towards by Minha Choi

Web Team member Minha Choi shares a poem.

In her bedroom, the four walls nestle us safely away from the space. We start by laying down the pillows on her bed next to each other, side by side. The slight chills cause goosebumps to tiptoe quietly all over me, bits of little little sensations I can feel

and there is nothing in this room except me, her and the in between

facing each other, I stammer something about her being poetry, but really what I meant to say is that her eyes are much larger than mine, approximately, maybe no more than half a centimeter wider, both horizontally and vertically, and the irises, brown and tinged, intersect the eyelid and waterline exactly at one point and nowhere else, and now that I’m closer I can notice how her eyelids fold into many layers and deepen still when they smile in the corners, like I’ve seen on thousands of others that have faced mine, sockets of her eyes sunken so that her nose stands out more in contrast, everything about her face a contrast, a skin darker than mine, a shade of brown that complements the lightness in her eyes, shade of things that I’ve seen in my life - comb patterned earthenware, earl gray milk tea with two seconds of heavy cream, wood furniture from Brewster’s Café, my tan back in 2016 a day after the beach, her smile lines form a parenthesis around her lips when she notices that I’m staring at her features, so I don’t look away when the parenthesis are joined by bigger ones shadowed into a trail, laughter lines that accentuate her softer cheeks, mirrored by the crease between her smile and her chin, all while my hands make their way to her jawline tracing up to her ear, right below a head of thick, cropped hair that fades at the edges and falls around her brows, shaped into a long arch that decorates her face solemnly and charmingly with strands of hair, that face that looks young and old, wanting and waning, casting me a look that I’ve never seen before and always hoped to see more of, a look that mirrors strangers, lovers, families, those faces that I’ve seen somewhere at the end of a space and the beginning of another, which focuses my attention back to her lips, her lips, her lips, thinking about the time when god I wished she was a boy, god I wish those lips were a boy’s so I could kiss her, wishing that I could see her no more than an inch away, instead of from a distance from across the stadium, so that I could see those eyelashes and count them, so that her features won’t be blurred worlds away, so that I could see the whites of her eyes more clearly, the way they showed in the dark like glow in the dark stickers on my childhood bedroom’s ceiling, like childhood like I’ve never experienced before, until she places her hands on my waist, and suddenly I have the urge to close my eyes but I don’t, and instead watch her half lidded and focused and wanting and searching for the hems of my shirt, her hands sliding under the rough edges of a shirt that I’ve worn for so long that I can feel the threads unraveling and undoing, static like small lightning bolts shooting down on every second of my skin that comes in contact with hers, her jaw tense, small lines marked in between her brows like focused exclamation marks, and suddenly the swelling can be felt between my legs and the questions are answered, me and her separated by a sliver of nothing but space, space in between that holds the what ifs and what abouts and what the fuck is happening right now, enclosed by a gentle push from lets say, the wind, and the rest of the effort is focused towards enclosing the endless spaces that seem to appear between her and me, two mouths tilting, an act that can be described as none other than desperate, tried in despair because everything else has failed us, the blissful embarrassment of wondering where my hands should be placed, how my legs should be parted, and despite everything we’ve been through my eyes are open, even when they’re no more than a single fraction away from her eyelids, and so when I lean towards you and you lean towards me, when we towards and towards each other and finally close into one another, is that collision love?

Hostess by Ari Kozloski

A piece from Copy Editor Ari Kozloski about work…among other things.

At the hostess stand, you have a lot of time to think about what you will do when you are not at the hostess stand.

You set reminders: “Gallery opening tomorrow @6!!” “Call dad.”

You make grocery lists: Cigarettes—a ridiculous purchase for someone who can’t inhale and has a genetic predisposition to addiction, but sometimes you crave a mouth-hit on cooler nights out with friends. Peanut butter. Bandaids.

You contemplate man’s domestication of fire. Can I have a light? That little flicker of domination. Casual. More casual than you are with customers, which is neither very casual nor appropriately professional. Your boss doesn’t notice this because what you lack in professionalism you make up for in that low-stakes deceit often called charm.

“No, Mr. Walk-in, you cannot have that four-top to yourself but, Mr. Walk-in, please understand that I’m with you. Nobody knows the frustration of curbed entitlement such as you and I, and I’m simply playing my role here. Yes, I see that the restaurant is almost hauntingly empty and you should really have your pick as far as seating. But there are things on this tablet I’m holding that you couldn’t possibly understand, and you needn’t burden yourself with such considerations anyway. I’m with you. You know that, right?”

Unless, of course, Mr. Walk-in is a regular and/or member of the cast of Friends, in which case he can sit wherever he pleases.

You think back to your first day on the job, when you were completely taken by how good the bathroom smelled. Something equally gourmand and linen-esque, with a hint of cologne.

“It’s the candle,” your manager had explained with a collusive sort of smirk. “Custom from Montauk. They’re only $24 on the website if you want.”

Because the restaurant is a zhuzhed up fish fry, you’d found both the existence and asking price of this candle absurd. You went to the website anyway and saved the tab.

Sometimes you steal things. Not the candle, but small, disposable souvenirs. You don’t want to get fired and you never really caught the klepto bug, but you’ve always liked to feel like you’re getting away with something. And what’s the occasional grab, anyway, when every shift makes your knees feel like they did when you played soccer in highschool and your brain feel like the static channel on an old TV? So you shove a “free drink” card into your pocket and trace along its edges for the rest of your shift. You’ll quit soon, let a few years go by, and when enough time has passed that the revolving door has ushered in an entirely new staff, you’ll come back to reap the rewards of your investment. One free drink, please.

You think about your grandma, who really was more like your mother than anything else, and you realize that all this time she has been a person. Not just your grandma or even your dad’s mom but also and mostly just Carol. This thought has been inaccessible, you reason, because most of her stories took on a cinematic haze owed to their inextricable ties to things you didn't understand (eg. motherhood, being white, and/or her childhood in Sparks, Nevada circa 20-years-before-caller-ID). And you don’t know what it is about this day in particular that has illuminated this truth, but you realize all of this and write on a small notepad separate from your grocery and to-do lists: GRAM IS A PERSON. So you don’t forget.

You suck in a little and try not to play with your hair. Even though you almost never touch the food, people come here to eat, and hairplay, according to your manager, infringes upon this noble intention. Your coworkers, however, are apparently immune to this expectation. At the top of your third ever shift, Jessie approaches you with his phone out. He’s hot, but only by way of his position as bartender and your senior by twelve years.

“Can I take a picture of your hair?” he asks.

His face is, well, normal. Completely devoid of any indication of shame or even sheepishness. You must be searching for such an expression for too long, because he continues:

“It’s for my friend, she’s a curly girl, too.

Aw, come on.

Thanks!”

Whoosh: a photo of you for his curly girl. And poof: your attraction to this patchy-bearded freak. Of course, it’s not the first time someone has stopped you with overly-familiar commentary on your hair—in fact, it’s not even the first time that day. Your afro brings something out of almost everyone:

White men somewhere between father and grandfather age can’t help but either thank you for taking ’em back or offer a raised fist and a cheerful “Wooh! Angela Davis!” Bald men can hardly contain their laughter as they gesture to your hair and wink: “Can I get some of that?”

Woke millennials ask if you’ve heard of Pam Grier, and compliment you for what they seem to sincerely believe is an exact likeness. The input is so constant that you even have to remind yourself not to snap at other black women when they ask for your wash day routine.

So Jessie’s not the first. But this time he’s gone and ruined himself as your work crush and/or primary entertainment source, so your irritation is compounded.

You don’t hate all your coworkers, though; you’re even fond of some. One of the servers graduated from the university you attend and has worked at this restaurant since it opened. Actor. You like talking to him because he is personable in a clumsy, sincere way that is equally comforting and comical. You dislike talking to him because he graduated from the university you attend and has worked at this restaurant since it opened, so what does that mean for you?

You seat people, too. There’s a good bit of that. And sometimes when you seat people you are unkind, condescending, and you feel terrible about it. But, good god you’ve had the reservations plotted for hours, must every party want the corner table by the window? And yes, of course the buffalo shrimp is spicy, and what kind of idiot would need to call the restaurant to confirm that? So, yeah, people are unfathomably daft; but you feel terrible for responding accordingly because you, too, enjoy dining out and would hate to be greeted and/or seated by yourself. So you smile real big for the next customer, compliment them and shift your voice into that warm, connective cruising gear that makes them feel like the only people in the restaurant.

Sometimes this warmth is forced, but other times it’s sincere. Like when there is a small blue cake icon next to a girl’s reservation.

She arrives with her friend a few minutes before 7:30, and they look at each other in a way that says “Oh, shit, I didn’t know this would be the vibe, I should have worn a longer and/or more opaque dress.” It’s sort of an old people and/or family restaurant, and you feel a little bad for this girl who looks to be celebrating aging either into or out of your exact age, which is 19. They are best friends, they tell you, and this dinner is sort of a dual birthday celebration. You love them. You joke with them about the bathroom candle—“Super yummy, right? And only $24!” You give them the last of the four booths, an inordinately coveted honor amongst the restaurant’s regulars, and steel yourself to explain this transgression to an angry septuagenarian in the next half hour.

For the last ninety minutes of your shift, you are mostly staring into the side of your manager’s head, willing her to send you home early. It takes an oppressively slow night for her to take the hint, though, so you usually get off around 9, and the first step outside feels like leaving the movie theater. The weather has changed and, oh!, it’s dark out. You feel real again. Your phone buzzes with your reminders: Cigarettes. Peanut butter. Bandaids. It’s early enough to make it to the store before they close but…the static. Suddenly your lists, everything, can wait. The downtown 6 is coming in just a few minutes and you trudge to meet it. You don’t even call your dad.

Witching Hours by Hannah Keselman

Prose Editor Hannah Keselman shares a coming-of-age episodic narrative about the things that keep her up at night, the things that haunt her, and the things that brighten the dark.

I. Beginning

When I was in second grade, we had a writing open house. Parents were invited to celebrate their child’s personal narrative, the culmination of a year’s worth of lessons in penmanship and prose. A precocious reader and natural teacher’s pet, I had taken to the art of writing almost immediately. So I was exceptionally excited for the open house, as I saw it as an opportunity to showcase both my academic prowess and my new-found love. 

Other classmates had written about their family’s trip to Disney World or that Christmas they got a puppy. Perhaps a small part of me was resentful that I didn’t have a new puppy to write about. Or perhaps I truly needed catharsis. Instead of a joyous memory, bubbling and golden, I wrote about the time my father locked me in our basement. It was an accident, of course, one that was followed with profuse apologies, including a guilt-induced ice cream trip. But that memory was so potent in my mind, so personal. It was one of the first times I was consciously aware that I was afraid. In Magic Marker, I had written about the darkness that shrouded me, the spidery shadows that danced around my feet, dangled down the walls from spindly webs. It was quite a dark way to describe how the basement looked in the middle of that crisp September day. There was only one window down there, but it had flooded the concrete walls and floor with light. 

I watched the blood drain from my father’s face as he reached the climatic page, the one where I was alone in the basement, crying for someone to come save me: “I almost lost all hope.” Even then, I had a flair for dramatics. 

But despite my parents’ embarrassment, and perhaps my dad’s genuine fear that my teacher would report him as some sort of negligent father, they were impressed with my writing. I think all three of us knew, even back then, that words were going to be my weapon of choice against the monsters that would be. 

II. Body

One Halloween, I wanted to dress up as a black cat. I wore black leggings and a long-sleeved shirt, fuzzy cat ears, and a tail. My mother painted a pink nose and whiskers on me with lipstick and eyeliner. Her soft touch tickled me, causing me to crinkle my face and send my whiskers askew. 

It was a particularly cold New England October night, so my father wrapped me in my brother’s fleece jacket. Despite being a year younger, I was as tall as him, so it did not swallow me the way I worried it might. The three of us then left to go trick-or-treating, while my mom stayed at home to hand out sweets to the small witches and ghosts and pumpkins that would soon fill the night. 

Under a bulbous moon, we walked around the neighborhood. I avoided the nutty candies at each house, looking at my brother each time so he was sure what a good sister I was, accommodating his allergy like that. In truth, I had no taste for peanuts, but playing my selections as sacrifices gave me leverage in our trading later on. 

There was one house we went to, large and looming, lavishly decorated with gravestones and flashing string lights. We knocked on the door. A sickly green face leered at us. It was all hollow dark eyes and dripping lips, and so I screamed. Loudly. 

When we arrived home, my mother scooped me up. “Hey, kitten! How was the night?” she asked me. I immediately launched into a retelling, complete with detailed descriptions of the zombie that answered the door. 

“That must have been really scary, baby girl. I’m proud of you for being brave. Are you proud of you?”

I didn’t have an answer to that, so I hopped off her lap and ran off to compare loot with my brother. The corpse man was forgotten until the next morning when I recounted the tale for any classmate who would listen. 

III. Break

My mother liked to blame the full moon for things. “It messes with people, you know,” she said. 

I snapped back at her. “I’m not a werewolf.” Although there was a small part of me that hoped that I was—it would explain the not-sleeping. I became unwillingly nocturnal. My eyes remained open, yet I thought of nothing but nightmares. I’d turn on every light in my room—once, twice, three times—so no shadows could leap out of the cotton candy walls or bubblegum carpet. Night was the only time I appreciated the design choices my six-year-old self had made. It was harder to imagine sinister things living inside walls painted the color of unicorn excrement, although my mind did its best to think of grim things anyway. I weighed my body down with blankets and stuffed animals. The plush fabrics became soaked with my sweat. 

At a certain point, I just stopped trying. While the rest of the house slumbered, I took out pen and paper with shaking hands. I would write for hours, most of it nonsense, until my hand cramped, and I’d collapse from exhaustion.

IV. Breath

After my mother picked me up from yet another session, I told her I was tired of exorcists. They looked at me with too much pity, not enough empathy. They spoke to me like a child and thought of me like a project. They had given me medicine that had killed one ghost but birthed another. I was sleeping again, although fitfully. But sleeping had become the only thing I wanted to do. Just a few days before, I had remained in bed for the entire day. I just stared at the ceiling and refused to eat the food my parents left on my nightstand. As I stared out the car window, legs pulled to my chest, I reminded her of the depressed stupor I had been in after one exorcist’s advice. 

“You just haven’t given them enough time,” my mother responded. “You just have to keep talking so they can help you.” 

“That’s just it, Mom. I’m tired of talking.” I had been speaking of my hauntings for months now, saying the same things again and again. This was my purgatory. So as we drove home, I broke down crying, a mix of the soft sobs of exhaustion and the hot tears of anxiety. 

For a while after that, my mother stopped taking me to see the exorcists. But a few weeks later, she told me she had found one last someone for me to see. I agreed because as hard as my hauntings had been on me, I knew they had been just as hard on her.  

I sat down in her office, the room dimly lit by warm lamps and winter sunsets. I waited for the usual questions, the prodding, the poking, the pushing at my ghosts. Instead, she offered me a notebook and a pen. 

“Write,” she said. 

“Write what?” I asked. It felt like a trick. 

“Anything you want.” 

So I wrote about the stars and a sky dressed in unsuspicious blue. And that night, for the first time in months, I slept. And I had no dreams. 

V. Blood

I started writing letters, never sent, when I was fifteen or sixteen. I messily penned rhapsodies, odes to people who hardly cared that I existed. I loved the idea of being in love, yet I hated the feel of it. I confined my feelings to these letters, keeping their contents entirely to myself. It was not an easy feat. They begged to be sung to the world, to be screamed from rooftops and out of windows.

Around this time, I made friends with vampires, beautiful but deadly. They would often take out forks and knives, ask for my heart to be served to them on a platter so that they could discuss and dissect and dine on it. 

“Just give us a taste,” they begged, licking their lips. They hungered for more, always more, of the blood, the boys, the buzz. I was terrified that if I gave them a bite, they would find that the taste was not what they had been craving. They would drain me, and it still would not be enough. So I never invited them into my home, my letters. I was lonely. I was miserable. But I was safe, and so were my writings, buried at the bottom of my sock drawer. 

Even after the flames I carried burned out, one by one, I did still wonder what would have happened if I had let someone’s eyes on my confessions of love. Perhaps they would have sung the words along with me. 

VI. Bitch

It is frighteningly easy for men to become monsters. I watched it happen countless times. The first symptom is a lashing tongue, venomous spit. The first time I encountered such an occurrence, I was thirteen. I was walking back from school when they appeared, smiling and sneering and snarling. They grabbed my backpack, tugged on my hair. I kicked the ringleader, then ran the last few blocks home. The next day, I made eye contact with them in the hall. I stared at them, refusing to be the first to look away. They didn’t bother me on my walks anymore, but their message was clear all the same. I was not untouchable. 

Two years later, a boy in my literature class told me that if I had been alive during the Salem Witch Trials, I would have been burned at the stake. A second boy in my physics class claimed that he didn’t trust my calculations. I then caught him trying to cheat off me during our midterm exam. In my art class, a third boy thought he was being helpful when he loudly explained to me that my opinions made me unattractive to all men. I laughed and said it was a good thing he wasn’t one. He then called me something worse than “witch.”

At sixteen, I started a feminist newspaper with a band of other girls who had been told to burn. The first article I wrote was about sexism in the classroom, how smart women are the most dangerous creatures to men, the most harrowing threat. I was told, by several comments on the website post, that my article was just proof that women were overly dramatic and hysterical. I wrote my next article about female rage and the fragility of men’s emotions based upon hormonal science. The comments increased, but so did our numbers. More witches joined my team. We were writers and artists and dreamers, and all the other things that teenage girls could be. 

VII. Bone

I had this dream about driving. As I would approach a red light, I’d slam on the brakes, but nothing would happen. The car kept barrelling forward, right through the intersection. Some nights, and these were the good nights, the intersection was clear. The road was empty. Other times, it was my mother who stood in the middle of the street, staring at me with wide eyes, begging me to stop. It was my best friend, pleading with me to brake. It was my brother, screaming at me to slow down. And sometimes, it was me out there on the pavement. I could never stop the car soon enough. I’d see the spray of blood cover the windows, feel the squelch of viscera under the tires. I’d wake up after this excruciating moment of impact. 

If I couldn’t fall back to sleep, I’d get out of bed and stand in front of my mirror. I’d peel off my skin slowly, watching my reflection do the same. I’d rip apart tendons and sinew, tossing them aside. Then I’d reach into my chest and pull out my lungs, my heart. They too would join the pile of flesh. When I was little more than bones, I would retreat into my closet for the night. In the morning, I’d hang my body back over my skeleton. I would stretch my fingers, crack my knuckles. Tell myself it was just a dream. There weren’t really monsters in my closet, or under my bed. No, it was just me there inside my head, inside my room. 

These words offered me a little comfort, if only for a moment.

“AW.” by Jessie Sun

Web & Event Team member Jessie Sun shares a poem written in Florence last summer.

I got tulips from the market on my way back 

Bright orange

Surrounded by the little yellow on the edge 

I washed the beer bottle we left in

the garbage can last night

and put the tulips in 

“AW.” perfectly fit 

-

I should learn how to walk instead of getting in so many accidents every time

i am on the street

“AW.”

I hurt my knee

and my jaw 

I had some wine and went back home 

for some first- aid spray

World spinned

Am I drunk

“AW.” 

Oh, I fell

- 

Walked into a coffee shop

Espresso

Iced americano

Latte with oat

I’m not creative

That’s all I would get

“Have a good one!”

“AW. Thanks, u 2”

I always wonder if people really 

wish me a good day

Or they’re just saying  

It’s not my culture

I don’t fucking know

-

“AW.” I always just take it

Power in the Blood of the Lamb by Phoenix Frank

Prose Editor Phoenix Frank shares an excerpt from a larger piece: It's the late 1970s when a surely not-cult named The Flock rolls into the small southern town of Willow Brook. Its two primary members, Father John and "Little Miss Suzie," take a liking to Mrs. Merriam Anderson, a once promising woman turned burnout.

It was July when Merriam first spoke properly to Susanne Lewis.

The girl sat on a stool beside her, wearing a baby-blue A-line skirt that some of the girls often wore to church, the ones with the puffy sleeves. They sought refuge from the sun on the balcony of the house, the air smelling of heat and the damn-near burning wood of the patio. Merriam had made some lemonade when it became obvious Susanne had no intention of soon leaving. Susanne didn’t so much as glance at the pitcher.

“You read a lot, don’t you?” Susanne asks abruptly. When she sees the confused look Merriam sends her, the girl elaborates: “I saw your bookshelves inside. They didn’t seem like nothing Mr. Anderson would read, and you don’t have kids, so… I figured they’re yours.”

Merriam hesitates. Her fingers drum on her thigh, and her breathing goes shallow. “They are.”

“You went to school, too, didn’t you? One of the nice ones. Out of state.”

“I did.”

“I bet it’s because you read a lot. That’s what everyone says, right? You get smart reading. That’s what my mama told me. I was never good at reading. Only thing I ever read was the Bible, and then I got tired of that.”

“The Bible isn’t something you tire of reading,” Merriam says.

“Yeah. Well, I did. I got bored. It’s boring.” Susanne stares at Merriam, as if daring her to object. “The only stories I liked were the love stories,” Susanne says. “But I never read them myself. My mama read them to me, instead. When I was little. The ones with the princes and grand weddings. The happy ones, though, not the sad ones. I didn’t like the sad ones.”

Merriam suspected Susanne had an exceedingly shallow understanding of the word like.

“But then you get married, and it’s never really like that, is it?” Susanne muses. She stares at nothing, eyes glazed over as she strokes her chin. “All you hear married people do is complain about the other. They always say they’re joking, but everyone knows they’re not.”

Susanne’s brows furrow, and then she’s turning on the stool she’s perched on to look at Merriam.

“Have you ever had that, Mrs. Anderson? That kind of sweet love in the stories and songs?”

“No.”

“I think it’s possible. Maybe. I mean, it has to be, right? Where else would they have gotten the inspiration to write them in the first place?”

Merriam says nothing. She taps the ash off her cigarette instead, licking at her gums. 

“The Flock has it, I think. Love,” Susanne murmurs. She traces the lines on her palm as she thinks. “I know you all don’t think we do, but we have it.” Susanne looks at Merriam. Merriam looks at Susanne. “The Flock could love you too, you know.”

“Don’t,” Merriam mutters. The last thing she needs is to join some hippie cult consisting of runaway teens and middle-aged burnouts. And even if Merriam has reached a point where she’s desperate enough to throw her life away in favor of wearing white linen religiously, it’s not to join a flock. 

Merriam doesn’t want the love of a lamb. It’s too soft. Too delicate. She craves something with teeth to devour her whole and without scrutiny. Something that makes her feel better about her own rottenness. And maybe that’s why she ended up with Winston in the first place. Maybe she’s always known better. Maybe she likes how much better of a person she’ll  always seem in-comparison with him.  

“Were you and Winston ever in love?” Susanne asks. “Any kind at all?”

Merriam doesn’t look at her when she asks that. Susanne has those wide eyes, bambi-eyes, the kind that make someone’s skin crawl at the sudden awareness that comes with being perceived by something so innocent. Merriam can’t stand that feeling, can’t stand the expectant expression that comes with it. Susanne only asks questions that she already has a desired answer for, and Merriam fails to answer correctly every time.

“No,” Merriam says, finally. She goes quiet for a moment—sucks on her lipstick-stained teeth—and then she continues. “Winston doesn’t know how to love. Just obsess. And even then, that ain’t for anything living. Craving a bottle of whiskey is the closest he’s ever come to wanting for something, and that’s just for keeping the aches away.”

Merriam doesn’t include that she liked that about him when she first married him. Liked knowing he didn’t love her. Because then, it meant she didn’t have to love him, or even pretend to. 

What she didn’t like, however, or even know about at the time, was his passion. The part of him that wasn’t detached. The part of him that asked to see his brother’s ruined face at a closed-casket funeral.

“Did you know that when you married him?” Susanne asks. “That he was like that?” Her voice comes out pinched. Tense. It makes Merriam’s spine straighten as she watches Addler’s Bakery close up for lunch across the street. 

“I did. Not everything, but I knew.” 

Hunger. That’s the best word for it. There’s a hunger in Winston. One he doesn’t know how to quell. Or maybe one he just doesn’t want to.

Merriam takes a drag from her cigarette, leaving a ring of Avon red on the filter. Her fingers pinch it like it’s something delicate, elegant, her crimson nail polish gleaming in the midday sun. Winston had his vices. She had hers. At least she could look decent while doing it.

“So why?” Susanne asks.

“Why what?”

“Why marry him? You could’ve gone anywhere. Done anything. You got out.”

Merriam snorts. She snorts, and she’s not even bothered to try and cover it up with the back of her hand or to look away demurely. Instead, her lips curl back in a self-repulsed sneer. How does she begin to explain it? How does she give an answer to Susanne that doesn’t make the girl find her repulsive? Merriam herself can’t even stare into a mirror herself without wanting to break it, and even that’s a poor replacement for what she truly wishes she could do to herself.

“You were married once,” Merriam says, avoiding the question entirely. Susanne blinks, and then her brows raise, and the corner of her lips twitch. 

“How’d you know?”

Merriam says nothing. Instead, her concealer-caked eyes flicker down to where Susanne compulsively rubs circles near the knuckle of her ring finger, even in its bareness. Susanne stiffens, then stops.

“Did you know?” Merriam asks. “When you married him?”

“Did I know what?” Susanne snips. Merriam’s eyes narrow as she takes another inhale from her cigarette, the smoke tickling the back of her throat before she blows it out through the nose. Susanne pouts, crossing her arms stubbornly as she looks the other way. “Smoking’s bad for you, you know.”

“Father John smokes.” Merriam shrugs, and takes another drag. That makes Susanne shut up quickly. Merriam takes the chance to enjoy the sound of the buzzing cicadas in the brief silence—the wonderful quietness that comes when Winston is away.

“I didn’t have a choice,” Susanne whispers finally.

“Mm,” Merriam hums, and that’s that. Susanne fiddles with the fraying stitching on her dress, and the ice cubes in the lemonade shift in the sweltering heat. Even the Jackson’s dogs are quiet, too miserable to bark at their own shadows.

“You know, Father John says that men are just animals,” Susanne says, staring at the beasts where they hide in their rotted-wood houses. “He says that we’re just as hungry. Just as desperate. We just pretend not to be. He says that some people know better than others, though. The ones who embrace it.”

“Yeah? And who’s that.”

“People who take what they want. Do what they want.”

Merriam’s lips press together, and then they purse, like having tasted something sour. 

“And who would that be?” Merriam repeats. “My Winston? Your husband?”

“I’m not married. But yes.”

“You were.” A pause. “So what does that make us, then?”

“It makes you a coward,” Susanne states simply. She stares at Merriam, unblinking, expressionless.

Merriam’s eyes narrow in response. 

“But we were all cowards once,” Susanne adds. “That’s why he calls us The Flock. We enter unknowing and blind. But eventually, we come to see the truth. To lead our own path. And then, we become like Father. He’s not like us, you know—not one of us. He’s our Shepherd. He shows us the way. Shows us the truth we’re too blind to see.”

Merriam lets out a breath she didn’t realize she’s been holding, and finds she’s pinching her cigarette so tightly that the filter’s crushed. She snuffs it out on the ashtray on the balcony’s railing, watching the smoke die out slowly.

“You hear yourself when you speak, don’t you?” Merriam asks. “Are you too dense to be offended?”

“Father John says only a fool becomes offended at their own reflection. I know what my nature is. I welcome it with grace. But I’m not a lamb anymore, either, you know. Father John says I’ve graduated.” Susanne pauses, head tilting like a curious pet. “I think you could, too. Become something greater.”

Something cold grips Merriam’s gut at those words. You could too. She frowns, and starts picking at the nailpolish on her finger to busy herself. Susanne takes it as an invitation to keep talking:

“You’re pathetic, sitting there, letting that man do as he wishes to you. I’ve seen it, and Father John has, too. You’re not like them. Not weak. So why do you let him treat you like you are?”

“What would you have me do?” Merriam mutters. A wry smile crawls onto her face, a hoarse chuckle sneaking past her lips. “Kill him?”

Would it be so wrong to confess she’s thought about it?

Susanne’s right eye barely twitches, and then she wipes her nose with her thumb as she sniffs. “That’s what I did,” she says. Merriam blinks. “It’s not hard,” Susanne continues. “You think about it for a little while, afterwards, but it’s really not so bad. And you don’t even have carpet flooring. That was the worst part, you know, the cleaning.”

The corner of Merriam’s lift twitches upwards. Her shoulders tremble, her chest shakes, and something akin to a grimacing grin crawls onto her face. Susanne smiles, too, but it’s not the same.

“What?” Merriam asks. A laugh escapes her, and her cheeks hurt from how much of her teeth she bares. But Susanne doesn’t laugh with her. She just keeps on going.

“Plus, you live on Main Street,” Susanne says. “Everything’s closed up when it’s dark. No one would hear you if you’re quiet enough. And even if they did, you can lie. Everyone knows what happened to William. Would it be that odd if it happened again?”

“Don’t talk about William.”

“I’m simply saying, Mrs. Anderson, no one would wonder. No one would talk. Even if the truth came out, no one would blame you.” Susanne’s eyes flicker between hers, her expression unreadable. “Aren’t you tired of pretending to cower? You’re not surviving,” Susanne says, “you’re acting.”

Merriam’s lips part, but no words come out. They get jumbled up and caught in her throat instead, keeping her from taking in a full breath. “You’re insane,” Merriam croaks. “I would never—I could never—”

“If you won’t, he will.” Susanne whispers. She hesitates then, wets her lips, and then she’s reaching out to clasp one of Merriam’s hands in her own. “Trust me, Mrs. Anderson. I know.” She squeezes Merriam’s hand, leans in closer—close enough for Merriam to count the freckles on her still baby-cheeked face. “I know.”

But Merriam also knows: Winston’s no killer. He’s a scavenger. The vulture that comes after the fact to slice open carcasses and eat their innards, leaving hollow-shelled-bodies behind. He’s too cowardly to be the one to make the kill himself. Always has been.

Slowly, Merriam pries herself from Sussanne’s grip. The girl’s hands are sweaty from the summer heat, a hangnail scraping Merriam’s finger as she pulls free. 

“You need to learn to keep that tongue of yours in line,” Merriam says. “Not everyone in this town will be so willing to listen to your tall tales and instigating. No one else will find these jokes of yours funny.”

“It’s not a joke.”

“I’m not going to kill my husband,” Merriam snips, seething. Susanne’s eyes widen like a child being told no for the first time, and then she’s looking away, hands wringing the fabric of her dress. The conversation ends there, quickly, like that. The bells of the Church would soon ring, and the congregation of The Flock would soon head up to the white building on the hill to hold hands and speak of things like inner peace and transformation. And while Winston would end up dead in a month’s time, Merriam really hadn’t lied.

She wasn’t the one to do it.

Snooki of Coney Island by Lauren Stanzione

Managing Editor Lauren Stanzione shares a short story following the timeline of a young Italian-American couple's relationship in their hometown of Coney Island, Brooklyn, NY. Themes of young lust, anger, and violence.

Brandi looked like Snooki. 

That’s what the principal said. You gotta stop dressing like Snooki. We don’t like you dressing like Snooki. Brandi didn’t care. She lived by the beach. She would be Snooki if she wanted to be Snooki. No pleasure was more abundant than a cheetah-printed push-up bra bought by her mother. Rico would come up behind her, cupping her like a vase that was not delicate but was rather handmade, sturdy pottery. Etruscan pottery. Rico called himself that, an Etruscan. Brandi didn’t know what that meant. Nor did it bother her. She didn’t care about that much. Besides the boardwalk. Coney Island. Rico. And her look. She very much cared about her look. 

If an Estrucan was Rico, they must be beautiful, sculpted by something out of this world, and work the clam bake. Tall, tanned from head to toe, gentile locks smelling of his father’s guido hair gel and rough comb. Big smile, big laugh, big hands, she knew what that meant when she saw him at the register two years ago, with the boardwalk noise and the guns; there were always guns. When he had given her a sideways look, those arms, shoulders, and said ciao bella. She hadn’t looked him in the eye; she was Snooki in Brooklyn, why would she. But she knew. Under the hours of festival upkeep, Brandi knew her heart was molten, gooey within an urn. She desired to look into him so deeply, her fingers would be rooted in his ribs, caught in the webs of bone until she died. 

Rico gave her a free granita from the back, crafted by his father in his old Italian age. He told her to come back when everyone was gone, around twelve. Brandi didn’t like hanging around too long. Her Dad was dead. She didn't want to see him anytime soon. 

Brandi ate her clams. The other neighborhood girls clicked their toes, false eyelashes irritating their lids and spurring on crankiness. Let's ride the Ferris Wheel, said Brandi, holding onto bleached hair from the box, one of her friend’s new looks. No, the girls said. We’re going home. 

She and Rico made out on the metal grate against the Cyclone. Had sex in the empty gelato parlor. It wasn’t great. But held potential. He was big. And strong. He liked to hold her face, tracing it in swirls of sweat and peppermint spit. It was the first time anyone had touched her cheek, jaw, chin, hair. Rico left covered in tan foundation. He stopped wearing wife beaters around then. 

After that was a lot of hand holding, jumping from one side of dislodged planks to the other, and sharing chicken tenders on the sand. Brandi became a scooper in the summers. Ice cream sweet, decadent, which Rico would lick off when the children all went home. Clam boy Sicilian, Scooper Snooki. College-aged non-college-goer sweethearts. 

*

Rico’s Dad, who was almost eighty, needed money. Rico’s mother was just shy of her forty-first birthday. Their inherent distance created odd tensions. 

But Leonardo, Rico’s dad, he made very good fish. Especially on the feast of the seven fishes, December 24th, Christmas Eve. Brandi attended with Rico one year; everyone forgot her name and looked at her weirdly. Why'd they look at me like that? She asked, undressing. Rico watched her. Swallowed. Looked out the window, which was frosted over. It’s all that shit on your face, he replied. The fucking lashes. And the tits, did you have to keep the tits for my family? Clasico intonation, ragey with a smile. That was Rico. 

Rico boxed her against the wall and fucked her. It was really good. Angry. He didn’t touch her face, just the cheetah bra, this one was red. For Jesus. For Christmas! She would never put the tits away. She liked them too much. 

A summer. Two. Twentieth birthday, Rico still needed money. He started doing cheap shit, selling his father’s things. Stealing. Rico was incredible at stealing. His smile, trusting, that's how he reeled them in. He would find a watch, or diamonds, or both, he was smart like that, scouting out rich goers and offering services of cleaning, plumbing, air conditioning assistance; Rico was as handy as a father. Once, her sink broke, and he had taken his whole hand, that gargantuan Sicilian hand, and shoved it down there with the dirtiness; it reminded her of when he would try to finger her. But more erotic. Way more. He was sweaty, his black shirt straining his organs, his gentlemanly mouth, his laugh which refracted from the metal to her ears. The sound reminded her how much she loved him when he would watch her in the morning, her back against his chest, his hands playing her spine like an antique piano. He was, of course, very good at the piano. Billy Joel, but more sightly. And Rico’s creations, one can not forget: tomatoes, bread, cheese, olive oil; he was lean and ancient and Mediterranean, an Olympian in a poor man’s body. And always, the boardwalk. He would point oddballs out, jowly men. He knew what to say to make her laugh, always. Sitting on the sand, forgotten towel, melting makeup. He always brought his mother’s makeup wipes in his bag for her on those days. He knew she would forget, with the makeup doing, bikini choosing, shoe walking, jewelry selecting, how was there time and space to remember? 

Rico got caught. Eventually. But this time, it was someone in the neighborhood. Witler. Brandi told Rico not to steal. What do they tell you, Rico, they tell you not to; she nagged and nagged and nagged, went through vanilla bean and rose petal and pistachio sunrise and orange cream, these were all the body sprays she went through in the three months before Rico died. The last one. Cherry. He loved cherries, tearing the stems from the body and swallowing them whole, pit and all, lips stained red, laugh dark and fragrant. She bought it for him, but he never inhaled it. He never knew she cared that much, that she would scoop to buy things for him, that she would scoop for him, and that night, she stole, she stole her mother's watch and had six hundred dollars, enough for Leonardo’s medicine, she should have said more. She should have told Rico to fuck off when he said that thing about her tits on seven fishes. She should have said goodbye then. The Cherry body spray wouldn't be sitting here, on her dresser, red, bloodied. 

Rico wanted to take her to the fair. They had fought. Just about Witler. Don’t go stealing from Witler, Brandi commanded as she pressed her magenta acrylics deep into his bicep, leaving little moons. Fine. Fine, I’m not going to steal from Witler. I hope you're happy when my dad fucking dies. Brandi just rolled her eyes, watching the reflection of her fake eyelashes in her peripheral vision. She should have worn more lashes, an indication to Rico to fuck off. They went to play some games. She huffed and puffed, rolling her eyes: pink heels, pink skirt, white tank, pink tits, khaki skin. Hair crackled and straightened until it fried. Bubble gum, sweet, she moved it between her teeth. She told Rico he didn’t have to win her anything. Really, he didn’t need to. But he insisted. Don't tell me what to do, Rico said, his arms and hands playing a game with the air. But he laughed. I’m getting you that penguin. I’m gonna get you the fucking penguin. 

Even when she was angry with him, and he was being his Siciliani stubborn self, she loved to watch him. His neck was sugary and burnt. His back, curved, croissant-like, flaky, tan. Legs, long, so long. Laugh, deepest thing... A joy so palpable, something she wished she recorded and could play on a loop. I don’t care, she had been repeating this as a mantra to herself. I don’t care. I’m Snooki of Coney Island. I don’t care about Rico. I don’t. Fuck him. He tossed the rings. One ring. Two. Six. One away. He was one away. 

Witler, up behind her. "Hey, sexy," he whispered, hand on her lower back. He had pimples, blond hair, and blue eyes—the dead kind. He reminded her of the Hudson. He was always sunburnt, even in December. He was a heavy breather, Irish, used to bring beef jerky to lunch, and had a powerful handshake. Everyone knew not to mess with him. 

Witler slithered past her. He dug into his pockets. Tapped Rico on the shoulder. Rico turned, expecting Brandi. Witler shot him. Rico died. 

At the funeral, she kept her tits away. That was the last time anyone saw her, Brooklyn graveyard, Avenue U. Her mascara blackened her face, charcoal toothpaste reminiscent. Her lashes in the grass. Heels, muddied. Tan melted away. There was no Rico to provide wipes. Rico was dead.

Excess by Laila Kayyali

Poetry editor Laila Kayyali shares a poem in which she responds to the poem "Glimpse" by Ada Limón.

Glimpse

In the bathroom our last

cat comes up to me and purrs

even without touch she purrs

and there are times I can

hold her when no one else

can hold her. She once

belonged to my husband’s

ex-girlfriend who is no longer

of the earth and what I’ve

never told him is that some

nights when I touch her

I wonder of the cat is feeling

my touch or just remembering

her last owner’s touch. She

is an ancient cat and prickly.

When we are alone I sing

full throated in the empty house

and she meows and mewls

like we’ve done this before

but we haven’t done this before.

— Ada Limón

Excess

In response to “Glimpse”

There is both a friendly and hostile aspect about the ability of things fitting, lopping off the excess; hence separate, sever, several. His ex-girlfriend, the cat, you. Today is every single yesterday. The cat must know this. She is relieved from the constraint of loving only a single person's touch. In absence, a low protective wall comes before the skin, around a healing wound. Near, nearer, nearest. Hope; hence readiness. Like buds in winter, warming their pinched faces in the sun. She is glad to be with you, and you her. You are glad to be together.

— Laila Kayyali

My Top Eleven Books of 2023 by Vella Chen

In the last year, Copy Editor Vella Chen read a total of 130 books recreationally. These are the top eleven books she loved reading the most, listed in the chronological order she read them.

1. Cloud Cuckoo Land by Anthony Doerr (Simon & Schuster) - January

A multi-century epic saga about how the power of literature transcends time. The ensemble of characters takes you through an emotional journey throughout a non-linear narrative. I was hugely impressed by the writing, the scope of the novel, and how all elements managed to be fleshed out and tied together.

2. My Body by Emily Ratajkowski (Macmillan) - February

In the autobiographical essay collection, model Emily Ratajkowski explores her relationship with her body and modeling as a young girl, working model, and mother. It was my favorite essay collection I had read this year, with a succinct writing style, clear voice, and a balanced blend of personal and cultural analysis. One essay references lyrics of the song “Lucky” by Britney Spears, which was such an astute choice and truly stuck with me.

3. Several People Are Typing by Calvin Kalsulke (Penguin Random House) - February

Gerald gets stuck in the Slack of his company and tries to find his way out through exchanges to and between his coworkers and Slackbot. A critique of capitalist work culture told through Slack messages, it's a little depressing, funny, but also heartwarming. This was probably not the book’s intent, but after finishing it I found myself wanting a corporate job so that I could use Slack to see what the big fuss was about.

4. Severance by Ling Ma (Macmillan) - March

An apocalypse novel following Candace, who remains in her job and in New York City as long as she can, even as the world around her falls apart during a pandemic. Out of the three pandemic-related novels I read this year, this was by far my favorite fictional depiction of a pandemic. Incredibly tangible worldbuilding and a complex character. This novel really shaped my understanding of the pandemic/apocalypse genre, also in film and TV.

5. Someone Who Will Love You in All Your Damaged Glory by Raphael Bob-Waksberg (Penguin Random House) - May

From the creator of Netflix show Bojack Horseman, this is a collection of vignettes and short stories of varying lengths and genres. Oscillating from solemn and introspective to surreal and humorous, the book is eclectic. It’s an absolute masterclass of worldbuilding and storytelling. Each piece is wholly distinct from the other and nuanced enough to be expanded into a novel of its own. I loved it so much that it was the only book I bought a physical copy of this year.

6. Margot by Wendell Steavenson (W.W. Norton & Company) - July

Margot, a girl from a wealthy family, struggles with finding herself within the gendered constraints of upper-class society during the 1960s. Margot was one of my favorite characters to read about this year, even though her journey is filled with fluctuation, disillusionment, misfortune, and betrayal.

7. A Visit from the Goon Squad by Jennifer Egan (Penguin Random House) - July

An interconnected short story collection and novel hybrid that follows a large cast of characters who have their lives touched in some way by characters Bennie Salazar and Sasha. I’ve unconsciously compared every short story collection I’ve read since to this book (which is totally unfair of me). It’s a fantastic look at writing characters, and Egan manages to expertly craft a slew of idiosyncratic people and narratives.

8. Half a Lifelong Romance by Eileen Chang (Penguin Random House) - July

Set in 1930s Shanghai, the novel follows the ill-fated romance between Shen Shijun and Gu Manzhen. Grappling with class disparities, gendered societal standards, familial strife, and vicious misunderstandings, this book is a complicated and heartbreaking tragedy with a bittersweet ending.

9. Monstrilio by Gerardo Sámano Córdova (Zando Projects) - August

When a young boy dies, a monster born of grief takes its place. The four-part book takes place in multiple countries and follows the impact the death has on the mother, father, a family friend, and the changeling monster himself. One of my favorite horror narratives I had consumed this year, containing an insightful look into grief, identity, sexuality, desire, and humanity.

10. Paul Takes the Form of a Mortal Girl by Andrea Lawlor (Penguin Random House) - October

Paul, capable of changing his body and gender at will, navigates American cities and tumultuous romantic relationships with men and women while trying to understand himself and the nature of his abilities. With a plethora of references to literature, theory, pop culture, and beyond, the reading experience is incredibly intertextual.

11. Autobiography of Red by Anne Carson (Penguin Random House) - October

A modern-day poetic retelling of the Greek myth of Geryon and Herakles. Geryon, a boy described as having wings and scales, hails from a dysfunctional and abusive home but enters a brief romantic relationship with visitor Herakles. The pair reunite in adulthood, although their relationship is not the same. While I read considerably less poetry, the narrative left a lasting impression on me and one that I want to reread to catch everything I missed.

shape watching by Minha Choi

Web Team member Minha Choi shares a poem about a time she spent hours watching everything around her and realized that everything has lines in it.

I am surrounded by sharp lines all the time.

there are so many of them

they drive me crazy enough to miss the times that I never had when I never knew of them.

when the lines stare back at me

when lines slice the open spaces into twos

when lines slice a stranger passing by in halves

when lines trap the ones I love in its belly

when lines trap the world in its belly for display

and when lines strike wind flying unexpectedly

I frantically trace the figure with my eyes, feeling its edges

and can’t help but hope that the beginning will meet the end,

then back,

then from the end to the beginning,

where a line will end and another will start.

but after that is nothing.

nothing and its unforgiving presence

sometimes, a comfort

On unassuming days nothing stills me and I can’t waver where nothing touched me

I hear the lines shriek and yell “betrayal!” and then crumble apart

where everything kept falling and falling

where the alarm clock never rang

where thoughts were in terms of negatives

where death seemed a cruel question mark

where nothing nothing nothing nothing nothing was a steady beating void

where I kept crying like tears evaporating

where the beginning was a beginning and the ending was an ending

where quietly, quietly

I Have Never Known Peace, and Neither Have You by Pritheva Zakaria

Poetry Editor Pritheva Zakaria shares a prose piece about the paradoxical nature of the world when it comes to judging others, and how we perceive others isn’t just black and white.

No one really knows what they look like. We only know what we look like through rear-view mirrors, makeup vanities, and obscure pictures we take of ourselves. We exist somewhere in between our school picture day photos and the dim-lit disposable camera photos we take at parties. Humans are not omnipresent beings though. Instead, we are one-track-minded individuals who can only see what’s in front of us. We are so obsessed with ourselves because we never get to see ourselves. Instead, what’s in front of all of us are people. Jealousy and resentment fill the air because of this; we’ll never get to see what we look like when we laugh, cry, smile, or sleep. We only get to see these things about ourselves either through other people or technology. Maybe that’s why I'm obsessed with people loving me and knowing me, because they are the only entities that will ever know what I truly look like. If I could rip out my eyeballs, gut myself of my visionary mobile, just to see what I look like for a fragment of a second, I would. If I could examine myself under a microscope, I would.  If I see into my imperfections, insecurities, and wrongdoings, I would. 

When I was younger my sister and I would stare into each other’s pools of eyes. It used to be my favorite game to play, my favorite pastime. But what we didn’t realize at 10 and 12 was that we would look into each other’s deep eyes just to see our own reflections. What I saw in her eyes was my small frame and crooked teeth. As young girls we were taught to value our external beauty, to keep up with ourselves, to not let ourselves go, because once you do, people would notice, and isn’t that just arguably the worst thing? Growing up is not a linear thing, it’s a back-and-forth-pulley system in which you have to learn to rewire your brain and the way you operate to preserve your own mental and physical well-being. 

Learning to let go of what people don’t see even though we think they see is the biggest part. But as you get older you’re told that whatever you do is not enough, that you’re not enough. Everything you do is manipulative and calculated, and you couldn’t possibly be sincere because all we care about is vanity. This paradox we live in is quite frankly impossible to leave, but impossible to live in as well. 

But can you blame us, we have no idea what we look like! And right next to that, we’re fed those ideas and missions of finding proper beauty and happiness. I have never known peace, because girls like me are always ready so we don’t have to get ready. Girls like me are never the first chosen to be on the team, so we always anticipate the sidelines. Putting on our best dresses for the show because we know we’re not actually a part of it. The solution to this disastrous mindset is to constantly remind yourself you are the exact opposite of the words you curse at yourself in the dead of the night. 

It’s easy for me to critique others, especially when I’m on the outside. I’ll never know what it’s like to be like you, yet my mind will still draw conclusions. We run formulas and scientific experiments in our heads about the way each and every person operates, but we’ll never ever know. The only way we could ever get a glimpse into the way someone operates is through how they treat others. 

The closest I’ll ever have to see what I truly look like is in the faces, identities, wrinkles, and past and future histories of my sister, mom, and grandma. I only know what I look like through my mother describing me as looking like my dad’s mother, and my friends demanding that I look like my sister, truly. I look at the people in my life and wonder where on earth they are getting these comparisons from, but once again, they are the only people who truly know what I look like. I swallow my pride, bite my tongue, and nod. They know best. My mother knows best. I don’t know anything, I’m not as smart as I think. These are the mantras I repeat in my head as I look into all my friends and family’s eyes.  

Determining whether or not something or someone is beautiful puts too much responsibility on humans; this is not what we’re made for. To explore, read, eat, and love, those are the things that make up my life. Placing others on a subjective scale of beauty which equates to worth and value is something I’m not cut out for. Because of this paradoxical power we all seem to have, it makes me resent myself even more. If I could love myself the way I'm told I should love myself, I would. We are constantly told that we should love our bodies and brains and hearts, because that’s all we got for the rest of our lives. But, it’s so hard when you curse your ancestral line for making you look the way you do. As if you could point your finger and blame someone for the way you look and the way you act, everything we criticize in this lifetime is ridiculous and superficial. We walk around the streets thinking that we are being judged by everyone, but the truth is, everyone is so focused on how they are presenting themselves that they don’t even have the capacity to evaluate you. I’ve never been good at listening, so maybe that’s why I can’t listen to my own advice. I’m so tough behind my screens and papers and journals, but I can’t seem to wrap my head around the idea of being beautiful in my own right. 

So the pedestal that I place my friends on, solely because they are the only beings in the world that actually know what I look like, and in some right, I’m one of the only beings that knows what they look like, reiterates the arbitrary rules that define what it means to be human. To be human means you judge yourself before you judge others. To be human means you study yourself in the mirror for hours but won’t second-look someone on the street. Being a human being with a beating heart means that you’ll break every bone in your body before your best friend’s soul is touched. If we’re all like this, then why do we even think twice about how we are perceived by others? Everyone is looking for their own ray of sunshine, no one is focusing on the big bright ball in front of you. 

My best friend is the taller, smarter, kinder, athletic version of me. My sister is the older, taller, smarter, prettier version of me. In some ways, my little brother will grow up to be the male-presenting, less-emotional, taller version of me. We all define the people in our lives through ourselves. To us, everyone is someone in relation to our beings and states of mind. And according to my state of mind, they are all versions of me. 

When you think the whole world despises you, that all your friends hate you, that simply isn’t true. In fact, we would hate ourselves to hell and back before we would ever let our friends think we can’t stand them. Maybe when they’re having a rough day, they’re just having a rough day, it has nothing to do with you. Maybe it really isn’t all about you. 

When the sun sets and I tuck myself into my twin-sized bed, maybe it will all be okay. Maybe everything that racks my brain will end up becoming the humorous stories I tell at parties that make my friends and strangers laugh. From the way my friend’s eyes crinkle up when she’s laughing to the way my little brother’s breath rises up and down when he’s sleeping, the world is always moving. Maybe to move on, you have to look for the things that make you want to see the sun in the dawn and the moon in the dusk. Every heartbreak, irrational fear, awkward first meeting, family reunion, inequality, and burnt toast is a human reminder that it will all be okay. I’ll play that game with my sister in which we look into each other’s eyes, but this time, I’ll try and try to look for her in those eyes instead of…me.

it will not pass quickly enough by Ranina Simon

Poetry Editor Ranina Simon shares a poem about wishing to belong (to a city; to a person) as easily as two old Chinese fishermen.

your youth betrays you

doe-eyed in someone else’s coat

breaking your thousand-yard sulk 

for the men who have crossed this bridge more times 

than the express trains

so while you play chicken with everyone’s footsteps

daring the runners to shove your back

into the east river

they’ve inhaled enough of the churn to match 

your drowning gasp

on their four-limbed commute

(two wheels, two legs)

over the floor that’s more river than floor

past the railing getting strangled by some brooklyn wind 

the wheeled one pedaling a languid stroll

the legged one walking with spokes for shins

remember that this water’s mostly salt 

as you inspect their passing haul

(four poles, no fish)

you’ll feel one step closer to the spray lapping 

at the bottoms of your boots 

when the high tide swells in your eyes 

because his hat tilts the same angle as 

his hat

over liver spots

and his hands clutch the handlebars the same way 

his hands 

wield the poles 

and he could burn a trail down the grates 

switch a gear and let the skyline blur

the clouds get caught in his crow’s feet

the air roaring with the waves

but you’re crying because he won’t 

and the river infects you like you wish the city would 

each gray hair bleached in a dollar’s worth 

of soy sauce and pizza grease 

holes torn in jacket pocket seams

loose change tumbling

(three quarters, two dimes

the pennies multiplying)

until the floor stops rumbling 

because the men have reached solid ground 

at their snail’s pace 

an arm’s length 

the same time 

to keep their line of conversation slack

their bloodless hooks waving goodbye

to your dry, stoic back.

Murakami Women by Hazel Walrod

Prose Editor Hazel Walrod shares a short story.
Split between a college Friendsgiving party and a fall day in Central Park, “Murakami Women” is about people unraveling and coming together. Content warning: brief discussion of disordered eating and violence.

You asked to meet up at Central Park by the pond. It is November, so everything is shades of brown and orange and yellow, besides the geese, who are stubbornly gray and black. I arrive first, so I pick a bench and sit looking out at the water. I brought a book along, Sputnik Sweetheart. The day after the party, I went out and bought it, driven by some odd determination. The bookstore bookmark is still wedged between the pages where the cashier slipped the receipt. 

You arrive fifteen minutes late and start fast-walking when you see me. You’re wearing a little green coat and red scarf, somehow without being Christmasy, and a black skirt. “Sorry I’m late,” you say, a cloud of hot air coming out of your mouth. I watch the cloud spread out and fade away. Your hair is back in a long braid and your cheeks are flushed. 

“No problem, I was too.” 

“Well, good.” 

I fidget with my scarf, then see you are doing the same, and stop. 

You break the silence. “I guess we should probably talk about the party?” 

I give you an awkward smile. “You were kind of pulled into it, I feel bad.” 

“Not at all. It’s just all really intense. Has that sort of thing happened before?” 

I shake my head, “Not like that. But sometimes I feel like we are all close to violence in a way, right? Like there’s this thin line that we don’t cross usually, until someone does. Especially between people.” You draw your eyebrows together, considering. 

“I guess you’re right, I just never think of it that way. It’s kind of scary,” you laugh as if to lighten the mood, and I suddenly feel bad. 

“She’ll be fine, though, really,” I say lamely, trying to catch your eye. When you look back though, I feel unsure again. When I finally break away and look down, I find myself watching your hands again, and they are dancing around in your lap, never still. I think of the stillness of my apartment after everyone left. 

“I hope so,” you say. 

I open my book and flip through the pages, listening to them shuffle. “I was really struck by what you said at the party, about wishing you were a Murakami woman.” 

*** 

I don’t know whose fault the party was, really. I think it started as a late birthday celebration for Stella and then was postponed too many times for that to make sense anymore, before it finally ended up at my apartment on November 18th, as some type of Friendsgiving. I thought Friendsgiving was stupid, but Stella and Mike really leaned in, and then we all went along with it. I just didn’t like eating much, and I think Stella secretly agreed, which made the whole thing an emotional conflict for her, which she, I guess, enjoyed. 

It was us three, plus Stella’s boyfriend Christian, and then Lenora, my roommate Dante, and you. Those were the people who mattered, anyway. A small thing, Stella promised me. Stella was really into intimacy, and her latest idea was dating your friends, which meant hosting themed parties and sending platonic love letters and things like that. The first letter she sent me was inside a pink envelope and was covered in stickers, addressed in calligraphy lettering. It was all about memories from freshman year, and I wasn’t sure it even applied anymore. One of the memories was of a party around this same time, in which we had slept together on the carpet of someone’s dorm, spooning for warmth. When I thought back, I couldn’t remember this party at all, and thought she might have mixed me up with someone else. 

*** 

Stella and Christian were breaking up at the party. We could all tell something was going to happen between them, but Stella told me beforehand that she was sick of his shit and she was finally going to do it. I was in my bed with no pants on at the time, cradling my phone next to my ear, resting my head on my knees. 

“Well, how are you going to do it?” I asked her. 

“God, I don’t know, is it bad to do it at the party?” 

“Yeah,” I replied, “please don’t do that.” 

There was a short silence on the phone. Then, she said “I just don’t think I can do it alone, when it’s just the two of us. I don’t think he’ll understand and then I’ll just let it slide.” 

“I don’t know, Stel, but you shouldn’t, let it slide, I mean. It’s okay if he doesn’t understand, honestly.” 

They came to the party together, and Stella was smiling too broadly. She gave each of us a hug and set some mashed potatoes on the table. Christian looked surprisingly handsome that night I remember, and was giving everyone small smiles. I never knew him that well but I knew that they would not last, so I avoided eye contact. 

It happened right before dinner, for some reason. There were way more people there than Stella had said, and I was trying to keep things together. All the windows were open as wide as they would go, and cold air rushed in from all sides, unsettling the tablecloth and pulling petals off of flowers. I could see them across the room, though, heads bent together. Stella said something and scrunched her face up in the way she does when she is sad. Christian stood very still for a long time. Because he was still, Stella became still also, and their faces were so close and illuminated with the yellow light of a nearby lamp, they reminded me of old porcelain dolls, cracked and tarnished. Then, I saw him grab her arm a bit roughly and shake it, which made her recoil and try to push him away, which I guess made him angry. I heard the word ‘bitch!’ but I think that was only the end of what he said. The eyes of the party were shifting onto them as she finally broke free and walked away, towards my bedroom. She shut the door behind her, and I could hear, even from across the room, the click of the lock. 

*** 

At the dinner table, I sat between Lenora and Stella, who was sitting next to Dante who was sitting next to Mike. We had dimmed the lights and lit candles and tried to make things festive and for the most part succeeded, though there was still an air of somberness, probably because of the fight. Christian sat on the far end of the table and honestly, I don’t know why he was still there, why no one had thought to make him leave. 

“Thanks guys for coming, and obviously thank you for hosting,” Stella said looking at me. I smiled back at her quickly. “I’m really grateful to have you all as friends.” Her eyes were glassy and red, but she was not crying and there was no wobble in her voice. I felt like I should do something, but I couldn't think of what, so I just clinked my glass with hers and took a drink. Stella was always teetering on an edge, but she never seemed to fall. 

No one else had any speech to give, so we just started eating. Lenora brought up the topic of Murakami. “I just read Kafka and honestly I think it’s the best book I’ve read in a long time,” they said, at first to no one and then directed at me when our eyes met. I nodded a bit. 

“I liked it, but wasn’t his relationship with that woman a bit weird? With the age gap?” Lenora nodded, “For sure, but you have to read it like art, like a metaphor, you know? In the context of what he is saying, it makes sense, same as the cat killing and all that, but if you think of it as real life, then yeah, it’s fucked. I guess I just like how he isn’t afraid to talk about sex and love in a different way.” 

“I can never tell if he writes such horny shit because he doesn’t get laid, or because he does,” Stella said, which made me laugh. “But god, the women in those books!” “I know, it’s bad. I almost feel like all his main characters, even the little boy, are author-inserts, and he uses them for his fantasies,” Lenora said. 

“I mean what’s really wrong with them, though?” Mike asked from down the table, having to raise his voice to be heard. Stella made a little hmph sound, like she was ready to argue. 

“The women are all pale and soft, or otherwise saggy and old, and examine themselves in the mirror. It’s like they are either completely innocent to their sexuality or completely aware of it and use it against men, like some sort of weapon,” I said. 

“Femme fatales,” Stella added. 

Mike took a large bite of mashed potatoes, and I could see the wheels in his head turning, working on something. “I mean I guess, but I don’t think that’s all together inaccurate. Like, there are a lot of women out there. I know some like that, who use their looks or whatever. He just writes from the male point of view – you can’t always be mad about that.” 

“You haven’t even read his books, Mike, so I feel like you can shut up,” Stella said. He raised his hands in the air as if regretful. I felt like this conversation could take a turn.

“He writes about lesbians too; he loves lesbians,” Dante said loudly, looking right at me. “Why are you looking at me?” 

He shrugs, smiling, because it is obvious. I make a face at him back. 

“He just writes about women kissing because it turns him on, not because he actually respects lesbians,” Lenora said. I took a long sip of my drink and got dizzy for a second before it settled. 

“Come on, is it really that deep though?” Mike asked, red in the face. 

“Mike, fuck off about it if you are going to be so misogynistic,” Stella snapped. Dante let out a long exaggerated breath. I put a hand on her shoulder but she didn’t look at me. Sometimes Stella could get carried away, extrapolating everything to misogyny. Maybe he was being misogynistic, though, I don’t know. 

“I’m just saying there’s no harm in describing attractive women, how is that an issue?” he replied, going back to his food as if the conversation was over because he willed it to be. Stella stood up suddenly, the chair scraping, and left the table without a word. I was relieved and at the same time annoyed. 

“Sometimes I wish I was a Murakami woman,” you said out of nowhere from the other side of Lenora, just as the dust was settling. “Just a beautiful body.” I really looked at you then, for maybe the first time, but then I got shy and watched your hands, which seemed to always be moving, like a hummingbird flitting between branches. 

“I’m going to check on Stella,” I said, and pushed away from the table, tripping on the leg of my chair. 

*** 

After the ambulance left, I finished cleaning up in silence. It’s amazing how many people can disperse so quickly, without goodbyes. By the door, there were mud smudges and bits of grass where the pile of shoes, now all removed by their owners, had been. The empty wine and cocktail glasses were rimmed with lipstick and stuffed with napkins. I was still very drunk, and walked around the room as if I was gliding, time speeding up mid step, so that all at once I was far too close to the table before I crashed into it. My head was throbbing and it was maybe 3 or 4 in the morning by then. Still, I decided to vacuum the glass around the couch, mesmerized by the crunch of each shard being sucked up into the vacuum’s stomach. I wondered briefly how it would feel to pick up a handful of these pieces and swallow them, whether they would scratch the itch in the back of my throat. When I started to feel a real temptation, I shut off the vacuum and left it leaning on the table. I shed my clothes, piece by piece, and stood in front of the full length mirror in my bedroom, examining my body. The moon was out and made my skin look milky and radiant, a second moon. I wondered how Murakami might describe me, if I was a woman in his novel. 

She cups her breasts, weighing them side by side, checking for irregularities. 

I stopped looking at myself and climbed into bed, staring into darkness, thinking about what you said.

*** 

I found Stella in the bathroom, crying and rummaging through my pill cabinet. “I’m so sorry, this is such a mess,” she kept saying, over and over, until the words lost their meaning. I said “it’s okay,” until those words lost their meaning, too. Then, we sat in each other’s arms for a long while, silent except for her sobs, listening to the dinner conversations filtering in from the other room. There were small silences, clinks of plates and silverware, and then bursts of laughter. 

“I know you said not to do it, but I just couldn’t keep going, you know?” Stella finally said into my shirt. 

“I never said not to do it. I think you did the right thing,” I told her, stroking her head. “Do you think he’ll forgive me?” she asked, her voice so unbearably small. 

“I don’t know, Stel, but it doesn’t really matter.” 

The tiles of the bathroom warped around me, reminding me of a giant net holding us in. I could hear music playing through the walls, but couldn’t pick up anything but the unending bass. Stella felt stiff in my arms, and I wondered again how close she was to the final fall. 

“Bro, fuck this, I’m gonna go play poker.” She wiped her tears with the back of her hand and then the tips of her fingers, pressing hard under her eyes so that they bulged. I thought maybe I shouldn’t let her go, but she gave me a winning smile and squeezed my hand, as if she was comforting me. 

I sat in the bathroom for a while, letting the bright white tile consume me. The door swung open to your face, already beginning to blush. I stood a bit too quickly. 

“Sorry!” You just stood there, not closing the door. 

“It’s fine, I was just sitting here,” I said. 

We introduced ourselves. You’re Lenora’s friend from their history class, you explained, looking a bit embarrassed. I understood the embarrassment of being brought along, a friend of a friend at someone’s house, unsure how comfortable you could be. 

We went back into the living room together, and they were playing poker now, all circled up on the carpet flipping cards. Mike or Stella had brought the chips, I think, but they were my cards. We watched from above for a moment, as if in a casino game. You didn’t know the rules of this game, so I explained them, but you still didn’t get it. 

“I’ll just tell you when something good happens for someone.” 

Afterwards, we went to my room and looked at the posters on my wall. “Right, Len told me you like movies a lot,” you said, sitting on my bed. 

You were wearing so many rings stacked up on your left hand, but your right was completely bare. I asked you about it and you shrugged. “I like to have one practical hand, and one decorative one, I guess.” You said it so earnestly, that I nodded along, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

I sat down on my bed too, but farther from you, and I was very conscious of the way the bed sagged and seemed to pull you closer, so that really, we were only a foot or so apart. If I made even the slightest move, you would feel it too. 

“I’m hungry, should we go eat more?” you said, bouncing a bit so that I bounced, too. I shook my head, “You can go, though.” I realized I didn’t want you to. 

You looked at me for a long beat. “You left dinner right when we started, though.” I shrugged, “I’m not really hungry, it’s okay.” 

“Do Mike and Stella hate each other?” I laughed at your bluntness and you gave me a sheepish smile. 

“No, actually they’ve been friends the longest between us, even since middle school I think. I feel like they’re too similar and that’s why they fight so much. I’m sorry you had to be there.” 

You laid down and stared up at the ceiling. “It’s okay, I’ll just hide in here.” I didn’t know what you meant by that, so I didn’t respond. You smiled at me. “Are you close with Stella?” 

I laid down too, mirroring you, careful that our arms didn’t brush. “I guess, but less so than freshman year. She’s just so competitive, even about things you shouldn’t be, like for a while we would count our calories and she would be mad if she didn’t ‘win.’” As soon as they were out, my words felt meaningless and pathetic. You let out a slight breath, in between a gasp and a sigh. 

“I’m sorry,” you said quietly. 

“No, I don’t know why I said that. Stella is a good friend.” The more I spoke, the more I felt my body disintegrating, assimilating into the mattress. I was trying very hard not to look at you. “You should go get some more food, if you want.” 

You whispered something, and I could feel the goosebumps rising on my arms, little pinpricks. “What?” I said back, shifting to face you. The bed brought us close abruptly, so that our noses were only a small space apart. I looked down to avoid your eyes but found myself looking at your lips, which was worse, far more suggestive. 

“I said I don’t think I’m that hungry anymore,” you said, and kissed me. 

The sound of shouting outside finally broke us apart. You sat up, listening. I looked at your body, twisting away from me, and felt a rush of anticipation, for when you eventually turn back to me, full force. You looked incredibly graceful, just listening. Then you said, “I think it’s getting serious” and the moment was over. 

*** 

Outside, the poker game ended, and its remains were scattered. Some people had left, and the apartment felt empty. Stella and Mike were shouting at each other, and at first I couldn’t tell what they were saying. Everything was blending together. 

I pulled on Stella, and spun her towards me. “Hey, hey what’s going on?” My voice was delayed coming out, and I felt my mouth move without willing it.

“He lost the game and is being all pissy about it.” 

“It’s not about that – she’s mad about Christian,” Mike said loudly. 

“Yeah you really think you are so fucking funny, bringing him into this,” Stella spat. I could see her, teetering on the edge, in front of me but out of my control. 

“What did he do with Christian?” 

“Brought him into the game, making all these jokes about how it will throw me off,” she told me, and then turning to him, “you’re just jealous.” 

Mike laughed, “He’s my friend too, Stel.” 

“No he’s fucking not! You’re just mad no one wants you so you have to make it unbearable for everyone else. Jesus.” I looked around the room, for Christian, for anyone, really, but it was just a blur of faces, heads moving this way and that. 

I could see the rigidity of Mike’s body, the way it was pulsing with energy. Stella could too, but she was soaking it up, playing off of it. 

“We fuck once and everything is all of a sudden about you,” Mike said, painfully slowly. “If I had known you’d act like this, I wouldn’t have even bothered.” There was a short silence that hung in the air after that. My eyes met Len’s across the room and they shook their head slowly, but I didn’t know what they were trying to signal. 

The sound hit me only after the impact. Mike whipped backwards, as if tugged violently by a string, and I felt something wet on my arm. Little red drops, most of them not larger than a mole. I looked up and saw Mike clutching his face, blood dripping in between his knuckles, and shards of glass at his feet. Stella’s arm was still in the position of her release, as if she was frozen. For a moment, everything was still again, before I heard the crash. 

Then, Mike was picking up a cookbook from the coffee table and winding back, swinging hard. I think I screamed, or maybe it was you, I don’t know. I watched Stella’s head fly back against the couch cushion, snapping so suddenly I thought it would come right off. The thud was something horrible. Only after she had fallen did I remember the phone in my trembling hands, and call 911, my voice speaking without me there to control it, long, winding sentences. It doesn’t matter what I told the dispatcher, they came eventually, and everyone left. Before then, though, I remember thinking that Stella is beautiful asleep and that maybe once we did spoon on a carpet at a party, even though I don’t remember where. 

Mike had his face in his hands, everything dripping, so I couldn’t tell if he was crying or only bleeding or maybe both. I put my hand on his shoulder and watched the panicked procession, until it was just us, the important people, me with Mike, Lenora at Stella’s side, checking her breathing, and you, with your hands in your pockets, always restless. 

*** 

“What did I say? I can’t remember,” you tell me, sitting back on the bench, warming your hands. 

“I’m not sure,” I lie, “something about being beautiful, I guess.”

You laugh a little, bouncing now, to keep warm. I put my hand on your arm and rub a bit, to try to warm you up. “Thanks. I think I said I wish I were a Murakami woman sometimes, because they are so beautiful.” 

“But also miserable, right?” 

“Sure, also miserable, in a way. But their misery is beautiful too, you know? They don’t have to do anything because they aren’t real, just symbols, or fantasies. I don’t know if they are supposed to be sexually liberated, or repressed, but I guess I envy how much power their bodies have over the protagonist. Whether they are too young, or too old, or whatever. Am I making sense?” You glance at me sideways, and we laugh a bit. 

“Yeah, no, I understand. It struck me, what you said, because I thought it was a brave thing to say. Like, you don’t try to make yourself sound better. But anyways, I’ve had thoughts like that, too. I’m sure it’s normal.” 

“Well, I don’t really care if it’s normal,” you say, looking out over the pond. I follow your gaze and see two geese standing on a rock, one foot up, their long black necks tucked backwards over their bodies. “They’re sleeping, I think,” you say. 

A cold wind picks up around us and throws dead leaves through the air. It feels, in some ways, like this scene, between us, is completely removed from the events of the party. I think of my bed, and our weight on it, of how unbearably soft your hair was under my fingers when I ran my hands through it and caught on the braid you had begun, and how you giggled mid-kiss, how you let me unravel it. I think of Stella too, and how she finally did go over that edge, and I don’t know how she will be when she recovers, when the bruises heal. I don’t know how much people who love each other can endure, after all. 

Two girls pass us, giggling, arms linked, and I suddenly feel very shy and small, sitting next to you on the bench. 

You find my hand before I can work up the courage, which is maybe always what will happen. We watch the geese for a long while, and even clasped around mine, your hand is never still.

Join the West 10th 2023-2024 E-Board!

Applications are now open for the 2023-2024 Editorial Board!

We are seeking to fill positions on the poetry, prose, art, web, event, and copy-editing boards.

Please direct all questions and completed applications to west10th.submissions@gmail.com. Applications are due by 11:59 pm on Friday, September 29th.

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National Poetry Month 2023: Lorraine Olaya

Call for submissions!

West 10th is now accepting submissions of poetry, prose, and visual art for our 2021-2022 edition, coming this spring. The deadline for submissions is December 14th, 2022.

Please read the submission guidelines here, and contact us at west10th.submissions@gmail.com with any questions about the submissions process.

Call for Submissions

West 10th is now accepting submissions of poetry, prose, and visual art for our 2021-2022 edition, coming this spring. The deadline for submissions is December 13th, 2021.

Please read the submission guidelines here, and contact us at west10th.submissions@gmail.com with any questions about the submissions process.

Join the West 10th 2021-2022 E-Board!

Applications are now open for the 2021-2022 Editorial Board!

We are seeking to fill positions on the poetry, prose, art, web, and copy-editing boards.

Please direct all questions and completed applications to west10th.submissions@gmail.com. Applications are due by 11:59 pm on Wednesday, September 29th.

Please download and complete the application below:

West 10th E-Board Application 2021-2022

*Note: please do not apply to the board if you are graduating in December 2021. This is a full-year commitment.

Call For Submissions

West 10th is now accepting submissions of poetry, prose, and art for our 2020-2021 edition, coming out this spring. The deadline for submissions is December 18th, 2020.

Please read the submission guidelines here, and contact us at west10th.submissions@gmail.com with any questions about the submissions process.

Join the West 10th 2020-2021 E-Board!

Applications are now open for the 2020-2021 Editorial Board!

We are seeking to fill positions on the poetry, prose, art, web/social media, and copyediting boards.

Please direct all questions and completed applications to west10th.submissions@gmail.com. Applications are due by 11:59 pm on Tuesday, September 15th.

Please download and complete the application below:

West 10th E-Board Application 2020-2021

*Note: please do not apply to the board if you are graduating in December 2020. This is a full-year commitment.

Storytime by Jeannie Morgenstern

This was the story of the girl with long hair and eyes the color of a winter sun. One might think it innocent, harmless. But this was the tale I hated most of all. 

If there was one thing that I despised, it was the nighttime ritual of storytelling. I appreciated humanity’s ability to create, to perpetuate, to oppress, to systemize, to compartmentalize, to identify, to embrace. Without those things, I would not be here. But I hated story time in its pure form because, above all else, it showcased humanity’s ability to fear. Storytime was what made me become feared on Sycamore Trail, and I did not want to be feared. Fear was something different, it was blinding. I could understand why some would resent me, Femininity, me, the one who made you look in the mirror and abhor what you saw… But I did not want to be feared. Worked with, worked around, forgotten, moved beyond, hated, forgiven. But not feared.

As much as I wanted them to stop, stories proliferated freely, without shame. There was one story in particular that lived on Sycamore Trail that seduced everyone: it was the story Cecile’s mother would tell every night, once having learned it from the woman who lived next door, who learned it from the woman who lived next door to her. Whispers of a girl that had once lived in house number 4 spun in each home, beating with a life given by the breath of repetitive parents and starry-eyed children. 

After turning 13, it was said that her eyes burned with the color of a violent purple storm. She cried often. She cried consistently, and they said it was an act of self-indulgence. She cried a thousand tears every time a leaf fell. Yellow fingers of maples and oak on her walk home brushed her shoulders, and at this sensation she cried so hard the night sky began to cry as well, as if the world wanted to join her and her underwater emotions. I want to mention, these tears were not necessarily sad. But not one storyteller said that part of the story, they only mentioned that the tears fell, heavy, blue, and otherworldly because no one knew such hunger, such pain, could be part of the world in which they also lived. These tears lasted from the equinox to the solstice. At night, she hid, feeding the darkness with her tears. Her mother would want to come into her room, to ensure her daughter was okay, but the girl kept the door locked. With a blotched face, she cried and feared the day her mother would touch her with soapy hands. There was something about them that made her skin crawl. Even just conjuring the image in her mind, she was overburdened with a hot feeling of distaste, the visceral unpleasantness that comes from something bubbling, greasy, lukewarm. Her breath hovered and she swallowed a wave of nausea. Something about the soap, the soft s-sound, the invariable smell of lemons that were not ripe and still overripe. She hid from her mother consistently.

Cecile’s mother’s  favorite part of the story was when she said, “the girl’s mother’s hands were for folding dishtowels, for washing dishes, for gardening and getting dirt in the smallest crevices of her palms. For pushing stubs of candles into a cake. For holding hands and dancing. She would grip her daughter whenever she could, and make her dance with her. Her daughter would cry, sometimes loudly, sometimes softy. But her mother was unafraid.” I myself enjoyed this part.

Cecile’s mother would continue, telling of how, once, the girl’s mother had managed to grip her hands in her wrinkled ones, and pull her into a dance. This took place in the kitchen, with the trembling infancy of an October morning pouring in from the outside. Something about the death of a luscious, green summer, the emergence of an autumn fire, overwhelmed the girl and she would already be breaking with emotion, overflowing (they blamed me for that overflow, but I wanted to say—I never wanted to put boundaries on you people!). She loved it and drank it in, but her heart would consistently leak melancholy. She loved the autumn leaves, so she would step on them, grind them down with her feet.  Cecile found herself doing the same thing, reveling in walking through a yellowy, fragmented powder after school. When Cecile realized what she had done, she started walking on the other street, the one bald without any trees, without any leaves. She kept her hair short. But still, her birthday loomed. I followed her, seeing everything.

Although the neighbors were looking forward to autumn, they also became afraid, for the wailing that this young girl emitted made them think something terrible would occur, that they would be dragged out of their homes by a girl with long hair who had a sensitivity to soap. Who cried often, had long hair. As the story was passed around, sampled, shared, their fear grew. The girl must have been cursed. Cursed by me. She was afraid of soap. She cried often. Her hair was long. She must have been cursed. By me, Femininity, by me, who they imagined as a conglomeration of fruit, flowers, the inside of things but not the outside—the sensitive, craggy bits of life that no one appreciated.  This was the story that was passed down to Cecile.

Cecile dreamt of this girl in the story. She was afraid of her—afraid of me— and imagined her, her sobs, her hair, her tears, her dress, her legs, her face, all long, all reflecting something Cecile thought was me. She did not know where the dream started, and the girl began. She imagined her skin pristine, even though she did not like soap. Cecile was 12 years old. She feared the day she would turn 13, afraid to become the girl in the story. Learning this broke my heart, but I could do nothing. Did these people not know that I was to come whether they liked it or not? And these stories would do nothing: when her mother, one day, found Cecile gasping for breath in their red bathtub, covered in lukewarm water meant to kill, she decided to tell Cecile it was just a tale. Nothing to fear. She wouldn’t become like her, god forbid, emotional, wet, dripping, afraid. But Cecile never forgot the story. I never forgot, either.  

It was November 12th. Cecile’s birthday was tomorrow. She fell asleep, and dreamt of the kitchen, of the girl dancing. She fell asleep with tears on her cheeks, afraid. She woke up with the sound of the girl’s howling in her ears, and there were streaks on her body, tails from silver tears that burned… It was her 13th birthday. November 13th. A day where the blue sky shone brilliantly between the yellow-orange shells of something willing to die. Cecile looked at that tree outside of her window, and trembled. Tears spilled over her lids and she knew there was an ocean inside of her. I longed to sit next to her. To bend down and whisper in her ear, “Don’t you know the story? Don’t you think there is something beautiful in her vulnerability? Don’t you think her face was flushed red? Don’t you think there is clarity in that heat?”
But instead, I sat there, watching the tears fall.