going to be there for sure, for the best.


Jeremy I went out to see you again I could not be happier, I could not be happier, I could not be happier!

You were still smiling, your grin was wider, you greeted me with open arms this time, you leaped from the tree and I caught you, we kissed, we swung around in the shadows, we laughed, and you actually started to sing a little, I haven’t heard that voice since I first fell for you, you’ve only screamed for me so far

But no matter, my love, my love, whenever you scream, it is because of bliss, bliss on both our parts

I said I’d leave with you then but you told me to wait, and then you told me what I needed to do, and you were right you were right all along, that was what I really needed to go with you, not blankets, not pillows, not even a lot of food, or wa-ter, just to be with you, I needed a lot less. I understand, my love, I understand. I understand… I will do as you say, this time, because you’ve been, so, so good to me… Jeremy… Jeremy…. I will join you soon…

I watched you go as you climbed up the tree again, but not before waving goodbye, and telling me you loved me too, and I said I loved you too and I couldn’t wait, couldn’t wait to hold you again, to feel our sweat slick and sheen together and merge with our skin and feelings, I can’t wait, I can’t wait, I said,

And you won’t have to much more, you promised, and I grinned, and you grinned, and then I had to go.

I will go for you Jeremy


Jemmy dearest, I am so close, to finishing preparations,Everything has gone according to plan. I will be with you soon.

You don’t know how excited I am, thinking every night, of what we’ll be able, to do together again, to DO TOGETHER AGAIN

I AM SO EXCITED I AM JUMPING AND SHAKING IN BED AND I’M QUIVERING AND MY HAND CAN BARELY MOVE WHEN IT’S PUMP-ING UP AND DOWN ON THE PLACE YOU’D ALWAYS FEEL WITHIN YOU IT’S NOTHING LIKE ACTUALLY BEING WITH YOU I CRY SOME-TIMES WHEN I REMEMBER YOU AND THE NIGHTMARE BUT I WILL NOT WAIT ANY LONGER TO BE WITH YOU THERE IS JUST SO LITTLE LEFT TO DO JEREMY, JEREMY I WILL BE WITH YOU AGAIN SOON, I SWEAR IT, I SWEAR IT

I LOVE YOU SO MUCH JEREMY I LOVE YOU SO MUCH JEREMY I LOVE YOU SO MUCH JEREMY I LOVE YOU SO MUCH JEREMY I LOVE YOU SO MUCH JEREMY I LOVE YOU SO MUCH JEREMY I LOVE YOU SO MUCH JEREMY I LOVE YOU SO MUCH JEREMY I LOVE YOU SO MUCH JEREMY I LOVE YOU SO MUCH JEREMY I LOVE YOU SO MUCH JEREMY I LOVE YOU SO MUCH JEREMY

LUDNICA MENTAL ASYLUM: REPORT, PATIENT EDWARD AR-LING 8/31/11

Edward Arling, aged 44, had ripped apart the hanging light in his room and subsequently hung himself with the cord, leaving nothing behind but a suicide wrote written in his diary in an apparently hasty manner: “Jemmy is dead and I have to go find him I said I was never going to leave him and here I am going to join him again” and several hidden caches of untouched medications that aided in preventing patient Ar-ling from having vivid and frequent hallucinations, committing suicide, committing severe self-harm, and having violent psychotic episodes. The reasons for his withholding are unknown.With further investigation, it was concluded that the “Jemmy” men-tioned by Arling was in fact another patient and fellow roommate Jeremy Randolph Dickinson, with whom the patient appeared to be romantically and sexually involved with. On August 4, 2011, Jeremy Randolph Dickinson’s body was found hanging from the outer grove of pinetrees in Courtyard 3 by jumping rope. Reasons for his suicide were unknown, and no indications of his intentions had been apparent before his death (refer to Ludnica Mental Asylum: Report, Patient Jeremy Ran-dolph Dickinson 8/4/11; note specifically the suicide note of Dickinson: “he is nevrr [sic] goin to STOP”).

by Katie Luo

Magnum OpusINT. VEGAS CASINO NIGHT

Red bottom heels saunter across an ornate carpet. Slot machines chime as the shoes weave through mobs of GAMBLERS. A cacophony of squeal and groans rise above the sound of pinging slot machines.

The owner of the heels, a young and sexy, WAIT-RESS, wields a tray of drinks in one hand and serves a COUPLE with the other.

This Couple, mid 30s, stands amongst FRIENDS at a craps table. The Woman blows on her fiancé’s dice.

He rolls.

The crowd falls silent as the red dice tumble across the green table. Their faces hang in sus-pense.

The dice painfully roll to a stop and hit the ta-ble with --

“No, no, no,” Phil cried out, snatching the page from the typewriter. “This is not our movie. We’ve been over this. Our film is Die Hard meets Dirty Dancing. This is so Rush Hour meets Ocean’s Eleven.” Greg leaned back in his desk chair and cracked his neck. “It’s just the first draft, dude. Relax. Let’s just write and we’ll nitpick in revision.” Phil rolled his eyes. “Do you think Taratino gets Oscars by just re-laxing?” He pushed Greg’s chair and Greg slid away without a fight. “Let’s start like this,” Phil said, loading in a fresh page and tacking away.

EXT. BEACH DAY

Grey sky.

The sea white caps, foaming like a dog at the mouth. The tide spits knots of seaweed across the sand. SOMETHING tumbles in the water towards the shore. The ocean churns and sprawls a DEAD BODY onto the sand.

The sea breeze ruffle the corpse’s wet clothing and bats at the hem of a leather jacket. A pair of trashed, red Converse sink in the sand as they make their way towards the body.

They stand before the body, bold like a blood stain against the bleak backdrop of sand. Low hanging fog smothers the dead body and KYLE, 18--

“Woah, woah, woah,” Greg interrupted the clack of the keyboard. “When did we decide his name was Kyle?” Phil lifted his hands from the keys and glanced at Greg. “Calm down. It’s just a placeholder.” “My brother’s name is Kyle.” Turning back to the typewriter, Phil pushed up his glasses. “I’m sure he’ll be happy to have a character named after him.” “He’s a neo Nazi, Phil.” Greg sighed. “Gimme that,” he said, taking over the typewriter.

BLACK SCREENGunfire. Sirens.

By Kat Lewis

Under the pop of pistols and the whine of ambulanc-es, heavy,panicked breath wheezes.

The sounds grow louder and louder until the breath-ing overtakes the symphony of violence.

SMASH TO:

INT. ALLEY NIGHT

Clouded breath from the chapped lips of MARIA, 19. She leans against the damp brick wall with a pistol pressed to her chest. A police car races by pouring a quick burst of red and blue light across the al-ley’s trash littered ground.

Puddles squelch under polished Oxfords.

Maria gasps and aims her gun.

Backlight by a dim and distant street light, the figure of a MAN slinks towards her, laughing.

MAN You’re not gonna shoot me.

She pulls the trigger.

Click--

Phil grumbled unintelligibly. “What?” Greg asked over his shoulder. Phil shrugged and said nothing. “For fuck’s sake, dude. What?” “I dunno. Should we start with Maria’s story?” “Why not?” “Her storyline is just secondary you know. The movie’s more about Kyle.” Greg opened his mouth to complain, but Phil corrected himself. “I mean whatever his name is.”

Greg let out an exaggerated sigh and pulled the page from the type-writer. “Oh, c’mon. Don’t overreact.” Greg crumpled the page in his hands and chucked it at the trash can across the room. The ball bounced on the trash can’s rim and tumbled to a stop by the door. “Please,” Greg said, rolling away from the desk. “Start our movie with your precious Kyle.”

FADE ININT. HOUSE PARTY NIGHTKYLE, 18, pushes through a wave of DRUNK GIRLS--

“Jesus, Phil! A party? Really?” Greg said, throwing his hands up. Phil stopped typing and looked at Greg, visibly feigning interest in whatever two cents he had to give. “What good movie starts with a party?” “Uh, The Godfather,” Phil said as if it were as obvious as the color of the sky. “The first act is slow as shit.” “What?” The word left Phil’s mouth incredulous. “I know you are not dissing The Godfather in my house.” “The. God. Father. Is. Slow. As. Shit.” Greg punctuated his sentence with short, affronting claps. “You write a fucking masterpiece then.” Greg turned the keyboard towards him and wiggled his fingers over the keys like a ritual dance that would make genius rain down onto the page. As his hands hovered there above the keys, he felt his future graze his finger-tips. He felt the handshake of Spielberg and Scorsese. He felt the microphone in his hands at Sundance, at Cannes, as he answered questions about his writ-ing process. He felt Charlie Rose’s cool table under his palms, the condensa-tion of his glass of water, the excited sweat as he wiped it away. He felt the weight of an Academy Award in his hands. He felt it all close like the antici-pation of a first kiss, but also distant, like a ship on a horizon, like the moan of a foghorn cutting through the gray, like a plane streaking through pink sky. He could reel it all in if he’d just type his masterpiece letter by letter.Just one clack, then another, then another.

Company Name1292 Heliport LoopTerre Haute, IN 47807812-742-8257812-742-8266www.companysite.com

Gareth Evans Collection


I didn’t come here to negotiate,to lobby, to play politician—I’ll leave that to Kevin Spacey,because frankly, only actorscan mimic the lies of the law.But I digress—I didn’t come hereto address peers as delegates, to tryand win their vote. Life’s a tabletop,just chipped paint on plastic figurines,and I’ve got no points in charisma.So stop rolling the dice, hopingI’ll become a better versionof myself if you wait long enough.I’m not an Apple product, don’thave a six-month life span, don’tbecome more user-friendly, don’thave an app for that—that, being you.But I do compete with Androids, not the cool ones from Dragon Ball,but the ones from college, from work,the ones stuck in mechanical routine. Gears locked, springs rusted. I came hereto broaden my horizons, but the horizonis just a flat-line and I’m dying.

Why Are You Hereby Keven Perez


Things I wish I didn’t notice, but I did and now I can’t stop thinking about

them

I saw two girls on the subwaythey touched each otherlike the last pigmentsof a sunset feathering skinprickling with sudden goosebumps.

It is the curve of the waistAnd the improbable dipof the collarbone notthe bounce of the breastand dimpled backside(though these I mustacquiesce have their ownwonderful draws)

It is in the moments after sexwhen touches no longercarry the promise of somethingmore

Bewitched by gesturesdenoting true affection.

by Lauren Kranzlin


Gareth Evans Collection


From Castle to King, (White always goes before)you cook the menu order in the fast food war,fired. (Defrost, not bake—)“Rookie mistake,”goes a pawn to the digestive system, an Aussie,who checks the fries aren’t “stale, mate,” with saucycomebacks: “Servin’ this rubbish up?” Well, strip- steaks

are too Glycemically high. In double decks,burgers serve up risk, so stuff boxes with checks.But a Chicken Tender Defender might glazeover wrong turns that need to be redone.Resign to re sign ‘CHICKEN.’ Light to C1,to ‘6 Piece Wings or Lose the Discount’ plays

seasoned to score, to fork up day and night.Foiled, by the Deep Fried Board of Trustee’s deep fright,the raging Drama Queen. Trade the costof ‘Combo 5!’ Free food’s your only chance;Burger King is cornered, pawns won’t advance.Fries stale? “Check, mate” or the customer’s lost.

Pawn to Kingby Brandon Fiskel


Stages of Man

He began in red plaid, on a backpackBaby chair in Massachusetts—with his dad.He wore the smallest hiking boots ever made,

Smiling on the trails while his mom took pictures.If that is where his love of mountains began,I will never ask—a boy forced to grow

When Leukemia stole his dad. He hid behindLong hair and skateboards, spoken word poetry—They didn’t bring his dad back. At least

He learned the meaning of giving a thumbs up.“That’s mostly all I remember,” he saidTo me one night—Dad’s thumbs up, much love,

Take care of your mom. When I met him, he had healed—a manWith a warrior spirit who had road-

Rash from skateboarding, often too fast.A man who cut all his hair off and let it growRight back. A man who listened

Silently and smiled—who recitedThe poems that gave him strengthOn our hikes back down from summits—

It always got dark, and I was always scared.His voice echoed on the empty trails.I ask him who he looks like—

Mornings too cold to leave his side. He says, “My mom thinks I have dad’s body.”And I think to myself—maybe you haveHis eyes.

by Laura Grau


The Spanish Coastline

by Lauren Blachowiak

Inspired by Elizabeth Bishop’s ‘Arrival at Santos’

The Spanish morning rises hot and lightAs our boat pulls into port. My grandmother, With purse clasped tight, warns, “Beggars abound in these kinds of places. You know,tourist destinations.”

A dazed coastline of speckled brown sand Wound around the land. My feet tingle As they dive into the dunes, prune, Betray my tender years.

Olive bodies promenade where theSalty foam breaks, exposing the soft belliesOf children swept under. The women stoop and gather-limbs. I wonder at the pale undersides of their breasts

Before my eyes are covered. Soft tut-tutsFrom the old English ladies wrapped to the wrist. The Spanish women face the sea.

A white-washed church and a single spire sitAtop a hill that sags over the town. The builders must Have been tourists once, too. Sun fills my eyes,A hand rests on my shoulder. We steer towards the hotel.


The Worn-out Couchby Emily Dorffer

This worn-out,covered in plaid, ripped in places, bed possibility

for the exhausted husband. Its comfortlegendary, circa 1990.

I’ve assumed a great many things: the difficulty of change, friendships I did or did not lose.

But let the record show that I was persistent.O let the worn-out couch

stand! For the H-E-B cashier with her wrist brace;for Gerri at the library;

for the newspaper seller in the street,dentally and hygienically challenged; and Yao Ming, approachable, unlucky player. For Daniel,

snoozing in Spanish, and the history teacher on the yoyo diet, the rebeloutside the house where Santa rides a Harley,

for her challenging, weary gaze and revving engine when I pass. Let the cushion be cozy

but let the couch be worn-outand let it stand against the flawless, effortless, supposedly perfect

imagined with futile desperation. Let me have in any futuresome worn-out thing to love.


Hannah Cowley


Kat Lewis


The Ugly Stepsister by Ayesha Shibli

If you’ve heard the story,you already know how it iswith mothers who treadon your toes. She’s a shadow,or ghost, that stays by your side. Tender and torturous all at once.

The stepsisters are the greater victims. They were tied up in knots. They couldn’t put up a fightagainst a mother who pulledall the strings.

We’re not all destinedto be princesses. That’snot every girl’s lot in life.Some are left to maketheir own fate, preferablyon the heels of another’s missteps.

The stepmother at least taught her two girls that.The stepsisters leaptat the chance to make the best of Cinders’ mistakes:

The prince is offstage with the shoe. The stepmotheris wielding a knife.

Do some things hurtmore than other things?What’s slicing off a heel to spend happily ever after with the man of someone else’s dreams? Mothers can convince us of anything, Daughter Two decides.

He must be a real prizeto fuck it up twice.Still he turns ‘round his horse and is back in a splitsecond.

We’re not all destinedto be princesses. That’snot every girl’s lot in life.Some of us will always bethe blood in someone else’s shoe.

The third time’s a charmand a grateful smile as Cinders rides off in stained shoes,her feet over the blood of us all.

Daughter Number One sets her teeth and smiles through the pain. A little Didn’t you know, cackles One, You meet a hot prince,you leave him a namenot a shoe. Two shrilly adds,

Anyone can fit a shoe.Picture the scene:It’s the morningafter the ball.

The prince is offstage with the shoe. The stepmotheris wielding a knife.Daughter Number One sets her teeth and smiles through the pain. A littlecold water to staunch the bleeding.So you cut off a toe—whatever it takes to catch a fish.

She doesn’t cry outor curse out the mother.Still, somehow he finds outhe’s taken some otherthan his love. So back he goes, running into the second one’s arms


Silver Shiversby Julia Wargo

It was a moonless night and a lone figure stood in the middle of a kitchen, pouring tea with shaking hands. The temperature was cold, but not cold enough for her to turn on the heat, so she stayed close to the center of the house, avoiding the peripheries. She added both milk and sugar to her tea instead of choosing between the two, but this small flaw was forgivable. Beyond her vanity and her penchant for sweetness, few people would find anything worth perfecting in Aline Delacroix. She worked in a hospital, vol-unteered in an animal shelter, and mostly kept to herself. She was also strikingly pretty, though not conventionally so. The only extraordinary thing about Aline was her unnaturally pale skin, and she knew it. If you caught her after sunset, she sometimes tilted her head towards the moon, daring you not to draw a comparison. She liked the thought that she was celestial, and above most mortal affairs. Of course, the paleness was deliberate. The juxtaposition of moon and skin was deliberate. Aline herself was deliberate;; she refused to go out in the sun without an umbrella and thought that freckles were a contagious disease. Maybe it was compensation for the fact that her forehead was a little too flat and her nose a little too small, but she made the most of what she had: luminescence.Although she liked to consider herself celestial, Aline wasn’t above house work and her kitchen was a model in cleanliness. The countertops were scrubbed clean once a week and the floor shone. The silverware was polished too, and the only flaw was the teapot that had a spot of tarnish, which she was planning to fix the moment she found a polishing cloth. The rest of the tea service it belonged to was immaculate. It was an heirloom that most others would have kept in the attic or displayed in a glass cabinet where it could be seen but not touched. Aline did neither and drank out of the silver teacups. Any week could be the last time they were taken out and she wasn’t going to deny them the pleasure of being used, of being tarnished.

On nights like this, Aline had a routine. After finishing her cup of tea, she normally found a book to read by the fireplace and curled up under a geometric throw blanket, where she would eventually fall asleep. Most of her house was modern, sterile. It was only the tea service and the antique books that were out of place, and even those antique books were normally dry. Something about physiology or economics or political theory. Something to heighten her thoughts and not her emotions. That night was different;; her fingers stuttered over the flipping of pages, trying to work up the courage to stop reading the tragedy, until they finally froze when they felt something glossy, something whose texture didn’t fit into a world of coarse paper and deckled edges. A photograph, tucked lov-ingly against the spine, hidden. A photograph, and the impetus needed to suck in a breath and slam the book shut, violently. Too much had happened in those two chapters. Three sisters had died and a mother had died and Aline was in too fragile a state of mind to read about other people breaking. To feel the emotions the characters felt when loved ones died. To feel the hate, to feel the longing of other people when she had enough of her own. It was supposed to be a biography, not some cata-logue of death. Not a chronicle of all the ways people can be taken away from you. A tear slowly found its way onto the closed pages and Aline cursed it. She cursed the author and her life and the photograph she had found in be-tween the twenty-ninth and thirtieth page of the biography. The photograph of herself and a boy, at least two decades ago, blackberry juice staining their fingers as they picked fruit off of the bramble. But most of all, she cursed the invisible eye behind the camera, watching the scene, capturing the exact mo-ment when Aline’s hair caught the light and his fingers brushed her cheek and left a sweet smear of purple. Every so often an incident would set her off. Sometimes she had thought about going to a doctor and explaining the incidents, maybe getting some medication. Anything to dull the pain. But what Aline Delacroix hid very well was that she had reason to be depressed, and the occasional tear or scream was hardly worth mentioning. She dealt with the occasional triggers. Reading a biography where the subject experiences childhood trauma. Seeing happy couples or happy photos or anything that was in any way connected to her mother. The outsider, the stranger, the photographer.


focused on scientific documentation. The reason why she had a right to hate herself and cry herself to sleep whenever there was a new moon. ***

The next night, there was a sliver of a moon and it was okay to go out on her weekly date again. Aline loved first dates, even though there was never a second. It was impossible to fall in love over the span of one day, and this was her saving grace. It allowed her to inspire devotion with just one kiss without feeling anything herself. She liked to think that her skill was a mixture of technique and looking helplessly innocent and making sure that they were kissing outside, with the proper lighting. But kissing men was a hobby. When she tried to remember who she was meeting that night, she drew a blank. All of their faces were a blur and she preferred it that way. As she sat down in the restaurant and saw one man making eye contact, her only thought was that this one looked relatively handsome, and anx-ious, which was adorable. Aline had stopped being nervous about dates a long time ago. He gave a cursory tug on his suit, making sure that there were no creases. It wouldn’t do to have creases when meeting her, and he seemed to understand that. He had probably heard of her reputation from one of his friends and was determined to understand what made her go on dates, give heart stopping kisses, and twirl carelessly off into the night. He probably wanted to see her in sunlight and confirm that her skin had pores just like everyone else. As they ate dinner, he asked prodding questions. Deeper than most men go for, when they know your reputation and just want to get on to the kissing bit, hoping that you’ll grant them even more. At irst it was flattering, and it was only after he started asking questions about her par-ents and her childhood that she cut him off before they could order des-sert, folded her shawl around her shoulders, and stood up as if to leave. Most men would have understood that they were being dismissed. They would have left, rued the fact that they never got to experience a kiss from Aline Delacroix, and moved on. This one didn’t. He grabbed her hand and said that the restaurant was stuffy and that they should

Her parents were long dead now. Even if she left her new modern house and walked for hours up into the mountains, she would starve before she reached their old cabin or any other physical remind-ers of their presence. She would be lost in the mist, in the past, needles from pine trees muffling sound. Maybe it would start snowing cherry blossoms and she would be buried. Maybe she would be struck by lightening or hit by a falling tree or stung to death by wasps. Maybe then the stars would laugh at her and her fate, and the curse would be happy with the unlikely turn of events. Aline could still remember the note that her mother left, the ex-planation. The greatest gift I can give you is indifference. The ridicu-lous idea that there was a curse on all of the women in their family. The words, as clear as a whisper, explaining that they everyone they loved was destined to die painfully. That the stars had gifted them the sort of fate that tore people apart, and that the only form of protection was isolation. The note was the beginning of Aline’s obsession with the sky. When her mother felt in danger of loving her, she left only a note and tears trailing in her wake. At first, Aline had thought it was a pretty poor excuse for a mother to leave her only child. A child who was now an orphan. A child who was lonely and friendless and parent-less and seething with rage at the world. Now she commended the foresight;; an orphan learns not to love easily, and she had been pro-tected until she turned twenty. Until a day after she told her boyfriend that she loved him and he had been diagnosed with cancer. The incur-able sort. The sort that swept you up into an ocean of pain and hol-lowed you out and left your loved ones hollow too. It was the sort of coincidence she could’ve easily explained away, except for the story of what had happened to her own father. She didn’t feel like testing it anymore. The curse didn’t workimmediately. It wasn’t a bolt of lightening you could show to just anyone as proof. It liked to torture people a little more than that. Her own father had lived long enough to see her born and then died the day after, leaving her a legacy of blood. That was Aline’s secret. The reason why she hated reading anything that wasn’t at least a few centuries old, dry, and preferably


drive down to the nearby beach. Her heartbeat faltered against the heat of his palm, and she forgot her dismissal. She acquiesced. The beach at night was gorgeous, after all. It would be the perfect stage for a kiss before she went back to her house and made another cup of tea. Maybe peppermint this time. But when they got to the shoreline, the first thing he did was ask about her family again. It was getting annoying. Her mother had once been known in this tiny town but Aline thought enough time had passed for people to forget. She certainly hadn’t received inquiries in years, and tried to date the tourists who came for the mountains or for the desolate stretches of beach. She looked into his eyes, for possibly the first time that night. They were so clear, so blue, and she couldn’t help it. She asked for his name again. It was probably the wrong move, because he looked wounded and she was letting herself care slightly. But then he was the one who crushed her to his chest and kissed her instead of the other way around and Aline was off-kilter, spinning. When they paused, it was only to allow him to whisper his name and add a wry comment. “Hopefully you’ll remember my name after that.” He had managed to catch her off guard. Freeze her pulse and her thoughts for one short moment. But before he could say anything else, she spun on her heels and ran. It wasn’t fair that his name was so familiar. That it brought back even more memories. Of boy and a girl playing on abeach back when her mother was emotionally distant, but at least physically present. Of two children building forts out of tree limbs and fallen leaves, chasing each other through the seasons. Of pick-ing blackberries and feeling sweetness burst in their mouths as their picture was taken, just a week before his family moved away because of his father’s job. It wasn’t fair that he had changed so much and that she hadn’t recognized him and that he had kissed her. Or that it felt so unexpect-edly good. He caught up to her, just like he had done so many years ago. She had never been able to outrun him. And then she had another panic

attack because her mother wasn’t there and she was probably dead and it was all her fault. Maybe Aline had even grown to love her after all. He held her through all of the subsiding waves of emotion until she was empty. After the tears stopped, all she did was trace their names into the cold sand with the edge of her shoe and let the cold salt-water rush over the writing. It was only after the moon had changed positions and she judged that midnight was coming when she added, slowly, “I can’t love you, ever.” He didn’t question why a single kiss had brought up a discussion of love. He didn’t question the abruptness of the comment or the reason why she was so afraid. He didn’t know anything, and yet he made the most horribly perfect statement ever. “I know you can’t, Ali,” he said. “You need to learn to love your-self first.” He could tell. It only took two hours and he could see the inner hatred that she crafted carefully, the way that she wasn’t all that lumi-nous but reflected somebody else’s light. The way she saw loving herself as something unthinkable, untenable. Dangerous. That was all he did. Point out her greatest fear and walk her back to his car and drive her home and walk her to her doorstep. And then he left her with a few more words. “I see you. And you are beautiful.” There was something in the inflection that showed he wasn’t just talking about her physical attributes. Something in the way his voice grazed delicately over the word you. Something in the way he made it sound like he wanted to see her again. She shivered and shut the door behind him, feeling the weight of years catching up to her. Feeling the ocean and forts and happiness as sharp as a razor because she couldn’t have it anymore. Maybe he thought it was possible for her to find happiness, to come back to him. And that was the worst part of the whole affair. Her feet were drawn across the shining floorboards that she had polished so carefully. She found herself touching the silver teapot and the book she had slammed shut the previous night. She found herself think-ing that the lights were blinding and that she needed to be outside. She found herself on her lawn gazing up again at the sky and thinking that


she was tired of living with hate and indifference because it was the only alternative to love. She wanted to throw out the greatest gift her mother had given her. She wanted to hate the word indifference and puncture it and burn it and maybe feel one ounce of pure love. This time, Aline saw the stars instead of the moon when she looked up. She mirrored them. She was shining. Glittering. Sparkling. Starting to allow herself to feel. Starting to remember her good memo-ries as something she was a part of. Remembering him hugging her and thinking that there was something worth having in herself after all. Something more than lonely evenings by a fireplace, sipping tea. But the truth about stars is that even when they die, you can still see them shine for thousands of years. You might even think that they’re still alive. Aline was that old light, shining even though the source is long gone. She was dead even before she heard the stars speak to her, their voices silvery and shivering. Go back inside and take a knife from your kitchen, Aline Delac-roix. When she was inside, she could almost forget their tug, their silver marionette strings that were invisible to a normal eye. She wanted to shake the voices from her mind. Pretend that they were delusions and she was insane and could fix everything with a call to a doctor after all. But when she tried to step towards the phone, she found herself in front of the kitchen drawer instead. It was strange. The curse killed everyone else slowly, but it seemed to want her to go quickly. To make a few artistic cuts and be done with it. To not allow her to enjoy those moments of acceptance. She summoned one last surge of strength and diverted her path for another few seconds, grabbing the biography from earlier and the photograph inside it. And then she felt her will subsumed to the stars. Aline was able to think about her death almost clinically now that she was thinking of it as inevitable. The town would probably think it was a suicide. They would gossip for a few weeks and then she would be forgotten. They wouldn’t be able to see how wrapped up in a curse she was, and how the more she struggled the tighter it got. Her circulation was being cut off, her heart pounding. And her fingers were around the knife, stepping outside for the last time.

Stars or fate or curses held sway. She made the first cut. Doesn’t the red look so pretty against the silver of your skin? You’re just like us. She didn’t want to be like them anymore and she answered the stars, as silly as it was. It didn’t matter if they were real now, if her curse had been given a voice. It didn’t matter. You have to enchant me to get me to do this. I’m better than this. I am worth more than this. But the stars already knew what she was struggling to articulate and they didn’t speak again. The curse was in its own death throes be-cause there would be no more victims after her. No more females in the family. Every drop of blood spelled the truth. It’s true what they say. Love makes you blind. It took away Aline’s eyesight first, leaving her understanding why her mother took so many photos. Why she tucked them away in old books when she couldn’t bear to see anymore. Sight and the lack of it were so precious. Touch was the last sense to leave. Aline couldn’t fix her eyes on the sky anymore. But she could feel all of the love being snatched away and the curse dissipating as her blood seeped into the cold ground. She could feel herself wondering mundane things about the animal shelter where she worked, about who would find her body. And she could feel herself wondering if he would be the one. The first to see her dead, with a photograph clutched in hand. With blood looking like blackberry juice under the stars and stained lips searching for a smile.


Angelica Morgan


EnslavedSábado, 02/03 The 6-hr flight took me from the cringing coldness at IAD to the reck-less summer haze at SJU. I walked out of the plane, and was overwhelmed by the warm and fuzzy dizziness that enclosed me suddenly. Only 4 hours until I see him again. Two months in that middle of nowhere without him was get-ting unbearable. A huge smile emerged across my chin as I pictured his face that looked too much like Jay Chou, who happened to be my favorite artist, at that time. I hailed a cab and the driver greeted me in Spanish. I told him I was going to Radisson Ambassador Plaza Hotel & Casino San Juan. He then switched to his broken English. I sat in the back, looking out to the streets, breathing in the voluptuous exotic air, and started thinking about what he would be wearing. “You’re so beautiful!” The driver turned to look at me as we stopped at a red light. I was not in the mood to entertain. “Gracias,” I squeezed out one of the few Spanish words I knew. I could tell he wanted to keep talking to me, but I was so preoccu-pied with thinking about him that I rummaged through my purse, found my earphones and quickly stuffed them into my ears before he could have said anything else.

It was early afternoon when I arrived at the hotel. I said bye and thank you again to the driver, who was openly admiring my crimson red skirt and creamy laced cropped top, if not my body. I entered from the side door facing the street, and walked to the front desk. I smiled at the young Spanish recep-tionist and told him my name and showed him my ID. He thanked me and started checking things on the computer. I looked around; the front entrance is to the right of the reception. Across from the entrance is a restaurant or a bar. I leaned over and peeked in, the grandiose alcohol collection was on display by the side.

“Mrs. Tong?” He looked up at me. I turned to look at him and was stunned for a moment, and realized he had probably booked the hotel under his name; then flustered, and quickly nodded. “Welcome, Mrs. Tong!” He handed me two cards, “Here are your room keys. The elevators are right behind you.” He waved to a bellhop and told him to take care of my luggage. “We hope you have a great time here, Mrs. Tong.” I smiled and managed another awkward “gracias” before I ran away from him. I got into the elevator and pressed 5. Why did he have to keep calling me Mrs. Tong? Did I look that old or did I look old enough to be mar-ried? Or did he just want to insult me and make me feel bad? Or rather he was trying to…respect me…? I couldn’t help feeling a bit nauseous. Airplane food always made me sick. The elevator came to a stop. We never really talked about if we were gonna stay in the same room when he told me he had booked everything, but I just assumed not, because isn’t he bringing two other friends from Umich? That couple? I would be staying with that girl obviously. But I know that’s not what he wanted but…. I stopped thinking as I crashed onto the bed. I had not realized how tired I was.

The familiar ringtone woke me up. I reached for my Samsung Galaxy S III on the bed beside me and dragged it to my left ear. “宝贝儿, we are here!” My eyes were suddenly wide open hearing his voice. “Coming down!” I immediately jumped out of the bed and quickly touched up my makeup in the bathroom before I flew downstairs. There he was. He was wearing a dark grey polo shirt with light green shorts. His style has gotten so much preppier over the years. The girl standing beside him was named Rennie. She looked prettier in her pictures on Face-book. I exchanged His and How are yous with her before she sensibly walked over to David, who was checking in. As soon as she was gone, he pulled me to his chest and started kissing me, violently. He always kissed me like it was the first time and the last time we were ever gonna be kissing. It felt good. But painful. And too real. I re-turned his kisses, and barely managed to stand still. His firm hands held onto


my lower back and supported my weight. I was drowning. “I’ve missed you so much, 宝贝儿.” He whispered into my ears. “Me too,” I whispered back, breathlessly. “C’mon,” David approached us, “let’s head upstairs and you guys can…” “Okay, David,” he cut David off before he could’ve said anything of-fensive or rather, overly sexual. I smiled at David and he nodded at me. I knew David. We went to the same summer school a few years back. I thought he got better looking, and certainly more outgoing. Okay, David. But not okay. What did he mean? I’m staying with Rennie though, right? But as they went out of the elevator on the 3rd floor hand in hand, I realized I was trapped. “We are staying in the same room?” I finally confronted him. “What’s wrong, 宝贝儿?” He took both of my hands and pulled me towards him. “But…I mean… we…” “I promise I’ll behave.” He winked at me. I was extremely worried, but in the meantime secretly happy. I bit my lips and shook my head as he drew his lips towards mine. He could never kiss me enough.

He threw me onto the bed as soon as we got into the room. I was not expecting it, but I just let him, because, you know, two months were too long. I was so concentrated on kissing him that I didn’t realize he had somehow slipped off my skirt. I screamed and jumped out of the bed. He sat up by the edge of the now disheveled bed and just stared at me, blankly. It felt like I had done the most abominable thing in the entire world. I felt so distant from him, like what I always felt, though I always refused to believe it. I stood there waiting for him to come hug me or say sorry, but instead, he got up and went into the bathroom without saying anything. I stood by the bed staring at my crimson red skirt on the floor. I picked it up, put it on, and walked over to the now closed bathroom door. “Let’s go get some food. Aren’t you hungry?” I heard the toilet flushing, “I’ll call David. Let’s go together.”

Lunes, 04/03 He was dancing to Timber while driving down the highway. I hated that song. We definitely had too much alcohol at the Bacardi factory earlier that no one should be driving. Why does he have to be so reckless and … ir-responsible? Every time I hear Timber now, I remember that one time when I was on some highway in South America, when I could’ve died 17, in some tragic car accident. I really just hate that song. But there he was, drunk driv-ing, speeding, on the highway, with loud music playing. I was sitting on the passenger seat. David and Rennie were sitting in the back, too busy cuddling and whispering to each other, as if we couldn’t hear anything, or rather, as if I couldn’t hear anything, because clearly, he was too taken up overtaking and dancing to Timber to notice anything else. I couldn’t tell if he was deliber-ately pissing me off, or just tipsy and happy as fuck, but one thing I was sure – he was not happy that he hadn’t been able to do what he wanted to do with me. Well he could have, since as the defenseless little girl I was, he could’ve just forced me. But he didn’t. Instead, he put on a whole show like it was my fault, trying to make me feel bad and guilty about everything. I was really hoping we wouldn’t get into any trouble, because the very first time he drove me in Cambridge, he missed the left turn 5 times that I had to miss my entire Beginning Fiction class. The second time he drove me in Beijing, he drove into a one-way street and was caught by the police right at the end of that street and got a fine for ¥1200. The third time he drove me was when I visited him at Umich; he got a $180 parking ticket and his car was towed. It just seemed like every time I sat there next to him, bad things hap-pen. His excuse was that I was too distracting. Okay, that’s cute. But this time it’s not even that I was being distracting, it’s just that he wanted to piss me off. I sat there next to him, while he yelled and hollered to Timber, the most disgusting song ever existed. We went back to the room but didn’t talk. I sat on the couch and opened my computer. There was an email from WashU. I closed my eyes and bit my lips. I opened my eyes; he was playing with his Canon 5D on the bed. Okay. I moved my eyes back to my computer screen and clicked on the email. No Congratulations. No exclamation marks. The big bright Thank you burned my eyes. I didn’t even finish the email before I burst out crying. I buried my face into the pillows on the couch and thought it was the end of the world. I had got deferred from Hopkins and Umich. I didn’t tell him about Umich,


because we had both thought I was better than him, in every way, which was why I thought I was the princess and he was my slave. How could I not get into Umich? How could he just want to sleep with me? But now I just got rejected by WashU. I was not good enough for anything, yet I was indulg-ing myself wasting time on him. I should’ve been memorizing paintings by Frida Kahlo for AP Art History, or doing research on Dido’s suicide for AP Latin, yet I was trying to stop him from taking my clothes off. It’s my punish-ment. God is punishing me for not being able to fend off my weakness. And just now I remembered what he had told me last night: Stop trying to tell me you are Christian. My white Christian roommate sleeps with a new girl every other weekend. Stop it with that Christian bullshit. His voice made me sick. Currently, I felt his hands on my shoulders and I cried even harder. But his warm and gentle touch calmed me and I buried my head into his chest. He closed my computer and put it aside. “It’s okay, 宝贝儿, I know you’re better than that.” He lifted up my face and his lips found mine. He kissed me lightly before eventually devour-ing me like he always did. I held onto his neck, and suddenly felt a jolt of happiness that I be-lieved had resulted from the dragon berry rum I had at the Bacardi factory. That black, flowy bat was everywhere in the factory. I saw the giant bat flying towards me, licking my face with its soft tongue, hissing at me with intangible roar, and caressing me with its virile wings. I breathed. I gasped. I coughed. My cough woke me from the drowsy elation and I saw his face right above mine. I widened my eyes and screamed and pushed him away from me. I grabbed my phone and ran out of the room.

Mom, I got rejected by WashU. I saw, honey. It’s okay… Hey good news I got you the new iPhone 5 yesterday! Thank you… C’mon, it’s just WashU. There’s nothing there in St. Louis anyway. I know... Honey,you’regonnabefine.Forgetaboutthisrightnow.It’sSpringBreak! Go have fun with your friends! I don’t want to be here any more… Sweetie… why?

I just… Youknow,youcanalwayschangeyourflightandflybackanytimeif… Don’t be too hard on yourself. I know.

Miércoles, 06/03 Biobay was the most romantic and magical place I’ve ever been to. Not even the glamorous and surreal Festival de Cannes could compare. I was sitting in the back on the kayak, staring at his back. With the lifejacket on, I looked like a puffy orange balloon, but with two strings instead of one I guess. It was fairly chilly at night and I was in a bikini. My lower body was soaked in some South American possibly germ-infected river water while my upper body was trying to coordinate with his changing rhythm of paddling. We were slowly making our way through the narrow mystical mangrove channels to the open water “Laguna Grande” with tens of other kayaks before us, behind us, and yet worse, next to us. He didn’t turn back to check on me or talk to me the entire time. In fact, we hadn’t been talking much at all those past few days. He talked to David and Rennie about buying new cars, while I texted Beverly. Sometimes I worried she knew too much about my life, but I still told her everything, because one time a random Facebook friendship test told us we were gonna remain close friends until we were both 87. David and Rennie were somewhere behind us fooling around with each other; I could hear Rennie’s squeaky laugh from time to time. It was so dark and the tree branches were so low and everything felt so horrible that I thought I was pad-dling to hell. But as I was struggling in the cold, the view before us suddenly cleared up. We’d finally reached the “Laguna Grande.” I vaguely heard the tour guide telling us to put our hands in the lake, so I slid my hands across the water, and the most magical thing happened – tiny particles flash bright light at each stroke of my hands on the water. I smiled and looked up and saw my fellow kayakers Ooo-ing and Ahh-ing at the gift of nature. Currently he was done exploring the spectral microscopic plankton in the lagoon and was staring into the night sky. I followed his gaze and was embraced by the equal shining little beings above me. The constellations were breathtaking. I felt like a little doll inside of a crystal ball. I slid my hands across the lake one more time and smiled; I was one of them shining alone in a world of dark-ness.


On our way back it started raining. I was shivering in the cold and barely paddling. He looked back at me and I thought he was going to say something nice, but instead, he told me to help him paddle as much as I could because it was tiring carrying two people’s weight. I could feel tears circling in my eyes but I didn’t let a single tear drop. I do not cry for him. I started paddling harder, as I coined the idea of a breakup.

We came back to the hotel around midnight. He took a shower first while I sat in the chair waiting for him to finish, with my hair still wet and entangled in a mess. I went on Facebook and saw photos of Hagia Sophia and the Sahara Desert; “Home, no where I’d rather be” captioned for a picture of some Indian family in some fancy Italian restaurant; 300-and-getting-more-likes status on getting into UVA. I closed my computer, feeling disgusted and betrayed. He came out. I went into the bathroom after him. I let the water run as I cried silently. Tears bathed my face as the water filled the tub. I stepped my right foot into the tub and was seized by the sting felt in my little toe. I leaned down to examine and saw the cut over the nail. I closed my eyes and stepped in and sank myself in the tub. The pain in the toe was so prominent that it made me feel alive. It made me feel like a real flesh and blood human being instead of a little shining thing out there in the dark. I went out of the bathroom in a white towel. I kneeled down in front of my suitcase looking for a Band-Aid when I felt his hands wrapped around me. I closed my eyes as he kissed my neck and lifted me up. He walked to the bed slowly and laid me on the white sheets as he pressed himself on me. I wondered if he was ever worried that his weight could’ve easily crushed my petite bones. I gripped onto his yellow Umich T-shirt as I thought about the beautiful planktons and the stars. I could feel him melting into me when it suddenly started to hurt massively and I had to push him away. He stroked my hair as he looked at me, almost beggingly. His look did convince me that I was the one doing it wrong. I took hold of both of his hands and kissed him gently. I tasted his eyes, his chest, his stomach… I felt it in my mouth and thought of the video I had watched for Human Development class 10th grade. I shivered at the thought of all the weird and creepy looking germ molecules, but I sucked the thought.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered as his hasty breath started to fade. I hate people when they tell me they’re sorry. Like, you think you are able to hurt me and make me feel bad or something? It takes a whole lot to make me feel bad. But he got me right there. I did feel bad. He did make me feel bad, extremely bad. Those I’m sorrys almost felt even more powerful than the I love yous and the I want yous. Because those love yous and want yous were fake but sensual. That I’m sorry was simply fake. I cried. He asked me what’s wrong. I told him I had cut my toe when I was getting out of the kayak. He got up from the bed and took out a Band-Aid from his backpack. “Lemme see.” He grabbed my right foot and kissed it. He found the spot and put the Band-Aid on it. He gently rubbed it and kissed it again. “There,” he smiled at me, “Feeling better?” I bit my lips.

Domingo 10/03 We got to the airport late morning. He walked me over to my gate and stared at me blankly as they announced the last boarding call. “I’ll see you at my graduation?” He laughed, “Beg me to come.” I rolled my eyes, “just get out of my life already.” He pinched my cheek and hugged me and kissed me on my forehead. “I’ll go love someone else if that’s what you want.” “As if you are able to.” He laughed again and kissed me on the lips. I longed for more because this time might actually be the last. “去吧，宝贝儿.” He let go of my hands. Another 6-hr flight threw me back to reality, and I was greeted by How’s Puerto Ricos, How’s your boyfriends, and How come I don’t see pic-turesofyouonFacebooks.I faked hearty smiles and answered them with It’s great, He’s awesome, and We never had the time to upload any cuz we were having too much fun. I knew too well how things worked at that dungeon. Even my slightest show of disappointment or distress would’ve resulted in a


menacing storm of interrogation and a sweeping spread of rumor across cam-pus in 2 minutes. Okay, just to be fair, maybe 2 hours. I was not about dealing with all that stress then. The cold was enough for me to adjust to. I plugged in my Samsung and downloaded all the pictures onto my computer; pictures of us laughing and smiling and hanging onto each other made me feel nauseous again. Airplane food made me sick all the time. I put on a winter jacket and walked to Lower Ford to my mailbox to get my new iPhone 5. I put in the combination - 7 to the right, 5 to the left, and then finally 9 to the right for 4 times. I never really understood the point of com-binations instead of keys. As if our lives were not already hard enough. As if combinations suddenly made everything seem so much preppier and more elite. My mailbox popped open. There it lay the new iPhone and the new SIM card. I took them out as a huge envelope fell out. I stared at the light blue printed Johns Hopkins for a moment before I tore it open. I made it. I was about to scream when I noticed the group of JV field hockey players playing pool on the other side of LowerFord. They had probably just finished their late-night practice. I had to calm down and stop myself from acting justifiably crazy in front of them nosy subpar sports players.I smiled at the envelope and took out my Samsung. There was a text from him – Stay warm, 宝贝儿. I’m already missing you :(I typed in - Hope you’re surviving the cold up there. I don’t think I can do another four years of long distance. Baltimore is too far from Michigan. Sorry and thank you for everything. I deleted that and put in - You’reahorribleandselfishperson.I’mbreakingup with you cuz I’ve never loved you and I hope all the worst for you in the future.I deleted that and put in – You don’t deserve me. I looked up; the field hockey players were cleaning up and leaving.I clicked send and blocked his number. I grabbed my admission packet and my iPhone 5 and started heading out. The cold was unforgiving. I dumped my old Samsung in the trash on my way back toFowle.

by Katherine Jia


Hannah Cowley


If you saw me smashing coconuts by the ping pong tablesyou would know I had hooked the swan;

and if you saw me snacking on poolside pineapple chunks you would know the ants had found the chocolate.

If the skin on my hands peeledyou would slather aloe vera on the sunburn;

if the oyster was emptyyou would chant for the next one to have twin pearls.

Oh if I lost my lei you would make another, if I dis-graced the hulayou would applaud anyway, if it rained at the luau

you would smuggle desserts from the buffet, you would race meto the hut, you would sneak me out to see the manta rays at dusk.

If you saw me sipping passion fruit juice at Hilo Hattie’syou would know I was feeling sour;

and if you saw me munching on macadamiasyou would know I thought Grandma was going nuts.

Kona Villageby Emily Dorffer


If I ran screaming from the ping pong pavilion- if I abandoned my paddle- if I let the ball bounce into the lava rocks-

you would know a dozen baby geckos had fallen from the lightsand one of them had landed with a chirp into your hair.

Hannah Cowley


I.

Men croon to my Mother’s lips, draining Their red when she pulls away. Nightswhen Mother slithers out of the house disguised as a chameleon in heels,my burning tongue sings lullabies out of tune.I woo myself to sleep, the notesthicken my throat to silence.

II.

‘Pray for me,’ Mother whispers as she slides into bed,her back sticky as babies’ fingers clutching their first bottles.Mother, I love you, but I don’t know how.

III.

‘You are no baby any more,’ Mother says while her fingerstiptoe around my inner elbows. This I know: elastic bands twistedare not my Mother’s warm kisses but nowI crave them both. Another year gone, no love in sight.

IV.

My knees so tender knock as quarters clangin his sagging pockets that dig down to my hipbones.

Even Mary Was Bruisedby Lauren Blachowiak


I stare at the air somewhere over there – hope that the twenty crushed in my palm will finallymake Mother proud.

V.

God may have blamed Jesus, but Men blame Mary.She lives in my hair and the dunes of my lips, in the crescentsAbove my cheeks and the caverns under my breasts.Men punish her still.

VI.

Now – I am no fool. Carnations burn brighterThan roses in fire, layers of petalsPeeled one by one: I want him not, I wantHim not from my bellybutton, tingling, To the bruises between my toes. AnotherNight gone, no stars in sight.

VII.

Mother, I hate you, but I don’t know how.Your poppy seed kisses gave me sickle cell sickness,Imprinting me with blue and purple long afterYou’re gone. Mother, give my regards to God.

VIII.

Did Mary wonder, I wonder, if GodTreated her right? A broken down maybeOf a baby that sure, she raised real right,But still, at the least, God could have asked her,‘Hey sister, does it hurt?’ when he twistedthat light bulb of a child inside of her.

IX.

Hey Mister, this I know:My Daughter will be a rose.


Gareth Evans


Kat Lewis


Spice and Wolf

The nutmeg is too strong. When I take a bit of the pancake, the spice fills my mouth and numbs my tongue and I am left studiously avoiding eye contact with my mother. She poured the batter so painstakingly that I can’t comment, can’t destroy what-ever small pleasure she derives from providing for her daughter. But secretly, I voice my disgust. It’s an indication of my cowardice that I don’t open my mouth except to take another bite, but nobody else cares enough to speak either. Maybe they all wish we were having toast too, as pieces of pancake stick in our throats and then lie in our stomachs like pits of warmth at the center of some rotten fruit. The description resonates with me in a strange way: I am a rotten fruit. With a numbed tongue. And if my tongue is numb, then my fingers are even more so, and so are all of the fingers and toes and noses in this house. It’s infernally cold. My sister’s cheeks are bright red like she has a fever but there is no inner fire behind the screen of her cheeks. Instead, there is only bittersweet cold I wish I could bite like chocolate to rid my mouth of the taste of too-much-nutmeg. We are eating near the fire but the air outside still finds its way through the cracks in our walls and hearts. I am freezing. My sister is freezing. We are all freezing and there are no sounds other than forks and teeth and scrap-ing, but I imagine that I can hear shivers too. I should be thankful for the fire that made our breakfast. I should enthusiastically thank my mother and then wash the dishes and begin studying the moment I am done eating. Prepare for life after this power outage, this snowstorm. But instead I find myself relish-ing our situation, fantasizing. What if we were in a cabin so set apart from the rest of the world that there were wolves outside crying forlorn notes and giving voice to my despair? What if their voices could finally inspire shivers in this house from something other than the cold?

I would be perfectly content with that. I would be perfectly content to be trapped in by the dunes of snow every day instead of only being trapped because of a single storm. I would be content to live in Siberia, to listen to wolves- if I was alone. If only I had some sort of relief from my parents and sister and their insipid sincerity. If only I knew that they wouldn’t follow me anywhere I decided to travel with their platitudes that make me wither more than any frost. They try to empathize, to hug me when the tears don’t come, but they can’t bring him back to me. They can only leave me to my thoughts. While I imagine white arctic landscapes, with maybe a touch of the aurora in the sky for company, I can tell my sister is drawing African sunsets and Caribbean seas in her mind. Whenever she has a writing assignment for school, she carefully lets a character dangle her legs into a pool, an ocean breeze no more than a sentence or two farther away. It’s gotten worse since he died, and she physically can’t write an unhappy scene. She can only show an ocean and laughter and sunshine. She can only craft the heat of a desert or a tropical jungle, but she can do it with as much ease as I craft solitude in some elusive North. I hate the longing in her stories, even though I have an equal and opposite longing of my own. She strains southward, I tug northward. But my mother is always in the center of the compass, holding us together, in this small house on a hill with snow falling outside but neighbors practically within sight. There is nothing foreign, nothing exotic except for some over spiced meals. The most exciting thing that has happened in months is being snowed in. It at least puts an end to the neutral room temperature, to the feeling that I am in a sensory deprivation tank. To the feeling that my life stopped eighteen months ago and that I am still moving. Now, I can finally take a break. There is nowhere I could go even if I wanted to, what with the snow piled up to our windows. The only action I feel obliged to complete is transferring food to my fork, but I look around me out of boredom. I see the wooden beams of our walls and ceiling, and maybe a few spider webs left from my sister’s imperfect dusting job. It’s a depress-ing view; I want skylights or window seats or entire walls made of glass, not wood. Wood that is thick enough to cut me off but thin enough to give me a taste of what I am missing: air. Our home is a deoxygenated forgotten place even though my family still inhabits it. Even the kitchen table looks like the center of a compass rose; a place you might stop at to ask for directions, but never set as your destination.

by Julia Wargo


My brother was always talking about running away, ever since I was five. Maybe I was the first one to say the word North, or maybe he was, but the idea spread like ice in our minds. Whenever one of us came home with a bad grade or our sister argued with us or our parents took away our privileges for one misdeed or another, we would whisper North. Now he’s gone away to some unreachable place just like he always wanted and I’m still here, dreaming. After he died, I just wanted the cold to stop my process of decomposing. To preserve me in my im-perfect state before I rotted away even more. To preserve what was left of him in me.But now, my own melting feels like the best sort of realization of all. I’m alive. Now, when my mother climbs up the stairs and brings a snack, I whisper a quiet I love you.

I’m disgusted again but I mask it and get up from my seat. I have the talent of retreating into my mind, and in the small eternity it took me to capture the essence of my dream, I finished the pancake. The thing is gone. Now, I stand up and clutch the cold metal of the kettle like it is ice. I fill it with water and put it over the fire, know-ing it will boil in a few minutes. When it’s done, I sift out a spoonful of loose-leaf tea, transfer it into a strainer, wait until the tea is a dark-ened amber. I hate tea but it will wash away the taste of nutmeg with a different sort of normalcy. It tastes better than usual. Until, at least, it spills and the liquid is burning and my wrist is bright red and I am actually feeling and the word that escapes my mouth is my brother’s name. Two minutes later, the lights flash on, the heater starts purring, and my mother exclaims, “Thank goodness.” She pretends like she didn’t hear the name, and quickly turns on the water and runs it over my burn, taking care not to touch the irritated area. It hurts. And I realize I need to cry. *** A few hours later, the redness has faded and I am upstairs at my desk studying again. I’m still going through the motions of life but I’m thankful for the burn ointment and my mother’s gentle touch and my sister’s hug as she started filling up with memories and crying too. I have all of their worries and love and the only thing missing is my dead brother. The temperature in our house is slowly warming up to neutral, but this time, slipping into its familiar skin isn’t all that awful. The house isn’t a sensory deprivation tank anymore; it’s perfect for me to finally cry in without worrying that my tears will freeze. They won’t hurt me more than I’ve already been hurt.


Mom’s at the sink, gloved hands wrist-high in dye,hair tightly coiled in old tin foil, glasses cock-eyedand sliding down her nose. This is our lie,the platinum fib we tell: mouse brown.A dullness that we choose to drownin chemicals. We cast our toxic spelland forge a blonder crown

that’s passed down through the ages. Grandma, too,defied her dreary genes in search of something new,and settled on this bright, bleached, bottled hue.Grandpa had no complaints.While greyencroached on his friends’ wives, she’d stayan untouched, rosy gold. Two blushing saintsbesotted to this day,

and he is none the wiser. Tricks of lightreveal us, roots do too, yet still we—monthly—fight for this façade, our shared, tow-headed sleightof hand. Feel free to callus fakes.To me, Mom’s realest when she takesthe towel off and lets damp tresses fall,checking in the mirror for mistakes.

Bottle Blondes

by Allison Comotto


Hannah Cowley


Thoroughfarehttps://thoroughfaremagazine.wordpress.com/

Thoroughfare Magazine Fall 2015

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Transcript of Thoroughfare Magazine Fall 2015