Los Angeles Miscellany Volume 66, 2018 by lmulitmags

LOS

ANGELES

miscellany VOLUME 2018

EDITOR-IN- CHIEF

Rainey Lynch EDITORS

Mila Beliso Taran Drummond Andre Enriquez Kayla Goldberg Amanda Koenigsberg Megan Loreto Michael Toma ADVISING

PROFESSOR

Chuck Rosenthal COVER

ART

Rainey Lynch DESIGN

TYPESET TING

Ash Goodwin PRINTER

DSJ Printing, Inc.

CONTENTS

ONE YEAR........................................................................................................... Megan Loreto

J U LY, 1 9 9 6 - P R ES E N T . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Aashna Malpani

A N A D O P T E D BOY A N D H I S M OT H E RS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Nathan Faust

AS PA RTA M E . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Nina Keen A RT E M I S . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Isabel Ngo

TEEN SPIRIT...................................................................................................... Mila Beliso C A L I FO R N I A K I N G . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Melissa Herrera

LU CY, H O L D M Y H A N DS.. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Alexandria Anderson

T E N D E R LY YO U C A M E , T E N D E R LY YO U L E F T .. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Katie Calo

24 25

R A I N BOW CO LO R E D W R I S TS .. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Danielle Gibson

P O P PY S H OW E R S . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Amanda Koenigsberg

2008–2014........................................................................................................ Elizabeth McElroy T H E ES TAT E . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Alexander Lorenz

33 35

CO N F I DA N T I CS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Rainey Lynch T H E P EC U L I A R P H E N O M E N O N O F T H E CO LO R L ESS S K Y . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Lucie Bolzan U P N O RT H . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Elizabeth Rahe

36 39

WAT E R CYC L E . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Isabel Brown A P R AY E R FO R T H E LU M I N O US . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Olivia Sikora IN MY ROOM...................................................................................................... Bryan Rollofson A PASS I N G . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Angelo Antonio

42 43 44

BA D H A N D JAC K . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Townsend Scholz

M O M OTA R O O R P H YS I C I S T W I L L I A M S H U R C L I F F A N D T H E E N D O F T H E WO R L D . . . . . . . . . Nathan Faust PAG E A N T RY . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Townsend Scholz B E AU T Y I S [ U N D E R ] . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Amanda Koenigsberg A ( C ) CO M PA N Y . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Andre Enriquez D ESC E N T . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Elizabeth McElroy

53 54 54 57

ONE YEAR MEGAN

LORETO

(’21)

January He moves to New York City because he wants to witness life in motion. He lives on the third floor of a derelict apartment building. His parents are dead, he tells his landlady, they send him checks every month which he mails back without depositing. It is cold. Bitter winds. He buys a space heater, spare light bulbs, and blankets from the charity shop a block east. Cardboard boxes line the wall of his bedroom, still neatly sealed. A mattress in one corner, a few sweaters in the closet, a pair of boots. The carpet smell like cigarettes and the floorboards creak. He pretends not to notice. In the morning: black coffee and unbuttered toast. In the afternoon: cheese sandwiches and canned soup. February He gets lost on his way to the subway, he gets lost on his way to the supermarket, he gets lost on his way to the kitchen sink. He gets a job at an art supply store. He clocks in early and leaves late. The manager likes him, even though he doesn’t talk much. She lets him sneak damaged paint brushes, ripped canvases, and leaking tubes of oil paint back to his apartment. In the morning, before work, he tries to sketch the city with pieces of charcoal someone knocked to the floor the afternoon before, but there are no sidewalks or skyscrapers, only the forests of his childhood home. He hides them in his closet behind a box of old novels and worn sneakers. March He buys a coat at the charity shop one afternoon, counting out coins like a kid. Long and black with a ragged collar and silver buttons. In the chipped mirror of his bathroom he looks at himself for the first time in months.

April He forgets about his birthday until a man at the bank asks him what day it is. He calls home at the nearest payphone. His mother’s voice. Hello! You have reached the home of— He hangs up and wanders to the train station. A desolate melody reaches out to him from the platform. A white haired street busker. He wants to laugh. He leaves the station, finds the nearest Safeway, and buys himself the first sheet cake he sees. White frosting and pink, sprawling cursive. Happy Birthday! Strawberry flavored, he is told. At home, he sets the cake on the edge of his sink, lights a single candle with a match, and cuts himself a generous slice. The first bite is overwhelmingly sweet; the cake topples onto the wooden floorboards. May He learns how to hail a cab and cross the street. He learns where the coffee is decent and expensive, and where the coffee is cheap and watery. He invests in a coffee machine and fills the cupboard with mugs from one of the cardboard boxes in his bedroom. Coffee and work. Coffee and sketching. Coffee and sleep. June He watches from the window of his apartment building as people pass. The beggar who sleeps outside of the grocery store. The old woman who lives three doors down and always drags her laundry across the street, no matter how many young men offer to help. July He walks everywhere. One day the grass is dewy and then it is brown. It’s too hot to ride the subway. Even as he walks his shirt sticks to his back. He finds himself in Central Park and buys ice cream. It melts over his hands before he can finish it.

August He refuses to leave his apartment. The heat makes the city small. Too small to live in. A man, the television tells him, died on the street from dehydration five feet from the art supply store. Work gets cancelled for a week. He thinks about dying of thirst. He draws the lake. The lake. The lake. September He forgives his mother in the soup aisle of the grocery store. And then again at the MoMA in front of Campbell’s Soup Cans, Synthetic polymer paint, thirty-two canvases. He finds himself crying as he leaves the gallery and passes a school group in the echoing hallway. A girl, staring silently at the blank wall in front of her as the docent speaks, is the only one to notice the man, clutching a bag of groceries, crying as he brushes past. October He finds his way back. After the doorbell rings, he feels her embrace. Her tears on his shoulder. The smell of pine needles. The sound of the lake. There is no dust in his room. Not on the bookcase he runs his hand along nor the bed he falls into to sleep. November He takes the train back to the city. When he opens the door he is met with the smell of old cigarettes and it reminds him of birthday cake and canned soup and tubes of oil paint. He pulls his sketches from the back of the closet, hangs them on the wall. Blank for nearly a year. And unpacks. December He paints his first image of the city. No sidewalks or skyscrapers. Just a man. In a dark coat. On a bench. Without a watch or a newspaper. Alone.

J U LY, 1 9 9 6 - P R E S E N T AASHNA

M A L PA N I

(’18)

i told them but they did not listen so I tried again [ and pointed to the rag doll on the sheets swaddled by hands of strangers before me that had the same sickness of stiffness and i said that’s where lilacs used to bloom by the sea of tender milk ] you have seen her, i said again whispering of dark root melting on sweet skin smelling like [ honey that doesn’t rot but sticks ] ] petals fading in a yellow crunch —ochre beneath soundless toes of time ] do you see? [no?] do you [ ]? i have spoken so much [ ]my tongue feels [ ] tired ] night falls bones chew on bitter licorice ] they tuck me in ] dolly ] a “liar.”

A N A D O P T E D BOY A N D H I S M OT H E R S N AT H A N

FA US T

(’19)

What kind of world is the one where you can be found, where you held your baby boy for two days before he was whisked away and you had to go to an empty home? I do not carry the name you wished your firstborn to carry. Anyone else might have broken under that kind of heartbreak, but you are not simply anyone, you are made of fire, blood, passion, and bone, and you walked forward with your shoulders back and your head held high and there were times where it was like the driving rain but there were many more when you ground away at every challenge facing you until you overcame them as the sea crushes a stone over millennia but were always a phone call away and appeared by my side when I needed you and respected reality but still sought to fight history and be there with me and change the world together. You are the strongest person I have ever knownMother. What were you getting yourself into, Mama? when you brought me home and told me you would protect me although you didn’t know how, but you would find a way as you always do.

You took a bubbling, bouncing fire child you couldn’t understand and directed the passion without sacrificing the identity. We fought for hours until I would storm away and then call out for you and you were there in a moment. I questioned God and you told me I was right to question, and I said I didn’t like church and you said I was adult enough to make my own decisions, so I go when I’m home or afraid to hear you preach because I see God in you. You put me on the stage, field, anywhere under the lights so they could see me, all see me, but after it all I only wanted to see youMother. I have never understood love, but I know that I love you. Both of you in ways nobody else could understand. For you I would stop at nothing to make your lives silver and gold. I do not know how I feel this way, only that love is mysterious and strange, and that all the words I write all the songs I sing, all the dances I dance, will always be for you. You, You, it’s always been You, Mom, Mama, Mother.

A S PA R TA M E NINA

KEEN

( G R A D UAT E

STUDENT )

I used to be addicted to fake sugar. Then I got older and stopped eating. Then I stopped wanting. Except For Small moments in the night— A kitchen lamp, Black and white tile. The sound of a spoon in a bowl.

ARTEMIS ISABEL

NGO

(’18)

Aren’t crushes a wild Thing? Speaking of wild things Who spread that rumor? No way you’re shooting arrows With Eros now. Throw no Mistake, you’re no lesser god. Sometimes they just forget Your aim is true, and honestly Who says you can’t love Something before you Kill it? The hunt is a wild thing. There is more than one way To be a virgin. Might as well replace the word With precision, or focus, Or waiting. Moonlight lady, Say it’s easy to fall in love With puncture wounds. Shot me in the woods Next to your favorite spring Nothing feels better than soaking Your calloused body The fresh silk water The end of the day

TEEN SPIRIT MILA

BELISO

(’19)

It was Halloween when your grin, eating mine with its show of confidence, made me want to hide behind my mother’s dress like a child, clutching the fabric between tiny sweating fingers. Instead I wore a cheerleader skirt and lifted it for your camera lens— my mom never wore dresses anyhow. Sunsets hadn’t felt so picturesque before your letterman jacket wrapped me in its cheap, polyester warmth on a mantle of phosphorous green football field. The sun dipped onto the halfway line and I dipped my fingernails in stale tobacco to expertly roll a cigarette, And blow smoke rings into your dung-green eyes.

We weren’t teenagers squinting into the Friday Night Lights, with promising athletic careers ahead of us and perfect bodies eager to merge. We were adults, our legs tie-dyed with spider veins, yellow tint where the white should be in our eyes.

CALIFORNIA KING MELISSA

HERRERA

(’20)

You are my longest lover. Our first night together, you fit just right— you still do. You always leave me satisfied, wanting to stay— I always leave, clinging to the memories until we meet again. When I rest my head against my pillow, I am unfaithful— I know it. The one here is different, not as big, can’t love me like you do. When I come home, after weeks of being apart, I only think of how close we can get— how quickly I can rip my clothes off. You whisper in my ear. a bedtime lullaby, sweet honey dripping from my lips.

I lay on your silky sheets, legs spread, my chest crushed against your face— I sleep like I have been awake for days.

L U C Y, H O L D M Y H A N D S ALEXANDRIA

ANDERSON

(’19)

Purple rain boots romping through indigo puddles. Carrot juice bubbles popping as sounds are muddled, My mind’s eye a mortar and pestle to crush words into colors And melted gold candy stripes. Drip drop, hip hop, time doesn’t stop but I can’t hear it. Let’s go to the beach, boys, and I’ll cry red tears As I talk like robots and let my legs do the walking for us. Lava rocks, large crows, melted faces, textured toes — Pet sounds make the lace work on the ceiling spin. Is it repeated, or is it different? It doesn’t matter, something’s missing, and I feel like I haven’t done enough. Still Hemingway watches as your rhythm rocks me to sleep Under a pink glow from the pompoms in the room. Or is it me? Am I pink or is it just what I see? At one point I felt yellow as I saw purple and green waves and fractals of grey, But you were always blue.

Like a structured city under air brush pastels, It’s fractured pond under which I smell a burning camel That matches what I see when I gaze from below the ice. “Just bask in the sun, our baby’s born again and needs vitamin D.” Might as well have jaundice. Cradle fingers between your own When I’m scared of an empty hallway. I taste shapes on my tongue since we licked magic From ridges between tin foil mountains. Will you hold my hand? The tsunami took us up to complete trips In cycles of four of the same steps. Then it crashed and I wept out of fear. I wanted to be the one to quell my own tears but I couldn’t. So we went on. No, but it wouldn’t sound the same if I say it, It means more when she says it? Even now it still makes me bubble up with green leaves falling down As they rise in my throat and escape through my eyes. And I guess that’s okay. Anyway, you let off some steam, and it made my milk taste like cigarettes, but I still drank it. I carried the cup until we went across to the other side. We were sitting down, my cup and I. I wanted to cry but didn’t.

My salt would ruin the liquid inside that gave me so much pride. I couldn’t take care of you like she could, but at least I could fill this cup With tears that I could take care of. So I didn’t let it go. I held on tight to my holy grail and hoped I could make it proud. “I love you.” I meant it but it sounded rehearsed Now, I ride shotgun in a hearse as the faucet drips the words over and over. I love you, and I’m sorry. Strings on keys made notes sound like how I felt about my cup. I saw black and white turn into something upside down in my head You think everything is normal again, But I didn’t do enough for you. You’ll see when she holds hands with you. “I’ll just go,” I said. So I swam in my clothes As I kissed God goodbye on the cheek. He plucked his son up and made the rest of the world feel guilty for it. But who am I to blame a father wanting to see his son again? Do I really want to go?

T E N D E R LY Y O U C A M E , T E N D E R LY Y O U L E F T KAT I E

CALO

(’19)

My blood turned to alcohol last summer My hair smelt like you I’ve scrubbed my scalp raw so many times but I swear I still catch whiffs. I think I’ve talked to you in my head now much more than I ever did in person Though maybe not; nights with you were never quiet It wasn’t until the early hours of the morning that we would welcome sleep like a punished dog and finally let it crawl between us I wonder if you ever did get that side mirror replaced on your brother’s car? And that piece you were working on, I hope you finished writing it. Do you remember when I used to glide in front of you and your hands would grab the thick, knotty bundle of my hair and swish it from side to side, like a pendulum? Do you still find strands of it in your sheets? Do you still dream in lyrical spirals?

Am I still there?

R A I N BOW CO LO R E D W R I STS DANIELLE

GIBSON

( G R A D UAT E

The knob on my baby’s wrist protruded just as mine had done at ten, just as it does now. Small, feminine wrists that don’t match her magnitude. Small, feminine wrists that are so easy to grab hold of, so easy to wrench from room to room. Small, feminine wrists that will carry seemingly impossible weights. But they can’t support that burden just yet. So I tell my baby to close her eyes, to hide in the closet like I showed her. I tell my baby to cover her ears and mouth and she said, Like those cute monkeys, and I said, Yes, like those cute monkeys and my baby did as she was told. I shut the door behind me, making sure to turn the knob as door met frame.

STUDENT )

bag’s opening, rolling it down once, twice, so as to ensure that no air got through. You had fallen asleep on the sofa chair. Your chest rose, held, and released with a heave. My eyes roamed your body, noticing the way in which your head fell at the same angle as your knees, your jaw agape, exposing the tip of your tongue. A sliver of drool made its way from chapped lips to neck. Your neck, neck that connected windpipe to lungs, lungs to heart, heart to blood. I thought of the muscles surrounding it, the bone behind it, the skin encapsulating it. Is skin that much tougher than paper? …

… I told you last night that Rachel had seen them again, and you said, When, and I said, While we were talking, and you said, Then they weren’t real. I didn’t press the issue further. I asked what you wanted for lunch tomorrow and you said, Turkey and cheese. You turned up the volume on the Channel 5 news and I withdrew to the kitchen. Rachel’s crayons covered half the small, white table from Ikea. I moved them aside to make room for the cutting board. The bread was cold from the fridge and the cheese was waxy with age. I saw molding on its side. It was brown and green and decaying. I covered the cheese with the turkey and scribbled “Sean” on the brown bag, tightening my fist around the

I did a foolish thing last night. I went to tuck Rachel in, and she said, Mama, and I said, Yes, baby. She gave me one of those looks that only she can give, the kind where you know she knows and you have to make it right. I said, I tried to make nice, I really did. I swear she didn’t even blink. I said, You know how he gets. Again with that damn look, the one that sears my eyebrows and makes you look down and to the right. I said, I got it, I got it, I won’t do it again. Her eyes softened, her face returning to that of a ten-year-old. I hate lying to her. Do you think you’ll see them again tonight, I asked, and she said, No, not tonight anyway. …

I love the moment of waking, of realizing your body started the night wound up in a tight, little ball and somehow found its way to filling every corner of the bed that it could. The back of my wrist tickled the hairs on your neck. You shrugged your shoulders and flipped over, your face inches from mine. Your needlessly long eyelashes blinked sleep away and found focus on my chin. Your forefinger lifted my chin up as your thumb moved side to side. Your eyes were tender, at first. You reached for my hand and saw the change in color last night had produced. The morning light filled the room and you remembered yourself and me. … You were looking at Rachel in the rearview mirror. I clicked my tongue when the light turned green. You moved slowly, robotically from break to gas. Your hands were steady, but the squint in your eyes betrayed you. Rachel, what’s this I hear of you making a ruckus about monsters during show-and-tell at school the other day, you asked. When had Ms. Echlin called? How did you get to the phone before me? My hands tightened around my seatbelt; the strap was making it hard to breath. The car doors started moving inward. My eyes darted back and forth from rearview mirror to the vein that always swells on your neck when you get mad. I couldn’t breathe. Rachel blinked and her sharp brown eyes met mine in the rearview mirror before returning to the passing traffic. After a pause, a pause so painful I thought you were going to pull over, she said, I was only joking. Really, you said. Rachel nodded slowly, robotically. My grip on the seatbelt slackened. You said, Ms. Echlin and her goddamn exaggerating. I told you not to swear as we turned into our driveway. …

The house gets real quiet right after you leave. I’ve gotten into the habit of standing on the porch and taking in the smells. New green and dirt mix and our front porch smells of spring. Makes me think of before, of our onebedroom apartment on Siena. The room was always sweltering during the summer. We had a mattress pushed to the side. The tiles in the adjacent bathroom were yellow with age. We covered the chipping paint with posters we got from the corner store. The pipes groaned with effort whenever we turned a faucet on and the shower never did quite stop dripping. Little layers of mildew hid behind his and her matching toothbrush cups. And yet it smelled of spring. Our garden smells different in the morning than when you return at night. The green fades to be replaced with the smell of car exhaust staining dirt. … Rachel had fallen asleep while watching TV. You picked her up gingerly, like you might break her. Your hand cupped the back of her head and your forearm supported her dangling limbs. Her head fell heavy on your shoulder. Why can’t you be this soft when she’s awake? … The afternoons got longer as the days got warmer. The pink and red tips of my azaleas started turning brown. I told you I might need help moving them to the shadier part of the garden, and you said, You should’ve planted drought resistant plants. You were right, of course, but I wouldn’t give you that. I poured water over the dirt to make it malleable, pushing my shovel deep into the earth. Slowly, carefully my hands traced my pink azaleas’ roots.

Membrane by membrane I freed them, letting them breathe heavenly air before quickly and efficiently throwing them back into individual buckets of dirt. I closed the screen door behind me and made my way to the kitchen sink. You grabbed my wrist without warning and turned my palm towards the ceiling. The front of my forearm was pointing at the floor and my shoulder made a sharp popping noise at the sudden and painful stretch you asked of my body. You examined the dirt beneath my nails and in between the wrinkles of my knuckles. Your gripped tightened and the color of my flesh changed to an even darker hue. You told me gardening was a dirty and thankless hobby, and I said, I know. You scanned my expression, looking for something in my response. Satisfied, or at least done with me for the time being, you freed my wrist and threw me forward. I found the kitchen sink and scrubbed my hands raw. I looked at the dirt under my nails and cried silent, angry tears.

I heard the bedroom door slam shut and the buzzing filled both of my ears.

…

It started with a buzzing in my right ear. You said, It must be tinnitus; you’re getting old. I thought of how you were three years my senior. I said, The buzzing wasn’t a ringing and it wasn’t like a bee was in your ear. It was like a mosquito that only comes out when it’s dark and quiet and all you have on is a small reading light. You looked at me like I was crazy and Rachel laughed and said, That was awfully specific, Mama. You sighed and told me to go to the doctor if it got louder. You took the newspaper to the bathroom. Rachel’s toe softly nudged my shin under the table. I smiled at my baby and whispered, Now we’re both a little crazy. I scrunched my face up and tickled Rachel’s sides until her giggles became gasps and my face hurt from smiling.

I watched you from behind the couch. Your shoes were thrown to the side and your feet were kicked back on the coffee table. There was a hole in your left sock. Your pinky toe jutted out to the side. I remember when you broke that toe. We were walking barefoot through the creek behind our old apartment and I slipped on a smooth rock hidden beneath the temperate current. You caught me with your right arm and we both fell into the creek, soaking your new jeans and that old blue skirt of mine that was your favorite. You asked me if I was okay, and upon standing fell back down again. There was a sharp feeling in the outer edge of your foot, like you were bit. You refused to go to the doctor and instead just popped your pinky toe back into place. You didn’t make a sound despite the pain.

… The buzzing got louder. Hands met throat, thumbs pushed down and up. Fingers wove their way around the opening and sought to make it a closing. The hot firmness of touch turned cold and rigid. The buzzing stopped. It was quiet and dirty and beautiful and strong. I woke to you looking down at me, concern warping your features. You shook my shoulder and said, You were having a nightmare, it’s not real, wake up. Your face contorted more deeply than before as your hands became wet with my tears. You pulled my upper body onto your shoulder, rocking me back and forth. You said again and again, It’s not real, it’s not real, it’s not real. I cried, It’s not real, it’s not real, it’s not real. My fingers wrapped around your throat as I tightened our embrace.

I knew it hurt though from the sweat on your forehead and the way you gritted your teeth. You held my hand as we waded through the rest of the creek, back up to our apartment. I thought of how strong your back looked as I followed you up our old stairs. I blinked, looking now at the back of your head, noticing where your hair was thinning to form an almost perfect U shape. You burped loudly and shrunk deeper into the sofa chair. I focused my eyes on my feet, wiggling my straight, long toes against the carpet floor. I told you I wanted to plant a tree in the backyard, and you said, What for? I said without looking up, To keep my hands busy. You paused, shrugged, and flipped to the Sports section in the newspaper. … You left me on the bathroom floor. My insides were liquid and my right wrist throbbed. The tile was cool against my skin. I held my hand above my face, noticing the stark contrast of colors rising to the surface. Blues and purples met whites and reds. I sat up, noticing my rainbow extended to between my legs. I closed my eyes and blackness overtook me. … I see them more now, Mama, my baby said. When, I asked, and she said, When the house gets quiet and you and Daddy forget to lock the bedroom door. What do they look like, I asked. She said, the Big One is fat and strong, while the Little One is skinny and timid. Is the Big One scary; did the Big One hurt you, I asked, regretting my choice of words immediately. I held my right wrist with my left hand. The Big One is mean because it can’t see and doesn’t understand, my baby responded. I

rubbed the knob on my wrist repeatedly. But I’m scared for the Big One, my baby said. Why, I asked, my hands releasing to showcase white indents where nails once were. Because the Little One watches the Big One while it sleeps. The Little One traces the veins on the Big One’s neck. The Little One is digging a hole in the backyard. … I can’t control where my mind wanders anymore. I’ve day dreamed about leaving you. I would pack my bags, the expensive Bloomingdale ones you said would be a long-term investment. I’d lay them out on the bed and take the jewelry first, even your Great Aunt Jessie’s pearl necklace. I’d sort out my clothes, making sure to leave behind my blue skirt and apron. I wouldn’t forget Rachel’s baby book, of course. I’d tell the judge you take Cedar to get to Rachel’s school instead of Washington and how you can’t cook a decent macaroni and cheese and that you’ve forgotten Rachel’s birthday the last two years in a row and what you do to me when we lock the bedroom door at night. I’d get full custody of Rachel and you’d wither away, helpless and alone. But then I remember I haven’t had a job in the last ten years and I can’t have Rachel know what you do. I can’t have anyone know what you do. … Metal struck earth and the repeated clangs disrupted the buzzing in my ears. I checked the depth of the hole against the length of my shovel. I stood back to examine my work. The hole was two feet deep and two feet wide. The cherry tree could fit more than comfortably now. I thought of how my mother had planted a

fruit tree for each of her children, even those that did not enter this world breathing. I thought of how my father watched her plant them, with eyes soft with love. I thought of how love turned to angry disinterest as tree after tree bore rotted fruit. I wondered what it would mean to do this. My fingers traced the skinny branches, bursting with dark green leaves. Little white flowers surrounded yellow-red hearts of new fruit. I remembered how black cherry aphids infected my childhood tree and sucked its juices dry. I strengthened my resolve and continued digging. … I had made blueberry pancakes and bacon for breakfast Saturday morning. Your favorite. The searing of bacon grease blocked out the buzzing in my ears. I rotated the pink flesh, watching as it turned brown, hard, and shriveled. Rachel repeated my mantra from months before, The doctor said you should watch your cholesterol, Daddy. You smiled at the change in menu. What brought this on, you asked, rubbing your hand on my hip. I thought of how you gripped my hip the night before. Without turning, I replied, We should all live a little while we can, right? You laughed and found your spot at the kitchen table. I sprinkled an extra helping of what you assumed to be salt onto your plate. With plates clean and settled on the dish dryer by the sink, I started collecting Rachel’s arts and crafts off the kitchen table. The first page was covered in butterflies and what I guessed to be our new cherry tree. I held the paper to the light, examining the detail in the green and browns that made up our yard. I thought I made out a familiar U shape in the dirt, but I wasn’t sure. I pulled out a magnet from the leftmost drawer and placed it on the fridge. …

Jefferson stopped by my work the other day, you said looking away from the TV. You were trying to ignore the dye commercial featuring a bearded man with long locks of hair and I was trying to quiet the buzzing in my ears. You rubbed the spot where your forehead met scalp, brushing your thin hair forward and to the left. I asked you what he wanted and you said, To invite us to a poolside barbeque next weekend; I told him the missus would be busy with Rachel’s art project since you probably don’t want to go out in a swimsuit these days anyway. I thanked you for thinking of me and asked you to change the channel. I tucked Rachel in and told her to hide in the closet if the Big One and the Little One started making noises. You went about your nightly routine. I watched you while you gargled, swished, and spit out minty green saliva into our bathroom sink. You smoothed the comforter over on your side, flipping your nightstand lamp off. I waited for your breathing to reach its regular rhythm. … In, pause, heave, and out; in, pause, heave, and out; in, pause, heave, and out. I waited. I held my breath. I traced the lines on your neck. The buzzing got louder. In, pause, heave, and out; in, pause, heave, and out; in, pause, heave, and out. Your neck, neck that connected windpipe to lungs, lungs to heart, heart to blood. I thought of the muscles surrounding it, the bone behind it, the skin encapsulating it. In, pause, heave, and out; in, pause, heave, and out; in, pause, heave, and out. Is skin that much tougher than paper? In, pause, heave, and out; in, pause, heave, and out; in, pause, heave, and out. Let’s find out. In, pause, heave, and out; in, pause, heave, and out; in, pause, heave—

… I held my wrist to my heart, trying to make the purples and blues turn red with pressure. The buzzing was even louder than before. I tried to remember the last time I left the house other than to get groceries or drop Rachel off at school; I tried to remember the last time your touch didn’t disgust me; I tried to remember what Rachel looked like when she was first born; I tried to remember what my skin looked like before it became a rainbow; I tried to remember

how tall my childhood cherry tree was before it died; I tried to remember the creek behind our old apartment; I tried to remember the look on my mother’s face when my father left. I tried to remember the last time you said my name; I tried to remember the last time anyone said my name. I dug the hole six feet deep. I let my rainbow of whites and blues and purples and reds hit the ground. I know I will disappear one day and no one will remember my name, but I know in your last moments you did. •

P O P PY S H OW E RS AMANDA

KOENIGSBERG

(’18)

The sun sugar taste sugar, glazed sugar grazed my thighs as I stood on the threshold of what was and what is. your oak eyes still rooted in my line of vision. I remember how your freckles exhaled onto my cheeks as I traveled the rivers, the lines that embank your eyes. Driving the backroads of conversation and haze Breathing the heat of us in concert halls and standing in the kitchen in our underwear. I felt time pass in and out of our nostrils and gather in bushels at our feet. You played the strings and warm keys along my spine I eroded the charcoal dust married to my nails And the words of Bernhard Schlink Still remind me of you

2008–2014 ELIZABETH

M C E L ROY

(’20)

she had his heart for so long that they welded as one all of their veins and arteries so tangled capillaries filling together that when hers stopped his stuttered to a halt too she was his home for so long that when there was no miracle (no bright light, no serum) and her body was returned to ashes he looked and looked for somewhere anywhere that was comfortable but he remained a wanderer his body moved and hugged and talked and laughed and cried and drank but his body was hers and hers was in the black box by the beach and so he could not touch could not move not really long before his own anointing of the sick he was gone, too.

T H E E S TAT E ALEXANDER

LORENZ

(’18)

Antique altimeters lined the corridor shelves, beluga blue hazelnuts easily crushed underfoot, causing commotion downstairs, doormen do not affiliate with tomfoolery, exempting evenings of barrel-aged Bourbon and double-time Jazz swing. Faces fused with the glinting mirror above the doorway, gripping guises within its fragments, harmoniously harboring the figures of those previously visited. Inklings of iodine interrupted the cascading flow of the countertop of marble, jumping jovially down the whittled leg of the armoire. Keepsake key cards lay fanned on the bow of the greeting desk, ladies lounge by the fountain; men meander throughout the polo fields, never neglecting their precious vacations. Overtures chimed from the grand hall. Parochial priests crunched gravel underfoot, forgetting the fifth. Quixote quickly discovered the appeal of such a locale— rivers rapid encapsulating the territory. Sailors were seen from the highest point, the jib fluttering. Turquoise turtle shells adorned the staircase banister, unraveling upstairs with each gentle gust. Vultures vanished beneath the undergrowth, worrying the guests, Xanax comforts them. Youths yell uproariously through the grounds, zany zombies waited patiently in the foyer—they had no reservation.

Artificial anteaters slither down the corridor boisterously bombing the shingles from their grip. Caravans curtail the darting glances of drywall. Debonair dudes and dames punch holes in conversation, entirely enveloping the ear canal— (Frankly, firemen would be too late.) Guarded gates engulf the space like arrondissements. Halfway hoping that someone punctures the field, I invite myself outside. Junipers justify the fragrant cascade, kind Kalamatas gentle the aroma. Lint linoleum (as seen on T.V.) manufactured monthly in the concrete jungle— nasty nemesis of the estate. Only organ donors offered obeisance, partially providing pigmented accounts of user error. Quandaries tease the wrinkles of the doctorate mind, rum running through their veins like hallways. Serpents spook guests as they pass under the frame, turbulent torture—their builds skim the ubiquitous underbelly of the hostess. Vying for an intimate tumult— waxing, waning through the concourse. Xenon lights on the wall read: “you. yes, you.” zooming in one eye and out the other. Thank you for staying, come again.

CONFIDANTICS RAINEY

LY N C H

(’19)

She’s been falling for years, like the pearls from her chest, hitting the floor as the true affair began. He’s been searching for years, for drinks strong enough to forget (or remember) and lights bright enough to bring her home. It is so damn hot. Her heartbeat rattles the beads on her dress. Her eyes are brighter than the light on the dock, only when they fall on the elegant young roughneck. He wipes the sweat from his collared neck, and again, and again, and again, like an echo: words said, said again. Things done, done again. The ice is melting, exposing the shirts, the ashes, the gun. It is so damn hot, but I am frozen. I’ve folded the shirts, scattered the ashes. But I’ve yet to pull the trigger.

THE PECULIAR PHENOMENON OF THE COLORLESS SKY LUCIE

BOLZAN

The sky turned black in the summer of 1998, when my fish died. Little Maurice ate too much food one hot, humid July afternoon, and the poor thing couldn’t take it. Mom suggested I flush it down the toilet, but the thought of little Maurice’s body ending up in the sewer systemmade me feel my own heart, and that was never a good sign. I put the small red, dead thing in aplastic bag and walked it down to the park that had a pond to let his spirit rest with his family— but then I remembered that I bought him at PetCo, not a pond, and for all I knew he didn’t have a family. Even if he did, they probably wouldn’t enjoy seeing him float on the surface; there was a real dead-ness about him. I suddenly realized I had never in my life had a more illogical idea, so I put Maurice back in the plastic bag and lay down in the grass. I was uncomfortably aware of death, and worse, my own stupidity. I walked home and flushed small red dead Maurice. I didn’t see the color in anything for the rest of the summer, nor did I see any reason to. Ms. Peterson’s red bra peered through her silky blouse on the second day of school that September, and I thought maybe God existed. I was conflicted as to whether I should stare or spend the rest of the class period trying to figure out why a woman with any common sense at all would wear a red bra with a white shirt. I weighed my options and decided to stare. She had long wavy hair, with one strand always falling slightly wrong. I dreamed of touch-

(’21)

ing her beautiful brown hair just as much as I dreamed of fixing that strand. She was smart, Ms. Peterson, and I knew because once in awhile she would say something brilliant in passing, sending a certain feeling down my spine. I couldn’t name it, this feeling, but I’d recognize it if I ever felt it again. I wrote down all of her phrases, these digressions she indulged in; they made me realize I liked words, and how certain ones sounded just right with others. But Ms. P was just as crazy as she was smart. She tended to go off on tangents—sometimes she would even play old Beatles’ songs and make us take notes on what they meant. No, I had no idea what a walrus could possibly have to do with The Great Depression; but that was the day she wore the red bra, and somehow I obliged. The next day she spent the entire lesson talking about how stupid men were; I remembered the idea I had had to throw Maurice in the pond and agreed. I looked out the window and the leaves seemed greener. “Don’t listen to her,” my mother said that night as she blew a puff of cigarette smoke out of her pursed pink lips, “she’s a feminist.” I asked what that meant because it seemed to sound a lot like the word her boyfriend sometimes used to talk about me. “Not feminine, Eric, Jesus. Feminist. The feminists think little boys and little girls shouldn’t be raised all that different and stuff,” she put the cigarette out and stood up to pour me a glass of water, “I think that’s fine, but not all of us can stop to think about the perfect

way to raise our kids. Some of us don’t wake up at noon and go to beach yoga.” I had a pop tart for dinner and wished my mom would at least try beach yoga. My mother and I had our differences, mainly because she didn’t pay attention to me. I asked her constantly if I would ever get to meet my father, but she thought I understood that “he’s away for now” meant “he’s away for always.” It was just me, no brothers and sisters. That’s why I loved Maurice so much. Mother didn’t tend to like the clothes I wore, or the grades I got, or the way I liked to sit and think and not play with a toy firetruck. (What on earth is the point if you can’t actually fight the fire?) I was moderately miserable both at school and at home until I met Jenny, and then I was just miserable at home. It was mid-October when I first noticed her. I remember because I usually hated October the most out of all the months—that was when it started to get cold. Ms. Peterson told us all to pick a partner we had never been partners with before, which was just about the worst thing you could hear on a Wednesday morning. I turned around to Agatha from the seat behind mine and we decided to be partners, though I hated how she looked and I really couldn’t stand the way she talked. We started a project on something about some war and she asked me what I was doing for lunch, to which I replied “I’ll probably just sit wherever no one else sits,” a completely strange answer to a perfectly banal question. She told me her best friend was an eighth grader and we could eat with her, and I thought I would rather die but I said “of course I’d love to.” The friend, naturally, was Jenny. That day the sky was lavender. Jenny had platinum blond hair that was much shorter than mine and she smelled like laundry detergent, her very own kind, somehow everybody always has their very own, specific, one-of-a-kind laundry detergent smell, but hers was better than every-

body’s always was. She spent the whole lunch period talking about accidentally spilling her water all over some popular boy and how embarrassed she was and how her life might as well be over which made me vaguely nauseous, but I preferred not caring. She was small for being two whole grades older than me, and her small brown eyes told a certain story that I, like any other sixth grade boy, inevitably felt the need to be a part of. I probably never had a dumber idea than eating lunch with Agatha and Jenny every day from then on, but I got over the way Agatha looked and talked so I could be in front of her friend for an hour a day. It was Ms. Peterson’s intelligent words and my lunches with Jenny that made my weeks go by faster and allowed me to try and tune out the sound of my mother’s voice, but I could. One Thursday I came home from school and flung myself onto the small, uncomfortable sofa, a much better alternative to standing up for even one more second. Mother stood over me and I could feel her silhouette blocking the sun from the window; my arms and legs were warm but her shadow spilled onto my spine, like its darkness could fight the sunshine with ease. I suddenly felt vulnerable and turned around, now facing her angry, tired, exasperated self. “Your father’s in town,” she said with as little emotion as she could. She was scarier when she was nothing than when she was mad. “Oh, and clean up your room.” I ran the first sentence back to myself endlessly, trying to process the familiar words that had just been put together to form the most unfamiliar sentence possible. “What town?” I asked half-jokingly, hoping that was what this was indeed a joke. She gave me the meanest look I’d ever seen. “Are you dumb or are you just trying to be?” she asked in an eerie calm. Then I was told firmly to go take my shower, but I slammed the front door behind me instead and headed to the

park that had a pond. Jenny lay in the grass with me and we looked up at the red sky. “Why won’t you ever talk about yourself?” I asked, suffering the occasional humiliation I would feel when I remembered how much I’d just talked about my problems. “I feel like I don’t know anything about you” I added. She rarely looked at my ten-year-old face when I asked her questions. She looked anywhere else. “If I told you all about my life,” she answered, “you would think I care about you!” I giggled along with her instinctively, only briefly absorbing the words she had just spoken before being crushed by them. “What do you mean?” I asked calmly, hop-

ing I had heard her wrong. “Oh please, Eric, you know what I mean. I think it’s great and all that you can confide in me, but I wouldn’t ever talk about my problems with a sixth grader. I mean, then you would think I like you back, silly.” My heart sank as I became far too aware of my age, which had somehow become representative of my character. For the first time I stopped talking, and Jenny remained silent as she had always been when I would usually fill the space. She mentioned something about seeing me next week but I was miles away, sinking into the grass. I glanced over at the pond, pinker than I had remembered. I looked up and saw Maurice in the pitch black afternoon sky. •

UP NORTH ELIZABETH

RAHE

(’18)

Where the fir trees covered the sky, and birds cawed out to the family inside. The water, where the gueducks and mussels play. The family, filled with wandering children at the beach. With the taste of salt sprinkled on her tongue, the girl feels the rough sand on her toes. She finds objects that have drifted to her. An outlet plug, a blue couch, pieces of a table, they all crowd the beach.

The family walks back up the stairs that leaches on to the hill. And the birds in the fir trees choke from the dirty air.

WA T E R C Y C L E ISABEL

BROWN

(’20)

As I make my way home, I always pass by the lake. Man-made and sprawling, it belongs to the pelicans in the winter and to the people the rest of the year. In summer, the lake bobs with sailboats. I stop to watch them loll across the lake in slow motion, slicing the glassy surface, raising waves on either side of the hull, and throwing droplets like sparks into the oppressive heat. The lazy ebb and flow absentmindedly guides bits of trash towards banks packed with picnics and parties, nature nudging back what we so carelessly toss in. In the winter, though, the pelicans come from the north. In their yearly routine, they settle on the ice that floats and pops against the shoreline like muffled gunshots; a clock ticking. They perch white-cloaked and watching. My father says life is like a river—you can never stand in the same water twice. But if life is like a lake, I’d say it moves in cycles. Roost in the same shallows, and the same water will swirl, steadfast and inevitable, back to you.

A P R AY E R F O R T H E L U M I N O U S 1 OLIVIA

SIKORA

(’19)

Lament the sleeping lamppost, the illusion of omnipotence. Lament the electricity that once was, that is no longer. Lament the lonely headlights, the lost lovers—countless, shadowy I love yous and dim, careless be carefuls. Lament solemnity, one less spotlight on the street corner, one more darkness to overcome. A cemented square, where street and grass split, and the cracks are avoided so as not to injure our mothers. Midnight, when lampposts awaken to assist the moon and stars, it instead overshadows light that was never there. 1

Inspired by the work of Joshua Poteat

IN MY ROOM B R YA N

ROLLOFSON

( G R A D UAT E

2 STUDENT )

The Door A simple door, plain, white, faceless not faceless never faceless there’s nothing there but the door, nothing behind the door but what’s behind it, what’s behind it, what’s behind a door but empty space? Gold in places, air above and below, nothing more, nothing less, a simple thing, a simple simple simple nothing’s ever simple with you is it just keep going on and on and The Chair Black. Metal, cold frame hidden beneath soft quiet exterior, stoic seats itself in shadows since some such silence seems so so so so uncivilized, so barbaric in its stoicism, ancient history for the modern age. The Window Two or four or none, blinding light, blinding white, nothing but noise beyond, scratching against chalkboards for the eyes, the sun, such a sad sight I have not seen in days, the sun pales in comparison to the thin glass, so fragile, just one small jump or a push and all over, all gone. But the screen, I’ve forgotten. Another time, then. The Closet Don’t think about it The Dresser Disguises disguised as ordinary, playful little nothings amongst the socks and the shoes and the knives and the shirts and the rest, it’s all a joke hahaha but nobody laughs, which is just the way we like it, some sort of wood, but I’ve lost track of the name, no harm no foul no great loss. The Bed When all else fades. I see her here, a shadow flitting between life and another life, another separation, torn apart from better days, shapes shift and mold, adapt, convulse, fall apart again, alone again, all’s the better, better this way, go away get back and let me sleep because mortality calls for sleep, short sleeps and long sleeps and permanent sleeps and sleep 2

Inspired by Gertrude Stein’s “22 Objects from Tender Buttons”

A PA S S I N G ANGELO

ANTONIO

( G R A D UAT E

Visiting home is already halfway to Vegas. There’s no giant thermometer to remind me when to exit, only familiar densities of yellow rabbitbrush and desert holly, Mojave shrubs with names more colorful than their ashen pigments, and ancient fingers of creosote branches that died pointing, searching for exotic wildflowers, which, in my lifetime, never grew in in these parts. I didn’t think the seeds ever settled here on account of the wind. There is, however, a set of roadside flowers— a bright and beautiful bunch—obviously fake but now de-saturated from months of dust and asphalt.

STUDENT )

I received a last-minute text from my mother, asking me to attend a funeral for her and my father. She didn’t explain why they couldn’t go, but I figured that, if it was someone close, they would’ve carried out the formality themselves. I was going to tell them no; that I had plans later on that night with Jessica and Maurice; that we had two hours on the road ahead of us, and our presales into the club were invalid after midnight. Doing some quick math, though, it seemed doable. If my parents didn’t want to attend a funeral, I completely understood. I didn’t want them to join that slow procession either. Jessica and Maurice were my roommates. They rode with me from our shared Culver City apartment, and, out of all fairness, promised to remain sober until after the service.

I approached ninety on the speedometer. The town rests at the base of the Tehachapi Pass, unmoved from its pride of the eighties with the construction of the massive wind farm and the invention of the Rutan Voyager—the first aircraft to make it around the world without ever stopping to refuel. Now, we’re the nearby military base’s airplane boneyard—recipients of broken engines and residual olive drab, a war paint clinging desperately to metal in which years of sandblasting turned old camouflage to new camouflage, a static reminder of a forgotten war in dirt and dunes far, far away.

I stepped out of the car and ironed my clothes with my hands. “Have fun,” Jessica smiled. Within the dark chamber of the backseat, in which the small tinted windows of my coupe had foreshadowed an incoming nightfall, Maurice’s emotionless expression hung in the glow of his phone, in hopes of replacing fear with fingerwork. I entered through the main doors of the chapel as a heavy burst of conditioned air—possibly

the Holy Spirit itself—relaxed my face enough to suppress the smile of escaping the evening heat. I chose a pew closest to the back, sitting accordingly to my relationship with the man, where wandering eyes weren’t immediately punishable, as I was still searching for whom I should express my parents’ condolences.

After a quick hour in my own head, the service was over—a bunch of forever things spoken on behalf of the sailor, who, now a saint in our presence, was too soundly asleep to testify against the superlatives of his own eulogy. I just couldn’t get into it. The casket was closed, so I had a hard time imagining the body actually being in there. It was probably an IED that did it to him. That’s how most of them died overseas, I imagined.

The soft carpet assisted my silent path. I peeled off my black peacoat, revealing the honest me dressed in clean and fresh white—the shirt, tie, and tie clip combination I’d use to get into the clubs. I silenced my phone’s ringer and threw my last words into the group text to stir some excitement for the team. Maurice texted saying he’d started drinking the moment I left, noting that the cemetery was nearing dark. A woman next to me noticed me smiling in the glow of my phone and most likely saw the conversation of all capitals. I returned my phone to my pocket. The service began with a slightly guilty feeling. White lilies and hydrangeas filled the chapel with the fresh scent of newly broken stems. Ahead and to the right stood four arrangements of sympathy flowers, each bearing the relations on shiny satin ribbon: brother, son, beloved husband and father. But, to whom, no faces came to mind. Resting at center stage, an oceanmarbled casket—decorated with brass emblems at the corners and blue stars blanketing the upper half. Guarding his own casket stood a portrait of the young sailor in his early twenties. The portrait framed a tan face with strong shadows from cheek to jaw, dark hair in his eyebrows and in the small space between his ear and Dixie cup hat. Most commanding of all, though: a smile as bright as his Navy whites. I’ll bet he’s put down a few drinks in his life.

I stood up from my seat, dodging the slow rainfall of piano keys few and far between which had, subsequently, produced in the congregation the effect of sudden, inclement weather. The rewetting of faces softened all that was stiff into a hurried shuffle toward the center-right aisle— the line for the final passing. Seeing I still hadn’t the slightest clue as to whom I should introduce myself, I decided my best bet was to walk around and hope someone recognized me first. There was a sad and sobbing section near the front; I figured I’d start there. I put on my peacoat and fastened its three, large buttons, as to insinuate I couldn’t stay for cake. I floated over shyly. To my luck, a lady with a red face reacted and initiated the surprising embrace. A friend of my mother. She was about my height, so I did my best to avoid her running make-up with a dexterous stretch of the neck. She was strong for her age, as was her perfume, sharp enough to cut through the already sweet smell of cold, wet, and recirculating flora. “Thank you so much for coming.” Her voice was tired and broken but smoothed with a sweetness and sincerity I tried to match.

“No problem.” Damnit.

I stilted a brief smirk, then returned to my solemn expression.

I braced myself for the question. The question of where my parents were. A hot wave of panic grew from the inside of my dress shirt. I had to beat her to the punch. Just say it and leave, I told myself.

Say it. “My parents send you their condolences.” …

“Goodness,” she reached for my hand and clutched it between both of her own. “Oh, sweetie, every time I see your face, I’m so used to seeing Nelson right beside you.” She let go and covered her mouth. Her facial muscles pulled at the corners creating two additional frowns in their wrinkles. I could tell she was going to cry again.

“Oh my god,” Jessica said, shielding her eyes. “This is so disrespectful.” I turned the car on. The amber glow of my parking lights revealed Maurice standing, back toward us, black shirt against heather sky, legs slightly spread, split by a glimmering stream of gold.

“How’s school?” She said, the quick subject change saving her.

“Rest in pee,” I said, shattering the hour-long suspension in my face. All lingering gloom fell to the floorboards.

“School’s going well.” A smile leaked out of my automated response. I forced myself to bring it down.

“That’s good, sweetie.”

As he finished, I switched to my headlights. I set all driver controls and connected my phone, while he clumsily climbed into the backseat. We pulled out of the small parking lot before anyone else got to their cars.

We paused. Only briefly.

“Alright. We should get there a little after ten.”

Tears shattered her cordial presence and I stood there, elected without choice as the only one in the chapel to console her—catch her, maybe— if she were to faint at that very moment. I opened myself and readied for the worst; however, she resumed, this time with a different voice—higher in pitch with more obvious trembles of emotion.

“Check-in before or after the club?” Jessica asked.

“Don’t leave your mother, okay? You’re all she has left.”

“That, too.”

Say it already.

“Probably after,” I said with more certainty than in my head. “Need time to buy another bottle and pregame in the parking garage.” “Don’t forget the lines to get in,” she replied.

I approached the railroad tracks (the trains no longer stop here) when the gates began to lower. I raced to get under the falling arm, the last conspired effort towards delaying us even further, and met the other end with a deep bump-bump-dip! I continued towards the ramp and rolled on to the dark highway, alternating my focus between the road and rearview mirror, the small glow of my hometown shrinking before vanishing entirely. The crossing signals from the tracks were now indiscernible from the slow, red pulse of five thousand windmills along the ridge behind it, which, out here, served as the only sign of life.

absence of a headrest relaxed his neck and left his mouth agape.

Bass filled the silence of absent conversation, rattling loose change and plastic bottles of chaser in my cup holders.

My heart began to race. Against my own will, the stage was set. I looked to the rearview mirror, whose shape and outline was lost to the darkness of the sky, and I saw Nelson’s eyes floating high before me.

“So… was it around here where your brother got into an ac—...” Jessica struck Maurice in the leg with her arm in failed secrecy. “It’s cool,” I said, swiping to the next song. “It was a-ways back. I’ll point it out when we come home Sunday.” My nonchalance missed the mark. Jessica retreated to the bottle, and, by the sound of the sloshing cognac, I could tell we were more than halfway through. From the mirror, I could see Maurice shamefully reeling out the endless slack of his seatbelt. I busied with the knobs to try and recondition the air. Thirty minutes later, I looked over and found the two fast asleep. Jessica leaned towards the door with her arms folded. Strands of hair fell over her face with each bump in the road. Maurice sat upright in the center, where the

I had little reason to stir them. I was wideawake. In either direction, no car had passed for miles. The windmills had long disappeared, and, now, my surroundings were lost to black. Constrained to grey asphalt and golden dirt shining in the small orb of my headlights, my anxiety, coupled with my imagination, begged for some mysterious figure to dart across my headlights and swerve us straight into a ditch.

“Don’t do this now,” I muttered softly under my breath. Along the right side of my periphery, the freight train from earlier had caught up to an even speed, and continued to run parallel to the highway. I checked the sky to see if Nelson was still there. Each time I looked, he was staring right back at me. When I blinked, he blinked. “You know, Mom’s stupid friend mentioned you today.” I paused as if waiting for an answer, maybe a jackrabbit to cross the road or a crushed squirrel. Some cadaverous form of communication to speak to me, even if indistinctly. “That’s the last time I do anything like that for Mom and Dad,” I replied.

I waited.

held his heart (ruined his liver, emptied his stomach, wallet, and pride) time and time again.

“You know why I can’t do that. Mom’s always crying at the house, and Dad doesn’t even hide his gun anymore. And, get this: I can’t even sleep in my own bed since they started hoarding so much shit. There’s no room for me there anymore!” Jessica readjusted in her seat. I stopped talking. We continued exchanging looks until my heart grew heavy and slowed with grief. With my brown oxfords, I thrust the gas to ninety-five, sliding the freight train out of my periphery. In order to resist the emptiness and my brother who filled it, I went to my phone, swiping past music and cars the remaining way. I swerved once. Not much else happened. … The weekend migration got us there a little later than expected. Maurice woke up once I exited Flamingo—sometime between 12 and 1 a.m.— same as the spots of worn leather on my steering wheel after months of repeated road trips and a single-handed grip: four fingers and a jutting thumb. I rolled down the windows, and the car filled with the same hot air we escaped to get here. “And, we’re back!” Jessica exclaimed, a burst of sudden emotion in her voice. Maurice rubbed his eyes. “We’re home,” he whispered longingly, leaning forward towards the windshield as if ready to kiss the city that

I took a right at the famous fountains and searched for the small sign that would lead us into the self-parking garage of the Cosmopolitan—an improbable destination on a boulevard of endlessness known as the Las Vegas Strip. I kept one hand on the wheel, the other on my phone, navigating steadily. Despite the hour, life overflowed. Sidewalks filled with characters and patrons alike. all ends of the earth on a single boulevard: The Roman Palace in my rearview. Luxury shops of Via Bellagio to my right. On the jumbo screen, a giant Gordon Ramsay and tomahawk-steaks the size of cars being plated a hundred miles an hour. Convenience and liquor stores wedged in-between Ferrari rentals and Vegas Tattoo & Souvenir shops. An unmasked Captain America posing for photos at the intersection with the red M&M and 3 oversized Minions. Middleaged wives and wandering-eyed husbands at Margaritaville—beads, neon wristbands, selfies and stories to tell about being carded for the first time in a long time. Children on the shoulders of fathers who strayed too far from Circus Circus steering clear of workers dressed in brilliant pink and green shirts—LIVE NUDE in white Helvetica—passing out free stripper trading cards, which now tiled the entire boulevard. Twenty-some-year-olds in high heels and short, tight dresses spilling in and out of cabs and the newer fleets of ridesharing. Men everywhere. Men chasing anything that moved. Sex in the air, a chemical mist from a spurting volcano and Bellagio on the half- hour. What more? A chrome midget. Bunny-women in thongs. Optimus Prime. Bridesmaids in black, a bride in white, color coordinated and matching open-toes—a setup for tomorrow’s cold feet.

Beautiful architecture and unique plastic of open containers, filled with more color, more alcohol, more slush. The car gave us a slow pan past it all. “Roll down the window,” a muffled voice from behind said gravely. “They’ve been down.” I heard the seatbelt unclick and Maurice throw his upper body over the ledge of the car. His body pulsated in violent, whip-like waves, throwing up onto the pavement below. Jessica and I began dying of laughter. When we calmed, I realized we had only moved a few feet. And while the other two were now occupied, indulging evermore in the over-abundance (Maurice’s eyes bloodshot and holding excess water), I struggled in my search. The lights were disorienting, and I couldn’t switch lanes if I wanted to. I succumbed to my surroundings at last, relieving my stress to the natural current of traffic. I was certain this street had been navigated with drunk and aimless eyes many times before. I knew we’d get there. “Oh look, the Eiffel Tower,” Jessica exclaimed. “Remember after that attack, they lit the tower with the colors of the French flag? I wonder why it’s not lit anymore.” “First of all, it was the actual one—in France,” I chuckled. “Besides, it’s black, yellow, and red for Belgium now.”

My sharp and sudden right turn eventually came, and we entered the underbellies of the Cosmopolitan and found parking relatively quickly. I realized in those moments that we’d forgotten to purchase a new bottle, and it being past midnight, our presales into the club had expired. It ended up being a sad, sober, and expensive night, which we took into account for the reminder of the weekend and overdid the whole thing. Saturday night, I ended up vomiting in the casino between the world buffet and comedy club on our way out. We stayed at the New York, New York in the wing that I thought was the replica CBS building. Jessica kept insisting it was one of the Twin Towers, which made absolutely no sense why they would build just one. There’s hardly any filter when she’s drunk. Still, Maurice and I enjoyed her company. The more the merrier. Sunday morning, I was hungover. Despite Jessica and Maurice offering to take the wheel for me, I insisted on being the one to drive us home. Because of the heavy congestion, we pulled over for a bathroom break about an hour after the state line. Instead of rejoining traffic, I arched over the packed freeway to the other side where the old two-lane highway ran alongside the interstate in secrecy. The road was invisible unless a car was on it, which prior to ours, there was none. It was a clever way of doing things, but felt dishonest in some parts; I learned this method in the desert where the roads are built on grids. The system worked for me in the past, and it worked here, too. I took side streets wherever I could, until we were home. •

“Oh.” …

BA D H A N D JAC K TOWNSEND

SCHOLZ

( G R A D UAT E

STUDENT )

You can’t undo a bad hand, Jack can’t fold on Fate or count blank faces at the table for pity’s sake, I’ll bet they’ve taken the clocks off the walls— lost time better left to the flicking fingers of good old golden Humphrey Bogart, fond of adages like All or nothing, Jack play big or— Give me a steady alcoholic any day, Jack, a well to fall in and, from the bottom, something pithy to say to the lost coins and causes all the losers to look back, Jack, and see that the only choice is what you gamble and the only faith is what it costs in weight and time, Jack something about cheap talk and winning

M O M O TA R O O R P H YS I C I S T WILLIAM SHURCLIFF AND T H E E N D O F T H E WO R L D N AT H A N

FA US T

Once upon a time, an old woman was washing

(’19)

could create something this terrible in order to destroy something so beautiful.

clothes in a river, when she saw a beautiful peach floating along the water. Such a peach! Large and golden, it floated right into her hands, where it lay like a gift from heaven. She took her washing back to her home, where she waited for her husband, and when he returned, he was overcome with wonder as well. Such a peach! Just as they went to cut into its flesh, the fruit split in half, and a voice rose out: “Do not be afraid!” and out clambered a boy, about eight years old. Seeing their fear, he smiled. “I am no demon or fairy, Heaven has had compassion on you, for you have lamented that you have no child. Your cry has been heard and I am sent to be the son of your old age!” In tears, they embraced their son, whom they named Momotaro, Son of a Peach. Such a peach indeed!

“You must think it strange that I wish to leave you,” said Momotaro to his parents, “but I have not yet told you my reason. Far away from here to the Northeast of Japan there is an island in the sea. On this island is the stronghold of a band of devils who oft come to invade this land, rob and kill the people, and carry off all they can find. It is my duty to go and slay these monsters.” With a heavy heart, his parents sent him on his way.

This house and this land have been in your wife’s family for generations, Shurcliff, and you always loved coming here. It’s quiet, parceled off from the rest of the world, the perfect respite for a man discovering the intricacies of the universe. Now, your brilliant mind is infected with a single focus as you stare down the hill through the forest, where the waves, speckled with sailboats and a small island, cradle the trees at the roots. The Atlantic stretches out across the horizon, spilling out into the solar system beyond. You are not one to believe in God, Shurcliff, although you wish you could. You know that only men

Every morning, you wake up, and take your breakfast on the porch. Your wife is next to you the entire time. She worries about you, Shurcliff, about those lines around your eyes which weren’t there before. She has not had the dreams you have had; seen the things you have seen. You tried to describe it to her once. “Remember Niagara Falls? Imagine all that power, Mailie, but rushing upward towards the sky, carrying battleships on its shoulders, sending clouds hurtling over the lip of the Earth. And the sound, love, the sound. I made that. My legacy is the end of the world.” Your glasses and crow’s feet lines are supports, that without them, your dreams might come true, that the great roaring radioactive flash will seep into your face and melt out your eyes.

Momotaro’s band, a dog, monkey, and pheasant, were constantly fighting. After a while, the boy became angry, and lined them up. “Now all of you must listen to me. The first thing necessary in an army is harmony. We cannot destroy the devils and save our land if there is discord amongst us. We must be of one mind; the first one of us to start another quarrel will be sent away on the spot!” With those words, they were orderly and still, and followed the boy hero to face whatever trouble threatened their home.

that this is not the end, but only the beginning, that this kind of power cannot exist without someone stumbling across it eventually, and that it be best that your team is the first. They will call you a hero, one day, because you ended the war. You are a part of a team tasked with ending the slaughter. The Soviets are almost through cleaning up Europe, but the Japanese will never surrender, that’s what they say, not unless they know they cannot win. Assure them, Shurcliff, that’s what they said. Make sure they know what will happen.

They call you a genius, because you understand the minute details of the world. Why things fall down. Why water curves around rocks when it could so easily smash them. How far away the stars are. You were in New Mexico, Shurcliff. You do not understand why the world must end, but you undoubtedly know how. Momotaro and his band sailed to the island in a little boat, where they hid, and watched the demons. What monsters they were, with thick, red skin and long horns of bone, squatting atop piles of food and treasure. Like a clap of thunder, the boy struck, animals following behind, throwing themselves at the ancient beasts. For the people, they attacked.

Is this who you thought you would be? Victorious, the animals dispersed, and the boy returned home, handing out food to any and every person he saw along the way. His parents smiled when they saw him coming up the road, and approached with outstretched arms. The boy, suddenly tired, fell into their embrace, and the love swelled around him, enveloping him, drawing him into peace. Then, with a great white flash of light, the bomb fell. Across the sea, Shurcliff stood, as cold as one can be on a summer’s day. •

You could not lie to them; they know you know how to end it all. You know as well as they do

PA G E A N T R Y TOWNSEND

SCHOLZ

( G R A D UAT E

STUDENT )

Goodbye, miss america tell the people that we tried our best to bomb the right hut our worst year yet our homeless houses locked our legs all written off but the beggars and the beggars lie and trade their milk money for coke, their frantic ranting, tv preaching, midnights healing scorched earth with bald palms, deathtalking on and on about the love that bore our war ships, and the separation between church and— were we ever really willing to go on without a torch? The money’s fluid, but the mind is ad-worn, I don’t want war or rising seas, school shootings, to be scorned for coming home too late So goodnight, sweet ladies we know what we are but not what good can come of it, no yield sign, no right, no community of light, just souls popping on and off, the stage too dark to start

BEAUTY IS [UNDER] AMANDA

KOENIGSBERG

(’18)

Beauty was 6 decades ago. In the days of post modern expressionism With the matte liquor of beets ‘and wine stained scabs feasting on the younger versions of ourselves, that’s what we’d do and that’s what I wanted of you, to eat the days of dancing shoes and knock kneed hugs Lips on moonshine strangers in the evening before leaving and waiting and belonging When it was easier to climb inside my lilac bed and read your sun-stained thoughts in that leather-bound book you gave me years ago. When we’d stand in front of Jackson Pollock paintings for hours before the clock moved and we melted into the walls and skin of our thoughts inside the way the air bubbled and floated behind our eyes. Behind the dresses and lace garters and stockings and sex things. Thoughts that were never touched but imagined in a dream too soon ending before starting, like the way Jackson Pollack danced over his canvas. I wanted you to dance over me too, and drip, and get me wet with the pigment of shared stories and lives and places. I wish you knew what my pages felt like or the way I lean on the shoulders of lilacs and gallery doors at midnight but I like my weekends now unengaged from what is called beauty I savor the way wood tastes after my tea bag naps on its surface or how book smells get me rosy and ripe almost as well as the way you’d say your “r’s” and the names of works of art. I’d pretend I was one of them, a stretched canvas or a ready- made beautiful person to share a sigh with even only for half an hour or so.

A ( C ) C O M PA N Y ANDRE

ENRIQUEZ

( G R A D UAT E

STUDENT )

A beehive grows from the back of an old man, cultivating a culture of sick dependence and rancor; an entombment lacking privacy. Fissures, encrusted and honeycombed, gnaw through the remaining muscle hewn into hundreds of golden igloos humming uncontrollably and jesting warmth. Truly, only Atlas knows the importance of strong legs, for the needs of the many outweigh the one few who, notwithstanding his dreams to open his body to the wet, would perish at the hands of the Queen’s babes before success; their hot pins, ripe to sting from within a self consumed by the mindless drone of its ugly devotion to keeping his calves vibrant, healthy, and walking, tell that xeric factories always halt wood production when termites yolk the zeal of a land once run by zebras without stripes: his yellow eyes speak in a dry, xenolith tongue, wry with a muted verbiage of schmm’s and shyrmm’s; the

urchin talk of those things known for their shells, not their uni; things, so ravenously quelled in their quests to once more possess personal thought, that an otiose purpose of feverishly nectaring his mouth to lull the carnage found in false kinship, is the only purpose purporting a jaunty self-image smeared enough to blur and injure his conscience before haggaring into a grave carved by the fervor of his own insects. —Endeavor to consider those drawings etched into the cavities of cave walls before passing judgement on the abnormal

DESCENT ELIZABETH

M C E L ROY

(’20)

You begged phone lines to intertwine, become your safety net as you tumbled away, clutching at air— we couldn’t save you, become your safety net, as you tumbled away, stumbled over curbs, flesh caught on fences— we couldn’t save you as you ran away from responsibility, too heavy to hold onto stumbling over curbs, flesh caught on fences you throw yourself over, into oblivion as you run away from responsibility, too heavy to hold onto when your friends give you a cigarette, instead you throw yourself over, into oblivion as your vision blinks and your eyelids don’t. When your friends give you a cigarette instead of time, you worry as your vision blinked and your eyelids didn’t, holes slowly burnt into your memory, lit cigarettes pressed to paper, erasing time. You worry when you only see snippets of decisions made when holes slowly burnt into your memory, lit cigarettes, pressed to paper, erasing you from your own actions when you feel, see snippets of decisions made in the blackness when alcohol took you away from your own actions, fading in and out of your own life

in the blackness, when alcohol took you away: decisions made fading in and out of your own life, try to forget decisions made ... not decisions at all. Trying to forget— breathing in smoke and ash so your mind and body (...) hold the same— breathing in smoke and ashes, so your body would float away, smoke in the breeze, hold the same and becoming nothing, like your control would float away, smoke in the breeze. You try to cover your tracks, speaking shiny words that are nothing like your mind. You control what you say, making everything fantastic when really you try to cover your tracks, speaking shiny words when you see your begged phone lines never intertwined; you make everything fantastic, when really you are lost, clutching at air.