Selections from the Bronx Loaf Writers’ Conference
July 6th–10th, 2015
Bronx, New York
Bronx Loaf Writers’ Conference
www.bronxloaf.org
Foundation for Letters
www.foundationforletters.org
UA Bronx Academy of Letters
339 Morris Avenue, Bronx, NY 10451
www.uabronxletters.org
Bronx Loaf Writers’ Conference is presented by The Foundation
for Letters, at the Urban Assembly Bronx Academy of Letters.
The Foundation for Letters promotes improved college access
through engagement with writing by providing urban schools
with a range of literary-focused academic and enrichment
programs.
Copyright © 2015
All rights reserved by the original authors. No part of this book
may be reproduced by any means, electronic or mechanical,
including photocopying, recording, or other methods without
the permission of the individual authors directly.
Cover art by Skye An © 2015.
Additional artwork by Kezia Clarke, KeVaughn Lee Merrill,
Nicole Chapko, and Aniqua Tasnim.
Cover and Interior Design by Olivia Croom.
“Letters are like seeds. You mix and grind them into flour, into
words. You mix these with eggs and salt and commas and ideas.
Then, you have a masterpiece.”
—Anna Steingold
Contents
Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ix
Gottlieb’s Galactic Goons
Paris Armstrong
The Forged Front . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .3
Mary Binninger
I’m Not In Love . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .8
Sam Abramson
Excerpt from Harken Little Warrior . . . . . . 16
Eric Soto
An Unmatched Kindness . . . . . . . . . . . 24
Kezia Clarke
Saving Face . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 31
Alin Haberle
Sojourner . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 40
Aniqa Tasnim
Them. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 47
Villar’s Valkyries
Nicole Chapko
Cry me a Sunset . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 55
The Nothing Box . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 56
This House . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 58
Lauren Puglisi
Note to the Photographer’s Groom . . . . . . . 59
Doing Laundry in College for the First Time . . 60
Tequila . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 61
Brianna-Christine E. Alicea
The Excrescence . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 62
Tamari Francois
Pretend It’s Okay . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 65
Adam Aharoni
Crunchy Park . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 66
Monika Luchowska
Himalayas . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 68
Celebrations of Sea . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 71
Cardenas’ Cosmic Conquerers
KeVaughn Lee Merrill
Homo Novus: The New Wise Man . . . . . . . 75
Anna Steingold
Excerpt from Deepest Cut . . . . . . . . . . . 84
Kiara Rice
The Happy Clinic . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 90
Skye An
Lovely, Dark and Deep . . . . . . . . . . . . . 96
Randy A. Morales
Take Over . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 106
Nijiko Falconer
The Eternal Life of Elijah Pence . . . . . . . . 115
Wilson Chapman
Opposing Forces . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 121
Tran’s Two-Steppers
Ta’Shea Parham
The Witch is Dead! . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 133
One Less Nigger . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 134
What Makes You Think it’s
OK to Overlook ME? . . . . . . . . . . . . . 136
Jack Snyder
Brain Battery . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 138
Kayla A. Mccarthy
Angel on A Swingset . . . . . . . . . . . . . 140
Lucia Hassen
the upheaval of my former youth . . . . . . 141
coffee stained love . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 143
Nashalie Robledo
Night . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 144
Homage to my stomach . . . . . . . . . . . 146
Perla M. Gil
Nature ends . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 147
Clouds . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 148
Kenderly Soto
What the Sea Told Me . . . . . . . . . . . . . 149
Where I’m From . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 150
Precious S.
Life’s Terrible Truth . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 151
Silent Death . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 152
McPhee’s Mavericks
T.J. Blanco
The Other of Two . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 155
Anne Cebula
The Calm Before the Storm . . . . . . . . . . 164
Molly Foster
The Lonesome Moon . . . . . . . . . . . . . 166
Lucas Larson
Journey . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 169
Daniel Ortega-Venni
The Battle is (Never) Over . . . . . . . . . . 172
Renee-Elise B. Piana
Reborn Again (and Again) . . . . . . . . . . 180
Patrick Seaman
Candles . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 182
Liliana Piña
Bliss . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 189
Acknowledgments . . . . . . . . . . . . 195
Writers . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 197
Bronx Loaf Staff . . . . . . . . . . . . . 205
Introduction
Opening Remarks Delivered to the
Bronx Loaf Writers on July 6th, 2015
Welcome to the third annual Bronx Loaf Writers Conference.
We have here today over 40 Loafers from nearly 20 different
schools. You have made your way from Queens, Brooklyn, the
Bronx, and Manhattan. There are Loafers from Long Island
and Loafers from Madison, Wisconsin—and even Loafers from
London. We have gathered from all across the city, and beyond,
to participate in five days of creative writing and community.
I want to begin this conference by reminding you what a
privilege it is to be alive in 2015. We live in some of the most
exciting times in human history. We really do. The world is
changing faster than now than it ever has before. It’s changing
culturally, politically, economically, and—perhaps most of all—
technologically. Every day we seem to inch closer to a world that
was once only possible in the pages of our wildest science fiction.
In fact, recently I read an article in the newspaper about the
founder of Facebook, Mark Zuckerberg; he was offering a vision
of the future of technology. “One day, I believe we’ll be able to
send full rich thoughts to each other directly using technology,”
he said. “You’ll just be able to think of something and your
friends will immediately be able to experience it too if you’d
like. This would be the ultimate communication technology.”
“Send[ing] rich thoughts to each other”? “Think of something
and your friends will be able to experience it”? That’s telepathy.
Telepathy sounds an awful lot like creative writing, doesn’t
it? Why wait for the future when we already use creative
writing to share “full, rich thoughts”? Is anything better than
poetry or storytelling or memoir help people understand our
“experience”? According to Mark Zuckerberg’s definition,
creative writing is already the greatest communication
technology ever invented.
ix
And lest you think, “Who wants to hear my thoughts?” or
“Who wants to know about my experience?” know this: someday
in the future when people look back on this time in history
they are going to look to the poets and the storytellers to help
them understand what it’s like to be alive. You are talented and
energetic and because of that you carry the same responsibility
all writers do: to tell your stories and to share your experiences
through the written word.
For instance, I’m getting kind of old. And my parents are
even older. They were your age in the 1950s and 60s. When
I was growing up I loved the 50s and 60s. I loved the music
of the Beatles and the Beach Boys (still do), and I loved sock
hops and bell bottoms, and I wondered what it was like to go
to Woodstock and to watch Neil Armstrong land on the moon.
But my parents weren’t poets and storytellers like you guys.
So, in a way, I was always frustrated. I think that’s why I grew
to admire authors so much. They were there and they wrote
about it and thanks to them we have special time machines
called novels and plays and short stories.
At Bronx Loaf our goal is teach writers how to become
authors during our workshop. People ask what a workshop is.
What is this concept of the workshop? Writers create; authors
publish. Writing is a solo task, but becoming an author is
communal. The poet John Donne once said, “No man is an
island.” Well, no author is an island. A workshop is where
writers test their writing. They experiment with it. They try it
out on a sympathetic community of fellow authors and editors
and publishers.
A text needs readers to come alive. An author needs an
audience. Over the coming days you will have several audiences
and readers for you work. There are workshop attendees who
will read your pieces. There are your workshop leaders. There
are other Loafers all around you that you can go to. Then there
are the editors and publishers who will read over your work
x with a fine-toothed comb. And once it’s printed and published,
anyone in the world will have the chance to read what you wrote.
Let me finish by quoting that venerable old man, Socrates,
who told his philosophy students that the unexamined life
is not worth living. Similarly, the unexamined writing is not
worth reading. Know thyself; know thy work. Over the course
of the coming days as you think deeply about your writing,
ask yourself what you want to accomplish with your words.
Who do you want to move, persuade, inform, entertain, dazzle,
bewilder, confound, and anger? What do you want us to know
about what it means to be alive?
Christian P. Clarke, Director of Bronx Loaf
July 6th, 2015
xi
Gottlieb’s Galactic Goons
artwork by Kezia Clarke
“Bronx Loaf is a remarkable program for serious young writers.
In the course of a few magical days, they find necessary support
for their work, enhance their identities as writers, and develop a
sense of community. I loved working with these talented students,
and I’m confident they will continue to thrive and grow.”
—Amy Gottlieb
Workshop leader Amy Gottlieb is the author of the novel
The Beautiful Possible (Harper Perennial, 2016). Her
fiction, poetry, and essays have appeared in many journals
and anthologies, including Lilith, Puerto del Sol, On Being,
Publishers Weekly, Storyscape, Zeek, and the Bloomsbury
Anthology of Contemporary Jewish Poetry. Her fiction was
nominated for a GE Foundation Younger Writers Award and
she is the recipient of fellowships from the Bronx Council
of the Arts and the Drisha Institute. She currently teaches
writing and literature at Monroe College.
The Forged Front
Paris Armstrong
S
he entered my room wearing the most severe of expressions,
unfitting for a woman of her age and rank. I, of course,
feigned ignorance of her scornful face and lifted my lips to
display the pearly whites that had sanctuary in my mouth.
“Professor, a word.” It was a demand, not a request. Already
I knew where the conversation would head, and as eager as
I was to trade barbs with the young fox, the maturity that
accompanies age prevailed.
“Hrm? Oh yes, a word. Words can be very useful; the
sensible marks of ideas! So, what ideas would you wish to
evince, friend? Erudite? Colleague? Subordinate?” I added
in the last designation to show the lass her place. Subtlety is
an art, I am often told. I would know this very well.
She, on the other hand, appeared to be even more vexed
with my response than she had been with my sight mere
moments before when she opened my office door.
“Professor,” she said, “allow me to express my skepticism
with your latest assignment. Rather, allow me to demonstrate
the levels of my disdain for the impossible task that you
instructed us to perform before day’s end.” And so she spat.
Luckily for me, my years of dodging such acrimonious
mannerisms had seasoned the joints in my legs, and I swiftly
stood from my chair to protect my face from the glob of saliva,
which consequently landed upon my crotch area.
“Well, now, while I do commiserate with you and your
frustration, I must urge calm,” I said this all very ardently,
with as much restraint as I could muster, and it seemed to have
reinforced her idea of apathy that she had conjured in her mind
about myself and my attitude towards her plight, but I could
see another globe of filth coming, and so I continued: “Calm
and the most passionate equanimity, however unlikely those
Paris Armstrong 3
two would ever share the same host! Now, sit and divulge to
me, like a proper student, what your concerns are.”
She hesitated, then obliged, perhaps realizing how foolish
and detrimental to the goal her actions had been. I cleaned
off my trousers with a gloved hand, then returned to my seat
as well.
“Professor,” she began very slowly, voice low and rather
odious, “you can’t expect us to complete the assignment by
tonight. It’s a ridiculous proposal. How can we with no sources,
no direction on what to look for, where to look; and you, the
only person who holds the power to assist, even in the most
minimalistic of ways, insist that we avoid all contact with
you whatsoever.” She had said her fill, and sat back with her
nostrils flaring this way and that. She was a rather homely girl,
if I might add.
“And this is why you barged into my office, my child, in
so violent a manner and with such ferocity that my heart
nearly burst from my chest?” I was satisfied to see her smug
look flicker somewhat into guilt; typically, she repossessed
the arrogance a second after, as those of this new generation
often refuse to address their obvious faults, even deny the
existence of these faults, as if they were all gods. My throat
was dry and I was suddenly envious of her young mouth’s ease
in producing spit. “I am an honourable man,” I said. “A man
of character! A man of the ancient times, I am afraid, where
sources were unheard of and all of these fancy technological
shortcuts belied logic with their very being. I suppose it was
irrational for me to expect you lot to understand the hardships
that myself and my contemporaries faced when gathering
knowledge…”
“Professor, what are you talking about? Accessing
information may not have been as easy as it is now—don’t
misunderstand me—but I’m sorry, I can’t believe that even
you faced such challenges as the ones that you’ve repeatedly
4 Paris Armstrong
set before us,” she shook her head, as if I were in the wrong,
“Your attachment to this obsolete methodology is confusing.”
“Ignoramus!”
“Old fool!”
“Bring your words to an everlasting surcease and depart
from my office! Never before have I witnessed such disgraceful
behaviour…such petulance…such disregard for common
courtesy!” Now, before I continue, let me assure you, dear
reader, that I was still very much calm at this point, despite
the apparent loss of my temper. You see, I often exaggerate my
emotions while I write, but before you label me an unreliable
narrator, let me remind you that I have written things about
myself in this very article that would promote the feeling of
embarrassment for any man who rather wished those things
to remain clandestine.
“I won’t leave until you give me help.” She stayed right where
she sat, in my chair nonetheless. It was the most outrageous
display of insubordination that I had ever seen in my life, and
I was not one for insubordination.
“Very well; you want assistance, here!” I opened my desk
drawer and retrieved several old papers, mostly notes on the
subject from my youth. “These will undoubtedly help you in
your inimical and dishonest endeavors. You believe yourselves
the harbingers of knowledge, the embracers of wisdom! Bah!
You know nothing, and accepting these papers will confirm
that fact. Wretches, one and all.”
While I lectured the uncivil woman, her dark eyes studied
the sheets of literary gold. Those eyes narrowed into slits the
longer she read, and I was suddenly curious as to what exactly
it was she had found so unpleasant in my writings. I was a
superb writer, one of the best I knew, in fact.
“This is garbage.”
“Ex-excuse me? What did you just utter from your accursed
lips, wretch?”
Paris Armstrong 5
“This is complete and absolute garbage,” she threw the
papers in my face and stood up, “every sentence is ridden
with the same flowery verbosity that plagues your speech; your
diction is inconsistent and incoherently placed; your grammar
antithetical to all literary genius. There isn’t a single thing in
this collection of banal sophistry worthy of pleasant mention,
besides maybe your ability to properly plagiarize,” a malicious
grin appeared on her vile features, fitting quite nicely with her
spurious words. “Yes, did you think I was ignorant of Locke?
‘The sensible marks of ideas,’” she had the audacity to snort,
“I almost would have missed it had I not read into him in my
search for factual discourse on the topic you assigned to us
this morning, a topic increasingly lacking in any validity and
purpose the more I dwell on that it was assigned by you.”
Such mendacity was unbearable, and it was here, dear
reader, where my serene nature was corrupted by rage.
“You have caught me red-handed. Yes you have, my clever
girl, intelligent and cunning lass,” I rushed out from behind
my desk to grab her hand, but she pulled it away. “You remind
me of myself when I was as fit and handsome as you, hehe,”
I tried to give her a friendly punch, but her expression gave
me the impression that she would return the gesture with a
painful passion.
“Look, I offer you my hand in perpetual mentorship. Do
you have the funds for another semester? I can provide that
for you. Two semesters? That as well! Oh, look at me, acting
the officious wretch. Allow me to accompany you to the door,
then to the lecture hall, where I shall offer you and your
peers passing marks! A hundred percent! A hundred hundred
percents!”
As damning as the above article may seem, I am pleased
to stress that my position at the college is still as it was when
the aforementioned scene occurred. In fact, I have been the
subject of many talks throughout the respectable academia.
6 Paris Armstrong
I’ll admit, the sudden fame is somewhat overwhelming, but
far more preferred to the lowly status that I held before that
fateful meeting with the student.
What of her, you may ask? I honestly don’t know. After
publishing her fallacies on my legitimacy as a reliable
professor, she faded, and maybe that isn’t the right word, for
she disappeared rather quickly, into obscurity. Perhaps she
cogitates in the dark abyss of her mind on the unbecoming act
of lying too much, like a novice facing the master of the art.
My self-inculpation was also a lie, as is this sentence. What
do you believe, my dear reader?
Paris Armstrong 7
I’m Not In Love
Mary Binninger
I
edge of the pool with a few friends.
They were all talking about how hot this guy at our school
was. I was used to it, because that was all they ever really
talked about. But, of course, I wasn’t really feeling it. Boys
just didn’t interest me. To me they were gross and smelly and
rude. I didn’t want to be with someone like that. Once at this
party, I found myself looking at the girls more than the guys.
As usual, my friends were staring at the group of shirtless
guys at the other end of the pool, but for me, it was the girls
in their bikini tops.
remember sitting on the
Fast forward a few years later and I am going into the eleventh
grade. I have new friends now because my old ones either
moved or went to different schools. I’ve been in the closet for
about four years, and none of my friends know. I’d love to tell
them, but I can’t help but think that they’d be freaked out or
that they’d automatically think that I’m interested in them.
Plus, I didn’t exactly get the acceptance I wanted from my
mother. Trust me, all of my friends are drop dead gorgeous, but
we’ve been friends for too long for me to actually start feeling
attracted to them. It’s kind of annoying though, because they’re
always saying, “Oh my gosh, I wish I had a gay best friend!”
And I’d always think, “Hey, you have me!” But I guess since
I’m female, and they’re female, it’s not the same.
Now, I don’t quite believe in love at first sight. But as soon
as I saw this girl, I knew I wanted her to be mine. She was
new to our school, and I took this as an opportunity to offer to
show her around, get to know her a little bit and see if I can
figure out her sexuality. I saw her at her locker today, and for
some reason I thought it would be a good idea to go talk to
her. I must’ve forgotten how bad I am at talking to people. She
8 Mary Binninger
had long dark hair, piercings all up her ears, and the nicest
green eyes I’d ever seen. All I kept thinking was, How could
someone be so beautiful?
“Hey, you’re Alice, right? The new girl?” I asked, not
knowing where I was going with this.
“Um, yeah. I’m Alice. Who are you?” She sounded like she
had a pinch of annoyance in her voice, like she was too good
to be talking to me. I loved every bit of it.
“I’m Marina,” I said, hoping she’d take somewhat of an
interest in me. I quickly thought of another excuse to talk to
her. “I can show you around and help you find all your classes
if you need it.” My stomach twisted in knots, anxious with
every look she gave me.
“Sure, that’d actually be really great!” The annoyance was
gone from her voice now.
“Sweet! Can I see your schedule? I wanna see if they’re
somewhat similar.” Alice nodded while rummaging around
in her bag for a second, then pulled out the piece of paper
with her classes on it. She looked at it for a second, probably
making sure it was the right one, and then handed it to me. It
was then my turn to look at it. “Oh nice, so we have basically
all the same classes except for science and art. So I can pretty
much help you around most of the time,” I said, hoping to get
her approval.
“Great, you seem really cool! I hope we can become good
friends.” Alice said as she closed her locker. As she said
that, I felt as if my heart had smiled on the inside. I spent
the whole day not being able to focus, only thinking about
her. She seemed so sweet, you know, after she lost the ‘I’m
better than you’ tone. We had last period together, and I
guess because I was the the only familiar face in the class
she came over to me.
“Hey,” she said. I smiled.
“Hi! How’s everything going for you?” I asked.
Mary Binninger 9
“Good so far…” She trailed off a bit but then sort of picked
it back up. “Are you doing anything after school today?” Little
bells went off in my head, my stomach did somersaults, and
my thoughts screamed ohhhh my godddddd. But I told myself
to not get too excited because she probably didn’t mean it as
a date, like I wished.
“I don’t think I am, whatcha need?” I said.
“Well I was wondering if you wanted to come over and maybe
help me unpack?” She said her words so smoothly, she wasn’t
tripping over them or slurring them. It was captivating.
“Oh cool, I’d love to help. I just need to get a few things from
my locker, but I’ll meet you in front of the school?” I started
to gather my things from my desk.
“Sounds good. See you then!” At that moment, the bell
rang and the room was filled with the sounds of ruffling
papers, student chatter, and chairs being pushed in. My
thoughts were racing so much. I tried to get myself together,
but dammit she was so cute. I was thinking of things to
say so I wouldn’t make a fool out of myself. Though, I’d
probably end up doing that anyway. I finished at my locker
and made my way to the front of the school. Alice was
already outside waiting.
“Hey, ready to go?” I said when I reached her.
“Yeah,” she said looking up from her phone. “Do you have
a car or shall we go in mine?” she asked.
“Well, my house is walking distance from school so I think
that answers your question.” I laughed a bit.
“My car it is then,” Alice smiled. I didn’t notice this until
now, but her smile was so pretty. She led me to her car and we
got in. She started it up and we got going. It was pretty quiet for
most of the ride, and that made me so unbelievably anxious. I
didn’t want her to think I was a boring person or bored with her.
“Okay, this silence is killing me. Does music sound good to
you?” Thank God for her.
10 Mary Binninger
“Yeah, music would be great,” I said agreeing with her.
While at a red light, she reached over me and opened the glove
box. The light turned green and her hand returned to the wheel.
“Pick whichever one you want,” she said. I looked through
the CDs for a little. It was nice of her to let me choose which
one I wanted. With all of my other friends it was the whole
‘driver picks the music, shotgun shuts his cake hole,’ kind of
situation. I made a note in the back of my mind to ask Alice
if she watched Supernatural.
After looking through all the discs, I settled on Stand Up
and Scream by Asking Alexandria. “Here,” I said, handing it to
her. I would’ve never guessed that she liked Asking Alexandria.
She also had various other artists similar to AA, like Bring Me
The Horizon, Of Mice & Men, Motionless In White, and many
other of my favorites similar to that genre but also many of my
favorites outside that genre.
“You like Asking Alexandria?” Alice asked me while
inserting the disc.
“Yeah! They’re great.” She pressed play and Danny
Worsnop’s vocals flooded through the car speakers. We spent
the remainder of the car ride discussing music, who we like,
and who we don’t like. She was so kind, saying she respects
my thoughts because everyone is entitled to their own opinion.
My God, there was no way I’d ever find someone like her again.
Just as she pulled up to her house, track 8, ‘A Single
Moment of Sincerity’ came to a finish.
“I love when that happens. You know when you’re listening
to music while going somewhere and the song ends right when
you arrive. I always hate stopping in the middle of a song.
I’m so weird, sorry.” She looked almost ashamed, but tried
laughing it off anyway.
“Same, actually, I love when that happens too. It just feels
kinda great. And don’t worry, I’m weird too,” I said, hoping
to comfort her.
Mary Binninger 11
She just smiled and turned the keys, pulled them out, and
then opened the car door. She got out, as did I. I followed her to
the front door. She unlocked the door and we both went inside.
She began to show me around, and it was funny because we
had basically switched places: first I was showing her around
school, and now she was showing me around her home.
I asked her what she needed help with, she told me, and
we got started. We were unpacking and organizing, as well as
making small talk. I very much enjoyed this time with her; it
was exactly what I’d wanted. We were getting to know each
other and just talking.
“So, Marina, how are the boys at our school? Are they cute? I
didn’t get a chance to look around,” she said. My heart instantly
sank. There it was. The feeling of rejection coursed through
my body and I felt sick.
“Oh…um, they’re okay I guess. Some are assholes though.”
It wasn’t entirely made up, I’d gone off of what I’d seen with
my friends and their boyfriends.
“I guess I’ll have to see for myself,” she said. I couldn’t tell
if that was meant to be rude, or she was just simply answering
what I’d said. I tried to shake it off, but now everything had
felt wrong. I didn’t want to just get up and say ‘I have to
go,’ because then she’d know something was wrong, and I
didn’t want her to think I was mad at her. That would be so
hypocritical and overly cynical of me, to be mad at her for being
straight. Plus, I’m always saying you shouldn’t make someone
feel like crap for their sexuality, and I think that applies to
everyone no matter what they identify with.
“Yeah,” I said. To make it not seem as weird, I pulled out
my phone and checked the time. “Oh, wow, it’s almost 5:30, I
should probably get going,” I said as least awkward as I could.
“Aw, really? I guess I’ll see you tomorrow?” Alice said her
words so smoothly again. I wondered if she knew, and she was
doing this to taunt me because I couldn’t have her. Due to my
12 Mary Binninger
emotions, I was probably blowing everything out of proportion.
There’s no way she could’ve known that I was gay or that I
had this huge crush on her. Unless someone told her, but who
could’ve told her? I’m not out to anyone I know so I’m not sure
who would’ve…I don’t know. I was just upset and tired. I really
wanted to go home, but part of me didn’t want to. I knew I was
probably going to be in trouble with my mom not coming home
right after school, just like she always told me to do.
“Yeah, see you tomorrow,” I said while grabbing my stuff
and heading to the door. Just as I was about to close the door,
I realized something. I didn’t know where the hell I was. Idiot,
I thought. I went back inside and found Alice again.
“Um, hey again, sorry if this is a bother, but I just realized
that my house is farther than I thought, and I don’t have my
car…So could you, um, maybe, drive me home? Sorry if this
is an inconvenience.” God, I was so embarrassed.
“Oh, of course! Don’t worry, it’s fine. I’ll get my keys, one
sec,” she said. That was easier than I thought, wow.
“Thanks so much! I’m really sorry,” I couldn’t help myself
for apologizing over and over.
“Seriously, it’s not a problem. C’mon, let’s go.” She closed
the door to her house and we walked to her car. The ride was
similar to the one on our way over here, except it started raining
heavily. We resumed listening to Stand Up and Scream, and
talked about more music, but with me interrupting occasionally
to tell her which way to turn or which road to take. We were
probably in the car for 30 minutes tops, and I finally saw my
house. Again, when we pulled into my driveway, the last track,
‘When Everyday’s The Weekend,’ finished it’s final notes. We
both smiled at each other.
“Thanks, really it means a lot. Sorry again.”
“Oh my gosh, it’s fine, stop apologizing,” she said playfully.
“If you insist.” I smiled at her. “Alright, I’ll see you
tomorrow,” I said.
Mary Binninger 13
“See you,” She said as I got out of the car. I ran through the
rain to my door and went inside. I set my bag down, took off
my jacket, threw myself onto the couch, and ran my fingers
through my semi-wet hair. I heard my mother’s bedroom door
slam and her heavy feet stomp down the stairs.
“marina,” She screamed. Home sweet home, I thought. God,
I didn’t even want to think about what was going to come next.
She’d start screaming at me for no reason, and it was times
like this when I wished that I’d never come home.
“Where the hell have you been?” she yelled in that ugly
southern accent of hers. She grew up in a very Christian household
in South Carolina, but because of the situation with my dad’s job,
we had to move to Washington state, which is where we live now.
“I was just at a friend’s house,” I sighed, hoping she wouldn’t
give it to me as bad as usual.
“I told you that you have to come right home after school.
Who were you even with?” Her voice was somewhat lowered.
“Yeah, I know, it was just this girl who is new to my school
and she wanted me to help her unpack and stuff because she
just moved here, and I really like her and—” She wouldn’t
even let me finish my sentence.
“Like how? What do you mean by like?” Oh no, she caught
me. For some reason the feeling of guilt surged through me,
but I couldn’t exactly place why. She knew that I liked girls,
because when I first figured myself out, I thought it would be
a good idea to come out to my parents. My dad took it better
than I thought he would, but my mom…not so much.
“Um, well—” She cut me off again.
“Marina! You know what I told you about having feelings
other than friendship for girls. It’s unnatural and a sin! You
better stop liking whoever this devil girl is.” She was close
enough to me now that I could smell the vodka on her breath.
“It doesn’t even matter. She’ll never want me, she’s straight.”
I wanted to cry.
14 Mary Binninger
“At least she’s got her head in the right place.” I wanted to
rip my hair out. I couldn’t take this anymore. I did not need
to be sitting here, having my own mother yell at me for my
personal preferences. So I did what I’d usually do when she
was yelling at me for stupid things. I began to walk away and
escape to my room.
“Where do you think you’re going? Come back here! I wasn’t
done talking to you!” It was her normal banter for whenever I
walked away from her.
“You’re drunk and annoying and your thoughts on this
subject don’t matter to me!” I said, half under my breath but
still loud enough for her to hear what I said. I slowly walked up
the stairs, knowing that she wouldn’t get up to chase after me. I
journeyed down the long hallway to my room. I closed the door
tight behind me and locked it. My eyes began to water, and I
couldn’t hold it in anymore. One tear right after another came
pouring down my face. My makeup began to run, leaving my
face streaked with eyeliner. I knew I didn’t have a chance with
Alice, knowing that my mom didn’t support me on something
I couldn’t choose was what really hurt. Love is not a choice. I
love who I love, it is what it is. I don’t know why that concept
is so hard to get into some people’s heads. Like seriously, why
is being with another such a big deal?
Mary Binninger 15
Excerpt from Harken Little Warrior
Sam Abramson
Prologue
I
blackness that was thick like syrup. All
around me strange words echoed, in a language somewhere
between human and animal. I strained to hear them, wanting
to understand what they meant. Words always mean something.
I slowly turned my head toward a source of the voices when
a ball of light appeared in front of me. I peered inside—a
beautiful rolling green valley and a wide blue river. I saw
people running and playing, as if they didn’t have a care in
the world. A perfect world, something out of a dream. I tried
to reach toward it but the syrup stopped my movements. The
voices started to speak clearly.
“Humans who see us must be punished. Humans who see
our world must be punished. Humans who go against our trust
must die.”
What was that about? Why should humans be punished
or killed? I continued to struggle toward the light. This place
would be my escape. I had to just touch the light and maybe
I could enter this world.
“Please just let me go there. I did nothing wrong.” I pleaded
Suddenly the syrup hardened, freezing me in place. The voices
started to get louder, like they were excited about something. I
felt hands grabbing at my limbs, tearing into my skin with their
nails. A pair of hands slowly closed around my throat. I tried to
cry out but a hand covered my mouth. I struggled as the hands got
tighter, crushing me. Then a voice, that sounded like hundreds
of people talking at once, pierced through the blackness.
“we found her! we got her! we can make her pay!”
They were searching for me? My lungs began to collapse
from the lack of air. Then a voice came through the darkness.
was stuck in a
16 Sam Abramson
“Honey, it’s time to get up. Blair? blair!”
Chapter One
I opened my eyes and shot up, gasping for air. Fuck, it had
been one of those dreams. Staring down at my white comforter,
I took a deep breath. When I eventually looked up, I found
my mom standing at the foot of my bed. She looked concerned,
like she always did when I woke up gasping.
“Blair, honey, are you okay? Did you have one of those
dreams again?”
“I’m fine Mom. My top was probably just a little tight during
the night, that’s all.”
She seemed unconvinced. I could only remember flashes
of these dreams, but I always woke up gasping for air like I
had just been choked. In fact the only thing that was different
this time were the last words, “found her.” I threw back my
comforter and stood up, stretching my back. I turned back to
Mom, who was still looking at me with concern.
“Are you sure you’re alright? I mean, I can cancel your
lesson today and we can go see a doctor.”
“Cancel gymnastics?! I have a tournament in a week! Coach
would kill me! I have to go!”
My gymnastics coach was a blunt old man named Shawn.
He was rude, but he was one of the best in the business. If I
skipped a week before tournament, I would be in deep trouble
and my mom knew that. She sighed but didn’t push it.
“Okay then. Get dressed and come downstairs for breakfast.
Oh, can you wake your brother?”
Before I could reply, she turned and walked out of my room.
Great, now I have to deal with the brat. I let out a sigh and walked
over to my dresser. I rummaged around for a while till I pulled
out a pair of comfortable jeans and a loose top. I got dressed,
Sam Abramson 17
then ran a brush through my hair. I paused for a second and
stared into my mirror. I had a pixie cut of which I had dyed
parts red to complement my black hair. I was always told that I
looked like my mom but that I had my dad’s brown eyes, which
I kind of hated since my dad left when I was seven. I walked
out of my room and turned down the hall towards Eric’s room.
I stood outside Eric’s door, dreading going in. My half-brother
was always a pain to wake up. I opened the door and went
inside to find him tangled up in the covers with a bit of his
black hair sticking out at the top. Oh, this would be easy. I
crept over and in one swift motion pulled the covers off the
bed. He landed on the floor with a thud.
“Time to get up Eric. We have classes and Mom made
breakfast.”
He groaned and tried to reach back for the covers. I held
them high above my head. He glared at me, trying to look
menacing with his chubby eight year old face and sleepy green
eyes.
“Five more minutes, Blair.”
“Nope, and if you don’t get moving, I’ll eat all the pancakes.”
He grunted but got to his feet at the notion of not getting
food. Satisfied, I dropped the covers back on his bed and
walked out of the room and headed down to the kitchen.
Downstairs, my step-dad John was sitting at the table, sipping
coffee while looking at the paper. He wore some old Christmas
sweater even though it was the middle of June. I could hear
Mom cooking in the kitchen. Everything was so peaceful, I
almost wanted to look outside and see if it looked like a fairytale.
“Morning Blair.”
“Hey, Pops.”
18 Sam Abramson
“Do you want a ride to gymnastics today?”
“Sure.”
John was such a nice guy, very different from what I
remember of my dad, the bastard. My dad had been kind of
wild, always telling me stories of fairies and gods. As a kid I
swore I saw the fairies and creatures he told me about. I had
battles with ugly creatures coming to take me away, using sticks
as swords and rocks as bombs. But then he left. When my mom
married John, he didn’t tell me crazy stories, but he was still
nice and promised he would never leave. I eventually took to
him even though I still don’t really see him as my dad. But, he
asked me to call him Pops and I didn’t want to make a big deal.
I walked over and sat down at the table in my usual place.
Eric came fumbling down the stairs. He sat at—well, more
like laid down on—the table. Mom came in from the kitchen
with a plate stacked high with pancakes.
“Eric, sit up, it’s breakfast. John, help.”
“Eric, listen to your mother.”
Mom rolled her eyes at John and then put the plate on the
table. John grabbed her hand, pulled her over and gave her
a kiss. Eric and I looked at each other then groaned because
nothing is worse than watching your parents kiss. They split
and then began to laugh at us. After they finished making fun
of us, Mom sat down and we began to eat. Eric drowned his
pancakes in thick layers of maple syrup, to the point where
there was more syrup than pancake. I chewed absentmindedly
on my plain pancakes, trying to remember what the dream had
been about. I worry too much. It’s nothing.
“Blair, after breakfast run and get your gymnastic stuff. You
don’t want to be late.”
I looked up at John and nodded.
“Sure, thanks again for driving me.”
“Aw, why does she get a ride but I don’t?” Eric asked in that
annoying eight-year-old way.
Sam Abramson 19
“Because I’m going halfway across town while it takes five
minutes to get to karate.”
He stuck his tongue out at me but resumed eating, probably
too hungry to really argue with me.
“blair! you’re up!”
“Okay, coach.”
I got up and went to the corner of the mat. I nodded at
Shawn to start the music. It began and I soon became lost in
the choreography of my floor routine. Going from round offs
to back handsprings to flips, I moved with grace, or at least
it felt like I did. I used the beat of the music as a way to time
my transitions. I somersaulted into a handstand, holding for
ten seconds when I spotted a flash of green and red out of the
corner of my eye. What?
“focus, blair!”
Shit, I felt myself falling out of my handstand. I tucked and
rolled onto the floor, and ended in my final pose even though I
had messed up. Shawn came over, looking pissed.
“What are you doing!? We are a week away from a tournament!
If this was the real deal you could have gotten disqualified!”
“Sorry coach. I got distracted.”
“Distracted huh? Well for your ‘distraction’ do 50 crunches
and then run the whole routine again. And this time it better
be perfect.”
I groaned but started doing the crunches. What was that
though? No one wore green and red in the gym, unless it was
for a winter performance. It was also an ugly green and the red
had clashed tremendously. I finished the crunches and walked
over to the computer to restart my music. I took a deep breath
and began the routine all over again.
I got through the routine and did it five more times before
Shawn gave me a break. I walked over to the water cooler and
20 Sam Abramson
filled a cup. I was drinking when, again, I saw a flash of green
and red over by the hallway.
“That’s it!”
I walked over to where the flash had been, when I saw it
again this time around the corner. It began to run down the
hall so I followed it. I sped up, my bare feet slapping against
the tile floors. I turned the corner and the air in front of me
started to shimmer, almost thickening. I pushed through and
kept my eyes on the running colors. Almost a moment later
the air cleared up again and there was the thing, less than
few inches away. It looked almost like a small kid. I reached
forward and grabbed it by the back of its neck.
“Ah ha I got you.”
I turned it around and came face to face with one of the ugliest
creatures I had ever seen. It had a large nose and small, beady
green eyes. Its skin was wrinkled and had a green hue. Greasy
red hair went almost all the way to the creature’s knees. The thing
looked exactly how my father had described fairies in his stories.
The abomination began to laugh, sounding like a dying donkey.
“No my dear, we have you.”
It pointed down with its wrinkled old hands. I looked down
and gasped. There were dozens of these creatures surrounding
me. They were all grinning the same puppet-like smiles. I
dropped the one I was holding out of sheer fright.
“we found her! we have her!”
They all screeched and began to move toward me. I
screamed and began to run, trying to get away. I turned a
corner and looked back. Sure enough they were right on my
tail. I looked around trying to find an exit when I spotted a
bathroom. I ran over to the door and opened it. I turned and
slammed the door shut. Then I locked the door, shutting the
things out.
I ran my fingers through my hair. Was I hallucinating? I
mean, I made these creatures up when I was five based on
Sam Abramson 21
stupid bedtime stories! Oh god, the stories, were those real?
No, they couldn’t be but then again I had my proof banging
on the metal door behind me. Okay, so if they were real what
did they want? Think, Blair! Remember the stories! I racked
my brain as far back as I could.
“The fairies don’t like it when people see their true
appearances. If someone sees it the fairies blind them, or
sometimes kill them. Your great great great grandmother,
Andraste, saw them and lived.”
“No way! How?” I asked
I stared up at my father with wide eyes. I loved the fairy
stories and they were bedtime ritual.
“Well she was a midwife, which meant she helped to bring
babies into the world. She was one of the best. One day the
fairies needed help with a baby in Fairyland so they kidnapped
her and brought her there.”
“But that’s mean!”
“Fairies are mean. They aren’t skilled at much of anything
so they kidnap skilled people to help them. Now let me finish.
They told Andraste that when the baby came into their world she
had to put a special cream on the baby’s eyes so he can see the
actual world, including what they looked like. They threatened
her with blindness if she took any of it for herself. But when
the fairies weren’t looking she hid some and took it back to our
world when the fairies no longer needed her. She could then
see the world as it was and ran so the fairies couldn’t get her.”
He paused. I stared up at him, eyes wide, and gestured for
him to continue.
“And guess what, my little warrior? I can see the real world
and so can you.”
“Really, Daddy?” I asked.
“Uh huh, but the fairies are very mad at us for seeing. They
want revenge, so if you ever see a fairy run away as fast as
you can.”
22 Sam Abramson
Oh god, those things were fairies. They were the creatures
my father told me to run from. My imaginary battles had come
to life, but now I had no weapons.
Sam Abramson 23
An Unmatched Kindness
Eric Soto
M
rhythm of her footsteps, but at a
different volume. She walked quickly with grace and
delicacy, never making a sound. My heart beat quickly, but
there was no grace. There was no delicacy. Only a powerful
thump that sounded so loud to me. It was just thump! thump!
thump! There were so many things going through my mind
at the time. Her name was Trisna. It was a strange name, but
because it was hers, to me it was just fine. I was trying to find
the words that described how she looked perfectly. Elegant.
Beautiful. Awe-inspiring. Those were just a few that came to
mind, but there were so many others.
As I stood there amazed at the petite goddess who walked
toward me, I also couldn’t help but remember what she told
me once. She said, “You talk a lot, but you don’t say much.”
I slowly said, “Well, you don’t talk at all, but you say a lot,”
almost like a compliment. It was a compliment. We both
described each other perfectly, besides the fact that I felt we
could have worded it a lot more adequately.
I had always had a stutter when I spoke, so I constantly felt
there was no point in thinking critically if I couldn’t speak it.
Due to that, I would always speak with basic words or slang.
Since I grew accustomed to not thinking as much as I should, I
never had anything important or progressive to say. But Trisna
was so different. She spoke so little, no pun intended, but her
words carried so much weight. She always knew exactly what
to say, almost as if she were intentionally trying to save other
words in her vocabulary for another situation. And she spoke so
properly. So perfectly. I would say, “Me and you,” but she would
say, “You and I.” That was one of the things I loved about her.
My heart skipped a beat when Trisna stood in front of me
smiling joyfully. I loved her smile. She didn’t enjoy wearing lip
y heart beat to the
24 Eric Soto
gloss or any makeup whatsoever, so her lips were a natural light
pink. For some reason, it made her smile seem more genuine.
There was a light breeze and her long, straight, dark brown
hair moved gracefully with the wind. Her light tan complexion
had a glow to it. Its shine didn’t rival the sun, and yet the sun
seemed envious as it beat down so many of its rays on her. Her
skin was light enough to see a flush of color that came from
her cheeks, showing her apparent happiness or embarrassment.
Maybe a mix of both. Her eyes were light brown, almost solely
showing her gentle nature. Her height used to make me laugh
a lot. After all, she was only 5'2'' and she was 17 years old.
She was even older than me. Eventually though, her height
only made me admire her even more for having such a big
vocabulary and unique thoughts, but having such a small body.
“Hey,” I said nervously with a cheesy smile. “Hi,” she
replied cheerfully. I was already in awe. I still couldn’t believe
that she was here, right in front of me. I clutched the small
black box in my right pocket tightly. “Do you want to start
leaving now?” she asked as she grabbed my left hand. I simply
nodded my head, and just like that we were on our way.
Trisna’s hand felt small in mine, but at the same time, it felt
like it fit perfectly. My nervousness still remained, but I was
happy. Ecstatic even. The fact that we took our time walking
made it seem like time wasn’t even a thing. It was just me and
Trisna, and that was just the way I liked it.
“When is the movie starting?” she asked. I let go of her
hand and reached into my left pocket for a small slip of paper.
On the paper was a time in big bold letters. “The movie’s at
uh…1:30,” I slowly said. It was currently 12:48pm. “Wow!”
she exclaimed. “Then I suppose we have more time than we
thought, huh?” I nodded my head, and she smiled back at me.
Along the way to the movie theater, we decided to stop by
the park. We sat beside each other on parallel swings and
talked for a while. It was a rather normal conversation…if you
Eric Soto 25
could call it that. The thing about Trisna was that, no normal
conversation with her was normal. She enjoyed getting to know
people and she enjoyed having deep and unique conversations
other people would loathe to have. She was always trying to
find the uniqueness in a person. Even though I didn’t realize
it back then, I realize now that Trisna was just trying to find
someone that she thought was as strange as herself. It’s funny
though. I guess she found me strange, but there was never any
point where I found her strange.
“Kendrick, what scares you the most?” she asked me.
I let out a small sigh. “Even after two years of knowing me,
you still want to know me?”
“Well,” she replied. “The point of a date is to get to know
the person you’re with. To see if that person is the one you
want to spend all your time with from now on.”
I smiled. Now I had no choice but to answer if she was gonna
say something like that to me. “I’m uh…afraid of…talking to
people,” I said, embarrassed.
“If you’re afraid of talking to people, why do you talk to me?”
I scratched the back of my head. The years of teasing and
bullying resurfaced after she asked that question. I remembered
all the times I heard “Can you just stop talking?” I remembered
all the times I heard “Stop stuttering, bro.” I remembered all
the times people got annoyed with me. All the people that didn’t
bother trying to talk to me. Most of all, I’ll never forget the
laughter and sighs that came whenever I struggled to answer a
question in class. However, I didn’t remember all those times
because they hurt me so much. I remembered those times
because not one of them ever involved Trisna. She was patient
with me. Even though at times I thought I annoyed her, she
never showed it. She just gave me a big vibrant smile. She
never tried to hurt me.
“I talk to you because…you don’t make fun of me,” I said
with a low tone.
26 Eric Soto
She got up from her swing and walked towards me. I looked
up to her and saw a small smile on her face. Something was
strange about this smile. It wasn’t genuine to me. It almost
seemed forced.
“Does that mean if I teased you, you wouldn’t want to talk to
me?” she asked. The tone of her voice was strange. I had never
heard it from her, so at the time I couldn’t recognize it. There
was something behind her words. An emotion I couldn’t relate
to when I was with her. A feeling that she had always had but
never spoke of. A thought that she never decided to share. “If
that’s the way it is,” she said reaching her hand out to mine.
“Then I’m fine with that. As long as you’re fine, then I’m fine
too.” I accepted her hand, and we slowly walked outside and
away from the park. Her choice of words intrigued me. She
said fine, but what did fine really mean to her, and what did it
mean to me? To me it meant she was satisfied at the time. To
her it was another story. A story I couldn’t read at the moment.
Unfortunately, we got to the movie theater late. It was a
bit of a mental blow seeing a line that stretched outside and
around the building. It was even more of a blow when the ticket
agent announced that the tickets for the movie we wanted to
watch were sold out for the current showing when we were
almost literally in the center of the line. “I can’t wait till the
next showing” Trisna said sadly. “I’m supposed to be home
by 5 and the next showing is at 3:30.” I would have said that
we could just watch part of the movie and leave in the middle,
but I knew she didn’t want that. I shoved my hand into my
right pocket. I played with the small black box and thought to
myself, contemplating what we should do now. Finally the light
bulb above my head flickered on. “You wanna go for a walk?”
I asked scratching my head. She quietly said, “Alright,” and
we walked away from the movie theater.
Honestly, I didn’t know where we were going at that point,
and the fact that we were both silent didn’t help much. I had an
Eric Soto 27
idea of what we should’ve done, but I had no idea what the point
was. She was already sad, and I wasn’t much of a comforter,
so what was I supposed to do? I was in such a dilemma that I
couldn’t think straight. What am I supposed to do?
As so many things went through my head, a familiar smell
snuck its way into my nose. It was pizza. I turned my head to
see a nice, small pizzeria. “Oh shit…We ain’t been here in a
long time. You uh…remember when we first came here right?”
I asked tapping her on the shoulder. She didn’t respond. I was
so fixated on the sight of the pizzeria that I didn’t look to her
for a nod. “I guess we could go inside and chill.”
I told her to sit down while I ordered two slices of pizza
for the both of us. I felt like such a failure. Sure, the movie
theater wasn’t a grand date, but it was better than just coming
to a pizzeria where we always used to come. I almost wanted to
walk out myself. I felt like Trisna would’ve had a better time
if I wasn’t there with her. But I couldn’t just leave her here.
So I got the two slices of pizza and walked over to the table
where she was sitting.
We didn’t talk much while we were there. I was too ashamed
to say a word, and I’m sure Trisna didn’t wanna comment about
how lame this date was. We just ate our pizza. Eventually
though, I don’t know why, but I spoke. “Trisna, I…I’m sorry.
This probably ain’t even fun for you. I just…I dunno…This
ain’t the right way to…to spend a first date, you know?” She
looked up at me with confused eyes. “What are you talking
about?” she asked. “There’s nothing wrong with this. This was
actually fun for me!” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.
This wasn’t fun. Not at all. Was she sparing my emotions? I
couldn’t understand.
But I guess Trisna understood very well. At least more than
me, because she still knew what words to say. I just didn’t
know what she meant. “I’m sorry, Kendrick. I ruined today
by feeling sad when in reality I’m just happy we’re together
28 Eric Soto
today.” She lowered her head. “I’m sorry.” This doesn’t make
sense. No sense at all.
Where was my response? Where was my reaction? She
almost seemed sadder now. I reached into my right pocket.
The black box was just scratching and clawing to break out of
my pocket. I could feel its influence as it urged me to let it out
and reveal itself. Was this the right time? The right place? In my
time of confusion, I looked towards Trisna, only to see her head
down sobbing as silent as she possibly could. She…She was…
I slid my hand out of my right pocket. The black box was no
longer scratching and clawing. It was docile now. It no longer
attempted to overpower me. It no longer attempted to involve
itself in a situation it had no point in joining. I felt disgusted
with myself. The one person that never asked anything of me
other than my time and attention was in distress, and I thought
some sort of gift would make her happy. I finally recognized the
tone in her voice from before. The emotion I couldn’t relate to.
The reason why the smile was forced. Trisna wanted to know
she was special. She wanted to know if I cared about her just as
much as she cared about me. She had a desire. When I’m with
Trisna, I don’t ask for anything more, and I don’t want anything
from her…I’m happy, while she’s only fine. She wants me to see
her as more than what she is, because she already sees me as
more than what I am. I’m scared of talking to people because
they think I am a waste of time. I guess in a way, Trisna was
afraid of talking to people because she thought she wouldn’t
be given enough of it.
I don’t understand what came over me, but I finally made
sense from the situation. I took my hand out of my pocket. I
got up from my seat, walked to Trisna, and I…hugged her. I
had never asked for a hug from anyone, nor did I ever ask to
give one. Yet here I was, hugging Trisna, trying to comfort her.
“Trisna,” I said. “If you say you’re sorry, you’ll make me feel
bad.” It was as I said that sentence that I realized something.
Eric Soto 29
I helped her stand up from her seat, and I walked her
outside. Honestly, I didn’t love her as much as she loved me.
I couldn’t be with Trisna. Even though it made us both happy,
her happiness would always be greater than mine. She would be
angrier than me. Sadder than me. Kinder than me. The fact is,
Trisna, to me, is the perfect girl, and to someone as imperfect
as me, it’s an injustice for God to fall in love with a sinner. But
I guess it’s alright. Right now, Trisna’s happiness is the most
important thing to me, and I don’t want to take that away from
her. And I’m fine with that. There’s nothing to complain about.
Even if I did, I sure as hell couldn’t complain to her. There was
no point to it, because God always had the answers.
As we stood outside in silence, she looked at me, and in
return I smiled. “By the way,” I said. “I talk to you because…
you don’t make fun of me…but,” My hand reached out to hers.
“There’s no one else I want to talk to other than you, even if one
day…you start to think I’m a waste of time too.” She smiled
and accepted my hand, almost giggling. “You think too slow,”
she said. “But your answer is nice. I like it.” The black box
was no longer a concern to me. I won’t say it’s nothing. It’s
something more than that but then again it’s something less.
Until I know what the black box really means to me and Trisna,
I have no right to ever give it. But I’m fine with not knowing
what to do about the black box. I wasn’t sure how this story
was supposed to unfold at the time either, but I did know that
I had Trisna, and Trisna had me. It was just me and Trisna. Or
Trisna and I. Whichever sounds better.
30 Eric Soto
Saving Face
Kezia Clarke
I
t was almost midnight.
The din of Tegucigalpa nightlife was
replaced by the roar of raindrops assaulting the landscape by
the thousands. Wind whipped around the city, emitting grating
screeches as if Mother Nature herself were being mauled to
death. Baseballs, soda cans and lawn chairs alike were pelted
and dragged in all directions and trees thrashed about in the
likeness of mere twigs. There were no signs of stopping.
Aside from the few flickering streetlights, nary a single
residence showed signs of life. Except, that is, for one apartment
some six floors off the ground. One window was flung open as
high as it could go, its curtains all but completely cast aside.
It no doubt marked the abode of fools.
Smack-dab in the middle of the window was a beaming
young woman, happily basking in the unrelenting rain. Her
kinky hair, where it wasn’t plastered to her face and neck,
was lashing about wildly into her eyes and her grinning mouth
alike. Rivulets of water streamed down her brown skin and
rendered her pastel-pink tanktop a dark, quasi-transparent
plum. She rose to the tips of her toes, nearly slipping on the
puddles on the wooden floor. She leaned out as far as common
sense would allow. There was little, if anything, protecting
her from a rather messy demise. Squinting, she could just
barely make out a radio or some such device clattering down
the road.
A firm tug at the back of her shirt drew her back into the
confines of the apartment, and the young woman took the
opportunity to remove her waterlogged socks—the discomfort
of which she was only now becoming aware.
“Isn’t this amazing, Louie?” she exclaimed, flinging her
socks off into a corner. “It’s like—” she paused, staring wideeyed out into the night, “—it’s like a hurricane!”
Kezia Clarke 31
The girl spun on her heel to face the one who’d pulled her
away from her precious storm. The young man was glaring
at her disapprovingly. Staring. Always with the staring, she
thought briefly. The best way she could describe him was as
“generic.” He was lean, ruddy, and had a face angular enough
to belong in a high school math textbook. If it weren’t for his
rampant acne he could easily pass for a man in his mid to late
twenties. Dark hair. Tall. Extremely tall, one might add, but
she stood as his equal, surpassing him in height only due to
the wild, coily mane she prized oh so very much.
“That’s because it is a hurricane,” he replied simply. She
eyed him silently as he maneuvered behind her to shut the
window. “Category one, I think. It’s been in the forecast—what,
don’t you watch the news?”
She looked pensive. His tone was decidedly condescending—
something she came to assume with everything he said. “Well,
yes and no. They speak too quickly for me to understand. Needs
subtitles,” she mumbled with a dismissive shrug. She had to
admit, it bothered her that he so often seemed to regard her
as a child.
Her roommate sighed and turned his attention to the floor.
“You’re going to get a cold or something, Claire. Go warm
yourself up,” Case in point.
Claire reached up to her hair and gave it a good squeeze.
She felt streams of water slither through her fingers and down
her arms, finally dripping steadily from her elbow. Fun fact,
she mused, hair can double as a sponge. She idly wrung and
fondled her hair for a few more seconds before Louie, ever the
mother hen, started fussing over her again.
“Are you bleeding? Give me your arm,” confused, Claire
shook her head and examined her arm. Her mouth made a small
“o” in realization. She’d completely forgotten that she’d dyed
her hair recently. In an effort to preserve the vibrant vermillion
hue, she’d gone without washing her hair for about a week.
32 Kezia Clarke
And now that she’d been drenched in rain, her hair was indeed
“bleeding” and her arm bore a rather ghastly appearance.
While she examined herself, Louie was waiting rather
impatiently, regarding her with an intense stare.
“Oh, it’s the dye. The dye,” she mumbled. “Look, see?” And
while Louie was basking in his disbelief, Claire whipped her
hair forward and splattered him in scarlet liquid so vivid his
face had the likeness of a crime scene.
And just as he cursed in protest, and as Claire burst into a
cackle, a sound boom of thunder sent her scrambling halfway
across the living room in fright.
Lou Lambert and Claire Montgomery were a pair of college
exchange students who happened to get their parents to ship
them off to Honduras for a year. They hailed from sister schools
on opposite ends of the United States, and despite their blatant
differences (e.g. sub vs. hero) they managed to tolerate each
other just enough to become roommates. A day could scarcely
go by without one or the other making some snide remark about
the other’s political views or mental aptitude, but they’d yet to
resort to attempted murder.
“How old are you, twelve?” Lou spat, slicking his hair out of
his face. His countenance reddened with anger, and the dye
was definitely not helping. “How easy would it have been to
get a blowdryer? How easy?”
Claire was more concerned with waiting for her heart to calm
down and paid little heed to his disparaging tone. She’d found
herself stationed by his room in her flight, and peered inside. It
was almost too organized. How typical. A towel draped neatly
over his bedhead caught her attention and she slipped inside,
grabbed it and exited before Lou could drag her out by force.
Kezia Clarke 33
“You’re going to get a cold or something, Louie. Here,” she
balled up the towel and flung it towards him, “Dry yourself
up.” Felt good to turn the tides.
Lou scowled.
“Besides,” Claire gestured towards the kerosene lamp sitting
nearby. “I’m saving electricity. You’re the one who always
complains about the bill.”
She briefly noted that despite his irritation, Lou was actually
in the process of drying himself off. Meanwhile, she had no
qualm about the reddish pools forming about her feet.
It seemed their nightly banter had run its course, so Claire
wandered into the bathroom to find a towel. En route, her
reflection in the wall mirror distracted her. She was little more
than a silhouette in the glass—the only light that filtered into the
room was from the flickering lamp out in the living room. With the
rain surging from the skies as it were, and her face streamlined
with rich reds, she looked like an actress straight out of a horror
movie. A good looking actress. Claire whistled at herself.
“Claire!” She jumped. At some point Lou had walked over to
the bathroom and was standing in the doorframe. She couldn’t
see his features—he was blocking out the light. Now that was
horror film quality.
“What is it?” she finally replied.
“Can you come mop this up? And put your socks in a hamper
or something.”
Claire regarded him quietly. She assumed he looked rather
irritated as always. “That’ll be twenty bucks, thank you very
much,” she said, and suppressed a snort when a soft curse
reached her ears. She was one hundred percent sure his nostrils
were flared right then.
“I’m not joking. I’m tired of cleaning up after you.”
“And I’m tired of cooking for you. Bite me,” to emphasize her
words, Claire gnashed her teeth, making a mental note to pick
up some whitening toothpaste when she next found a chance.
34 Kezia Clarke
“The floor will get damaged. I don’t need the super bothering
me.” Now that she thought about it, he did always have a
fondness for the apartment’s design.
“What are you, an interior designer?” Claire made to push
past him.“It’s raining. When in doubt, blame the weather.”
A sudden vice grip on Claire’s wrist caused her to jolt.
“You’re being childish! You’re not going anywhere without
cleaning this up.”
Claire’s hand soundly clapped across Lou’s face, leaving
her palm stinging.
It was instinct, she swore.
She wrenched her other hand away from him and ducked
back out into the living room, grinning. She didn’t mean much
by it—it was roughhousing, right?
But Lou was absolutely seething. A red, hand-shaped mark
marred his features: in part bruise, in part hair dye. It would
surely swell.
“You bitch,” he snarled.
“I’ll aim lower next time,” she retorted automatically. It
then dawned on her that Lou was in fact not one of her rowdy
brothers and he wasn’t going to humor her. Lou sighed heavily
and swiftly ducked into his room, slamming and locking the
door behind him.
Claire scoffed, but she wasn’t finished with him just yet.
She leaned against his door, forcing a laugh. “Who’s childish
now? Slamming doors? What a man you are!”
The two went back and forth with a series of petty banter
until Lou took it a tad too far. Insulting her state, accent or
eating habits was one thing, but her race? Claire’s constitution
imploded. Instead of retorting, however, she instantly made
her way to the furthest window in the room, throwing it up as
high as it would go. She repeated this to the next one, and the
next one, till all the windows in the apartment, save for those
in the bedrooms and bathroom, were wide open.
Kezia Clarke 35
To say the least, Lou was shocked when he opened his door.
“Are you serious?!” he shouted. “Are you crazy?”
“Good luck handling the super, jackass!” That said, she
grabbed a jacket off the coat rack, shoved her bare feet into some
sneakers lay strewn near the front door, and left the apartment in a
huff, making sure to slam the door twice as hard as Lou did before.
As she jogged down the stairs, amidst her sulking she found
her subconscious half-hoping Lou would come running after
her, apologizing. He always did. It was basically a tradition.
Claire then found herself in the lobby. The once pristine
marble floor was sullied by muddy water. She grimaced; it was
seeping into her shoes. A chill ran up her spine: in part disgust,
in part cold. She realized then that Lou most likely wouldn’t come
to retrieve her. Perhaps she was indeed being a tad immature.
But how stupid would she look when she showed back up
at the apartment, no less than five minutes after trashing their
living space? Screw him, she thought. I hope his room floods.
At the same time, it wouldn’t make any sense by any extension
to head out during a hurricane. Clutching her jacket to her chest,
she measured the pros (of which there were none) and cons of
leaving the building. No matter how much she weighed her options,
the urge to turn on her heel and suck up her pride remained. It was
the only logical option, after all. She stood by the front door and
peered out into the street. She could barely see—the streetlights
had probably blown out in this weather. If anything, she could
just wait out Lou’s inevitable anger till morning.
Ah, who was she kidding. Claire began to mull and brood
over every offhand comment Lou had ever dared to speak, and
her ire flared to record highs. That was it. Her mind made
up, Claire zipped up her jacket in one swift motion, barely
suppressing a yelp when it caught the skin of her chin. Then
Claire threw open the door.
And screamed when a surge of debris-ridden water assaulted
her legs.
36 Kezia Clarke
· · · · ·
It seemed an eternity before Claire felt far enough from the
apartment. Her muscles were aching for rest, but she’d counter
every thought of Should I turn around? with some stupid,
petty reason as to why she absolutely couldn’t. Good thing
the sidewalks weren’t as flooded as the streets—she could
probably sit somewhere. She squinted into the darkness, and
a bright yellow awning caught her attention.
She ducked beneath it and dropped to a crouch. Her pajama
pants felt heavy and itchy against her legs, her jacket provided
no comfort, and she was shivering uncontrollably. Her teeth
were chattering—so much so that had she not been in such
a pitiful state, she’d have laughed. But, as it were, she was
freezing. Hurriedly, she removed her soaking jacket and rubbed
her arms rapidly in an attempt to heat them up. She cursed
herself for being such an idiot.
A clap of thunder roused a shriek out of her, and she
paused her frenzied rubbing to clasp a hand over her heart.
How embarrassing. How old am I, twelve? She sighed and
brought her knees to her chest. Instinctively, she leaned her
head over, as if hoping Lou’s shoulder would be there. Despite
how much they claimed to hate one another, in the few months
they occupied each other’s space it became common for Claire
to do this, whether while watching TV or dozing off. It wasn’t
romantic or anything, though. That would be stupid. It just
sort of happened.
And it just so happened that Claire’s head did fall upon a
shoulder.
It took a minute before she realized. After all, this was a
natural gesture. She choked out a gasp and jerked her head
off, automatically moving away. A hooded young woman was
crouched next to her, casually staring out into the storm. Her
facial features were masked by frizzy, tousled hair. Despite its
Kezia Clarke 37
unkempt state, Claire found herself admiring how voluminous
and glossy it looked. Chuckling, Claire breathed an inaudible
sigh of relief and let her eyes wander the young woman’s figure.
Hoodie, ripped jeans. Probably a local teenager…If so, why
wasn’t she at home?
“Sorry…” Claire murmured, feeling ashamed and unsettled.
Staring was rude. Even so, she glanced back to the young
woman and noted just how…dry she was. Sure, they were
under an awning, but with the way the rain randomly switched
directions and with how strong the earlier winds were, no matter
how long she was sitting here it simply didn’t make sense for
her to be untouched. It was odd.
Claire came up with the only logical response.
“Snuck out of the house and the rain gotcha, huh?” she said.
Never mind the fact that the storm had been raging for hours.
Claire nodded to herself, confident in her assumption. “Back
in the day,” she continued, scooting back closer to the girl,
“I did my fair share of sneaking out. Parties, y’know?” she
chuckled, relishing her memories.
“I’m an exchange student at one of the universities here,”
she added. She loved boasting about that. “Undergrad. So
it’s a breeze.” she made a waving motion with her hands and
whistled for emphasis. The sound was swallowed by the storm.
An odd silence fell between them. The fellow refugee had
yet to so much as nod, or laugh, or give any indication she was
aware of Claire’s presence. Nothing Claire wasn’t used to, but
it would be nice if she spoke though.
Claire curiously leaned forward to peer at the young
woman’s face.
Nothing.
Claire blinked. Her strained smile flatlined. Her thoughts
blanked.
…I saw that wrong, right?
Claire blinked rapidly, shaking her head in disbelief. She
38 Kezia Clarke
slapped her cheeks for good measure, and fixed her sights on
a random point in the distance. She was delirious. She’d been
awake for too long. She was frustrated after the argument. She’d
been stressed from her geography research paper. It was due
in the morning, and still needed proofreading. That’s it. She
needed rest. She looked over again.
There was no face.
The woman next to Claire had no eyes. No nose. No mouth.
Nothing.
Claire clumsily scuttled backwards and struggled to her
feet. She shut her eyes and paced in a circle. Should I run?
Yes, running seemed to be a good idea right now.
I’m going insane…she thought. She loved her fair share of
horror, comforted in the knowledge that things of the sort were
grounded in fiction. She opened her eyes.
There it was. The blank visage that quaked her sanity,
inches before her. Claire opened her mouth to scream, gaping
to find her voice. To ask, to scream, to question…
But it all happened so quickly.
A hand—a palm—sped towards her. A crushing grip
clamped about her temples.
Her voice. Where was it? She needed to scream.
Her body was falling back.
Is this the end?
A split second.
A splitting screech.
Splitting pain.
And it was all swallowed by the storm.
Kezia Clarke 39
Sojourner
Alin Haberle
I
was flying. It was
night, and cool air rushed past my face.
It was beautiful below us, with sea on one side and land
stretched on the other, but even as I admired the view I could
hear shots pinging off the airship’s underside. I glanced over
the side to see a swarm of tiny ships, dipping and rising in the
wind as their passengers fired.
“Finch?”
I looked down and saw Mr. Evans, the ship’s engineer, his
eyes and thin hair the only parts of his body above the surface
of the ship. He steadied himself on the edge of the horizontal
doorway. “Are you ready?” he asked.
I thought for a moment and decided to tell the truth. “Not
at all, sir.”
He grunted. “That’s too bad, because they’re coming up
soon. You have the map? Good. Just remember that all you
need to do is get to the Sojourner in Dublin, and for God’s sake,
protect that cat!”
I nodded and checked the straps on the glider. They all
seemed secure, but I knew they might not hold in the fierce
night winds over the Mediterranean. These weren’t ideal
conditions on any level.
“This isn’t difficult, Finch,” Mr. Evans barked. He swayed
on the rope ladder and gripped it firmly. “Here comes a ship
now. Jump or get us both shot.”
I swallowed, gripped Flora, and jumped just as an aircraft
crested the other side of the ship…
“English?”
I groaned and yanked myself from my drowsy memories,
too stiff from sleeping sitting up on the hard sidewalk to evade
40 Alin Haberle
another prod. A man in a white floury apron was standing over
me with a broomstick in his hand.
“English? English?” he asked.
“Yes, yes,” I grumbled. “I speak English.”
“Good,” he said, giving me another whack for good measure.
“Out.”
I reluctantly scooped up the bag I had been using as a
pillow and walked out of the alley. Sunlight bounced off the
fountain in the square, dancing across the rooftops, windows
and cobblestones. The air smelled like bread and flowers, and
the sky was a bright, clear blue.
“I’m sorry about not getting a move on right after I woke up,
Flora,” I said, patting the Bastet at my feet. “I keep thinking
about escaping the Tempest.” She whirred reassuringly and
wound her way around my legs, letting me scratch between
her pointed ears. I knelt and opened her chest compartment,
took out the sealed envelope, and smiled. “Everything’s in
order. Good job.”
I replaced the package and patted the cat on the head.
Pleased with herself, Flora let me shut the hidden panel, then
scampered up my leg and settled down, her cold metal body
heavy on my shoulder. I pulled the roll I had bought the day
before from my bag and tore at it as I walked.
The road was flat and smooth, and I was soon out of the town.
Nobody passed me but a few people with crude Mythologicals
and a single Roma wagon, and even these sightings grew less
frequent over time. The path steepened as the houses turned
to small meadows, then to hills, then to rough mountains that
shot above my head on either side like hunched women in wide,
craggy skirts. I stared upward and shivered: the mountains
were significantly cooler than the Aosta Valley, and I had left
my coat on the Tempest. I could only hope I got to the French
border quickly.
Alin Haberle 41
· · · · ·
The train station in Chamonix was small and more crowded
than I thought it would be. It was completely packed, in fact,
and I had to force my way to the ticket window.
“What is this?” I asked the woman behind the counter.
“The young people are leaving for the army,” she said in
a ridiculously slow voice, adding exaggerated miming. I had
been practicing my French with Flora and thought myself to
be half decent, but apparently this woman thought otherwise.
“The whole town has shown up to see them off. Do you have
money for a ticket?”
I nodded and handed her a handful of bills. There was a
single pound note tangled in them, which she gave back to me
without a word. I took the ticket she passed me and pushed
my way to the train.
A man in a railway uniform directed me to the back of the
train. He tried to tell me something apologetically, but his
rapid French was mostly drowned out by the crowd of chatting,
laughing, and crying people on the platform.
There were very few passengers in this section of the Hydra.
I could make my way to the upper deck easily and look down
at the line of people filing into the train. They all looked young
and quite nervous, but they hid both qualities in long, confident
strides. They grasped people’s hands briefly or waved as they
passed. As I watched, one young man accepted a flower from
an older woman and stuck it jauntily in his hat.
I only opened my eyes again when the train began to pull
away from Chamonix.
The serpentine Hydra cut through the dark forest on its single
rail, causing a startled owl to burst up from a tree and flap
away. The train’s eyes glowed and illuminated the forest ahead.
42 Alin Haberle
Flora and I were alone on the balcony atop the train. The
young men and women had gotten off on the only stop we had
passed so far, and I felt infinitely better. I didn’t let myself
think about them at all, focusing on the trip instead.
The trees suddenly stopped, and we were gliding along a
beach. I could see the lights from a few boats and amphibious
Mythologicals dotting the water. A Selkie surfaced for a moment,
then sank under the waves again.
We were heading directly towards the water. I felt the train
swell as it inflated itself with air, and then the tracks ended
and we slid into the dark English Channel. Weaving from side
to side, the train slowly began to cross the water’s surface. I
leaned on the railing, holding Flora like a bulky hat under my
arm, and watched the white cliffs of Dover draw near.
London just before dawn was quiet and empty, so much so that
I almost felt like I was sneaking somewhere I shouldn’t be. I
felt the need to constantly look around, jumping whenever I
saw someone stumble out of a pub or stir in their sleep on the
side of the road.
The city slowly began to wake as I neared my destination.
Peddlers and drunks wandered into the street, one by
one, calling to each other. I hurried along, not desiring a
confrontation of any sort and hoping I wouldn’t miss my train.
At last, I found the station. I pulled my veil over my face
and walked up to a window.
“Good day,” I said to the young man behind it. He looked
up from his newspaper, then quickly folded it away. “Could
you tell me the fastest route to Dublin?”
“Why, certainly,” he said, not making eye contact. He
seemed to be trying to read the paper out of the corner of
his eye as he talked. “Train eight crosses to Dublin around
Caernarvon, so it only takes…three hours. Will that do?”
Alin Haberle 43
He looked up for the first time to see me nod. He handed
me the ticket and I gave him a few pound notes. “Have a good
day, ma’am.”
“And you.” I turned, leaving him to grimace behind his
newspaper.
Dublin was much larger than I had imagined. I could have
spent hours wandering, but, as I told Flora, “breakfast first.”
We found a small tea shop on King Street, across from a
beautiful theater. As I finished my toast, I watched a few
British officers standing at the corner. The hatred with which
passersby stared at the small group was hard to ignore, and
there were whispers of “coppers” and “Nick run away with
’em.” I found myself staring as one of the men began to speak
with a small, nervous woman selling old watches. He waved
his baton threateningly and she flinched, then began to pack
her wares.
Flora hissed impatiently.
“You’re right. We should leave,” I said, looking away. “Now,
let’s find someone who can help us find the Sojourner, shall we?”
“Kingstown, Field Four,” the officer at the customs house told
me three hours later. “Just show them the papers like you
showed me and they’ll take you right to your ship.”
I got a map from him and sat on the steps outside to look
it over. To my dismay, Kingstown appeared to be a port town
about eight miles from Dublin, with a Slug that left every half
hour running between the two.
“I thought it was an airfield in Dublin!” I exclaimed. “Flora,
we should hurry—the next Slug leaves in three minutes.”
· · · · ·
44 Alin Haberle
The Slug was bronze and segmented like the train, but there
ended the similarities. The entire machine was covered with a
layer of soot, trash, bird droppings and grease, and it smelled
like a dead animal. I held my breath, dropped a coin in the
driver’s palm and sat in the front, near an open window.
The Slug started up, slowly at first, but then faster and faster
until Dublin was a blur and Flora nearly flew off my shoulder.
The city soon fell away to be replaced by gentle mountains and
then a busy port town. It skidded to a stop by the dock, where
men were loading huge boxes of what seemed to be grass—no,
peat—onto a fish-shaped boat. I stuffed Flora back into the
bag and we were off.
The fresh air was salty, but it seemed as pure as clear
water after the Slug. I took several deep, happy breaths before
turning to my map.
The entry hall of Field Four was disappointingly small and
normal, with wooden ceiling beams, stone walls, and many
pictures of stuffy looking generals and philanthropists. At the
end was an empty wooden desk with a bell on it, which I rang.
There was a snort, and a rumpled head popped up from
under the desk. Trying to look dignified, the young man
attached to it straightened his tie and pulled himself into his
chair.
“May I help you?” he asked snappily.
What was it with all these negligent employees? “I’m here
for the Sojourner,” I said.
“Identification?” He asked, rubbing his eyes. I gave him my
papers and he squinted at them. “Seem to be in order. Although
why aren’t you on the ship now if you’re a crew member?”
I froze. Mr. Evans hadn’t discussed the answer to this question
with me. “Transfer from the…Liberty,” I decided, praying that I
was remembering the schedule on the door correctly.
Alin Haberle 45
“Hm. The Liberty arrived yesterday, did it not?”
“Yes,” I said, then added, “Sir.” Don’t ask for papers.
He frowned, but handed the Sojourner documents back to
me. “Pad Two,” he said.
I nearly ran from the room. I wasn’t about to push my luck
at this point in the mission.
The moment I was sure I was thoroughly lost in the labyrinth
of offices and equipment rooms (Pad Two, it seemed, was well
buried in the stone building, and no one had been willing
to give me directions), a buzzing sound made me jump. I
recognized the sound from my time in the airship center; it
indicated a landing in process.
The Sojourner.
A stream of people in mechanic and army uniforms began
to make its way through the passageway I had been standing
in. I joined and followed it through a series of stairs and halls
to a pair of huge doors, Pad Two emblazoned above them.
I moved out of the way and watched as the ship descended,
its wings folding and crew already beginning to climb out from
the body. The light glanced off its feathers and into my eyes,
and I had to look away until the distinct thump of landing
echoed through the space.
Then the engines cut, and my ship was here at last.
46 Alin Haberle
Them.
Aniqa Tasnim
January 17, 2013
Her.
I was asked to describe her and I have spent the last five
days trying to paint a picture with the gift of words that will
do her justice. To be honest, the only thing that I can compare
her with is a rainbow, an arch of colors that are formed by
the refraction and dispersion of the one tool humans need to
survive, light. She’s red, red in the face when she’s yelling at
me at 8 in the evening because she can’t find the milk. Her red
lipstick stains my neck as I awaken intertwined with her like
the branches of a tree at 7 in the morning the next day. She’s
orange, the sensation of heat that’s not as aggressive as red that
fills me from head to toe when she sings me a song that she tried
to make sure replicated the melody of my heartbeat. Orange
leaves surround us and I swear, I could stare at her for hours
while she’s just admiring the beauty of nature. She’s yellow,
yellow like the goddamn sun. When you initially meet her,
you wouldn’t be able to identify the sunshine because of her
skepticism that covers up what she thinks is an embarrassing
objective of leaving the world a little less screwed up than how
she found it. Yellow emits from the glow of her fingertips as she
traces over the contour of my body like I am an area on a map
that she is trying to memorize. She’s green, green from top to
bottom as she sees me with someone else. Most people would
find her envy unattractive but her possessiveness and insecurity
only make me feel more wanted and as selfish as it sounds, I
need her to want me as much as I want her. Green stems sprout
from her head when she scrunches her eyebrows in frustration
while trying to create a song half as beautiful as her. Blue, blue
flows down her cheeks as she weeps about a little girl named
Aniqa Tasnim 47
Annabelle who died in a car accident that morning. People,
they tend to try and avoid tragedies and injustice because of
convenience and she does the complete opposite of that. She
somehow finds a connection with everything and it’s like the
whole world’s emotions have all found a way into the interior
of her heart. She hasn’t allowed the world to make her hard
despite the multiple punches that have bruised her cheek. Blue,
it also happens to be the color of her eyes. Her eyes are like
icy ponds that are almost frozen over in cold December months
and against all logic, I dove into the water and somehow, I am
still warm and thriving. She’s purple because she’s the greatest
luxury that I have ever allowed myself to indulge in. When
I was younger, I was taught that royalty always made sure to
wear the color purple because it’s supposed to illuminate the
idea of wisdom and power and I’ve now grown to learn why.
The wisdom, that falls from her lips as she engages with me
about a story in which people have inflicted unnecessary pain
on one another, has had the greatest hold on me. I didn’t think
something could be so powerful until she allowed her gaze to
direct its attention onto me. She’s pink, pink in the cheeks as
she blushes at something I’ve said lovingly to her on our way
to the gas station. She has never thanked me for any of my
compliments but, I can tell by the way her eyes dart to the floor
that she appreciates them. I will always relish the gift I have
of making her smile because I swear, it gives me the best high
I have ever encountered in my life. I think I will always be a
little bitter because all my life, people have warned me about
the dangers of addiction to drugs and alcohol but not one soul
has told me about the dangers of addiction to a person. The
pillow-like softness of her pink lips pepper me with kisses
after I tell her about my hiding places from the dangers of
my childhood. She’s white, all lace and innocence and purity.
She’s black, all fishnet stockings and secrets and scars. She’s
absolutely everything, all electric and captivation. When she
48 Aniqa Tasnim
touches me, I swear, it’s like she’s always been a part of me,
She’s my missing piece, my other half, she is what completes
me. When she looks at me, I know this is it; this is what I’ve
been waiting for. I want her to belong to me like I belong to her
but she belongs to no one but herself. She is free, she is wild,
and I’m afraid that I will never be able to catch up.
January 24th, 2014
Him.
When I was younger, I tended to be taller than the other girls
in my class. Because of this, boys used to point at me and
vicious names would escape from wicked grins. One day, I
couldn’t plaster a smile on my face any longer and I ran home
to my mother drowning in my own tears. She held me with her
elegant and thin arms that I still envy to this day, and told me
in a voice that tasted like honey that I was a tree. My roots
have planted themselves into this earth and soon, I will have
branches that grow long and high. All the other trees would
wish they were me and regret laughing at me when I was just
a sapling. As I grew older and my branches extended, I’ve
allowed people to hang onto them because I believe the stability
of finding something that holds on, when all you want to do is
let go, is a beautiful gift. However, he took away that security
and made sure my gorgeous limbs were ready to snap. When
I first met him, I felt as if the whole universe lit up inside of
me. He somehow allowed star constellations to crawl inside
the crevices of my brain so that I was always sure to see beauty
in the darkest places. Beautiful flowers bloomed in the garden
he planted in the pit on my stomach and my fingertips felt as
if they were glowing and I swear I felt as if I could fly. The
melody of his heartbeat was the sweetest sound that my ears
Aniqa Tasnim 49
have had the privilege to hear and I remember how when
it was 3 in the morning and our bodies were intertwined, I
would tell myself that I would spend the rest of my existence
trying to replicate a song half as beautiful as it. And his eyes,
goddamn those magical eyes that made me fall in love with
the idea of living and with the idea that I could contribute
something as wonderful as him to the world. God, he was the
best high I’ve ever had and I hate how no taste of alcohol and
no sting of chemicals can ever come close to the euphoria that
he supplied me with. I still wonder to this day how he had the
ability to fuck me one minute but then make love to me a few
minutes after. I was so in love with him and it’s amazing how
love is the only word that can paint a picture that will do him
justice. Love, god, love is magic that I’m so grateful exists in
a world that shames anything unexplainable and I remember
it filling my chest and wedging itself in my ribcage when I
was lying next to him for the first time. His green eyes were
the vivid leaves that were attached to the branches of the tree
that I was. The leaves held the most opaque gorgeous pigment
at one point, but now it is December so all those leaves have
wilted away and my branches are slowly dying. Damn, even
my mother, a woman who I have idolized my entire life, used
to whisper in my ear when the strokes of orange and pink just
started filling the morning sky that love is the only thing that
can heal pain. Imagine the agony I was in when I had to find
out that she was also wrong because he was a shattered mirror
that I was trying to glue back together. I don’t understand why
he couldn’t grasp what we had and why he couldn’t drive the
anger out of himself like he drove out everything else. What
he did, it was mind-blazingly selfish; he came into the life
of an abandoned girl promising that he wasn’t going to leave
but he left anyway. We were absolutely everything and now I
have to extinguish any fires that he left burning in the interior
of my heart. I’m sorry that my hours that are supposed to be
50 Aniqa Tasnim
reserved for sleeping have been filled with songs about him
that completely ignores the fact that he was complex enough.
Don’t worry; I’m stopping soon because I really need to find a
home to live in and he made it clear that I shouldn’t find it in
his eyes. My lungs are dusty from not screaming his name but
I’m trying to breathe in the smell of nature and birth and growth
so my body is filled with beauty that is not associated with him.
Here’s to finally letting him fly away like the balloons I never
received on my birthday and here’s to letting go. People like
him, they create but they can also leave destruction behind
and I can’t allow myself to deteriorate. He used to tell me that
I was the most beautiful sight and here’s to me, telling myself
that, in my own voice. Goodbye.
Aniqa Tasnim 51
Villar’s Valkyries
artwork by KeVaughn Lee Merrill
“I lost sleep teaching at Bronx Loaf. For the best reason I could
have hoped for: I had to keep up with the furious pace of my
students’ edits, as well as their new writing. The staff emphasizes
careful word choices and execution; the students expressed the
need to create new work. The combination led to full inboxes
and shared document folders, extra conference times, and a
river of editing ink. They absorbed every single suggestion. They
taught me about fearlessness. Easily one of the best teaching
experiences of my career.”
—Rich Villar
Rich Villar is a writer, performer, editor, activist, and educator
originally from Paterson, New Jersey. His first collection of
poems, Comprehending Forever (Willow Books, 2014), was
a finalist for the 2015 International Latino Book Award. He
is an alum of the vona/Voices Workshop and the Bread Loaf
Writers’ Conference. He has been quoted on Latino/a literature
and culture by hbo and The New York Times. He is a regular
contributor to the blogs Latino Rebels and Sofrito For Your Soul.
Rich has taught poetry and nonfiction in various settings
from prisons to universities to community centers nationwide.
He currently serves on the faculty of the School of Poetic Arts
(La SoPA nyc), a community-based creative writing program
on the Lower East Side of Manhattan. He served as a founding
host and curator for Acentos, a Bronx-based grassroots project
to promote the Latino/a voice in American letters.
Cry me a Sunset
Nicole Chapko
When you ask me to tell you it will be ok
I won’t.
I will refuse to comfort you with warm blankets
Of broken promises and lukewarm lies.
But I can promise you that when you cry
I will paint you a sunset with your tears.
I will paint your anger in a million shades
Of red.
I will wash the paper with your blues
I will bandage your purples of your bruises
And the dry crisp white of your broken bones
with canvas
and let your wounds bleed on the pages.
I will hang all of my sunsets
Inside of your stomach
Behind your ribcage
I have to believe that if maybe,
I can fill your lungs with something beautiful,
You will stop trying to fill them with glass shards
And shrapnel.
Maybe one day you’ll cough up a sunrise
Because I like to believe that pain
Is like the dark colors of watercolor paints
Which is to say they will fade away with time
Which is to say that what you are is
Only temporary.
Nicole Chapko 55
The Nothing Box
Nicole Chapko
You read an article a week back
And thought to yourself
That if your mind were a storage facility
You would have a small cardboard box
And you would fill it with nothing.
You had learned to compartmentalize so well
And done it so much for so long
That you had forgotten that I had already existed.
I am where you put up
Glow-in-the-dark stars on the walls when you were six,
Then when I knit you a night sky from cardboard and plastic
You decided to play god
Shoot stars out of the sky with a slingshot.
I am where you stored the clock from the kitchen
That stopped ticking on your ninth birthday
Because when you turned nine you had decided
That time had stopped
So you made me a place where time didn’t exist
Where you could still fit into your size 7 Children’s Place shorts
At age ten and twelve and sixteen.
I am where you stored yourself
Frozen in time at age nine
And decided that you would make me a place
With no gravity.
And it wasn’t as much because you wanted to fly
But because the air at home was too heavy
And you needed a place to feel weightless.
And you labeled me the
“Nothing Box”
And it wasn’t as much because you had nothing to store here
But because it was then you told yourself that
56 Nicole Chapko
Nothing here mattered.
And it was then that you had decided
To close me and tape me shut
To store me at the back of your storage facility mind
And it wasn’t as much because I had stopped
Knitting plastic and cardboard night skies for you
But because it was then that it had occurred to you that
Real ones are so much better
That you could shoot rocks from slingshots at mirrors
If you didn’t like what you saw in them
Instead of the stars you put up on my walls
And when you would think of me
You’d tell people you were thinking of nothing
And it wasn’t as much because that is the name you had given me
But because it was what I had become to you.
Nicole Chapko 57
This House
Nicole Chapko
This house is a one sided conversation
These old cracked painted walls speak volumes
Say words I could not bring myself to say
These rafters hold a thousand nooses
I could not bring myself to use
Instead made chandeliers of broken
Mirrors, homes, and bones that I could never really call my own
This house has long been hollowed out
Cut open like a frog on the dissection table
This house is an unfinished taxidermy
someone had started long ago
Cut this house open
And had us all removed
Left this home without a heart
A home no longer.
58 Nicole Chapko
Note to the Photographer’s Groom
Lauren Puglisi
I didn’t know it was a window seat
Till I gave it away
Like father gave me away in the aisle
Face pressed against window
World just beyond window
Wishing to absorb the passing scene through my dimpled cheeks
I wanted to travel the world with three eyes
Before we saw our home with four
I wanted to give my photos and my thoughts time to develop
So sometimes the fewer heads the better
But now instead of seeing my images
I see images of you
You waking up with messy hair and messy dreams
(This was never the dream)
You at our coffee table in the morning
(Am I mourning?)
Mug in hand
(Not too long and we’re hand in hand)
I did not want you half as much as I wanted the whole world
But maybe I do
I do
Lauren Puglisi 59
Doing Laundry in College for the First Time
Lauren Puglisi
I am sitting on the linoleum floor
of the laundromat
watching my clothes
and my life
go in circles
Yet somehow
becoming cleaner
with each cycle
And I imagine you
are doing the same
miles away
in our family’s basement
I wonder if you miss
my load of clothes
or does the wash simply
feel lighter
60 Lauren Puglisi
Tequila
Lauren Puglisi
When I look back
I will remember your mother
teaching me to drink tequila
like they do in her country
I watched her spoon the salt
on to a pepper red plate
measure the liquor
into two shot glasses
slice a lime
all carefully lined up on the counter
trying to make order
in the clutter of her life
She refilled her glass
got more salt
and lime
to mask the burning
in the back of her throat.
Then she refilled her glass
forgetting the salt
and the lime
When I left
she was whispering songs in Spanish
to her ancestors
Hidden somewhere
in the dark
Lauren Puglisi 61
The Excrescence
Brianna-Christine E. Alicea
My head is
An ocean with window breaking,
House smashing,
Wood splintering strength
Mightier than hurricanes I feel the twisters
Scrambling the rusted wires with a newfound
Space,
These pipes send buzzing shockwaves of
Thunder raging into my heart.
My heart is
A rabid tiger
Prowling in the shadows for
Its prey, awaiting the second
Day becomes night, paws heavier
Than steel, eyes of sharpened
Metal arrow heads
And a call agitating the
Fragile glass of an
Infant never born.
My throat is
A demon resting, taunting with
A mother’s praise, haunting
The depths of an abyss
With tunnels too narrow to walk tall
Chains with the strength of one million soldiers
Resistance is
Futile as swords against guns
The rough gravel feeling
Of what’s supposed to be
62 Brianna-Christine E. Alicea
Pebbles are slithering,
Grating the little skin
I already have.
My lungs are the collision
Of venom and
Purity, the war rages in my
Shriveled, pruned body
A falcon stealing life, the beak
Tearing through
Flesh, finding salvation
In the blood slowly
Dripping in a pool on the ground
Sharpening its claws on
Tissue
Too easily sparked into a sliver of flames
Mother’s nails on a chalkboard
A better alternative.
My stomach
Hangs strange black and
Red spotted
Fruit,
Lost, weary explorers travel
A way
Doom springing forth
A cheetah pouncing
On its last prey before starvation
I can feel it
Feel how hideous and nauseating doom
Aches: the wire coiling around
Pink muscle, pulling to the
East and west with mercy equivalent
Of a psychopathic mother
Brianna-Christine E. Alicea 63
How with drowning
Despair tangoes to a non-existent guitar.
My foot lies on ten thousand
Iceberg needles, with desolate
Places in the pin sized-black hole
Somewhere inside, the branches
Have died
The beast resides momentarily
With passing dusks and dawns
Ending its time as the lone hermit.
64 Brianna-Christine E. Alicea
Pretend It’s Okay
Tamari Francois
I smile like nothing’s wrong
Talk like everything’s perfect
Act like it’s all a dream
Pretend the words are not
Hurting me!!!
How can I smile like nothing’s wrong
The words of pain are going to be there
Talk like everything is perfect
When it’s not
I can’t act like it’s a dream well
It’s my reality
Pretend it’s not hurting me:
Not any more.
Your words are not
Going to define me.
I’m going to define it instead.
Define it as my motivation.
Pretending can be easier but
I want my voice to be heard.
So I will be just fine, your
Words mean nothing to me
Anymore.
Thank You for the pain but
I don’t need it anymore.
My circle of friends is
Getting smaller.
Tamari Francois 65
Crunchy Park
Adam Aharoni
Thump-thump, thump, thump, thump-thump
rubber Razor wheels fill my cracks—
Thump-thump, thump, thump, thump-thump—
like the intrepid ga-donging of a train
departing the station of daylight.
Thump-thump, thump, thump, young voices,
their giddy cheers dying down.
Aching redbricks rest beneath the windchill
as Upper-Eastern Manhattan sleeps
(or pretends).
Wind sweeping up the dog-urine sand,
the peeling bark,
leaves from three falls ago.
Three brothers inhabit my tranquil mouth
I have seen them time & time before;
the young sporty one,
the quiet writer-type
& the old, bearded & angry one.
They huddle to shield the ugly
& dirty wind; puff J’s and dance around my angled
statue teeth, reduced to cavedwellers around a fire.
They shout stories,
carve in my spotty trees
66 Adam Aharoni
anything to try to wash
the bruises & smooth
the holes in the wall,
piece families back
together with Elmer’s Glue
& wingadongs
& googly-eyed popsicle-sticky things
skulls too tired to try anything else.
Addicts scratch and turn on park-benches,
while the brothers burn holes
in their brains
as though the purity of childhood
will crawl through them & climb
as if on the monkey bars over my fence.
Adam Aharoni 67
Himalayas
Monika Luchowska
Daylight
Cranes fly over the Himalayas,
Higher than any bird that ever fluttered,
Taking in several breaths
With every heartbeat,
Pushing the boundaries of pain.
They sweep their long necks forward,
Spots of rueful blue trembling,
In jet currents fiercely twisting,
Before resting in rivers below.
Ice & Death
Geese soar past Everest,
Their shadows plunging near
Rocky crevices spangled with ice,
Their haughty shoulders breaking
Through the showers of stars;
And each night a hope that they may
Pass through a mountain’s channel,
Skirting national boundaries below.
Fur & Freedom
Languid monkeys pluck scarlet flowers
From swaying trees, taste yellow petals,
And stare at leaves dolefully.
Late nectar fests mitigate
The cold snows of autumn.
68 Monika Luchowska
Wolves with the eyes of the sun
prowl through frozen plains;
(Of slanted mouths and tufted ears,
Waiting to snag feathers from Sky.)
Heart & Essence
Honey is the darkest in the world.
It seeps over granite cliffs,
Encased in pulsating cages,
As millions of golden wings
Flex in unison.
Musk deer elude the brackish pools,
Slender legs brushing moist ferns.
(A black scent coveted by Cleopatra,
Hunted for fragrance alone.)
Fire & Soul
Leopards prowl misty valleys,
Their broad faces resembling tigers’
And hidden by silver manes.
They slink with resourceful tails,
Paws creeping in the slander of water
Made remorseful in the new rain.
Rowan donkeys whip their tails,
Fine curls sweeping the dawn.
Their flanks determine the extent
Of the sun touching the land
And how lonesome-like antelopes
Blow steam from their muzzles.
Monika Luchowska 69
Light & Water
Four rivers flow from a crystal peak,
Little slips of Buddhist prayers
Spiraling in the air,
And shafts of bamboo are covered
In rainbow scales, with a small platform—
A mirage of dry voices and humble horns—
A sacrifice to the wind.
70 Monika Luchowska
Celebrations of Sea
Monika Luchowska
Buildings groan from my hiss, subtly secured
by the soft touch of my skin: pale, cold, and thin.
Their shadows are smooth and unbreakable.
The wet touch of my hair reigns (sharp and stiff),
where the piping plovers—fluffy toughness beneath
bodies—linger in the darkness.
My dreams unfurl: choppy, dark, and gray.
The birds will cry, unseen, in the protective
curves of my cheeks.
My tired eye blinks red, a falling ember, and
suspends its shallow glare upon the dunes
so blighted by fuzzy thoughts.
My breath is cold, foamy, and wild.
The boardwalk sighs from a flute whistle
while waves crash, heave, and silence it.
Uncontrollably, I seethe.
Monika Luchowska 71
Cardenas’ Cosmic Conquerers
All plays premiered at The Bruckner, July 8, 2015, with the
following casts:
Homo Novus by KeVaughn Merrill
Homo Novus—Robert Santana
Igor—Leandro McPhee
Deepest Cut by Anna Steingold
Lizzie Herondale—Dieynaba Dieng
Jane Kyle—Mavelyn Cruz
The Happy Clinic by Kiara Rice
Head Surgeon—James Loving Thomas
Surgeon #2—Leandro McPhee
Carmen—Mavelyn Cruz
Lovely, Dark, and Deep by Skye An
Stian—Robert Santana
Charon—Christian Clarke
Take Over by Randy Morales
Trey—Kelvin Uraga
Danny—Steven Durosaiye
New President—James Loving Thomas
The Eternal Life of Elijah Pence by Nijiko Falconer
Samantha—Dieynaba Dieng
Elijah Pence—Steven Durosaiye
Opposing Forces by Wilson Chapman
Unmovable—Deborah Pautler
Unstoppable—Kelvin Uraga
“To see young writers free themselves by throwing personal writing
blocks out the window because they were so inspired by the
workshop leaders, was a sight to behold…”
—Luis Cardenas
Luis Reyes Cardenas has performed in the following:
Off-Broadway: Fools in Love, Manhattan Ensemble Theater/
bam. NY: Balm in Gilead, Barefoot Theatre Company; Tempest
Toss’d, nymf. Playwright: Last Exit in New York, Aint Gonna b
e z, Play the Papers for Lupe, Boys Like Me. Film: Shakespeare
High, Executive Producer, Kevin Spacey. Regional: The Drowsy
Chaperone, Evita, Tommy, Big River, Little Shop of Horrors,
Angels in America. Producer: FutureFest @ 54 Below and
Rockwell Table and Stage, fnam. He is Co-Artistic Director/
Founder of Open Hydrant Theater Company and the Director
of snfi Individual Events at Stanford University.
Homo Novus: The New Wise Man
KeVaughn Lee Merrill
Characters, in order of appearance:
NOVUS—(male, age 12) Genetically modified human. Created by
Dr. Hammond and NeoGen International. Very intelligent. Feels
that he will not be accepted into society because of his differences.
DR. HENRY ISAAC HAMMOND—(male, age 58) CEO
and founder of NeoGen International. Wants deeply for his
innovations to be the creation that saves humanity.
DAVID ENDOCRINE—(male, age 53) Famed late night talk
show host. Disapproves of the methods employed by NeoGen
to immunize humanity. Feels beings like Novus presents a
large risk to mankind.
IGOR—(male, age 45) Survivor of the Cull plague. Employee
of NeoGen charged with protecting Novus. Deeply wishes for
Novus to save humanity from a similar epidemic and create
a brighter tomorrow.
KeVaughn Lee Merrill 75
ACT I
Scene 1
(The year is 2086. The scene is a Hollywoodstyle dressing room. There is a chair facing a
mirror where NOVUS is sitting. The room is
spotless but not decorated. Enter NOVUS and
DR. HAMMOND)
HAMMOND (on phone): We should be on shortly. Yes the boy
and I are very excited. Okay well I am, but Novus is ready
for this. What happens tonight is going to validate everything
NeoGen has stood for for the past three decades. We are going
to change the world. Oh do refrain from pestering me now, Ian,
alright? I told you he’s ready.
(Hangs up)
NOVUS: That Dr. Wells?
HAMMOND: Who else? I’ll tell you he really is caught up in
his notions of “the world not being ready” and all. Can you
believe that?
NOVUS: Maybe he’s right. I mean, based on what I’ve read
online—
HAMMOND: Haven’t I told you to stay off the news sites? 90
years of internet news sites and still nobody has anything—
NOVUS: (overlapping) Anything intelligent to say. I know. You
say that every day. But still the web is my best hope at knowing
what real people think.
76 KeVaughn Lee Merrill
HAMMOND: Real people? Only recently you went to lunch
with Dr. Winslow and Dr. Lin—
NOVUS: First off, We didn’t go anywhere. We ate in the same
dining hall that I ate in the day before. Second, geneticists who
paid for an early shot at a research paper are not real people.
HAMMOND: No one out there is a real person, Novus. The
only things on the nets are hate mongers and their sheepish
followers. A brain like yours needs intellectuals like Mr.
Endocrine. That’s why NeoGen set up this interview.
NOVUS: David Endocrine doesn’t even like NeoGen. He thinks
the world funds should have gone directly to relief after the Cull.
HAMMOND: The fact that Mr. Endocrine and I have differing
30-year-old political ideals is irrelevant. The fact is that we
have the same goal now.
NOVUS: Using genetics like mine to immunize humanity?
HAMMOND: Precisely, my boy. Using you to save the world.
Now let’s—oh there’s my cue.
ENDOCRINE: (over speaker) And now ladies and gents, the
Endocrine Hour presents the world’s leading bio engineer and
leader of biotech giant NeoGen. The man some call the modern
Da Vinci and others call the Modern Frankenstein.
(Knocking is heard. HAMMOND opens door—
Enter IGOR):
HAMMOND (to NOVUS): Alright son, it’s show time.
(Aside)
KeVaughn Lee Merrill 77
Stay with the boy.
(Hammond exits)
ENDOCRINE (over speaker): Introducing…Doctor Henry Isaac
Hammond!
IGOR: Dr. Hammond sent me to stay with you till curtain call,
Mr. Novus.
NOVUS: Seems like all he ever does is send people places.
Just last week he got me a “dinner date” with Dr. Lin from
NeoGen’s Hong Kong branch. Turns out we were meeting in
my personal dining room and Dr. Lin was there to observe and
record my dietary habits for her research paper. Hammond
never lets me speak to anyone unless they pay him. I’ve never
been critiqued, only examined.
IGOR: It couldn’t have been that bad, Mr. Novus. I mean Dr.
Lin is—
NOVUS: She took a stool sample, Igor!
(beat)
IGOR: I see.
(beat)
IGOR: Are you excited for your big debut, Mr. Novus?
NOVUS: You know the answer to that, Igor.
IGOR: Well your father seems to be.
NOVUS: Ha, he’s not my father. What do I have, 2% of his dna?
50% from a woman I don’t know; a combined 45% from God
78 KeVaughn Lee Merrill
knows how many men and 3% that nobody seems obliged to share
with me. Do you trust him, Igor? About what I mean for humanity.
IGOR: Dr. Hammond is a brilliant man Mr, Novus. If he
believes that you’re the key to preventing the Cull’s return,
who am I to disagree?
NOVUS: How old are you, Igor?
IGOR: 45, sir.
NOVUS: Tell me about the Cull.
IGOR: Human Culling Fever Syndrome, caused by the Culling
Fever virus, was the largest plague ever to face mankind. It
killed about 270 mil—
NOVUS (overlapping): I know the statistics, Igor. I meant, what
was it like?
IGOR (reluctantly): Sir?
NOVUS: Igor, please?
IGOR: I was 10 when it started. By the time I turned 13, the Cull
had taken my father, two of my sisters and both of my brother’s legs.
NOVUS: His legs?
IGOR: The…rotting…started in his…feet. Our doctors were
desperate. They thought amputation might stop the virus before
it spread.
NOVUS: And?
KeVaughn Lee Merrill 79
IGOR: They slowed it down. Three months after the surgery
the virus had eaten his spinal column from the inside out. He
died in pain.
NOVUS: I’m sorry about your family, Igor.
IGOR: Don’t be. I mean that’s what this is all about, right? The
past decade of research that all lead to you, right? The Cull is
over, and thanks to you, it’s not coming back.
NOVUS: I’m not sure I’m the cure everyone wants, Igor. The
Cull was so deadly because it’s what people call a chimera.
IGOR: Chimera?
NOVUS: An ungodly entity composed of mismatched parts.
That’s a chimara. A monster with unnatural powers and
unconventional abilities. Sound familiar, Igor?
(beat)
I’m a chimera.
IGOR: You’re no monster, Novus. You’re the answer, the savior
of humanity.
NOVUS: And if I’m not?
(A knocking is heard at the door.)
IGOR: You are. They tested your genes, you’re immune. You
you’re the cure.
(The knocking continues.)
NOVUS: Don’t any of you get it? They don’t want a living cure.
They never wanted Homo Sapien Novus. They want a tonic
in a bottle even if that tonic has to be sucked from my spine!!
80 KeVaughn Lee Merrill
(The knocking gets louder.)
IGOR: Mr. Novus, you need to go now. Mr. Endocrine iswaiting.
NOVUS: Alright, alright already!
(Begins to exit.)
IGOR: Break a leg out there, Novus.
NOVUS: You know I can’t.
(They Exit)
Scene 2
(A luxurious seating area set up in late night
talk-show style. ENDOCRINE sits behind a
desk and HAMMOND on a couch. Enter DR.
HAMMOND and DAVID ENDOCRINE)
ENDOCRINE: So doctor, I doubt our audience has tuned
in tonight from around the globe to hear old men chatter. I
understand that your prized creation is actually here tonight.
HAMMOND: Yes David. Novus has accompanied me this
evening. He’d like to take this opportunity to make his debut
to your viewers.
ENDOCRINE: Well then, let’s dally no further. Ladies and
Gentlemen, the culmination of nearly 2 decades of medical
research and billions of tax dollars. NeoGen’s prodigal
answer to the Cull, The Endocrine Hour presents…the
Homo Sapien Novus!!
(Enter NOVUS, GUARD, and IGOR)
KeVaughn Lee Merrill 81
ENDOCRINE: Wow.
(beat)
NOVUS: Good day, Mr. Endocrine.
ENDOCRINE: (tentatively begins to extend hand) Is it…safe…
to shake hands with it?
HAMMOND: Mr. Endocrine. Novus poses no threat to you
whatsoever.
ENDOCRINE: Right…sit down, please. I’m, sure that I speak
for the rest of the human race when I say that there is a lot
we’d like to know about you.
NOVUS: That’s why I’m here, sir.
ENDOCRINE: Is that so? Well, I suspect we’ll be here for a while
then. Let’s start with the basics. Are you aware that 20 years ago,
2 billion human egg cells were extracted in the program that gave
you life? Did anyone tell you about the estimated 800 million
that were destroyed by experimentation in the first half decade?
HAMMOND (sternly): Mr. Endocrine, please.
ENDOCRINE: I’m not done. What has NeoGen done with the
millions of eggs that went into you? How many more human
lives will never see the light of day? Did they make more of
you in the lab?
HAMMOND: I can’t let you just harass—
ENDOCRINE (overlapping): He’s got thick skin doesn’t he?
Wasn’t that one of your precautions to stop the rotting? How
82 KeVaughn Lee Merrill
about it, Novus? Are the reports true? Can you really survive
the Cull? Can your bones, skin heal instantly? Do you even
get ill?
HAMMOND: David, cease this at once!!
ENDOCRINE: I’m talking to the Homo Novus!
HAMMOND: You’re yelling at a child!!
NOVUS: shut up!! I don’t know what I am! I don’t know why
I’m here. I know that you think you know why I’m here. Nobody
ever told me what God’s plan was for me. I’m not even sure if
I’m included in that plan. I’m not sure if I have a God. I’m not
like you, I understand that. I’m not some experiment for you
to poke and prod, at least not anymore. I’m also not leaving
any time soon. You all…should get over it.
HAMMOND: Novus. I didn’t know.
(beat)
NOVUS: You never asked.
(Exit NOVUS pursued by IGOR)
KeVaughn Lee Merrill 83
Excerpt from Deepest Cut
Anna Steingold
Characters, in order of appearance:
LIZZIE HERONDALE—(female, high school junior, age 16)
Lizzie has curly brown hair with the ends dyed pink. She has
known Jane since sixth grade, and is interested in art and
psychology.
JANE KYLE—(female, high school junior, age 16) Jane has
straight blonde-red hair with gray eyes. She has known Lizzie
since sixth grade, and is interested in trig and physics.
84 Anna Steingold
Scene 3
(LIZZIE is standing in the school bathroom.
After a moment, JANE enters.)
LIZZIE: Well…so I got a bad grade in physics, and I don’t
really care. I mean, rationally, I want to do better, but then
again, I really don’t give a fuck.
JANE: How are you so calm? If I were in your place, I’d have
had at least four paper cuts on the inside of my elbow…
LIZZIE: Um…what? Why?
JANE: Well, ‘cause it’s…bad…and…look, I’m bad at getting
sentimental. It’s just bad, and I shouldn’t be getting bad grades,
thus, I make the emotions leave through the cuts. And then
it’s all calm and logical, no feelings crowding their way in, so
I could study.
LIZZIE: Uh…Cutting…numbs you? Doesn’t it hurt?
JANE: It’s like, both a punishment and a promise. Like, I
promise to do better. Now I’ll go review my notes. It hurts,
but only a little…it makes you calm. Y’know? Like…peace.
LIZZIE: Give me my physics quiz, would you? I think…I have
to…I should…study. Yeah. Get a better grade…Hm…
JANE: It works, you know? I’ve started way back in August.
When…my family, it…you know, dysfunction-ed, I started
doing it, and that’s how I finished my summer homework. You
let go, you lose track of time and only concentrate on one thing.
Nothing…hurts.
Anna Steingold 85
LIZZIE: But…isn’t it…like, not right?
JANE: Drugs aren’t right only because they’re permanent. Like,
marijuana changes your brain cells permanently. But, these
cuts heal. Nothings lasts forever.
Scene 5
(JANE and LIZZIE are sitting in the train,
talking.)
JANE:…And I was all like, piss off, jerk! I’m not going to twerk
in public. That’s just messed up.
LIZZIE: (lightheartedly, rolling her eyes, grinning, teasing.)
Some people are just messed up. Well, OK, most people are
just messed up. You don’t just flirt with everyone you see.
JANE: That’s the problem, isn’t it? When people see each other,
they don’t understand each other, or know what the other wants.
And people are scared of what they don’t understand. So, as long
as they think they know you, or there’s a connection between
two people, they accept each other. But if the connection
breaks, there’s just fear and hate and…stuff.
LIZZIE: (ranting, starting slow and getting faster) Maybe that’s
the problem. No one can really understand each other and stuff.
Sort of, the first step to understanding is acceptance. ’Cause,
you know, Mom still accepts me, I can still come home, and that
means that one day, mom will understand me—I hope. D’you
think my mom would let me stay if she knew all of my thoughts
and all that? But she accepts, so maybe one day she’ll know.
86 Anna Steingold
JANE: (Relaxing, starting out light/conversational, ending up
thoughtful and frowning.)
Mmhm…Yeah, I think I agree. But…If you don’t accept anyone,
doesn’t it hurt less when they die? ’Cause otherwise, if you
accept everyone, when they leave, there’s…it all…hurts.
LIZZIE: I think that’s part of life, Jane. Like, whatever
happened in August to make you start…you know…You just
need to cry. To work through the emotions.
JANE: (Emphasis on “work.” JANE sounds half defeated, half
annoyed.) That doesn’t work.
LIZZIE: (Annoyed, snapping.) I don’t know. The rest of the
world seems to do it pretty well.
JANE: Normal is a setting on a dishwasher. btw, it’s our stop…
(They stand up)
LIZZIE: Being a dishwasher setting is probably easier than
being a growing human teenage girl with both angst and
hormones.
(They leave.)
Scene 7
(JANE and LIZZIE are in the bathroom. JANE
is pacing back and forth, while LIZZIE is
standing in front of the mirror, doing her
eyeliner.)
Anna Steingold 87
JANE:…and Will just told me that they need shrinks and
mental hospitals! In other words, he thinks that I just need
to go lock myself up somewhere, that I’m not, well, normal!
LIZZIE: (Puts away eyeliner, turns around and crosses her arms
in front of JANE.) Look, Jane, Will thinks that the world is
split into normal good people and stupid mental criminals who
double as politicians. And that’s not true. Quoting Harry Potter,
the world isn’t split into Good People and Death Eaters. Now,
tell me what happened in August.
JANE: (JANE gasps, shaking.) What?
LIZZIE: You hurt yourself so you could ignore the pain from
whatever happened in August. Talk.
JANE: My dad and brother died in a car crash.
LIZZIE: Oh, Jane…
(LIZZIE sits on the bathroom floor, patting the
space next to her. After a moment, JANE sits.
LIZZIE puts an arm around JANE’s shoulder.
LIZZIE: Softly, gently.)
Tell me more, Jane.
JANE: It was a yellow car…Not a taxi, but yellow. Sam, my
brother, loved yellow…there was a truck, it crashed in them
from the back…
(JANE starts slowly crying.)
It was hot, sunny, and windy at the funeral…I couldn’t find
black shoes, I wore sneakers…
LIZZIE: Sh…
88 Anna Steingold
JANE: It’s not fair!…
(JANE cries for a long time. There’s silence apart
from that. When JANE stops, she slowly looks up,
sitting up straighter and fixing her hair.)
LIZZIE: There…how’d you feel?
JANE: Calmer…I think…less shaky?
LIZZIE: Calm or numb?
JANE: Calm. It’s better than the numb…thanks, Lizzie.
LIZZIE: Anytime. Well, hopefully, not, but, laugh, you know
what I mean. Let’s go. We’ll be late for class.
Anna Steingold 89
The Happy Clinic
Kiara Rice
Characters, in order of appearance:
HEAD SURGEON—(male, age 43) Has a morbid fascination
with death and the pain of his patients. Does anything he can
to be obedient to the leader of the Blake Project.
CARMEN HOLLIS—(female, age 21) A nervous, saddened
woman who wants to be happy. Suffered emotional trauma
from a mugging.
SURGEON #2—(male, age 22) Flippant young man who wants
to be at the top even though his father left him his old position.
Despises the leader of the Blake Project.
90 Kiara Rice
ACT I
Scene 1
(Curtains open to a brightly lit operation room in
California. The year is 2051. The room has white
walls, glossy floors and something is not right.
An older HEAD SURGEON that has a morbid
fascination with death and a young SURGEON #2
enter the room in pristine scrubs. A young woman
named CARMEN enters with them.)
HEAD SURGEON: (motioning toward the chair in the center
of the room) Right this way, Carmen. We’ll only be a moment.
(CARMEN nervously sits down and glances
around while the surgeons turn their backs to her.)
CARMEN: How long are you going to be?
HEAD SURGEON: (blinks) Only a moment.
SURGEON #2: (chuckling) That’s what he said, dear. Get
comfortable.
(CARMEN sighs and surveys the room. She notices
a table with the cloth on top of it and frowns.
The HEAD SURGEON and SURGEON #2 walk
downstage into a new light.)
HEAD SURGEON: So what do we have here?
SURGEON #2: Memory manip. Mugging.
Kiara Rice 91
HEAD SURGEON: Typical.
SURGEON #2: (shaking his head) I know! We never get
anything fun. It’s always the hand me downs from the top.
From Heather.
(angrily)
It’s always that bitch—
HEAD SURGEON: Shhh!
(exasperated)
We will complete whatever tasks—
SURGEON #2: But—
HEAD SURGEON: —No matter how menial, if she wants us to.
(getting worked up)
I will not let a rookie like you jeopardize my chances—No
matter. Just focus on this.
SURGEON #2: (grabs CARMEN’s info from the wall) Fine.
(mutters)
She’s still a bitch.
(HEAD SURGEON doesn’t hear the remark and
continues.)
HEAD SURGEON: Good. Just because your father used to
run this—
SURGEON #2: What about my father?
HEAD SURGEON: Nothing. Back to the matter at hand. Carmen
Hollis. 21. She’s one of the youngest to come here, actually.
(smiling)
92 Kiara Rice
Might actually be fun to see inside her head.
SURGEON #2: (grinning) Plus she’s really hot.
(HEAD SURGEON glares at SURGEON #2 and
SURGEON #2 shrugs, continuing.)
Sorry, trying to lighten the mood. It’s depressing as hell in here.
Maybe we should hire an interior designer.
HEAD SURGEON: Don’t let Heather hear you say that. You
won’t be around to even get fired. Or even worse, she’ll blame
it on me.
(nervous)
Just keep your mouth shut.
(Lights dim on surgeons.)
CARMEN: (to self) I can do this! I have to…
(SURGEONS appear. CARMEN looks at doctors)
But why do they have to be so strange?
(HEAD SURGEON straps her into the chair and
walks away without a word.)
(to self) What the hell?
(CARMEN pulls at her restraints.)
No, no no, this is not what Ash and Lily said.
(sadly)
Those liars.
(CARMEN clears her throat and looks over at the
doctors.)
Excuse me?
(The surgeons turn, exchange looks, SURGEON
#2 walks over.)
SURGEON #2: (charmingly) Sorry for the long wait.
(places a hand on her cheek)
We’re ready to begin now.
Kiara Rice 93
HEAD SURGEON: (Glaring at SURGEON 2) Start the machine!
(SURGEON #2 walks to the wall and flips a
switch that activates the memory manipulator and
HEAD SURGEON walks to the table to grab it. It
is menacing and CARMEN looks at it in horror.)
CARMEN: This won’t hurt right?
(Silence. HEAD SURGEON smiles and continues to
move closer to her, each step making his grin wider.)
CARMEN: Right?!
(Silence. HEAD SURGEON starts laughing and
SURGEON #2 smirks.)
CARMEN: Don’t get any closer!
HEAD SURGEON: (grinning) When we’re finished, all the
pain will be but a dream.
CARMEN: (screams)
(The HEAD SURGEON laughs. CARMEN gets
up from the chair and moves downstage into a
white light while the HEAD SURGEON continues
to work and the sounds of surgery continue in
CARMEN’s head. She speaks to the audience)
CARMEN: (a beat) It all started because of August 17th. I
was mugged. Beaten. For a stupid bag with lipstick and empty
metro cards in it! Can you believe that? I tried to shut it out.
94 Kiara Rice
God knows I tried but no matter what I did I couldn’t forget.
It drained me. I went to my girls, Ashley and Lillian, hoping
to find a way to cope. They brought up the Blake Project. How
you could get rid of those bad memories, get new ones and
just be happy. I wanted to be happy. But as they talked, it
sounded…wrong. And I couldn’t believe this was something
people actually wanted to go through. I’ve lived a sheltered
life. Hell, I still live sheltered. I thought nothing could touch
me. But, it did. And I couldn’t function knowing that these
dirty, nasty things could happen to me. And I wanted it to go
away. Ashley and Lillian, they kept on saying, “Do it! We did.
Just do it!” So I did. And here I am.
(CARMEN looks at the chair and SURGEON.
Sadly)
But this is so painful. Why is it so painful?
HEAD SURGEON: Come on, come on.
CARMEN: (to audience) I just want to be happy.
(a beat and looks back at the chair)
I need to be happy.
(a beat and looks back to the audience)
I’m going to be happy.
(CARMEN walks back to the chair and the
lights shift.)
HEAD SURGEON: (unstrapping CARMEN from the chair)
My work here is done.
(The surgeons leave the stage, smiling. CARMEN
sits smiling into space.)
Kiara Rice 95
Lovely, Dark and Deep
Skye An
Characters, in order of appearance:
STIAN—(male, age 17) A misanthropic and cynical teenager
out looking for death in order to escape the hardships in his
life. A chance encounter with Charon has him rethinking the
meaning of life and death.
CHARON—(male, age 17) A mysterious, playful, and
mischievous mortician in training with a thirst for adventure
and a morbid sense of humor. Having already overcome the
darkness in his life, he serves as a guide for Stian in helping
him come to terms with his own personal hardships.
96 Skye An
ACT I
Scene 1
(A dimly lit alley in the city of New York. The
sound of bones cracking, angry grunts, and
shouting cut through the still night. STIAN has
provoked a small street gang loitering in the alley.
He is ruthlessly beaten up. The assailants shout out
insults and give him one last kick before leaving.)
STIAN: (To audience. Solemn.) The scars that cannot be seen
scare me the most. When chaos makes its descent, we meet
it in many ways. We can fight it or accept it, or perhaps even
pretend that it’s nonexistent. We could create our own safe
haven, but there’s no harbor in the tempest for me. I could have
opted for a quiet and swift death, but I hate being helpless, so
that’s probably why I chose to fight. The prolonged physical
pain I felt helped keep my mind off the pain I felt on the inside.
I was done believing that I could ever be happy. We give and
take in this world, I understand that much, but why does the
world keep taking from me? I’ve run out of things to give, so
why can’t it just take from another person? One who isn’t as
tortured and hateful. One who isn’t self-destructive and keeps
pushing people away. Well, I guess it doesn’t matter now. I’ll
be gone and no one will miss me.
(STIAN lies bloodied, beaten, and bruised with
his back to the ground. His eyes threaten to close
him off to complete darkness and he is breathing
faintly. The street lamp flickers just once.)
CHARON: (CHARON appears and approaches STIAN in
confident strides with his hands in his pockets. He looks directly
Skye An 97
down at STIAN’s face, tilts his head curiously, and smirks.) The
woods must be lovely, dark and deep this evening. If you’re
done, I’ll take it from here.
(CHARON crouches and begins to examine
STIAN’s body.)
STIAN: (Eyes snap open, pushes CHARON and away, and
glares.) What the hell?
CHARON: (Crosses arms.) Oh. So you are alive. You shouldn’t
get a mortician’s hopes up like that you know.
Scene 2
(CHARON supports STIAN as they walk silently
in the night. CHARON has stopped STIAN’s
bleeding by using his sweater to cover STIAN’s
wounds. CHARON happily leads the way while
STIAN looks skeptical as he is dragged along.)
STIAN: Where the hell are you taking me?
CHARON: (Shrugs and grins. Playful tone.) Don’t know. It
doesn’t matter. So long as we get somewhere right?
STIAN: (Frowns deeper and sighs tiredly.) Why are you helping
me?
CHARON: (Deep in thought.) I don’t know. I guess it’s because
you seem just as broken as I am.
STIAN: What the hell is that supposed to mean?
98 Skye An
CHARON: (Quickens pace.) Never mind. Come on. Let’s hurry.
The next train leaves in less than five minutes.
STIAN: Train?
CHARON: What? You want to limp all the way home?
STIAN: There’s no damn home for me to go back to anyway.
CHARON: (Smirks.) Who said anything about home?
STIAN: And you just expect me to go along with this?
CHARON: (Lets STIAN stand on his own.)
Oh come on, where’s your sense of adventure? Besides, I’m
sure you want this back right?
(CHARON holds out a necklace in front of STIAN’s
face. STIAN angrily tries to get it back, but
CHARON succeeds in keeping it away from him.)
STIAN: What the hell? How’d you get that?! Give that back
to me you asshole!
CHARON: (Teasing.) You want this? Well come and get it!
(CHARON runs ahead and gestures for STIAN to
follow by waving the necklace around for STIAN
to see.)
STIAN: (Seething. Quickly limps after CHARON.) Jackass!
Give me my necklace back!
Skye An 99
Scene 3
(STIAN and CHARON have boarded a deathly
silent train. CHARON tosses the necklace to
STIAN who catches it while glaring at CHARON.)
CHARON: This train only makes one stop, so you might as
well get comfortable.
(STIAN grumbles as he and CHARON sit side
by side on the bench with a few feet of space in
between them. STIAN is hunched over in his
seat and CHARON leans back with his hands
folded behind his head and his legs stretched
out. CHARON turns his head to face STIAN and
breaks the silence between them.)
Well, we’ve put off the introductions long enough don’t you
think? Name’s Charon. You’re Stian, right?
STIAN: (Looks up and blinks twice in surprise.) Whoa, how the
hell do you know who I am?
CHARON: So I’m guessing I don’t seem all that familiar to you.
STIAN: Don’t answer a question with a question.
CHARON: Someone’s impatient.
STIAN: Cut the crap. Am I supposed to know you?
CHARON: Perhaps. We go to the same institution where they
separate adolescents by age and force them to take tests of both
emotional endurance and intellectual capacity. Did I mention
that it’s the same place where humiliation and oppression
can happen in just forty-five minutes and where people come
together in an all out battle of the egos?
100 Skye An
STIAN: (Pauses then tilts his head.) We go to the same high
school?
CHARON: (Snaps his fingers and points at STIAN.) Bingo.
STIAN: Well, I haven’t seen you at all in school and I’d like
to keep it that way especially after tonight.
CHARON: (Teasing.) What a shame. I was really starting to
think we were bonding on this fine evening.
STIAN: (Glares.) Don’t get your hopes up. In fact, if I wasn’t
so sore, I’d seriously beat you down right now.
CHARON: (Sarcastic.) Sure. Says the guy who got his ass
kicked at the alley back there.
STIAN: Shut the hell up. I let those guys beat me up.
CHARON: Why?
STIAN: To die.
CHARON: (Curious.) You’re rather eager to die. What’s the
rush? Death is inevitable, but that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t
take our time and live life to the fullest.
STIAN: Whatever. So what were you doing around that alley
back there? Were you looking for me specifically, or just
passing by?
CHARON: Well, if you must know, I was continuing my search
for dead bodies.
Skye An 101
(The train car rumbles as it moves over a bumpy
path. The lights flicker.)
STIAN: (Slightly stunned.) Wait, what did you say?
CHARON: (Repeats slowly. Looks for signs of understanding
from STIAN.) I. Was. Searching. For. Dead. Bodies. You know,
those heaps of lifeless mass left in the material world after a
person dies.
STIAN: (Irritated.) I know what they are. Why the hell were
you looking for dead bodies?
CHARON: Well I am a mortician. In training I suppose, but
death is my specialty. Death is my life no matter how ironic
that sounds.
STIAN: So that’s why you were being a creep and examining
my body like that before? You know, most people would just
settle for being a doctor or something.
CHARON: I’m not most people, Stian. Besides, I prefer the
dead to the living in most cases. They won’t say cruel things to
me when I poke and prod at them unlike when you’re a doctor
with live patients.
STIAN: (A beat.) But the dead have a lot to say.
CHARON: (Slightly surprised at the response and then grins
like the Cheshire cat.) Is that right? Well, since I answered
your question, you’ll answer mine. Why did you want to die?
STIAN: Shit happens, man.
102 Skye An
CHARON: (A beat.) So what’s wrong with you? I mean,
teenagers have a penchant for dramatics. Ordinary teens
complain about having their phone being taken away, their
parents embarrassing them, breakups, and school grades, but
something tells me you’re no ordinary teen.
STIAN: (Irritated.) Why should I tell you my about my goddamn
problems? I barely know you. You have no right appearing all
of a sudden to pry into my personal life.
(STIAN touches his necklace gingerly.)
CHARON: (Notices STIAN’s action.) So I’m guessing that
necklace is really important to you.
STIAN: No shit. I followed your smug ass for it, didn’t I?
CHARON: It’s a pretty cool looking ankh, but to be honest, it
doesn’t look like it’s worth that much.
STIAN: (Narrows his eyes. Tense.) My dad gave it to me. It may
not look like much to others, but to me it’s everything.
CHARON: You must be pretty close with your dad then, but
that’s enough digressing. Alright, Mr. Gloom and Doom, what
exactly is wrong with you?
STIAN: (Tense and cold. Lashes out at CHARON.) My dad’s
had cancer for the past five years. I was told that nothing can
be done for him and that his time is up. So the one person who
I actually care about in this goddamn world is leaving me for
good. To top it all off, my lousy drunkard of a stepmother just
announced she was pregnant. Like what the hell? She can’t
even take care of herself, so how is she going to take care of
Skye An 103
a child? She sure as hell didn’t get any practice with me. So
there. That sum up everything for you, alright?
(A beat.)
Don’t be sorry. Don’t be.
CHARON: Look, I know you’ve got more than your share of
problems, but dying isn’t going to make things any better. Think
about your dad. He wouldn’t want you to destroy yourself like
that. And what about your unborn sibling? From what I’ve just
heard, that kid needs you and you’d just be abandoning your
family when they need you the most. Try something else to
make yourself feel better. For example, when I’m upset over
the fact that my parents disapprove of my life decisions and
beat me, I violently stab the dead bodies I find and bam, I’m
all good again.
STIAN: (A beat. Disgusted.)
CHARON: Just kidding. Why would I ruin a body like that?
I have to carefully examine it. Plus it’s no fun when the target
is dead. It’s way more fun to have them alive so you can hear
and see them scream.
STIAN: (A beat.) What kind of psycho are you?
CHARON: The mortician kind, obviously.
STIAN: But wait, your parents beat you?
CHARON: (Solemn.) I’ve learned things the hard way. I almost
lost myself like you did back there at one point in my life, but
luckily for me my would-be mentor found me the night I slashed
my wrists. He changed my mind about the world. He taught me
my mortician ways, I learned how to live, and here we are now.
104 Skye An
STIAN: So you’ve been through some messed up times too,
huh? And this mentor of yours, he really helped you out?
CHARON: Sometimes all you need is someone to guide you
when you can’t tell if you’re moving forward or backward.
(The train lurches to a stop. The doors open
automatically, catching the attention of STIAN
and CHARON.)
Looks like we’re finally here. Come on, we’ve got miles to go
before we sleep.
(CHARON leads while STIAN follows close
behind him. Neither one of them looks back.)
Skye An 105
Take Over
Randy A. Morales
Characters, in order of appearance:
TAKER #1—(male, 30s) One of the New President’s minions
in his plans.
TREY—(male, 20s) Determined to find his fiancee in this
new world.
NEW PRESIDENT—(male, 50s) Really wants to get his goal
but will not do the things he’s doing to Americans to his own
people. Has heavy accent.
DANNY—(male, 20s) African American. Someone people
would call a true bro. Before the take over he was the type of
guy you would watch football with.
MAX—(male, 30s) Serious guy from the military. Still has a
heart to people he cares about.
JOSH—(male, 30s) The most friendly of the soldiers. White
and has jokey side.
CHERYL—(female, 20s) Pretty quiet person because of
tragedies in the past. She is still nice to those who she likes,
but when she needs to she will go ballistic on someone.
106 Randy A. Morales
ACT I
Scene 1
(A small apartment in the city TREY is sitting
on his couch watching TV , when he hears
something outside. His door is broken down. His
fiancée has been grabbed by these men.)
TAKER #1: (Reaching out and grabbing TREY) Get out of
there!
TREY: no! Let go of me!
TAKER #1: Hurry up
TREY: What’s going on? (frighteningly)
(A sound of a van pulls up in front of the
building. The sound of people are being dragged
from their homes and screaming everywhere.)
WOMAN #1: Please stop, let go of me (she said crying)
(The van stops. People are being taken out from
the van. They have reached a high school that was
close by. America has been taken over by an up
rise of the Soviet Union. TREY has been captured
and imprisoned in the local high school with his
friend DANNY. The NEW PRESIDENT speaks:)
NEW PRESIDENT: (Through loud speaker, in an heavy Russian
accent) Welcome, sorry for the trouble this evening but your
country is now part of the Soviet Union. Your President is
now our hostage, he will take orders from us. Your idea of a
democracy is wrong, we will show you what a true democracy is.
Randy A. Morales 107
(Lights shift to the high school where the citizens
have been imprisoned. TREY and DANNY are
sent by the guards to get cleaning supplies to
wash away the blood of the dead that is stained
into the ground.)
DANNY: Hey, man.
TREY: Hey. (not giving eye contact)
DANNY: Crazy, right? How we ended up in this…this…
(beat)
…shit hole.
TREY: Sure is.
DANNY: I mean why would they imprison so many people in
a high school. How did they get you?
TREY: I was at home, waiting for my fiancée. These bastards
knocked my door down, they grabbed my fiancée then dragged
me outside while I heard her screams.
(beat)
I have no clue where she is.
DANNY: Oh, I’m sorry I asked, man.
TREY: It’s okay, you didn’t know.
(beat)
I’m Trey.
DANNY: Danny.
TREY: So how did you get here?
108 Randy A. Morales
DANNY: I was on my way out to visit my mama at the elderly home
center. When I opened the door they were running upstairs, hit me
with the end of their gun and I started bleeding, even got a tooth
knocked out. Then they dragged me outside and brought me here.
TREY: Wow, that’s crazy.
DANNY: Yeah I know. What really is crazy is the shit they give
us to eat, not even enough to fill you up you know?
TREY: I know exactly what you mean. It just tastes so plain
it’s nasty. They barely give us any water either.
DANNY: Yeah man. So what are we supposed to get from
here again?
TREY: Um, we are supposed to get the hose, towels, anything
to clean up the blood.
(They continue looking for the supplies in the
closet of the school. DANNY opens a box and sees
an antique radio.)
DANNY: Look at this.
TREY: Let me see
(He takes it from DANNY and starts moving the
channels.)
Shhh…I think I hear something.
(The sound of static as they hear)
It sounds like that New President.
DANNY: (anxiously) What do you hear?
(TREY and DANNY listen as the New President
speaks to a soldier.)
Randy A. Morales 109
NEW PRESIDENT: You have gotten no results from the
experiments! You are wasting my time.
TAKER #1: We’re sorry sir, give us one more chance.
NEW PRESIDENT: (angrily) You get one more. You better
get a prisoner who can survive the experiments so that we can
have our new army of these lower beings. I don’t want to do
this to my own people so you better get it right.
TAKER #1: Yes, sir.
TREY: Did you hear that?!
DANNY: So that’s why they are keeping us here!
TREY: (Worried) What if my fiancée was part of those
experiments, what if she died?
DANNY: Don’t think like that bro, she’s fine. What we have
to do is find a way out of here.
(They are both knocked out by someone from behind.)
Scene 2
(2 HOURS LATER. DANNY wakes up laying
on a table. It’s freezing, he’s in a small room, he
looks around confused and in shock. He slowly
turns his head to the left.)
TREY: DANNY! (In shock and disbelief)
(TREY gets up from the table he was laying on
and goes towards DANNY’S body. He reaches to
110 Randy A. Morales
check his pulse on his neck and slowly retreats
his hand. Beat.)
Oh God, No…no. Damn it!!
(TREY starts running trying to find an exit.
Lights shift to middle stage. A loud explosion is
heard. TREY sees a light from outside.)
MAX: (Loud and rushy) Hurry up, come with me.
(Sounds of bullets are heard from behind of MAX.
TREY grabs his hand and they run.)
TREY: (Confused as they run) Where are we going?
MAX: Shut up and just follow me
(They run up a hill and the sound of bullets occur
as they try to dodge them. MAX turns around and
starts shooting for a moment and keeps on running.
Soon they arrive at a safe place. Two more people
come out holding guns. A female and a male.)
JOSH: It’s about time. (In a snarky playful way)
MAX: Yeah I think it would’ve been easier if you guys actually
came down with me instead of shooting from the bushes.
TREY: Uh can you guys tell me what the hell is going on?
(Everyone just stares at TREY for a moment)
JOSH: We’re some of the people who have managed to stay
away from the Soviets. We are going around to save anyone
we can from these assholes.
TREY: Oh, well thanks, guys. You have no idea what it’s like
to be captured and be living under those conditions.
Randy A. Morales 111
JOSH: We can only imagine. I’m Josh.
(Moves his head to direct who is who as he
introduces the rest)
Boldy over there is Max. That’s Cheryl. She can sometimes be
quiet but she’s a bad ass so you may not want to mess with her.
TREY: Got it. I’m Trey.
MAX: Alright already, enough with the introductions can we
move it along before they find out where we are?
JOSH: Yeah you’re right. Let’s go guys.
(All four of them start walking away. MAX is
leading the way while JOSH and CHERYL stay
behind TREY.)
TREY: So where are we going?
MAX: We’re taking you to a small camp where have found
others. We keep them there until we find a way to stop the
Soviets.
CHERYL: Which is soon I hope.
(They have reached the destination of the camp.)
MAX: (sighing of exhaustion) Well this is where we leave you.
TREY: Thanks guys, a lot.
(Lights shift.)
If they rescued people and put them in this camp then maybe
Rosa is here.
(Light shift. Excitedly and swiftly)
I gotta go check.
112 Randy A. Morales
(TREY checks around the camp to see if he finds
his fiancée. He even asks the few guards who are
there if they have seen a girl of his description of
her. After checking the small camp he comes to a
conclusion that she is not there. He gets sad and
quickly comes up with an idea.)
MAX: (Grabbing his gun and book bag) Alright guys let’s
head out.
(All of them get up from sitting down. They hear
somebody coming from behind yelling.)
TREY: Hey!! Hey guys!!
(TREY meets up with the people who saved him.)
Let me go with you please.
JOSH: I’m sorry to say this but no. We are trained to do this
kind of thing you are not.
TREY: Please I have to go with you.
MAX: The man said no, you’re just going to be an anchor for us.
TREY: Look. (Beat)
My fiancée is out their somewhere. I need to find her okay.I
need to know if she is still alive.
(Both JOSH and MAX look at each other.)
CHERYL: Don’t slow us down. Okay?
TREY: (Smiling) Okay
(CHERYL walks between JOSH and MAX to
get them out her way. JOSH follows her. MAX
Randy A. Morales 113
and JOSH look at each other again in confusion.
They start walking also.)
CHERYL: (While walking) Want some? (Holding a bag of
trail mix)
TREY: Sure, thanks
(Gets a handful of trail mix.)
CHERYL: (Suddenly serious tone) I know what you’re going
through.
TREY: (Confused) What do you mean?
CHERYL: When this whole take over happened my sister was
taken. I couldn’t get to her on time. After that I joined this
group to find people and especially to find my sister.
TREY: Well don’t worry we’ll find her.
CHERYL: (Beat. Looking down ) That’s the thing, I already
found her.
TREY: I…I’m sorry.
114 Randy A. Morales
The Eternal Life of Elijah Pence
Nijiko Falconer
Characters, in order of appearance:
SAMANTHA KHAN—(female, age 23) Elijah’s love interest.
She is an intelligent young woman, who wants to follow her
heart. She is of nobility and is head over heels in love with
Elijah. Although their love is everything to her, she won’t let
it make a fool of her.
ELIJAH PENCE—(male, age 24) Prominent free spirited man,
who lives as he pleases. Nothing is permanent to him and
believes settling down will kill his soul. He fears commitment.
Loves Samantha beyond all measures.
Nijiko Falconer 115
ACT I
Scene 1
(19th century England, ELIJAH PENCE, a
prominent free spirited young man, and a group
of friends enjoy a round of drinks at a local pub.
SAMANTHA KHAN enters. She is a beautiful
young woman of nobility.)
SAMANTHA: (fanning herself slowly) Drinking your life away
now are we, gentlemen?
OLDER MAN: (slurring) There isn’t such a thing as that,
Madame Khan.
ELIJAH: (Leaning back in his chair drink in hand) Why must
you pick on them so, Samantha? Let them drink they hadn’t
a greater time than now, and the ale is what brings those who
never lived a full life satisfaction.
SAMANTHA: Are you a part of this motley crew, Elijah? I
would have thought you were living fully just as you’ve done
since your primary school days, climbing like a monkey to the
tops of trees and screaming to the sky.
(Laughter is heard in the pub.)
ELIJAH: (Drinking from his jug) No my dear Samantha, for I
am living life still and to its fullest, no doubt.
SAMANTHA: I do believe that drinking ale in this miser old
pub does not even begin to grace the likes of living life to the
fullest, but our definitions must be crossed.
116 Nijiko Falconer
SAMANTHA: Elijah I need to talk to you, can you come with me?
ELIJAH: Of course.
(ELIJAH and SAMANTHA move to a more
secluded table.)
SAMANTHA: I wanted to be the one to tell you that Erickson
and I have finalized everything and we will be married soon.
(Beat)
ELIJAH: Is that so?
(Beat)
ELIJAH: That’s surprising
(They stare at each other a little longer than
expected.)
SAMANTHA: Well…Is there anything you want to say?
(Beat)
ELIJAH: He doesn’t really love you…
SAMANTHA: It’s not about love, you fool.You of all people
should know what Erickson Depauw could do for my family,
Elijah. Obligation to my family is what has kept my head held
high. I have obligations…nothing is going to hold me back.
ELIJAH: (staring deep into her eyes.) You’re wrong.
(SAMANTHA doesn’t blink.)
The man you marry should love you like I do.
SAMANTHA: It’s the ale talking, you don’t know what you’re
saying.
Nijiko Falconer 117
ELIJAH: (Very direct) I am in my right mind, I have not drank
so much that I am clueless!
SAMANTHA: So where did this sudden courage come from
then? That has allowed you to say what you never could do so
many times before?
ELIJAH: From the ale—(grabbing her hand) I love you,
Samantha Khan. I love you more than ever before and more
than any man has claimed to have loved any woman since the
beginning of time.
(He pulls her to him and holds her tightly. He
whispers into her ear. SAMANTHA pulls away
from him.)
SAMANTHA: My heart has been so heavy since this entire
marriage has been arranged. My heart ached in waves, knowing
I couldn’t love him the way that I love you.
ELIJAH: Why did you go through with it?
(Beat. SAMANTHA places a hand on ELIJAH’S
face.)
SAMANTHA: What would everyone think when I am betrothed
to Erickson one day and am being courted by you the next? The
worst part is that somehow I do not care about it all, because
I have you. Oh I have wanted you to be mine, just as we long
for beautiful summer days, I have longed for you to listen to
what your heart has been telling you all along. I feel terrible
that I am torn.
(Beat)
What did you think telling me this would do, Elijah. Did you
believe that my emotions are some kind of play toy?
(ELIJAH pulls her close.)
118 Nijiko Falconer
ELIJAH: You may be conflicted but I could do the same for
your family. Samantha, you must know this and never forget it;
Never have I thought of you as a toy. Never mind those lowly
people who dare to test the power of our love. Of what is real
and true and meant to be, never will they experience something
as beautiful as what we have.
(They stare at each other and do not move.)
Scene 2
(Three months later, SAMANTHA is babysitting
at her home.)
ELIJAH: Here she is with this bouncy little child, so happy and
content. Could I actually be a father? At this age? Although
we’re happy I feel as though something is missing. With the
thought of commitment on the horizon, my mind has become
frazzled. Will I really be able to to commit to Samantha without
becoming restless? Could love really defy what I always
believed to be true?
ELIJAH: I can’t do this anymore.
SAMANTHA: (Confused) Do what?
ELIJAH: I can’t be with you any longer.
SAMANTHA: W-why not?
ELIJAH: (Solemnly) This commitment will be the death of me.
SAMANTHA: (shouting) loving me will be the death of you?!
Nijiko Falconer 119
ELIJAH: Loving you could never be the death of me, it is the
reason my heart continues to beat. I am not ready to be in
matrimony.
SAMANTHA: Why is that?
ELIJAH: (ELIJAH clasps SAMANTHA’S hand within his own) My
darling you have always known how I felt. Why must you ask?
SAMANTHA: (Pleading) Is our love not enough for you? We
can make it work, Elijah, all you have to do is stay with me.
ELIJAH: I can not, doubt is a full grown seed within the
depths of my mind. I do not wish to ruin your life with my
dissatisfaction.
(SAMANTHA pulls her hands from ELIJAH’S
grasp.)
SAMANTHA: (Tears began to roll down her checks) You have
ruined my life already! I would rather be with you then not at
all. My mind, body and soul is tethered to you, Elijah Pence,
without you I am nonexistent in this world.
ELIJAH: I can not…I need to get rid of this terrible doubt truly
or else our love will falter and I will not allow it.
(ELIJAH turns and walks away.)
end of excerpt
120 Nijiko Falconer
Opposing Forces
Wilson Chapman
Characters, in order of appearance:
UNSTOPPABLE—(male, 30s) A foppish, seemingly mildmannered man. His polite nature barely masks a huge
egotistical and self-centered streak. Very skinny.
UNMOVABLE—(female, 30s) A loud, rude, confident woman.
Somewhat overweight, or at least heavier than Unstoppable.
JULIE—(female, 30s) A police officer. Somewhat gruff.
STAN—(male, 30s) A police officer. Somewhat gruff.
Wilson Chapman 121
ACT I
Scene 1
(A large, empty stage. A voice-over is heard.)
(VOICEOVER): ‘The Unstoppable Force Paradox is a
paradox that hypothesizes what would happen if a theoretical
unstoppable force should collide with a theoretical unmovable
object. The paradox forms from the outcome; the unstoppable
force should not be able to move the unmovable object, yet the
unmovable object should not be able to stop the unstoppable
force. As per the definition of a paradox, this question is
inherently unsolvable.’
(UNSTOPPABLE, a thin man in an expensive
suit, enters.)
UNSTOPPABLE: (To audience) Ah, that old chestnut. I must
admit, I never did expect that one day, the small little brawl
between that woman and me would become such a well known
story, worthy of inclusion in textbooks and dictionaries. I
entered my fight with her with no goal but to prove myself for
who I was, and the next thing you know, I’m famous the world
over. Still, whenever I’m reminded of our time together, my
mind always drifts to where she might be now. I never did see
or hear from her again after our fight ended, so as far as I know,
she could be living a life of luxury, or she can be starving in
the gutter; frankly, I hope for the latter. That may sound cruel,
but it is more than she deserves. You see, over the course of my
long life, I never did meet someone so detestable, so worthy of
hatred, as her. You could say I hated that woman the minute
we first met. I personally can not say such a thing, since I no
longer remember how we first met, but it is probably exactly
how I felt. Before you ask how I know I felt this way towards her,
122 Wilson Chapman
you must realize that we fought for so long, I know her better
than I know myself. Therefore, I know that our first meeting
probably went something like this…
(UNMOVABLE, a woman around
UNSTOPPABLE’s age, enters. She is
big-boned and wears a dirty hoodie and jeans.
She sits down cross-legged far away from
UNSTOPPABLE, who begins walking around
the space in a faux-casual manner, whistling and
putting his hands in his pockets. UNMOVABLE
notices him, and cups her hands to speak.)
UNMOVABLE: Hey, buddy. Want to try to move me?
UNSTOPPABLE: Sorry? Are you speaking to me?
UNMOVABLE: Unmovable Object’s my name, French Fry! Go
’head, try to move me, but be prepared, nothing will happen.
UNSTOPPABLE: I am sorry, madam, but frankly, that is the
most absurd thing I have been privy to in a long time.
UNMOVABLE: Oh, so String Bean is getting sassy. Why not?
UNSTOPPABLE: I’m Unstoppable Force. No unmovable object
can exist when a unstoppable force is living on the Earth.
UNMOVABLE: You’re Unstoppable, String Cheese? HA! You
couldn’t budge my nanny, and she was a feather on the back
of a chicken!
UNSTOPPABLE: Don’t you dare accuse me of fraud! My birth
certificate says Unstoppable Force, it is a name I carry deep
in my heart, and it is the name I will carry to my grave.
Wilson Chapman 123
UNMOVABLE: You really want me to believe a Piece of Pasta
like you could budge a big fat load like me? You better prove it!
UNSTOPPABLE: (To audience) By now, my dislike of the smug
ignorant head-case has overrode my usual strong sense of self
control. So, against all better judgment, I attacked.
(UNSTOPPABLE rushes to UNMOVABLE
and gives her a roundhouse kick in the head.
Lights go off for a brief moment. When they
come back on, UNMOVABLE’s face is bloody.
UNSTOPPABLE laughs at her.)
UNMOVABLE: Shut up, idiot. I won!
UNSTOPPABLE: What are you talking about? Look at yourself!
UNMOVABLE: I didn’t move a single centimeter, and you
know it.
UNSTOPPABLE: No, you moved quite a few inches. It’s
impossible to miss the distance between where you were and
where you are.
UNMOVABLE: You blind? A pansy like you couldn’t even
move me a millimeter.
UNSTOPPABLE: Okay. If you don’t believe me, I’ll go get
some measuring tape.
UNMOVABLE: Fine. Ya wanna be difficult about this, than
why not?
(UNSTOPPABLE rushes offstage, and returns
with measuring tape.)
124 Wilson Chapman
UNMOVABLE: Hurry it up!
(UNMOVABLE preforms a sumo squat.)
UNSTOPPABLE: Do you really think that will help?
UNMOVABLE: I know I don’t need it, but it prevents muscle
strain.
(UNSTOPPABLE gets in a sprinting position.)
UNSTOPPABLE: Three…two…one…now!
(UNSTOPPABLE sprints forward and punches
UNMOVABLE. Upon contact, nothing seems to
happen. The two inspect the area.)
Ha! Well, madam, I guess we both know who won. Thank you
for your time, and goodbye.
UNMOVABLE: As long as we both know that I won…
UNSTOPPABLE: I understand that it’s hard to see, but look.
You were there originally…
(He points to her feet)
…but now you moved just a tad bit back, roughly one zerzillionth
of an atom from your original standing place.
(He moves the finger back very slightly)
See? Clear as the sun in the sky.
UNMOVABLE: Really? You really expect me to believe that?
I know you want to win this, but come on. Give it a rest, and
stop embarrassing yourself.
UNSTOPPABLE: All right, I’ll measure the distance, if you
will not take my word for the truth.
(He grabs the tape, and bends down to put the
tape on her foot)
Wilson Chapman 125
See? I’ll just pull the tape a little…
(He pulls the tape, only to stop suddenly)
What? Why is this thing measuring in inches? It should be
measuring in atoms! This is inconceivable!
UNMOVABLE: So, if you can’t measure it, I guess we know
who won?
UNSTOPPABLE: This isn’t over! Just wait, I’ll show you!
(He bolts offstage, and returns with an electron
microscope)
Now I’ll show you!
(Unmovable rolls her eyes. While
UNSTOPPABLE inspects her, she pays little
attention, instead whistling, pulling out her
phone, etc. UNSTOPPABLE lies down and
places his microscope on her foot.)
Okay. I just need to adjust the lens, and we’ll see who hasn’t
moved a single zerzillionth.
(Adjusts)
Wait, it’s not going further. No! Stupid piece of trash! What kind
of microscope can’t go to one zerzillionth of an atom? Goddamn
it! He throws the microscope. It crashes to the ground.
UNMOVABLE: (Examining nails) You finished yet, Summer
Squash?
UNSTOPPABLE: (To audience, as he rises and puts the microscope
to the side) I was not finished yet. I didn’t care how long it would
take, I would not allow myself to be disrespected and mocked by
that vulgar woman. I knew that if I just kept going, and I could
find a way to move her even a measly centimeter, then I would
prove to her my superiority. I spent years on that field, trying to
best her, but she was always prepared.
126 Wilson Chapman
(UNMOVABLE does another sumo squat.)
Eventually, I came to discover my one and only solution: I had
to find a way to murder her. Now, I know what you are thinking,
and yes, that does seem a bit excessive. But if you examine
it from a logical standpoint, it was the only way to solve my
dilemma. I needed for her to lose her guard, and since she
could never be sneaked up upon, then the only option would to
have her lower her defenses…permanently. I laid out my plan
quickly: in order to properly prove my abilities, I needed to
execute the plan in such a way that she did not lose any mass,
which meant I couldn’t so much stab her in fear of too much
lost blood. So, the only way to pull this off properly was with
a poison of some sort. Thus, I spent a month or two training
a rattlesnake…
(He pulls out a piece of green string)
…to preform my assassination for me. On a dark and moonless
night, a perfect night for murder, I was ready.
(He places the string in the middle of the stage,
between him and a sleeping UNMOVABLE. He
then crouches down on the side of the stage)
I waited for Unmovable to fall, for icy death to come to her. I
waited for this for over an hour. Then I began searching through
the grass. I expected to find it off to the side somewhere,but
instead, I found that it had followed my plan perfectly.
(He comes to the string; another string is coiled
around it. He rises and shows it to the audience)
The issue was, on its path to my target, it had encountered
another rattlesnake and had entered into a battle with it,
ending in both being bitten and bloodied. I showed it to her,
and at that moment, we both realized that the murder plot
we had individually concocted to remove the other had been
unintentionally reproduced by the other. That night, I went
home, and reported the murder attempt in the field. Rushing
back, I found two cops standing there…
Wilson Chapman 127
(JULIE and STAN enter.)
UNMOVABLE/UNSTOPPABLE: There s/he is officer! That’s
the wo/man who tried to murder me!
(The cops stare at each other, bewildered, before
an understanding reaches them.)
JULIE: So, Stan did you get a call for a rattlesna—
STAN: Rattlesnake murder attempt? Yep.
JULIE: Let’s get them to the station.
STAN: Right behind you.
(UNMOVABLE and UNSTOPPABLE look at
each other, suddenly tired.)
UNSTOPPABLE: Wait, before we go, can you watch me push
her, and see if she moves?
STAN: Umm…sure, why not?
(UNSTOPPABLE gets in position and lamely
flicks his fingers at a limp and exhausted
UNMOVABLE.)
JULIE: Hmm…it looks like the woman got pushed back a little?
STAN: You crazy? She didn’t budge a single centimeter…
(UNSTOPPABLE crosses to downstage center.
JULIE, UNMOVABLE, and STAN exit.)
UNSTOPPABLE: (To audience) And that was the last I saw
of Unmovable. To be truthful, it was for the best that I went
to prison. I had spent such a long time trying to best that
128 Wilson Chapman
woman that it began to consume my very being; in that cell, I
was forced to forget about that challenge, to start anew in life.
And, even though it wasn’t easy, I managed to put it behind me.
But I do sometimes think back, and I wonder what the answer
would have been. Maybe it wouldn’t have been the answer I’d
have wanted, but it would have been an answer. But as of now,
it remains an unsolved question, a riddle with no solution, an
event with no resolution.
(He goes deep into thought. Lights fade.)
Wilson Chapman 129
Tran’s Two-Steppers
artwork by Nicole Chapko
“In her 1978 poem, ‘The Colonel,’ Carolyn Forché writes, ‘There
is no other way to say this.’ That is the poetic imperative: to
document the human experience with irreducible precision.
During our week together, the Bronx Loaf poets and I challenged
each other to look unflinchingly at both our writing and our
writing’s illumination of our world. How we ‘look’ at things—at
each other, at what people do to each other—matters. For this
reason, we studied poems by Donald Revell, Cathy Linh Che,
Natalie Diaz, and Patricia Smith to understand the ways poets
have been tasked to look beyond the visible and familiar in
order to ensure our species’ survival. This survival, we learned,
precipitates from the hunt for illumination, the acquisition of
new knowledge about our selves and the environment around
us. It’s located in poems that not only soar with pictorial verve,
but poems that take dangerous emotional risks as well. As new
American poets, there’s no way we could write without looking
at the United States’ original sins, its “dreams” and “destinies,”
and the bodies it annihilates to actualize its might and power.
We write, instead, into those bodies. We write into the silences
they engender or leave behind. I’m proud to introduce you to
the poems in this anthology, and I’m confident you’ll fall in
love with them and the brave poets who wrote them as I did.”
—Paul Tran
Paul Tran is a Vietnamese American historian and poet. His
poems appear incura, Nepantla, Cream City Review, The
Cortland Review, Split This Rock, and rhino, which awarded
him a 2015 Editors’ Prize. Paul has also received awards and
fellowships from Kundiman, vona/Voices Writing Workshop,
Poets House, Lambda Literary, the Napa Valley Writers
Conference, the Vermont Studio Center, Imagining America,
Coca-Cola, and the Andrew W. Mellon Foundation. He holds
degrees from Brown University and New York University, where
he’s a Graduate Scholar in the Archives at the Asian/Pacific/
American Institute. Currently in Brooklyn, New York, Paul is
writing his first book manuscript and is the coach of the Barnard
College & Columbia University poetry slam team.
The Witch is Dead!
Ta’Shea Parham
She sat alone, out of place in her home
Where her screams were silent,
But her soul was violent.
Her insecurities hidden deep inside,
And they did, indeed, eat the poor girl alive.
A tear rolled down her face, her mind beginning to race.
She took the blade, tore her skin, paper-thin.
Ripped at where the depression lay within.
Her razor was an artist, masterpieces on her skin.
This went on for days, months, years
Until she cried her last salty tears.
She decided that she’d had enough,
The world she lived in was just too tough.
She placed a gun to her head:
Click, boom!
Congratulations, society,
The Witch is dead!
Ta’Shea Parham 133
One Less Nigger
Ta’Shea Parham
I remember the pop.
I remember the pop, pop, pop, thump.
I could feel myself screaming, felt my vocal cords straining,
but I could not hear it.
All I could hear was his heart slowly fading.
He was leaving me.
No, he wasn’t leaving; he was being taken from me.
The color of his skin was turned into a bounty that was now claimed.
He fell silently but his soul screamed out injustice and lingered.
It gazed at me with a look so hot it burned my spirit.
His murderer showed no remorse, the badge glinting in the sunlight.
We were born into a war and he had just become another statistic.
They’ll talk about him while they wipe doughnut jelly off
their uniforms.
How’s that taste? Does it taste metallic like the cold blood
you kill in?
No, it tastes like one less nigger in the world, one less stain.
One less nigger that could have made it, one less that could have.
Could have, would have, should have, fuck you ‘cause you
think you have
The power to pronounce someone’s life as unimportant
When we’re born you plant a target on our back, put our prints
in the system
He was a target; his future success was draining out all over
my shirt
His eyes were open left seeing a world that tried to shield
them from the truth.
Over the years since that day I’ve just been so angry.
I’ve gone from Martin Luther King to Malcolm X
I’m starting to doubt every single word that society says.
One day I walked past a police station with a gun
134 Ta’Shea Parham
Thought I’d show them what they do best, shoot and run.
I remembered the fire that I felt from his soul.
Then I realized in this world, I was alone.
So I turned loneliness around to face me and I pulled the trigger.
I was just so tired, that I finally figured, I surrendered
Maybe the world would be better, with one less nigger.
Ta’Shea Parham 135
What Makes You Think it’s OK to Overlook ME?
Ta’Shea Parham
What makes you think it’s okay to overlook me?
Is it okay that I cry as you laugh?
You comment on my hair, my attitude, my ass?
Try to squeeze me into the mold of a skinny girl
And sneer in disgust as my curves begin to misshape it
Throw me out and give me a special “plus-sized” version.
Want me flat as a surface but wink at my figure
Say you’ve come a long way, but you still crave to say nigga
Tell me I’m sassy, surprised that I’m classy
Say I’m too proud with my shoulders back, then say I’m
uncivilized if I don’t do that
What makes you think that you can tell me who I am?
Light skin, dark skin, African or American
If I came out of the womb this color, I must be just right
Don’t act like your problem isn’t that I’m too far from white
Look at what I’ve achieved and be honest
Did you say “Oh Wow” when I told you I graduated with honors?
Does it make you uncomfortable when I sway my hips?
You’re surprised when an SAT word leaves my lips
You say “slavery is over, stop thinking you’re a victim”
Yeah, it’s over, but have you really stopped the whipping?
Everyday I’m slammed with stereotypes on T.V.
Always think it’ll be a black girl on Maury with a baby daddy
Acrylic nails, long weave, slick tongues, is this what you think
of us?
Even after MLK, Mandela, Rosa and now Michelle and Obama?
What do we have to do to make you get it?
You weren’t born the masters, you just took the credit
I appreciate all of you that really care
But let’s be real, racism is still here
It’s in the eyes of suspicious store security
136 Ta’Shea Parham
In the deaths of Brown and Garner
The uproar and outcry over the hair of Blue Ivy Carter
Think we don’t know what’s going on, we know what it is
Have you not seen incarceration statistics?
We have to perm, straighten and relax?
Why is our hair “wild” if we don’t do that.
We walk into a fancy restaurant, you get ready for a noise complaint
Say we’re illiterate because of slang, no we ain’t!
It makes me laugh because you don’t see the beauty
In the curve in my waist, my big booty
I refuse to classify as just black
I’m a woman, a scholar, a future college grad
Ta’Shea Parham 137
Brain Battery
Jack Snyder
People say that if you hear something enough times it becomes true.
Words pierce and lodge themselves into one’s conscious,
small pieces of shattered glass irritate and deform over time.
Words change people the more they hear.
The weak minded men may
hear beats breathe into their ears;
pores and orifices filled with fears they
need to be washed out with the soap of self conceit.
But this soap leaves a waxy residue as it only covers the cuts.
That’s why I don’t use such cheap brands to
boost my ego or
gain leverage on those less fortunate than I.
Any more, at least.
I’m sorrowed to say that
on my journey towards lightening my mind of heavy thoughts,
this epiphany brought a gift basket to my doorstep.
I drank down 40s of rap
that sunk my shallow mind into tinted oceans,
designed to reflect others and amplify myself.
The world became a house of mirrors that distorted my visions,
where people I walked past on the street started to not matter,
and I started snapping at my friends and stepping on feet on
the subway.
I wished that rap would lacerate my conscience,
and I prayed that as my brain divided
I could grow to conquer my self-consciousness and awkward entity.
138 Jack Snyder
I learned that growing cold is no way to treat your ailments,
just like running away from a problem only makes you tired.
And I was tired of being a snarky, sardonic, shoe stepping, and
ally demoralizing child.
So I used the bandages of love and longing to dress my battle
scarred psyche,
and I used the nunchucks of maturity to push the rap back
into its bubble,
to the point where the words became just words,
and beats no longer beat me senseless.
And this is what I tell people
when they ask why
I listen to rap.
Jack Snyder 139
Angel on A Swingset
Kayla A. Mccarthy
He remembers wanting to fly. He remembers plugging in his
headphones and unplugging everything that was bugging him.
Those were the days when he could breathe. The only times
he could think. He hasn’t had a clear head since then. His
thoughts suffocate him like smoke. He would’ve smoked it out,
but he’s either too impatient to wait for death or he doesn’t
want to die. He leans back and kicks his feet. He wanted to
fly. The higher he got the louder he turned up his music. The
more he could stop thinking about everything. Not touching
the ground was like not touching his problems. Eventually he
feels the music speaking to him so he speaks back by repeating
the lyrics like a prayer. He’s a congregation of one listening to
the gospel of many. He always feels like one in a million. He
knows it isn’t true. He knows that everyone’s felt like him. He
knows that he isn’t the first person to need to fly. He knows he
wasn’t anything special. At least that’s what he’s been telling
himself for so long. He thinks this is as close to flying he’ll ever
come. He remembers he wanted to cry. Not because he was sad
or angry. He just felt free. Free of the plague of overwhelming
hopelessness. At least when he flew he knows that for a few
moments nothing matters. There is catharsis in his church and
he felt in his soul. In his wings. These are the moments he
wants to go back to. If he had known everything would chase
him. The skeletons would zombify and the monsters would
follow him from under his bed into his head. He may have
did things differently. It is hard to try and do things differently
when everyone’s just waiting to see him get eaten from the
inside out. He thought he only had one way out. Maybe if it
wasn’t for all that doubt. He’d have gotten through that bout
instead of taking the easy way out. Maybe instead of keeping
it all in he should have let it all out.
140 Kayla A. Mccarthy
the upheaval of my former youth
Lucia Hassen
milk pours like silk into her throat
she is happy
she is a song without lyrics
her bed sheets become wings
her midnight dreams can’t hurt her
she knows the day is full of stop and go
yes or no
she sings of ghosts
they hear her
they breathe her
hair
she stares into their world—
their sand pail world—
clean sheets and
velvet—peace world
life does not have enough beets
or nectarines
it is a sandy shore
until she realizes it is not
picture frames of weddings and grateful days
that do not come anymore
they have disappeared
Lucia Hassen 141
dissolved into
adolescent screams
and the horrific freedom
of the violent
she tells herself that it’s okay
—life does not smell like a bouquet—
there is no outer space
or Darien Lake
just a chip in her brain
making up
stories
142 Lucia Hassen
coffee stained love
Lucia Hassen
i fold my coffee stained hands in my lap
staring at the cigarette tucked behind his ear
and adjust my green skirt
it is silent, except for the birds humming in the trees
his hand reaches for mine
it holds my unpainted nails, my scabrous skin and sweat
he stops me from fixing my hair
i inhale his smoky, vanilla scent
he asks if i trust him
i expel the breath i had been holding
i dig into my pockets
also the lady down the block is selling roses
Lucia Hassen 143
Night
Nashalie Robledo
My lungs open, like a book,
on a crisp fall day.
I fly into the sky.
At night, stars are born.
I sigh,
as if I died
for a split second and
came back alive.
A hospital bed.
A robe.
It opens from the back,
completely.
You saw everything.
I woke up
and I didn’t
remember anything.
My life before
was just a dream.
Who’s my family?
Does anybody love me?
It’s a miracle.
I don’t want to know
who loved me.
144 Nashalie Robledo
I want to fly into a sky, at night
I want to
start over!
Nashalie Robledo 145
Homage to my stomach
Nashalie Robledo
This stomach, this stomach is huge.
It takes up too much space.
It doesn’t fit anywhere.
It gives people a scare, bare thick
skin flying in the air.
This stomach has never loved or been
loved.
But it’s beautiful.
Strong stomach.
Curvy stomach.
I have known you since 2000 darling.
You’re the most unique out of them all.
But now I have to let you go because my
future is a scare. With bare skin flying in
the air.
146 Nashalie Robledo
Nature ends
Perla M. Gil
she wasn’t born,
until the sun went to bed.
and moonlight woke her.
the trees taught her how to grow,
water made her new.
a rare rose
in a valley of daisies,
that’s why she suffered.
he came—
an unexpected breeze.
she followed him.
they became god’s story:
the unthinkable,
getting what he wanted.
her bones covered in blood,
petals in silver dew—
it was all for him.
a storm starts to rage,
killing the forest she grew in
as he walked away.
so hold the summer back.
return her,
the bitter cold.
Perla M. Gil 147
Clouds
Perla M. Gil
It is not a mistake. Smile. Have a good day. The train is moving
fast, but we’re running late anyways. Let’s take it slow. We
have the whole day. The streets are filled with screaming. I
could only hear my heartbeat. People say the world is ending
soon, so let’s have a good day. Don’t make it a mistake. Smile,
honey. Let’s see a movie today, somewhere downtown. I can’t
see you. Where did you go? Mama said I can’t be with boys
like you. You’re a mistake. $1 hot dogs here, best in the city.
Let’s take pictures, close to the tall building. Smile at 3. Black
smoke covers. How could it be a mistake? The doctors take
me. I didn’t find you. The train is moving fast. Just missed it.
Don’t you think that plane is a bit too close to those buildings.
I’m covered in white powder. Having a good day? I’m not sure
where I’m at now. This is a mistake. Give me a big smile. The
day started but it’s already over.
148 Perla M. Gil
What the Sea Told Me
Kenderly Soto
Wow
You’re complicated
You’re filled deeply with dreams
All your insecurities
I wish I could wash them away
Float on my waves
Let me wave you to peace
Your soul expands as big as any ship that’s ever sailed on me
You’re the one sea creatures love and fear at the same time
The sun’s light must reflect on you as it does on me
You’re so bright
You brighten the darkness that’s beneath
Kenderly Soto 149
Where I’m From
Kenderly Soto
Altagracia tells me “si tu nesecitas algo me lo pide”
My blood line runs along the streets
I stand in my dad’s balcony looking down
Motorcycles zoom by disruptively
The warmth in the atmosphere surrounds me, comforts me
The darkness from the mountainous background don’t fear me
The stars illuminate
Something I’ve never seen
The constellations speak to me when I stare high into the sky
I feel like I’m on top of the world
My world
I may be in an isolated paradise, but I’m at peace
I’m at home
150 Kenderly Soto
Life’s Terrible Truth
Precious S.
Black, white, light skin
Those are the colors of the world
But the world isn’t accepting
Cruelty is shown to blacks and light skin
White seemed to reign supreme
Then there was a slight change
Black and light skin was somewhat equal
But even today we are still not completely equal
Blacks are still ridiculed
Light skins are still struggling
Whites are taking it less easy than the past
That is the terrible truth of the world
No matter how hard we try
We will never be equal
Precious S. 151
Silent Death
Precious S.
A silent death so cold and cruel
It never speaks or holds anyone dear
So much despair and hatred within
It holds on strong
And doesn’t let anyone sleep
It takes the most people
Alive and dead
It is deadlier than anything on earth
There is no escape from this cold lonely
Silent death
152 Precious S.
McPhee’s Mavericks
artwork by Aniqa Tasnim
“The experience of Bronx Loaf is like mainlining inspiration.”
—Jenny McPhee
Jenny McPhee has written three critically acclaimed novels,
The Center of Things, No Ordinary Matter (Ballantine Books,
2002), and A Man of No Moon (Counterpoint, 2007), and
co-authored Girls: Ordinary Girls and Their Extraordinary
Pursuits (Random House, 2000). Her essays, reviews, stories,
translations, and articles have appeared in The New Yorker, Self,
Saveur, The Brooklyn Review, The New York Times, Zoetrope,
among many others, and she has a monthly column addressing
the invisibility of female accomplishment at the book review
Bookslut. In addition, she has a distinguished career as a
translator from Italian including books by the authors Primo
Levi, Natalia Ginzburg, Giacomo Leopardi, Curzio Malaparte,
Paolo Maurensig, and Pope John Paul II. She is a founding
board member of the Bronx Academy of Letters. She grew up
on a farm in New Jersey with her nine siblings, ducks, chickens,
goats, and a donkey. She can’t cook.
The Other of Two
T.J. Blanco
“
It never got really bad. Of course everyone will tell you it
did. But no, looking back on it, it was nothing crazier than the
world turning, life happening, the breeze catching on our heads
looking back and forcing them the other way, life continuing
to go on in the way it does. That’s really it.”
“Why do you think everyone says it did get quite bad?
“Oh, you know, nothing looks all that gorgeous close up.” He
stared at me blankly, obviously wanting me to go on. I swear
the only thing Harvard must’ve taught him was how to look on
with the emotion of a goddamn goldfish. I have this philosophy,
you see, that they take all these great young guys and gals full
of drive and ambition, appetite and real passion, you know the
stuff of a fucking Bill Gates wet dream. And they’re smart, too!
With these brains that work so well that they go on and analyze
other ones’ for a living. So really, they don’t even have the world
at their feet; hell, it’s already in them! Then they go and pay
pounds of dough to have some old, bow-tied man suck it out
of them with some fancy vacuum so that they can become Dr.
Fish-Face or whatever. It’s depressing is all; at least in that
sense they spin with the rest of the world.
His lifeless eyes are feeding off mine, my life that is. Just
to look at the goddamn ugly things gets to me, it works me up.
So I’ll go on with it only to avoid paralyzation by agitation and
winding up in some other hell-hole hospital like this one. But
really he should know that if he continues refusing to buy the
glittering garment of human truths I’m basically paying him
to take, I won’t keep talking pretty for him and soon enough
he’ll be getting the whole boring, plain and unembellished
thick of the story straight and in full.
“Well, you know, you’ll be walking down the street and
see, let’s say a lovely elderly couple. You know the type. Well
T.J. Blanco 155
dressed. Made of so much dough you can basically smell the
hitman hired by a relative lurking just around the next corner.
No matter their greedy family though, they look swell. But as
they come closer and closer the lighting of the world seems
to dim to an unforgiving saturation and the awful kiddie park
music is pumped through the air as you end face to face with
the ghastly shapes their mugs have now taken. Yellow teeth
and eyelashes pop out of creases made between wrinkle after
wrinkle. The lovely elderly couple that you would’ve liked to
have had for grandparents are gone forever all because you got
up too close. And don’t you think I’m prejudiced now against
aged folks; no one is safe. Not a healthy woman or a cute kid.
Nothing looks all that great up close.”
“Well, why don’t you tell the story from a suitable distance then?”
Oh, now he was fired up, I’m sure his fish brain got a good
kick out of that one. But see this Einstein didn’t understand
my philosophy behind this whole ‘up-close’ tangent. What
happened wasn’t any thriller, the people involved simply made
it out to be because it was all flying and whirling up close to
their faces. A person mugged on the street will always come
out of The Incident having sustained major psychological harm
and “lucky to be alive” in the echoing words of their friends
and family. But the news won’t pick up the story because in
reality they got their anxiety meds robbed by some ski-mask
wearing kids headed to a party empty handed. Everything’s
all ugly and horrible when you’re all up in it. That’s not to say
that if the victim (if you can even call them that), well-off and
white, was robbed on the corner of Park and 82nd by some
black and brown kids for the same reason and therefore the
same minuscule allotment of actual terror or what they like to
call crime, that the news couldn’t make a field day of it. But
that’s another philosophy of mine entirely.
“The whole whale of it right now?”
“I don’t see why not.”
156 T.J. Blanco
“I guess I’ll have to start it off where every story should both
start and end then: on the road that is.”
“Why’s that?”
“I don’t know, it’s poetry is all.”
“You mean a metaphor?”
“That, and you know, rhythm, soul…poetry. Anyone who’s
ever been on the road knows the vibration the turning wheels
run through your being. It changes the way you feel, the way
you think. It’s life and isn’t that what all those big penspeople
want their stories to be bookended with?”
His goddamn eel eyes didn’t even blink. I sigh and wave it
off. Some people just can’t pick out gold even when it’s sitting
right on their chaise.
“Anyway, we were on the road headed back east…” I looked
up and twirled my finger—a funny little habit I have. I swear,
you should see me when I really get going; I’ll be telling a
story real deep and all and have everybody all hooked, crazed
eyes wide with crave and my left hand and fingers will just be
twirling in a dazzle like the best fucking ballerina you’ve ever
seen. It’s a spectacle alright, a sparkling show.
“…me and my family that is. Funny folks, I tell you, but you
know everyone really is. So I’m driving, which was no task or
shift you see but really a pleasure since I was newly licensed
and all. So I’m driving in the driver’s seat naturally and of
course She is in the passenger seat, much to the defeat of my
little sister, Lana, who was still too young to be considered for
shotgun and loved sitting in the back alone with Her. Pretty
heartwarming actually. They were like a fucking springtime
dream, they’d curl up like cats back there. You should’ve seen
‘em, your cold coal heart would’ve grown three sizes that day.
But anyways, that wasn’t the case at this point because
like I said She was in the front seat and had said She had
something to tell us all. My older brother, Lance, was in the
back with Lana. And I remember I could feel the tension in the
T.J. Blanco 157
sealed air tearing my muscles apart. You lose strength when an
ongoing fight is consuming your space. With the war between
Lance and Her waging on for half a year now, I was weaker
than ever. But rock bottom of anything is an illusion and it
doesn’t take too many furthermore plunges after you thought
there was no place deeper to go to make you realize that it’s
endless, bottomless, and that you can just keep on ducking
down deeper forever. But She cut forever short, and forced
me deeper, right then, when She told us the doctors had felt
lumps in her skin. Lance started bawling his fucking eyelids
out, the bastard. I, on the other hand, kept my dying silently
to myself. She couldn’t get through to me, you know, I was a
rock of pain and she knew it. The next months the hallways
of home were either filled with Lance’s sloppy slobbering or
my cowardly silence.
Lana told me she felt that her world was coming to an end.”
“And how did you feel about that?”
“I felt that the entire world was coming to an end.
“And then it did.
“But you still see me here, talking to you and all. The
world should’ve flattened with Her vitals. The mountains of
Her heartbeat had compressed into a single wire and yet look
out at those big towers of steel that have continued to stand
straight up, without Her. Life has gone on and continued. And
you know that really got to me, it worked me up. I’m sure you
can understand how hopeless I became with Her gone and all.
I was quite routine in my thinking of suicide, really it became
a constant. With life whirling on and all, I had to make it stop,
like it should’ve. I became a reactionary of sorts when ironically
I’ve always found people of the type to be moronic. That and
religious folks, all those holy books have moron written all
over them. I theorize the two have been cross-bred, who knows,
maybe even incestuously bred by now, with all that freaky shit
they’re into, but I guess the alikeness of the two, the rightist
158 T.J. Blanco
and righteous that is, has tended to change with the times.
As for morons, they have always mated amongst themselves;
a bit troubling for the future if you really think about it. But
you know for me no future was supposed to come. The present
period, the A.D., was a mistake. It should’ve ended with Her.
Caught in that atmosphere, that horribleness, I just wished to
be dead so I wouldn’t have to feel it seeping in. So I wouldn’t
have to hear it by way of endless moans. Or wear it in every
face that looked down at Lance, Lana, and me with big, heavy,
‘I’m so very sorry eyes.’ I had made a plan and everything. You
know I read somewhere that that’s the best way to do it.”
“Why do you think that was the best way?”
“You know, it’s the most sure way; you take care in ensuring
you do it in the way you really want. It’s a hell of a mess to clean
up; brain splattered all over the wall, you know? You wouldn’t
want your little sister seeing something like that or what’s more
having to scrub it clean. It’s really all logistical, more than
you’d think. I mean I wanted to be dead not a madman, so
you’ve got to plan so as to stage it right, put yourself in good
lighting and all. For me I had two guiding demands. The first
was that Lana could not be home. She was just a little kid and
I already felt bad enough about leaving her behind because
she really was a funny kid and a good person to have around.
I would’ve liked to see her grow up and all but you know, c’est
la vie. Luckily she goes to a stay-away girls camp every year
and my good-for-nothing aunts were good for something in
thinking that it’d be best to keep things normal. So she’d be
headed off to Camp-Hippie-Dip or whatever for two whole
weeks, which of course would give the whole clean-up crew
plenty of time to de-suicide our house before she came back
in braids, with a watercolored face. The second thing about
the whole thing was it had to brand a paining portrait of me
on the inside of Lance’s drowning eyeballs forever. So that he
couldn’t blink or sleep without seeing hell. You see I hated
T.J. Blanco 159
him and blamed Her death on him. It’s pretty funny if you
think about it instead of blaming him on Mom, like the usual
case amongst normal siblings, I was blaming Mom on him.
And he did too, that is until our good-for-nothing aunts got to
him. They told him cancer was a phenomenon that he couldn’t
have competed with. To not think of himself so highly that he
could take Her down. The goddamn idiots. Morons are the
parasites of the world. Even Freud could’ve been eaten alive
by mosquitoes. I couldn’t stick around listening to that bullshit
anymore. You see I have a philosophy that if your ears take in
too much bullshit it won’t be long until your whole brain goes
to shit. I guess I shouldn’t have cared if my brain went to shit
or not seeing as I was going to blow it out of my head in no
more than three days time. But to tell you the truth I didn’t
want to be dead. No, I really didn’t, all I really wanted was to
be with Her again and since She was dead I thought if I was
dead than we could meet up. Damn, it makes me sound like
the fucking king of shams.”
“How did you come to that conclusion?”
“I was trying to get into the after party, if you know what
I mean, to meet up with Her by changing some things about
myself. Hell, some pretty big things, like my state of aliveness.
“Hell, I had almost killed myself to get in the front door, or
really I guess it’d be the back door, but no matter, even worse
than that I would’ve died a poser, a phony, a fucking sham after
having lived an authentic life, my whole life! How did I not
see how close I was to losing my 1/1 placard! It all could’ve
been over, everything I had lived so carefully for! Holy shit!
“But like I said, I really didn’t want to die, truthfully. Deep
down I knew who I really was. My strong sense of self was
prevalent even in that chaotic time, you see. All I wanted
was to be with Her again, and a gun to the head was the only
portal I saw. But as a last chance, of sorts, for life to win me
back and also to get away from my god-awful extended family I
160 T.J. Blanco
went to a party with my friend Allison. She’s one of those types
that had a pretty fucked up childhood, you know a dad with
whom the beatings went down almost as easy as the drinks did,
and she managed to get out, which she accredits to a ‘divine
intervention.’ And as you know with these characters, has
since been searching for whatever being it was that intervened,
and ya know what? She found it! And then she found another.
And another. And another. And another; the girl believes in
fucking everything! Not to mention she has found it her calling
to spread the message of all these discovered idols of hers.
But you know, it’s not all that bad, some girls idolize Brad
Pitt. Worship in any form is depressing as hell and repulses
me as much as those people bowing down in North Korea. On
this occasion we were headed to a party downtown to meet her
newest deity, Jacob Coen. This new-age prophet of sorts was
everything I hated about humanity, but like I said, I had to get
out of that dead house.
“That house that housed all those people with dead minds,
and dead whines that repeated themselves like rhymes, and
hundreds of blinds that they pulled down tight while placing
a sign out front reading ‘kind.’
“That was a little poem I had written and typed up twice.
Well, to tell you the truth I only typed it up once but printed it
out on two pieces of paper that I then enveloped and labeled
to my two aunts that were staying with us in this “transitional
period.” And then I had planned to walk down to the mail room
and put the letters in our mailbox and then go back upstairs,
find Lance and blow my brains out. I had really thought this
all up after I wrote the poem a little drunk one night, and you
know I still think it would’ve been a helluva way to have gone
out. You know all planned and all. I mean people think stuff
of that sorts just falls into place but you know planning is the
only way to ensure coming off as well timed. Some may say
poetic. I guess that really makes us all shams then, I mean the
T.J. Blanco 161
whole point of poetry is for it not to be planned but to happen
poetically anyway. But you know the poets who say god’s breath
forced their pens and bullshit like that are shamming too. So
no one’s safe. We’re all just living one big sham. But the thing
is, that not alotta people will stretch their brain threads to such
a far curb. So I have this philosophy that if you can be aware
of the shaminess of life, so as to be above the sea of heads,
but be able to consciously entertain the other heads’ lesserly
curbed understanding you can get real far. So naturally with
Her voice no longer acting as my conscience check, I planned
how to put my long come-by understanding to its first act that
would be the final one of my life. How I planned to go, which
I know you deep-down curious sonuvabitch have wanted to
know this whole time but are too polite to ask, or who knows
maybe you were trained that way—” (I know, he was, it’s all
a part of this Harvard philosophy of mine) “—but anyway, I
won’t leave you waiting a moment longer” (the sonuvabitch
hadn’t even flinched). “What I planned was to, while in the
hallway outside of Lance’s room, push his door open without
him seeing me. Naturally, the fucking Louigi card-carrying
disciple that he was would of course think it was Her spirit or
whatever. But his Ghostbuster Nation membership would have
to wait because when he turned the corner to look out his door
into the hallway instead of a supernatural ‘hotspot’ his vacuum
cleaner would’ve come face to face with my face, attached to
the barrel of a gun, attached to my hand. And then he’d be
face to face with no one. Of course some logistics were still to
be worked out, like how to avoid getting red goop all over the
white hall walls She was always making us wash our hands
for. But, hey by the end of it fingerprints would’ve been the
least of everyone’s worries, not to mention in theory I wouldn’t
have any any more anyways, fingerprints, that is. What was I
talking about before?”
“Jacob Coen.”
162 T.J. Blanco
“Ah, that’s right so this Buddha or whatever you’d call him
came over and felt my spirit with his thumb pressed to my
forehead. The only thing I could think was all he was actually
feeling was some squishy skin and maybe a bit of skull in
there too, (really though seeing how easy it was for fucked-up
philosophies to penetrate into my brain I’m beginning to doubt
I’ve ever even had a skull and I’m in contact with a guy who
knows a guy who does cat-scans in his basement), but nothing
any anatomy book would’ve labeled spirit. But you know, I’m
a pretty deep guy and I thought that was the point. That the
spirit wasn’t something an autopsy could discover and that it’d
need a whole ‘nother diagram if it would want to be labeled, you
know probably next to things like the soul and mind. So I’m
thinking all of this with this guy’s thumb on my face and then
alluvasudden he declares he has met my spirit. He whispers
that he ‘understands the pain’ my spirit is in. My yearning to
be reunited with Her, to offer my blood and body up for Her.
To eat Her body and drink Her blood so as to forever have Her
with me. To build technicolor altars for Her where I’d sacrifice
anything just to summon Her almighty presence. Jacob Coen
put these freaky fucked-up visions into my mouth, where I had
had only words to describe my longing, and sent them down
easy with wine, with the ease of an accomplished date rapist.
He spoke of taking the red line all the way up in the greatest
procession ever embarked upon. And I took it in through my
ears, letting his gloried words change my brain. He was The
Other of two ways of getting to her. He spoke of finally getting
to Her by following Him.”
T.J. Blanco 163
The Calm Before the Storm
Anne Cebula
“
Halt!” The ref adjusts his suit, the glossy “usfa Fencing”
label on the lapel of his suit catching the fluorescent lights
of the arena.
My kneecaps wobble a bit as I finally rip off my mask. Cold
sweat drapes over my neck and shoulders like a damp blanket
as my flushed cheeks throb under a puffy, perpetual pair of
eye bags. A loud roar erupts. It’s my own voice, hanging in
the air for just a moment before a small applause snuffs it
out. The gleaming metal carpet of a piste scrapes under my
heels as I turn towards my dad. The scoring machine starts
the timer. 60 seconds.
Dad hops over the barrier. The small bottle of water barely
sits in my clammy palms as my whole body is hit with waves
of fatigue. Adrenaline oozes through every pore in my body.
A small blip of panic clouds the back of my mind. I redirect
my attention towards finishing the water without spilling it on
the cable threaded through my glove to my hip to the piste.
The bright red cable pokes out of my glove as I fumble with
the attachment at my hip. I unclip my blade entirely and set
it gingerly on the floor. 50 seconds.
I pace in small loops at my end of the strip. Thickets of
heat radiate through my uniform with every breath. Dad stops
me. A pack of Fig Newtons makes its way into my damp palms.
The small but vibrant yellow casing looks like a lost canary
in a sea of white and black hues. The ref doesn’t notice the
small trickle of crumbs falling onto the strip as I rip it open.
The foil crumples open like a petite blossom to expose two
cookies. I fuse them together and begin to gnaw. 40 seconds.
Sugar. Calories. Energy. Each little morsel attaches itself
to every molecule of moisture in my mouth. Between sips of
water, the jam is sweet and my molars grind at the tiny popping
164 Anne Cebula
seeds. One moment it tastes like a mistake - a full mouthful of
awfully dry cardboard; the next, it tastes like Moses himself
came down, handed me two sticks of manna straight from above,
and slapped me on the back for good measure. I shut my eyelids
and take shuddering breaths with each bite. 30 seconds.
It’s almost all gone. Glucose hits my bloodstream by the
time I manage to pull my glove back on. A bobby pin, hanging
by a single hair, dances in my peripheral vision. My temples
pound gently as I re-clip the bangs out of my face. I look down
to spot a trail of crumbs from the high collar digging into my
neck to the center of my torso. My dad leaves with the remains
of the limp canary. 20 seconds.
I plug in my wire and test my blade. I pretend not to notice
my opponent’s coach shouting in exclamation points and bold
text. The tremors start to gently subside. 10 seconds.
The damp mask slips over my face. I brush a few crumbs
off the strip with the tip of my toe. My contacts adjust with a
few blinks. I’m ready.
Anne Cebula 165
The Lonesome Moon
Molly Foster
I
friends as we make our way down
the sidewalk. The concrete beneath my Converse-clad feet
is vaguely lit up by the moon hovering above us. The ground
looks cool to the touch now despite the sun beating down
on it all day. People are kind of like that. They encounter
stressful situations all day, but on the surface they look cool
and collected. A voice catches my attention.
“So what do you think, Linds?” I look up to three pairs of
eyes staring at me.
“What?” I ask as I dart my eyes between the three.
“You wanna try to sneak into the private park?” Kayla asks.
Kayla is always coming up with things like this to do;
it is her livelihood. These so-called adventures are always
disappointing, but I go along anyway. I go anywhere that isn’t
home. A chill runs down my spine and I’m not sure if it’s from
my thoughts or the weather.
“Sure,” I reply with a shrug of indifference and a faint smile.
Kayla, Maddie, and Nora turn back around and continue
walking as before. The private park Kayla mentioned was one
that I used to go to when I was younger. I could only ever go
when I went with this girl named Kim because she had a
membership. I never had a membership because to be quite
honest you had to pay a pretty penny to experience such an
average playground. It’s crazy how much money people will
spend just to flaunt their wealth.
We walk down the long sidewalk, and I can’t help but admire
how nice it is. The cool breeze almost feels apologetic for the
unpleasant humidity earlier today. After a few minutes I’m not as
distracted by my admiration of nature and realize I’m cold. I zip my
hoodie up; the gentle wind with the harmless first impression turns
out to have an icy streak. I guess people are kind of like that too.
trail behind my three
166 Molly Foster
I put my hands in the comforting pockets of my light grey
sweater and look up at the sky. It’s pitch black besides the
moon and three visible stars. I start to feel bad for the moon
because it’s isolated from the three stars which are relatively
close to each other. I furrow my brow at my own thoughts: the
moon and stars are nothing like people. They don’t care if
they’re alone or not. What am I thinking? I continue to study
the sky because I’m always so amazed by stars when I can
actually see them. They’re kind of sparse with the pollution
and all, hogging up all the space up there. I want to go to a
place one day where hundreds of stars are visible at night. I
would be perfectly content with going for just one night, as
long as I see the stars.
As I’m gazing up at the three stars with glassy eyes, I find
myself colliding with someone.
“Jeez, pay attention would you?” Maddie says, confusion
written all over her appalled face.
If this is the worst thing to ever happen to Maddie, I am
very happy for her.
“Jeez, sorry?” I reply back mimicking her voice. I can
tell she doesn’t appreciate my impersonation by the way she
responds dryly with, “We’re here.” I glance to the right and
immediately recognize the park. The fence is concealed by
thick vines, the sign that reads “Private Park” is partially
hidden by dark green leaves dangling from the vines.
“Well, who’s going first?” Maddie asks. We all looked around
at each other, exchanging questioning eyebrow raises.
“Alright I’ll go,” Kayla says with a bow of her head as if she
was accepting an award.
Kayla grabs onto a vine about a foot above her head as she
lifts her right foot onto one near the ground. She hauls herself
over the fence, the vines helping her climb.
After Maddie and Nora are over the fence I realize it’s
my turn. I grip onto a vine and hear Maddie’s voice again,
Molly Foster 167
“C’mon, Lindsay, don’t back out of this now.” I feel slightly
offended at her assumption that I was backing out rather than
situating myself with the vines, but I keep it to myself. I roll my
eyes at Maddie as I get over the fence as quickly as the other
three. We walk to the center of the park and each of us take a
seat at different parts of the playground in a circular form. If
you want to get technical it’s more like a square considering
there’s four of us but that’s beside the point. The metal beneath
me is cool in the night air. The tennis court across from the
playground looks eerie, hidden from the light of the lonesome
moon by towering trees. I hear my three friends talking about
rather personal things, like family and the future. It’s as if
they’re encompassed by the braided fence and I’m still outside
struggling to get in.
They go on for a while, talking about their biggest fears in
life to the vast night sky. It’s always easier to talk at night. It’s
as if what you say gets swallowed by the darkness, never to be
seen again. Never to be used against you again. It can even feel
like nobody can hear you when you talk deeply at night. The
features of the people you know so well become ambiguous in
the darkness of the night. You can’t see the judgmental burn of
their eyes or the critical crease of skin between their eyebrows.
The point is even though you can’t see these things they still
happen, and they’re listening just as closely as they would
in broad daylight. But some people are different. Although
they’re listening closely they don’t judge and criticize even
when they know the darkness acts as a shield to hide them. As
the three of them continue talking I look back up to the sky.
My eyes meet the stars and moon again. It occurs to me that if
our words get swallowed by the darkness then where do they
go? I assume the moon and stars are listening, judgment free.
You could say the moon and the stars are kind of like people.
168 Molly Foster
Journey
Lucas Larson
S
taring out the window,
I saw a dry, arid desert. My body
was sore from having being seated for so long. I was hungry,
tired, and restless.
“Are we there yet?” I groaned.
“Almost,” replied Mama.
“Prepare for arrival,” announced the flight attendant over
the loudspeaker.
We both smiled. We had been traveling for ten hours and I
was relieved to know that the journey was almost over. Little
did I know that it was only beginning.
Suddenly I felt a jolt as the plane swept down. Everything
was a blur: the sky, the clouds, the entire world around me. I
closed my eyes, blocking out my spinning surroundings.
“Make it stop,” I whispered. “Make it stop.”
I opened one eye, then the other. Everything was still. One
by one passengers stood up and cheered. We had landed in
Marrakech, Morocco.
On the ride from the airport to the hotel, out my window I
saw small, rural villages with camels along the road. Soon after
we arrived at our hotel, we walked to the bazaar. Entering the
medina was like stepping back in time. There were hundreds
of stalls, one next to another, selling all kinds of beautiful
handicrafts. In some of the stalls, artisans sat out front
hammering tin lanterns, weaving fabric, and polishing small
mirrors. The market was bustling with loud noises and crowds
of people. The people in the market were foreign to me. They
looked different from Mama and I, wore elaborate clothing and
spoke unfamiliar languages. Men were draped in long thobes
while women were covered from head to toe in burqas and
hijabs. Mopeds and donkeys squeezed through the crowds and
I was worried I would get injured. I approached every corner
Lucas Larson 169
with caution, as I tightly clutched Mama’s hand. Around me
were heaps of colored rugs, woven baskets and rough leather
shoes. I smelled the rich aroma of the various spices being sold
in the market. Dates and figs were stored in large barrels and
bees swarmed around the sweet food. The bazaar was a feast
for the eyes. A whole new world had been unlocked.
While wandering the market, I heard a loud, booming voice
call out words in Arabic. I squeezed Mama’s hand.
“What is that sound?” I asked her.
“It’s the Call to Prayer,” she answered. “The Call to Prayer
directs Muslims to worship and allows them to pray to their
god, Allah.”
I looked around and saw people kneeling on small mats,
thanking Allah for their well-being. We were surrounded by
a sea of prayers.
As the day unfolded, I grew more and more intrigued with
this strange, exotic land. My fear was fading and I was now
walking ahead of Mama, stepping into shops and stopping to
wave hello to merchants. I peered into the stalls and weaved
through the donkey carts, piled high with spices. Later, that
evening, we ate at a traditional Moroccan restaurant, lit with
candles that made mysterious patterns on the walls. I watched
as belly dancers glided around the packed tables. I remember
one of the dancers balancing a tray of twinkling candles on her
head. After a long day, I was famished. Chicken tagine and
couscous were piled high, and sizzled on intricately decorated
brass trays. Although I didn’t recognize much of the food being
served, I dug in, ready to try something new. As Mama and I
savored our meal, we listened to the beat of Moroccan drums
and the evening sun slowly set.
Later that night, we strolled through the town square taking
in the sights and sounds of Marrakech. We stopped at an ice
cream stand and I ordered orange blossom ice cream stacked
onto a cone. In the center of the square I noticed a little boy,
170 Lucas Larson
all alone. He looked no older than five, and was dressed in
thin, torn clothes. He had bare feet and was selling tissues to
tourists. I purchased a pack of tissues from him and I promised
myself I would never open them. As I grew full of my ice cream,
I decided to offer it to the boy. To my surprise, he accepted it
and quickly devoured the treat. We looked at each other, smiles
spreading across our ice cream stained faces. At that moment,
I knew Morocco was an incredible place.
Lucas Larson 171
The Battle is (Never) Over
Daniel Ortega-Venni
A
quiet, rainy day.
I sigh, leaning back in my chair. There’s
nothing to do today except to flip on the radio, which is in
the process of announcing a song “Rise Above by Two Steps from
Hell.” I think nothing of it but, suddenly, the music grabs me so
deftly and drops me smack-dab in the middle of a fantasy world…
Rise Above:
The music opens up with a soothing violin, as if painting a
picture of the morning sky with music and the sleepiness one
feels at this time of the morning…
The sun rose laggardly over the horizon, casting its light
everywhere and startling me awake from my dreams. I got up
and stretched out my arms. My back was sore from the previous
day’s training and my head was still heavy from drink. I shuffled
out of my living quarters and down the steps in the castle, not
at all prepared for what was to come in the sleepy state I was in.
I couldn’t recall what we had been told the day before as I
sat down on a bench in the dining hall, where breakfast was
served promptly at dawn. Damn all the merrymaking last night,
I thought to myself. All I could remember was that something
important was supposed to happen…early…in the morning…I
shook my head, deciding to think about something else, for
instance, breakfast. That was when I noticed that it wasn’t there
on the table. That’s odd…I thought. The cook was very strict
about serving meals on time: if you weren’t there, you didn’t
get your meal. There was only so much for everyone and even
I, the Prince, was subject to such rules; the general saw to that.
The music abruptly changes from a soothing melody to a
fast-paced, darker theme, as the string instruments from before
speed up and drums are introduced. This sudden alteration
indicates that not all is well after all in this dreamworld…
172 Daniel Ortega-Venni
Suddenly, the cries of battle and the clanging of swords
reached my ears. A flood of memories came back to me as
my sleep-filled eyes suddenly shot open. At that moment, I
remembered what I had been told by the General: a battle
against a neighboring kingdom was imminent and we had been
ordered to be prepared for it since it was going to commence
“very early in the morning.”
I ran to the window and peered out to see my fellow knights
locked in a heated battle. I hurried to my room, donned my
armor, then dashed out onto the field, sword in hand.
My fellow knights looked at me with a mixture of
astonishment and gratitude as I charged into the heat of the
battle, immediately clashing swords with my first opponent. He
was vicious and ruthlessly countered my every move. However,
I, too, could be vicious and before long I spied a weak spot and
took the opportunity to jab my sword into his ribs. He collapsed,
blood gushing from his wound, as I spun around to face my
second opponent, who soon perished in the same manner.
“Let me at him!” a voice roared just steps behind me. I
turned around to see the enemy king, distinguishable by
the carving on his armor of his kingdom’s emblem. My heart
skipped a beat before I stood strong, not wanting to give this
new adversary an edge.
“Sire, you don’t want to waste your time with this scoundrel,
when the Prince is awaiting you!” a knight at his side advised,
while embroiled in battle with an opponent of his own.
“You fool, this is the Prince and he has just killed two of
our best knights! Don’t tell me what to do!” he spat, before
launching himself in my direction, with his sword just barely
missing my face.
He was a skilled fighter. He never made the same move
twice and was so agile I had no time to get in any jabs of my own.
The music imperceptibly picks up its old calming qualities,
which are enhanced by the presence of a woman’s voice, returning
Daniel Ortega-Venni 173
for the first time since the beginning of the piece…
I was fighting a losing battle, and, as if that wasn’t enough,
I could feel my early morning fatigue and hangover returning.
My head was getting hazy…
“Not now…not now!” I muttered, shaking my head clear just
in time to avoid a serious blow from the king’s double-edged
sword…but my moves were getting sluggish, my timing sloppy.
This did not go unnoticed by the king, who laughed wickedly
before using his sword to whack mine from my hand.
I staggered and fell backward as he loomed over me. My
sword cast far away, I had no protection save for my shield—
not that it would be much help, I was so dreadfully tired that
I couldn’t see straight.
Staying consistent with the music, the vocalist wills the
listener to hear her voice and it finally makes an impact on
the scene…
Suddenly, I heard a voice, a woman’s voice. I felt a fierce
wind as a lavender-colored spirit wound its way around me. I
gasped when I realized it was my wife, who I hadn’t seen in
years.
For a brief second, I felt drops well up in my eyes, as I
recalled the day she had died. I had just returned from one of
the fiercest battles I had ever fought, when a servant ran up to
me and handed me a letter. I opened it and my eyes immediately
fell upon the sentence “She didn’t survive the serpent bite.” At
that, I tumbled onto the floor and wept what felt like fiery tears.
She had been my rock. Just knowing that she would be
waiting back home with open arms had helped me survive
many a battle…but she was gone.
As if to brush away the memory, the lavender-colored spirit
reached under my chin and brought it up to face her, murmuring
words I could not hear. But her voice…her voice was heavenly.
It was so soothing and I felt my strength returning to me.
The music reverts back to its action theme in full swing, this
174 Daniel Ortega-Venni
time accompanied by the vocalist, warding off the sleepiness that
had encompassed the scene just a few seconds before…
She continued to sing as I felt her slip my sword into my
hand. I held it tight and then leapt up as she disappeared, her
voice still echoing in my ears and the energy she had given
me coursing wildly through my body. The king was startled
by my sudden move, his face terrified. That was the last thing
I saw before I plunged my sword into the one spot he had left
unguarded, the one spot where his armor had slipped just
enough to make him vulnerable—his heart.
He fell to the ground, coughing up blood before he faded
away. Everyone around me came to a halt and stared at the sight.
No one could believe it: the battle was over, the battle was…
A drum echoes suddenly as everything else falls silent. A
bullet suddenly struck me in the same spot I had killed the
king—the heart. I gasped, my breath taken away from me as
I staggered backwards and fell. My vision grew blurry, but
for just a few seconds I saw my killer’s face as he suddenly
appeared above me. His eyes were blue and a noticeable scar
ran from the corner of his left eye down his jawline. It was at
that moment that everything faded to black.
A bullet? I think, logic getting the better of me and forcing
me to withdraw from the fading music. I shake my head, trying
to make sense of what I have just witnessed….but the radio
waits for no man and, before too long, the second song (named
“Victory” by the same orchestration) ushers me right back in the
middle of the battlefield…
Victory:
This piece also opens up calmly: like someone just getting
his bearings back after being knocked out, trying to awaken
from a deep sleep. Drums also are present, reminding me that
guns are still being fired in this scene…
Daniel Ortega-Venni 175
Was I alive, was I dead? I wasn’t sure, but, for some reason,
I didn’t panic. Instead, I assessed the situation. My heart
wasn’t beating anymore, that much I knew, but my vision was
returning. I could hear the click of guns now, as the knights
changed their weapons, but I didn’t feel the ground shake with
the thud of dead bodies falling. Of all the things to remember
at that moment, I recalled the rule of battle that dictated if
one soldier changed his weapon of choice, everyone else had
to as well.
The vocalist picks up her singing once again, her voice more
alleviating than before, making the transition from softer music
to a louder tone much more fluid…
I heard the voice again, that of my wife’s. Her lavender
spirit rose above me and reached out her hands, taking mine
and lifting me into a sitting position.
I looked down and saw that I was colored a light blue. So
now I had an answer—I too was a spirit. My wife continued
to tug at my hands, until I was fully released from my body,
which lay on the ground behind me, feeling lighter than air.
She parted her lips, her sweet voice returning to me as I
continued to rise with her, until I had a bird’s eye-view of the
battle. I felt my strength returning as I surveyed the battlefield
below. We were losing; I could see the opposing forces pushing
their way to the castle. Ordinarily, when the king dies in battle,
the whole fight ceases, however it seemed that the other knights
sought to avenge my death. I was, after all, their Prince.
Only now, I wished they would stop. I foolishly felt guilty,
leaving them to fend for themselves, while I was safe from
further wounds. I wanted to help, but how could I?
My wife, possibly sensing my dejection, reached out to me
and turned my face towards hers, bringing my hands up to
me. I could see that they were tingling with magic and as she
continued to sing, the sparks became brighter. I looked back
at her before realizing what I had to do.
176 Daniel Ortega-Venni
The vocalist proceeds on with her singing, but other deeper
voices continue behind her, reminding you that there is still a
battle raging…
I gave a quick nod before swooping back down and
aiming my newly-formed magic at the members of my army
that were visible. The first one to catch my magic was one
of my closest friends. He didn’t see the magic, but it still
produced some effect on him. He was now more assertive
than before, much more skillful than his opponent. Although
he had fallen to the ground, he now jumped three feet in
the air. His opponent, blinded by the sun, closed his eyes
and shielded his face, leaving his chest exposed. My friend
aimed his gun, shot and killed the knight, before landing
on his feet.
He then rushed into the battle, shooting at every enemy
soldier he could see; but that was not enough. I continued
hovering above the battle, making sure to share my magic with
every single one of my fighters.
My wife kept singing her alluring song as she flew down
to meet me, allowing both my magic, and, consequently, the
strength and skill it bestowed upon everyone, to grow as well.
Before long, every member of my army had caught my magic,
using the force it bequeathed to kill the enemy. Soon, the enemy
was vanquished. Everyone, including myself, gave a sigh of
relief. The battle was over. We had prevailed.
My wife and I had just been about to float back upwards
to the heavens when, out of the corner of my eye, I saw
someone who stood out from the rest. I moved to get a closer
look at him and then I gasped. He possessed blue eyes…
and a scar that ran down his face! My killer! Why hadn’t
anyone nabbed him? Then I realized, he had discarded his
uniform for one of ours (mine in fact) and that meant that
everyone was ignoring him. They were all too tired to notice
this stranger in their midst.
Daniel Ortega-Venni 177
I felt the rage surge up in me…how could he just don my
armor so casually? But I was powerless. My magic could only
provide strength, not unmask a villain.
I felt my heart sink as everyone headed back to the castle,
while he leaned over my body and cackled wickedly. It was
as if he was trying to rub it in my face—I’m alive and you’re
dead and you can’t tell anyone I’m hiding in your uniform!
I looked at my wife, who had returned to my side and
she looked at me. She seemed regretful for a moment before
nodding. Then a flash of light appeared and for a brief moment,
I was blinded. A few seconds later, I felt stuck and heavy and
my heart started to pound in my chest. I silently cheered, for
my wife had put me back in my old body lying on the battlefield.
I didn’t have much strength, but hopefully my perseverance
would outweigh that.
My eyes fluttered and I saw him—the killer. I heard his
laugh and felt my sword, which had stayed by my side even as
I had plummeted to my death. With the last bit of strength and
every ounce of anger I had, I moved my arm fast and plunged
the clenched sword into his chest.
He stopped laughing, coughing out blood as he fell
backwards and soon ceased moving.
Every knight had stopped and stared at the precise moment
the coughs were heard.
“Hey…the Prince just moved! His arm wasn’t in that
position before.” one knight observed. Indeed, my arm was
now outstretched, sword in hand, instead of by my side.
“He just killed one of our soldiers!” another protested. But
it was my friend who made the smartest comment of all.
“No, not one of our own…he’s wearing the Prince’s garbs—
look. The seal is on his chest, he was the one who killed the
Prince,” he pointed out.
Everything begins to fade, including the voice, as if
reminiscent of how the song had begun…
178 Daniel Ortega-Venni
I smiled before feeling my wife tug at my arm once again.
As all the knights ran to me to shake me awake in vain, my
spirit left my body for the final time and my wife and I soared
to the heavens.
Some may wish they could live their life over again…but I
only had one desire: for my army to emerge victorious.
I may be dead, but victory—what a sweet word it is.
The battle is over…and so are the songs.
Daniel Ortega-Venni 179
Reborn Again (and Again)
Renee-Elise B. Piana
I
night, my dad woke up, came to the
kitchen doorway, glared at us, then proceeded to the
bathroom and back to bed. My mom and I looked at each
other and giggled, then went back to work. The kitchen was
the only room in the apartment that was clear of boxes and
random furniture, except for one box by the sink overflowing
with shoes. My mom was trying on each pair, deciding which
to keep and which to get rid of; I was her fashion police. My
mom and I meant to unpack more boxes; we had several boxes
flooded with shoes, so technically we weren’t off task.
This was the eleventh time we’d moved since I was born.
When I told people that number they gave me that raised
eyebrow look. The first seven years of my life I spent moving
from apartment to apartment, my family trying to find a place we
could afford. Every year I had to begin at a different elementary
school. I didn’t have my first best friend until second grade
when we finally settled into a comfortable, decently priced,
two-bedroom apartment in the Bronx. Now, after eleven years,
I’ve finally moved back to Queens.
Before we started packing, my dad always made one thing
clear: we should throw out as much as we could. So a few weeks
ago, my dad said his infamous line: “If I could, I would take
our most durable clothes, our mattresses, the television, and
leave the rest of this crap behind.” If he could. Of course, my
mom ignores him and finds a way to pack every little whatever
into the moving truck. Growing up, my mom’s hoarding of
things rubbed off on me; she even helped me pack all the toys
I didn’t play with anymore, because why let go of memories,
right? Eventually, I came to understand my dad’s perspective:
you can’t take everything.
n the middle of the
180 Renee-Elise B. Piana
I began with my closet. Baby clothes, old costumes, clothes
from my punk phase, clothes that I once thought would fit me
when I lost weight but always stayed at the back of my closet.
That was just the start. Next was my desk, which had become
unusable throughout my high school years due to the clutter so
I just did my homework on my bed. Then my bookcase, stacked
edge to edge with books and other small things I’d collected
over the years from thrift shops and flea markets. The urge to
take everything returned and I knew my mom wouldn’t mind.
I was sitting on my bed when my dad walked in and asked how
I was doing. His words rang through my head: “If I could.” I
responded to his question by getting up and throwing a couple
of knick-knacks and old magazines into the huge garbage bag.
I looked up, and he was smiling. By the end of the week, my
room was the emptiest it had been since day one.
Relocating is one way to get a fresh start in life. I have a
million memories from each home on my timeline, but one
of the most valuable lessons I’ve learned is from the actual
moving itself. Filling all those garbage bags felt like a form of
self-reflection. What you own shows who you are and moving
is the best opportunity to let go and change, even if that just
means tossing out a bunch of letters from your ex or all your
studded shirts and gloves. It’s because of my dad that moving
has become easier, not just because I had less stuff to pack,
but because he made me realize that a cluttered room is a
cluttered mind. So while our current move has my dad and
me starting with a fresh mind, I wonder how my mom will
pull along with all her shoes. That night when we moved in,
only two pairs of shoes made it to the toss pile. Maybe I’m too
lenient as a fashion police.
Renee-Elise B. Piana 181
Candles
Patrick Seaman
T
he bookstore had been empty for hours when Robert finally
decided to close for the night. He slowly rose from his
wooden chair, casting a shadow on the stained walls. He closed
the picture book that was only now beginning to fade. He left
it on his desk, where it always sat, next to a small cloth doll.
Elaine had made the doll for him years ago, and he had kept
it despite himself. Dusk had just fallen on New York City. The
night was beginning to envelop the small Lower East Side
corner, bringing the muted streetlights to life. It was barely past
six o’clock, and Robert was running late for his appointment.
Throughout his life, he had prided himself on his promptness.
If one wasn’t ten minutes early, he always said, then they were
late. Punctuality gave him control over his life, something he
was severely lacking.
He checked the store one last time, making sure everything
was in its proper place. He opened the register and counted
all that was in there, though it had been gathering little more
than dust for the past few weeks. With a sigh, Robert slowly
closed the heavy wooden door and locked it with the key strung
on a piece of twine that he kept around his neck next to a
locket containing a single piece of hair. He tapped the rotting
wooden sign, “Felicia’s Corner Bookstore”, next to the door
for good luck, put his hands in his coat pockets, and hurried
off into the night.
The city was just beginning to stir as he turned the corner
to the therapist’s office, an ugly brown building surrounded by
uglier, browner buildings. Robert stood with his hands folded
behind his back as he waited for Elaine to join him. He worried
about her walking alone in the city. She was small, fragile even,
and never really had the strongest sense of direction. She may
not like him worrying, but it wasn’t unwarranted in the slightest.
182 Patrick Seaman
Three years ago, on the way to meet him at Dr. Gentz’s
office, she had collapsed on the sidewalk. She didn’t move
from there until Robert was called. When he picked her up,
she was sobbing quietly, her tears mixing with the light rain.
When he had tried to help her she had all but shaken him off
and slowly shuffled home, eyes downcast.
After fifteen minutes of waiting in the cold with no sign of
Elaine, Robert walked into the lobby of the therapist’s building
and took the elevator up, hoping to wait in warmth for Elaine.
The waiting room was dark when he got up there and the
receptionist who sat behind the large mahogany desk was gone.
Magazines were left piled in a neat stack next to Robert’s usual
waiting chair. Perplexed, Robert pulled out his cell phone. He
was sure that the meeting had been for today. He held down
the number two button, and waited for Gentz to pick up. It
had been a few weeks since they had scheduled a session.
Elaine had been difficult, but it was Gentz’s responsibility
to remember when they had a meeting. At the very least, his
secretary should have been able to do that much.
“Hello, Dr. Gentz, it’s Robert Cahill. I was just checking
that we had a meeting today. I just—”
“How are ya, Robby? Yeah, your wife called and cancelled.
Women, right? Anyway, since you two were our last patients
of the day, we closed early.”
“She…cancelled? Did you—?”
“Well yeah, Robby, that what I said, isn’t it!”
Rob’s hands instinctively went to his throat, toying with
the locket around his neck. He fiddled with it as he worried,
pondering just what Elaine had been thinking. She hadn’t
mentioned a cancellation to him, and they shared everything
with each other. Robert thought back to the last time she had
gone missing. It had been ten years since he woke up to find
her side of the bed empty and the front door ajar, a biting
breeze drifting in, carrying with it the frigid atmosphere of
Patrick Seaman 183
the city below. After three hours of frantic searching, he had
finally gotten a call from the police. They told him that she had
been picked up from a hospital on the Upper East Side, eight
miles from their home, where she had been sobbing outside
a maternity ward.
He gathered himself and spoke firmly. “What did she say,
Dr. Gentz?”
“Uh, say…she mentioned something about uh…a uh…I’m
sorry Rob, I can’t seem to remember what exactly she said…”
Doctor Gentz trailed off, the frustration in his voice clear. Philip
Gentz was not a good therapist. He had been a star football
player for Syracuse, before a simple drive home left him with
a wheelchair, a manslaughter charge, and a lifetime worth of
regrets. He had told them this during one particularly terrible
therapy session, when he erupted at Robert’s question about
how he got his therapist license. From what Gentz had told
them, it’s not entirely difficult to receive a therapist’s license
over the internet. Whatever Robert’s personal feelings were
for the man or the quality of his degree, Elaine liked him. She
said he was honest with her, and even though he was clearly
a fool, Robert put up with him for Elaine.
“Ah, yes. She said that you two were having a guest over
tonight. She seemed so excited. I figured it would help more
than I ever could, so I let it go. Shouldn’t you be there now?”
“Apparently I should be. Thank you, Dr. Gentz, We will see
you at next week’s appointment.”
“Rob-boy. Before you go, remember what I said last time
about letting go. It’s just something the two of you have got to
do. It’s important to move past it.”
Robert Cahill had already hung up the phone.
He knew nothing about a guest of any kind, and he was
not the forgetful type. Maybe she had invited someone off
the street? He had always worried about this, Elaine inviting
some random couple to their home just because of what they
184 Patrick Seaman
pushed around in a stroller. On the other hand, maybe he was
overreacting. She was an adult and he was her husband, not her
caretaker. He should trust her. Even if she was going through
an episode, he should let it play out. If she was happy for a
little while then what could be wrong with that?
On the short walk home, Robert stopped by a store, picked
up a bottle of red wine, forgoing common sense in favor of some
semblance of romance and a pot of poinsettias, Elaine’s favorite
plant. She said the plants reminded her of Christmas with her
family, and the poinsettias always comforted her.
Robert walked up the steps to their small apartment and
wearily put all of his weight against the door as it creaked
open to reveal a dimly lit living room. All around the walls
were trinkets from their travels, photos of them when they were
still young and carefree. By now the photos had faded, as had
their lust for adventure. They were simply too tired for it now.
He slowly put his hat and coat onto the rack, dreading what
he might find inside.
It was the guilt more than anything that kept them together.
Together but separate, joined but apart. She blamed him for it
all, the candles on the table, the rose petals on the floor, the
doomed romance of the fateful night. He blamed himself out loud,
huge sobs wracking his withering frame as the pain of their loss
came and went indefinitely. She did it quietly now, the sharp
words and sharper glances turning into dull stares and sullen
silences. They stayed together now out of habit more than love.
It was a routine, a farce they each knew was fake yet kept up for
the other’s benefit. Sometimes Rob would see her as she once
was, loving and kind, witty and energetic. But when she looked
at him there was nothing in her eyes but resentment. The pain
was etched in every traceable wrinkle on her face, the longing
in every strand of white hair that she kept tied up in a stern bun.
He was getting old. Definitely too old to keep running that
godforsaken bookstore Elaine had always loved. He was too
Patrick Seaman 185
old to keep reaching up for that book some child wanted, but
there was something about the look on their faces when they
read that kept him going with it. It was an agonizing process,
aging. It crept up on him, furtively taking things he didn’t
notice at first. He didn’t really notice any of it until he looked
in the mirror and realized just how much he’d lost: his color,
his energy, and his breath. He didn’t realize it until he saw
the wrinkles on his face, the gray in his hair, the hitch in his
step, the sadness in his eyes. It’s a miserable thing to look in
the mirror and see an old man staring back at you, the years
clearly etched into your face.
Robert glanced around the dining room, shaken out of his
rambling thoughts. The table was all laid out: three candles
flickering in the dying light, an old tablecloth set out across
the glossy wooden table. Next to the candles sat the twin of
the doll from the bookstore. Elaine had made the two dolls a
few years ago, and kept one at home and gave one to Rob. He
had cried the first time he saw them, the golden hair cascading
across the canvas skin. He sat down at his spot, tracing the
patterns on the cloth with a crooked finger, as if every twist and
turn mirrored the process of his life. The soft, curving lines ran
into a burn, an ugly scar in the beautiful fabric. It had been
there for twenty years, one of the few things to survive the fire.
There were three places set at the table. His, at the head of
the table where he had sat every night since they had bought
the apartment so long ago. Hers was opposite his, and they had
had dinner together every night, no matter what had happened
to them. When Robert came home after the store had been
robbed, they had sat together for thirty minutes of silence until
he talked about it. After Elaine had been fired from her position
seven years ago, she had come home crying to find Rob sitting
alone at the table, their dinner ready for her.
Their friends had told them it was silly to wait so long, to put
so much stock in something as temporary as careers while the
186 Patrick Seaman
chances of conception waned. Their friends had raised children
while Elaine and Rob raised each other and themselves, Rob
starting the bookstore, Elaine at the paper. When the store was
successful and Elaine promoted, only then did they turn their
thoughts to parenthood. When their daughter was born, Rob
painted over the bookstore’s sign and renamed it “Felicia’s
Corner Bookstore” and bought a whole shipment of children’s
books. Their marriage was stronger than ever; they were happy.
Off to the right side was the third place. All that was there
was a wooden highchair, the white paint chipped here and there.
When Robert saw the chair, he knew what had happened.
There was no guest for dinner that night, there never had been.
His hand went to the piece of twine tied around his neck, and
his fingers curled around the locket containing one strand of
golden hair. It had been twenty years, but Felicia’s death was
as fresh in his mind as it had been February 25th, 1994.
Robert steadied himself on the table, wanting badly to lie
down and cry, but he was too old and dry. He walked slowly
to his bedroom, where he knew he’d find Elaine. The three
candles sat alone at the table.
He slowly stepped through the door and saw Elaine asleep
by the crib. He had come home to it one night, pristine and
shining white, Felicia’s death fresh in both their minds. He
still didn’t know why he had let her keep it. He was just tired
of fighting. Her chest rose and fell with every slight breath, her
hand wrapped around an old rattle. He bent down beside her,
took her hand in his and pressed his face into her graying hair,
ensconcing himself in the fragrance of her lavender perfume.
Elaine may have been ten years younger than he was, but
looking at her it was impossible to tell. Years of heartbreak
and longing had only deepened the lines on her face, drained
her of her vivacity. She stirred and turned towards him as he
slowly lowered himself to the ground beside her.
Patrick Seaman 187
Bliss
Liliana Piña
B
liss looked at the man beneath her and smiled. She stroked
the back of her left hand along his right cheek, almost
tenderly, savoring its warmth. She knew it would be cold in
a matter of hours. Her right hand reached for her hip and his
eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets. She grinned, reveling
in the fact that he knew what was coming. In a flash, Bliss
pulled her gun out of her pocket and shot the man twice in the
head. 62. Blood splattered on the floor beneath them and she
snarled when she realized some of it had stained her clothing.
No matter, she thought to herself, this isn’t the first time
and I doubt it’ll be the last.
She left his dead body right where it was and walked down
the stairs of the crumbling apartment building, taking care
to scope the area before exiting. Three buildings, in ruins, a
couple of stray dogs, and an abandoned supermarket. Score.
Bliss jogged across the empty street, her blonde ponytail
swinging behind her. She picked up a piece of concrete from
the decaying steps of the building next door and used it to
break the glass of the supermarket window. Snaking through
the makeshift entrance, she walked down the first aisle. Bliss’
jaw dropped in astonishment as she realized it was almost fully
stocked. This neighborhood must have been one of the first to
be evacuated when the Virus took over.
Nobody saw it coming; it was seemed to arise out of thin air.
One day, a man got sick with typical flu symptoms: cough, runny
nose, and a high fever. The next day, he was dead. Then, more
people got the mysterious illness and they all died within 24
hours. The Virus spread rapidly, surpassing even the Bubonic
Plague in number of fatalities. Plants, animals, humans; they
all went down in a day or less. The whole world began to panic.
Countries closed their borders, entire nations were quarantined,
188 Liliana Piña
people who were once friends turned on each other for the
sake of survival. Leaders tried to calm people down, coming
up with strategies to save as many people as they could, but
it was all too much; no one listened. For a time, the Virus took
over the world, practically decimating its population. But as
swiftly as it had arrived, it had gone, leaving nothing behind
but the destruction it had so easily created. It was in the ruins
of this destruction where Bliss now found herself.
Bliss scoured the shelves of the supermarket for foods she
could take with her. She stocked up on cans of corn, peas, and
green beans. Staying in one place was always too risky, people
were getting more desperate as the days wore on, so she had to
pack light. Suddenly, a jar caught her eye, practically gleaming
at her from its place on a shelf in the distance. The brilliant
gold stood out starkly against the otherwise dreary space and
she approached it almost reverently, like a moth drawn to a
flame. Her mouth instantly watered as she realized it was a jar
of peach preserves; she hadn’t had anything sweet in a long
time, since before…
No, she chastised herself, not today.
Bliss hastily picked up the jar and placed it, along with the
other food she’d acquired, into her tattered purple backpack.
She walked down the other aisles, looking for the one thing
she desperately needed more than anything else: water. She
nearly screamed in delight when she found some, four bottles
to be exact, in a small refrigerator that no longer had power.
Hot water’s better than nothing!
She uncapped one and drank greedily, savoring every drop
as it quenched her thirst. She hadn’t had a proper drink in
more than a week, surviving on a few sips a day to preserve
what little she had, so she relished the opportunity to drink
with abandon.
All of a sudden, she heard a click. She looked up to see
a man standing directly in front her, a gun in his right hand,
Liliana Piña 189
pointed at her face. How she hadn’t noticed his approach was
beyond her; she must have been too distracted by the water.
She cursed herself for being so greedy.
She took in the man’s appearance, gazed at his long, black
trench coat, tattered jeans, and stained sneakers. His hand
and the gun slightly shook, the tough look on his face all for
show. The man was scared shitless, and the fact that he didn’t
have a speck of blood on his clothing meant he hadn’t killed
anyone, at least not for a while, giving her an advantage.
His brown eyes met her blue ones before he spoke.
“You, girl,” he said in a deep but shaky voice, “Give me
the water.”
Bliss looked down at her feet to hide her smile. He was
such an idiot, telling her what to do, but he’d realize that soon
enough.
When Bliss looked up at the man, her eyes were wide and
filled with tears. She stammered as she spoke.
“S-s-s-sir, p-p-please leave m-m-me a-alone.”
“Not until you give me what I want. Hand over the goddamn
water!”
“O-o-okay,” she sniffled as she reached into her bag.
She pulled out a bottle of water and tossed it to him. He
caught it in his left hand, the gun pointing at her face still
trembling slightly, but not faltering. He scowled at her.
“I know you have more, you little bitch,” he said angrily,
“Give me all the fucking water you have or I’ll blow your brains
out and this shitty store will be the last goddamn thing you
ever see.”
No man on earth could talk to her like that. Not anymore.
She almost cracked, but held her resolve; one wrong move and
she’d be dead in an instant.
“I h-have one in my pocket,” she said, “I’ll give it to you,
just p-please let me live!”
“just give me the water!”
190 Liliana Piña
Bliss reached into her waistband and pulled out her gun.
Before he could even react, she flipped off the safety and shot him
in the chest. His body crumpled to the ground. He laid there for
a few minutes, choking on his own blood, but soon fell silent. 63.
Bliss walked over to the man’s dead body and stared at him.
She felt no remorse for what she’d just done; that part of her
died a long time ago, and to be honest, that asshole deserved
what he got. She crouched down next to the man and checked
his body for anything she would find useful. To her delight, she
found two knives and a watch that still ticked, but her eyes
were immediately drawn to the pendant around his neck. She
opened the locket delicately and gazed at the picture inside: a
gorgeous woman with blonde hair and a heart-shaped face and
a younger version of the man holding her, dressed to impress
on what she could only perceive as their wedding day.
Bliss’ heart went still in her chest as a ghost of a memory
danced across her mind. She saw a handsome man laughing
as he clutched his wife to his chest. He kissed her forehead
and looked at her adoringly as she beamed up at him. There
was no doubting the love these two had for each other. Bliss
could almost feel the emotion, grasp it with her hands as if it
were a tangible thing, but soon their smiles were replaced with
grimaces, their laughter replaced with cries of agony.
She shut her eyes and tried to block out these inescapable
parts of her past, but all she could do was watch again and
again as her parents died in front of her, as she cradled a tiny
bundle in her arms. A traitorous tear escaped Bliss’ eye and
she wiped it away immediately. With a shake of her head,
Bliss gathered her bearings, immediately regaining the steely
resolve and calculating mind that had allowed her to survive
for so long. By now, her feelings were just inconvenient pieces
of herself that could be tamed and manipulated, but as hard
as Bliss tried, she could never fully control them. Sometimes
bits and pieces would escape from her like wisps of paper
Liliana Piña 191
floating in the wind, but Bliss always reigned them back in
before they got too far.
She walked out of the supermarket, once again scanning her
surroundings before exiting the building. Bliss looked up; the
setting sun glowed a dull orange amidst a brilliant mixture of
pinks and purples—a masterpiece. But Bliss barely noticed it
as she walked down the city’s deserted streets. She had already
wasted enough time being weak today.
Bliss entered the house, soundlessly walking up the stairs.
She made her way to the closet and knocked a melody that
would be forever engrained into her memory. Another tune
from another time she’d long since tried to forget.
The door instantly opened, and Bliss was violently shoved
to the floor. She wrestled with the person, using all her strength
to pin him beneath her. She looked down at the boy beneath
her and smiled. She lifted a hand to stroke his cheek, savoring
its warmth. Her right hand reached for his hips, where she
immediately started tickling him until he couldn’t breathe
and begged her for mercy. She placed her other hand on his
mouth, to muffle his laughter. When it became too much and
she knew he needed air, she let go of him.
“Good job, Leo,” she said, smiling, “You almost got me
that time.”
Leo scowled at her, but she knew it was lighthearted.
“It’s not my fault my sister’s freakishly strong,” he grumbled.
Bliss laughed and enveloped him in a hug. Leo was nine
years younger than her, and when the Virus hit, their entire
family had gone down with it, leaving her and Leo to fend for
themselves. For the first couple of years, they had lived off
of the system, but once it crumbled, Bliss had to become the
provider for both of them. It had been tough, it would always
be tough, but she had no problem doing what was necessary to
ensure their survival. Bliss didn’t want Leo to see the horrors
she faced everyday, so she made him stay somewhere safe
192 Liliana Piña
while she searched for food and shelter, killing anyone who
was senseless enough to stand in her way. He was her one
shred of humanity left and she held onto him like he was her
lifeline, the one thing that could keep her from becoming the
heartless monster she was slowly turning into. She had to be
a monster. You couldn’t kill 63 people and not be considered
one, even during desperate times such as these.
“I found some food and water,” Bliss said happily, attempting
to disguise the darkness that was slowly overcoming her cold
heart.“I also have a special treat,” she added.
He immediately grinned and exclaimed, “Show me!”
With that, Bliss opened her bag and let its contents out onto
the floor. Leo’s smile shined brighter than any star as he took
it all in. His eyes landed on the jar of peaches and laughter
soon bubbled out of his chest. He carefully opened the jar and
shoved one into his mouth, moaning at the flavor. Bliss did the
same, and they ate until they were both grinning like idiots,
with full stomachs for the first time in months.
For a moment, Bliss’ mask wasn’t really a mask as she
allowed herself to live in this little glimmer of happiness she
and her brother had stumbled upon. When Bliss looked at
Leo, she saw everything she used to be—pure, happy, naive.
For a few minutes, she felt like the old her, the one whose
parents were still alive, the one whose world wasn’t ripping
at the seams. She didn’t feel like a murderer, or a scavenger.
She didn’t mourn everything she had lost or look toward the
future with apprehension. An emotion she hadn’t felt in years
invigorated her body, setting herself alight from the inside out,
a word that had always been on the tip of her tongue, but was
always just beyond her reach: bliss. That’s what this feeling
was: pure, unadulterated bliss. She just let herself bask in it.
She looked at her brother and smiled, taking in the light
that he exuded, the same light she knew would guide her home
each and every day.
Liliana Piña 193
Acknowledgments
Thank you to the Foundation for Letters, the financial sponsor
of Bronx Loaf. The Foundation of Letters is a non-profit
organization that helps develop academic and enrichment
programs that are dedicated to the love of reading and writing.
Several members of the Foundation’s board (Sarah Carson,
Stephen Gandel, Lori Haims, Matthew Hicks, Natalie Mackiel,
Stephanie Orphan, and Pooja Pathak) dropped by to visit and
to share in the week-long conference which meant a lot to the
Bronx Loaf family. A special shout out to Mike Jackson, the ceo
of the Foundation for Letters. Mr. Jackson spent several days
with us at the writers’ conference, despite the fact that heat
and humidity nearly destroyed his really nice shirts and slacks.
Thank you to Brandon Cardet-Hernandez, the principal of
the Bronx Academy of Letters. This is the third year that
Bronx Letters has hosted Bronx Loaf, but it was Mr. CardetHernandez’s first year as principal. He took a leap of faith and
gave us the keys to the school, literally. (I hope we gave them all
back.) Mr. Cardet-Hernandez also graced us with his presence
by attending several of the student readings, held in the school’s
lovely Applegate Garden. The majority of Bronx Loaf students
come from all over the city. Many of them commented that
Bronx Loaf dramatically changed their opinion of the Bronx.
Hosting the conference at a beautiful school like Bronx Letters
is a big reason for changing those views.
195
Writers
Adam Aharoni is a graduate of Stuyvesant High School and
a freshman at the honors college of the University of Maryland,
College Park. In addition to writing and reading poetry, he
enjoys spending time with his family and girlfriend and deeply
appreciates plants and animals.
Skye An is a junior at Brooklyn Technical High School. She
enjoys creative writing, reading (open to all genres, but she
is particularly interested in sci-fi, fantasy, suspense/thriller,
comic/graphic novel, and non-fiction memoirs), history, and
playing the cello in her school’s orchestra. Skye has been
a member of her school’s newspaper, The Survey, since her
freshman year. She started out as a section writer and then
became the editor for the Arts and Entertainment section.
Starting her junior year, she will officially become the editorin-chief of the entire newspaper. She will also have her poem,
“Surgeon General’s Warning,” published in The America
Library of Poetry’s 2015 Poetry Collection titled Eloquence.
Brianna-Christine E. Alicea is a senior at The Cinema
School. Her interests are English, psychology, education and
drama/theater arts. She also has a strong interest in poetry
and how to grow as a writer and person through her work. She
enjoys her mentor-Ellen Hagan’s poetry, Edgar Allen Poe, and
Maya Angelou; Brianna finds inspiration from Mrs. Hagan’s
work. Brianna has participated in DreamYard’s Japan/US
Poetry Exchange as has received a certificate from Ambassador
Caroline Kennedy. She has also entered a poetry contest for
The America Library of Poetry where there she is getting a
poem titled “Memories” published in their anthology called
“Eloquence.”
196 Walter Paris Armstrong is a senior at the High School for
Arts, Imagination, and Inquiry who loves Toni Morrison.
Mary Binninger is a sophomore at Baruch College Campus
High School (bcchs) and has interests in writing, reading,
photography and music.
T.J. Blanco is a junior at West High School in Madison, Wisconsin.
She is most interested, and looks to develop and analyze themes
of cultural and evolutionary anthropology and sociology.
Anne Cebula is a senior at Brooklyn Technical High School.
When not fencing on the usfa competitive circuit, she loves to
read and write. She is passionate about animals, is currently
learning how to code, and is “so pumped” to be featured in
Breaking Bread. She has been previously published in A
Celebration of Poets and TeenInk, and is the Editor in Chief
of bthSnews.
Nicole Chapko is a senior at Brooklyn Technical High School.
She performs her poetry locally, mostly at her school. However,
she aspires to compete in poetry slams in the future. Nicole
is extremely passionate about writing and giving her views,
opinions and emotions a voice of their own in hopes that her
poems will speak and inspire her audiences and readers.
She draws her inspiration from her everyday life, her friends,
family and teachers who are always encouraging her work, and
individual events that have shaped her as a person and hopes
her readers can relate to. Although Nicole wishes to pursue a
career in the biological sciences, she is confident that writing
will always be a very important part of her daily life.
Wilson Chapman is a junior at Portledge School, Long Island.
He enjoys writing, reading, acting, and getting fat from eating
197
too much pizza. He has won two awards at his school for
achievement in English, and a special award for his sophomore
history paper, “Reilly, Ace of Spies.”
Kezia Clarke is a senior at Brooklyn Technical High School.
She is a member of her school’s debate team, and is considering
pursuing linguistics in college. She also wishes to speak at
least six languages by age thirty.
Nijiko Falconer is a freshman at Nova Southeastern
University. She enjoys to read, write and sketch in her spare
time. “The Eternal Life of ELijah Pence” is her first play, but
not her first writing piece. She does not plan on stopping at
Bronx Loaf. She has plans to travel the world, helping others
through her writing and future science degrees.
Molly Foster is a senior at Robert F. Wagner, Jr. Secondary
School for Arts and Technology. She enjoys reading classic fiction.
Her favorite books include The Great Gatsby, The Catcher in
the Rye and Wuthering Heights. Molly also enjoys writing her
own fiction, listening to music and going to the movies.
Tamari Francois is a junior at the Brooklyn Institute For
Liberal Arts who is very outgoing. Her interests are mainly in
music, writing, and reading. She looks up to Maya Angelou
and John Green, who have both inspired her to write short
stories and poems.
Perla M. Gil is a junior in Baruch College Campus High
School. She enjoys reading, anime, and learning about new
cultures.
Alin Haberle is a sophomore at Brooklyn Prospect Charter
School, where she won the Brooklyn Prospect Laurels for
198 Academic and Creative Writing twice. She has won two
Scholastic Writing Award honorable mentions and received
both first and second place in the Brooklyn Public Library Teen
Zone writing contests. This is her second piece in Breaking
Bread. In addition to writing prose, poetry and graphic novel
scripts, Alin enjoys reading and knitting.
Lucia Hassen is a sophomore at School of the Future High
School who enjoys writing about life experiences brought on by
her teenage years. She believes that writing is the best way to
express who you are as well as what you would like to change in
the world. Lucia is a tremendous fan of John Green due to how
he perpetuates the occurrences teenagers face while growing
up. Much of what he has written inspires Lucia to write using
emotion. She hopes to pursue her writing in poetry as well as
the essay format. Lucia has received in-school rewards for
English that recognize her literary skills.
Lucas Larson found a passion for the arts at an early age. He
is interested in writing, especially memoirs, short-stories, and
poetry. A current sophomore at Fiorello H. LaGuardia High
School of Music & Art and the Performing Arts, Lucas is also
an aspiring singer and entertainer.
Monika Luchowska is a senior at Brooklyn Technical High
School who enjoys reading novels, performing music, and writing
short stories and poetry. Her interests in the arts span from
painting to drawing, and she has pursued origami and crochet
from elementary school to the present. Her stories consist of a
fantasy theme, and her poetry is of a modern and traditional
form, but she also ties her works together with devotion for the
natural world. Monika is eager to explore the literary realm, and
has recently joined a school literary magazine, in addition to
managing an online creative writing blog. Her favorite hobby is
199
undoubtedly traveling, whether in books or in observation, as
she must always be on a lookout for more writing material. She
looks forward to developing more maturity in her aspirations.
Kayla A. Mccarthy is a sophomore at Urban Assembly
Institute of Math and Science for Young Woment who likes to
read and watch movies.
KeVaughn Lee Merrill is a junior at Brooklyn Technical
High School. He has a passion for literature, graphic novels,
and films, favoring elements of science fiction. Merrill credits
Enders Game, Jurassic Park, and many other sources as the
inspiration behind Homo Novus.
Randy Morales was born and raised in the Bronx and this
work is his first ever published piece. He attends Bronx Center
for Science and Mathematics. His interests besides writing
are playing soccer and watching movies. His inspiration to
get serious about writing was in his junior year in high school
when he wrote short stories for his English projects.
Daniel Ortega-Venni attends sof High School and is a junior.
This is his first publication, but he does enjoy writing fiction
in his spare time as well as watching The Amazing Race and
listening to Two Steps From Hell.
Renee-Elise B. Piana is a recent graduate of Brooklyn
Technical High School and will be attending cuny York
College in the fall. She enjoys writing short stories and reading
non-fiction. She’s also an avid singer and spends her free time
painting sunsets and elephants.
Liliana Piña discovered her passion for writing during her
freshman year of high school, and hasn’t put her pen down ever
200 since. She is currently a senior at nest+m and is the editor-inchief of her school’s newspaper. While journalistic writing has
a certain appeal to her, she loves to express herself and explore
all facets of life through her poetry and short stories. She is
beyond grateful for having the opportunity to attend Bronx
Loaf Writers’ Conference and is astounded at the passion and
talent her peers have. Her dream is to inspire people with her
work and make them feel emotions they have never felt before.
Lauren Puglisi is a nest+m High School graduate and a
current freshman at Brandeis University. She was awarded
a gold key from the Scholastic Art & Writing Awards in the
category of flash fiction. Her poems and short stories have
been published in Epoch (her school’s literary magazine)
and Blue Rain (Writopia Lab’s literary magazine). She was a
writer and editor for Scoop (her school’s newspaper), and has
had articles published in Paw Print (Baruch College Now’s
online publication), Women’s eNews, and Third Wave Magazine.
She hopes to major in psychology and anthropology, while
continuing to pursue her love of writing.
Kiara Rice is a junior at Brooklyn Technical High School
who loves to be creative. She is a songwriter, fiction writer,
a cheerleader, plays guitar, sings, draws, dances, and now
enjoys writing plays because of Bronx Loaf. Some of her favorite
books are The Hitchhiker’s Guide To The Galaxy by Douglas
Adams, And Then There Were None by Agatha Christie, and
the Percy Jackson series by Rick Riordan. Kiara hopes to
someday publish a thriller fiction novel.
Nashalie Robledo is a sophomore at Bronx Academy of
Letters. She is an authentic writer and a poet born in Puerto
Rico but raised in the Bronx. She always helps others when
needed. In addition, she is a great student with outstanding
201
grades. Not only is she compassionate and strong but also an
intelligent, young basketball player. Finally, she has published
her work in the Bronx Academy of Letters’ “One Pen”, which
is a school literary magazine. She is a Raven!
Precious Scott is a sophomore at the Bronx Center for Science
and Mathematics. She was inspired to write poetry at a young
age by her mother. She lost her mom at the age of six but kept
on writing in honor of her life experiences. She currently lives
in New York, but is moving in August. She loves to read, write,
draw, and listen to music. She is currently working on a fanfic
on quotev.com called Zoe And Rose: Love Story of Two Sisters.
She continues to write vigorously and excitedly as she moves
on with her life.
Patrick Seaman is a graduate of nest+m High School in
Manhattan and a current freshman at New York University.
He will be double majoring in Journalism and International
Relations with a focus on human rights violations.
Eric Soto is a sophomore at the New York Harbor School who
enjoys writing, boxing, playing video games, and hanging out
with friends.
Anna Steingold is a sophomore at Nest+m. She has won
two silver keys and one honorable mention in the Scholastic
Publishers. She has been acting since she was seven, and her
play Deepest Cut has been acted by Writopia Lab’s annual play
writing competition. She enjoys writing fiction, plays, poetry
and whatever else enters her mind. She also likes painting,
Harry Potter, and Lord of the Rings. Anna hopes you all enjoy
the book!
202 Jack Snyder is a nest+m high school graduate who will be
attending suny Geneseo as a freshman in the fall. Jack won
first place in his school’s Ray Bradbury short story competition
(2014), had his winning story published in his school literary
magazine Epoch (2014), and was an editor for Epoch (2015).
He also won the award for best student in his Creative Writing
class (2015). Jack is going to college with an undecided major,
but is considering pursuing a Math or English path.
Aniqa Tasnim is a junior at Brooklyn Technical High School
who usually has her nose in a book, her hands on a piece of
paper, and her mind traveling the galaxy.
203
Bronx Loaf Staff
Christian Patrick Clarke, Director
Laura Mercogliano, Managing Director
Marianna Hane Wiles, Publisher
John Downes-Angus, Editor
Olivia Croom, Production Editor
Copyeditors
Laura Briskman
Catherine Brist
Daniel Cooper
Lauren Donnelly
Patrick Hunt
Sam Rosenthal
Walker Rutter-Bowman
Jamie Wernet
Workshop Leaders
Luis Cardenas, playwriting
Amy Gottlieb, prose
Jenny McPhee, prose
Paul Tran, poetry
Rich Villar, poetry
Funding for Bronx Loaf generously provided by The Foundation
for Letters
205