issue 002 | great he ightse ast coast ink

ISSUE 002

EAST COAST INK Spring 2014“great heights”

C O N T E N T SEAST COAST INK | Issue 002

L E T T E r f r o m t h e e d i t o r 2

P O E T R Y 4 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . I n C o l d F l e s h , D r e a m i n g F i r e . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . W a l k i n g T h r o u g h , R i d i n g H o m e . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . T h o u g h t E x p e r i m e n t , 1 9 6 7 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . P o r t r a i t . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . U p o n R e a d i n g t h e C o m m u n i s t M a n i f e s t o . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . L o o k i n g D o w n w a r d N o L o n g e r I m p r e s s e s M e . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . D a y d r e a m s . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . o p p r e s s i o n . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . M y B o d y I s J u s t . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . M a y b e , A d i e u

F I C T I O N 1 6 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . M o n s t e r . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . T h e P l a c e t o G o . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . T r i c k o r T r e a t

w r i t e r s p o t l i g h t : e r i n m c c a b e 3 1 M I C R O F I C T I O N 3 9 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 0 / 5 / 2 0 0 3 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . To p o f t h e W o r l d . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . M y C o u s i n S t e l l a

N O N F I C T I O N 4 3 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . S p e c t r e . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . S h e a n d I

e c i s t a f f

owner, editor-in-chief J a c q u e l i n e F r a s c a

associate editor A u s t e n W r i g h t

fiction editor E r i k a C h i l d e r s

nonfiction editor J i l l S h a s t a n y

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East Coast Ink Issue 002, Spring 2014: Great Heights .

Cover photo and images on pages 7-8, 42, and 45-46 by Jacquel ine Frasca.

East Coast Ink magazine is produced four t imes per year and is an individual ly owned and operated publicat ion. For addit ional content , please visit ecimagazine .tumblr.com and connect with us @ecimagazine . Pitch us your creative nonfict ion and submit f ict ion, poetry, micro f ict ion, book reviews, mixed media artwork and photography to ecimagazine@gmail .com . Copyright of a l l materials reverts to the individual art ists and authors . No materials may be reproduced under any circumstances without written permissions from the editorial staf f .

l e t t e r f r o m t h e e d i t o r

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I want you to picture a t ime in your mind when you were not even just happy, but content . They are often extremely di f ferent emotions, one t ied to an often f leeting and very vulnerable elat ion, and the other possibly the most ful f i l l -ing state of mind you can exist in . When I was newly f i f teen, my family went on vacation to Disney World for the very f irst t ime. My sisters were very young and probably don’t remember much of i t , but I have hundreds of snapshots to keep i t fresh in my mind; wrought iron gates along Duval Street in Key West , kumquat trees l ining the s idewalks in Kissimmee, the divers that brought up oysters for myself and my two sisters , in which theirs had pink pearls and mine was f i t t ingly gray. But what I remember most about that tr ip is how every night I stayed up unti l two or three writ ing a col laborative story long distance with my girl fr iend via email . St i l l to this day one of the most amazing art ists I know, she would write an instal lment and send i t and I would do the same. Col laborating with someone creatively who I thought to be far superior to myself , not only as an art ist but also as a person, is one of the only t imes I have ever ful ly felt content . Important , wanted, admired, even, dare I say, equal . That is one great height of my l i fe that stands tal l and terribly sol i tary. This issue of East Coast Ink is a l l about feel ings of content that are either current or completely vanquished; rapture and sex; success and power—some of the things that have the abi l i ty to take us farther away from ourselves than we can soberly bel ieve possible . They say when we are lowest and highest we are , regardless , not ourselves . Sometimes that can make for the best storytel l ing . These are heights of a l l kinds, some of which can tear you down as easi ly as they can raise you up. I am thri l led with both the writ ing and photography we receive from our contributors this issue, and am forever grateful to those who submitted their work to be part of our second issue. By helping us grow, we get to help you grow and spread your work; together who knows what kind of heights could be reached?

Jacqueline Frascaeditor-in-chief

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a l e x k h a t c h a d o u r i a n

[ p o e t r y ]

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i n c o l d f l e s h , d r e a m i n g f i r eKelsey Pratto

Lie on your back and look up into the night sky. The forlorn winter stars melted, ice- l ike , into shivering constel lat ions ,

and died caressing the roots of space. I melt , too, just l ike the razor fr inge of ic ic les on the roof , weeping away their bodies .

The poem weeps away the poet . Growing, i tfeeds upon the f ire in my f ingertips .

To breed f ire you need wood, a spiritual truth long buried beneath the snow, this beauty-broken bone the only thing remembering.

Toward the constel lat ions I extend trembling tr ibute , str iving against my skeletal l imitat ions to r ip through sound, a cal l for night ’s ending.

In the smoking darkness I l ie and l isten toprimordial bel lowing reverberate up through the f issurefrom which I f irst heard the death-cries of

demons not strong enough to break the crust . Diamonds fal l into the galaxy and drown.

But at the summit of midnight , after years ofbl indly making your way up the mountain of t ime, stop. This is a moment of s i lence,

a second chance to remember the placeswhere last night ’s faces bleed.

W a l k i n g t h r o u g h , r i d i n g h o m eStanley M. Noah

I t a l l started one morning a few years ago. Left the house, down porch steps , across the lawn to the s idewalk. But this was a somewhat di f ferent day. One l ike I had never seen. I could smell wood and coal burning. And al l thehouses had chimmeys. Suddenly, I noticed walking forwardwas also l ike walking backward in t ime. Chi ldren playing rol l - the-ring. A forgotten game. Al l women had long hair, long dresses , sun hats as i f they were characters r ight out of , Gone With The Wind . Then a breath of horses could be felt on my back shoulder. A big mare coaxing me to r ide past barns, haystacks , rol ls of king cotton and down by the s i lver r iver, old man river, the Mississippi . And on board a noisy steam boat toward home. Every minute of i t l ike another l i fe l ike another memory, travel ing l ike a trunkful l of letters with dried pressed f lowers between pages , taken to an att ic beside a small window that never forgets .

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t h o u g h t e x p e r i m e n t , 1 9 6 7Steven Klepetar

We walked home on a beamof l ight and the universe ( yes , that expanding bag of matter and mostly space which bends in the presence of objects large and small , that mystery without wal ls or smiles , whose music is the wail of quasars) f lashed past , red-shiftedfrom where we watched, unconcerned with unicornsor the breeze in our hair. I t was my eighteenth birthday,you had just turned f i f teen.

We held hands, the parkbright and cold, our mingled breath c l imbing toward a sky soblue and painful we didn’t even stop to shed our skins as bubblesof our l ives tumbled from frozen hands.

P o r t r a i tCathy Cohen

Paint each highl ight on her headrose and cadmium red.Draw her mouth with a tentative grin .Know the r isks .

Sketch fontanel les ,width of cheekbone,smooth, pale skin .

A mistake to the jaw matures i t ,echoes that of her mother,who wanders a suburbs of whirl ing cars ,wel l -meaning neighbors on corners .

Something about the eyes is of f ,But the jaunty shoulder,the curve of her neck is exact , bringing tears .

How could you know that look before she told a joke? Useless to say she now snif fs your paints and l i f ts your brush,

On vast white paper you scribble whole conversations.You wil l never be done with the sketch of this chi ld .

Taking shal low breaths , her motherputs one foot down,then the next on rol l ing ground.

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u p o n r e a d i n g t h e c o m m u n i s t m a n i f e s t oCarly Feinman

I understand some things .Complicated systems sprout fromsimple seeds. Pol i t ical part ies arealways upset . Anything can be achieved in a few years .Listen.

Lords serfs apprentices journeymen slavesare planted in a c ircle facingeach other direct ly but their eyes are shut their roots are tangled andthe real fruit of their batt les l ies not in the yel lowing pages of books butbeneath the bloodied gauze of freshthigh stumps.

Society is just a spl i tt ing up oftwo great hosti le campstwo great hosti le camps in incubation beneath a general ’s desk lamp.

Like every art ic le of commercepeople only l ive so long as theysel l themselves deeper and deeper below what can be art iculated into print . This is essential .

Col l is ions across bordersbend men into machines and machines can bend anything. Remember, production is in direct proportion to monotony.

Masses organize into fat packs of empty pockets and dirty f ists , crowds stand l ike soldiers in a factory.The trees keep growing,their fruit shines from high l imbs l ikea gentleman’s shoe or a r ipe black scalp .

When a peach fal lsi ts decay only makes the tree stronger,makes those green leaves seemall the higher.

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l o o k i n g d o w n w a r d n o l o n g e r i m p r e s s e s m eJ i l l ian Sacco

Sizzl ing of the residual waves on the rough sand,had been a favorite sound.Salt washes a warm essenceup through my solesor maybe i t ’s the suntransferring i ts wavesthrough the tops of my ears .

Each bl ink brings in focusOne: a gray mass smoothes into blue,smearing into a salted brown.Two: the horizon l ine stretchesso wide that I could’ve swornif I stepped a l i t t le forward I would col lapseinto i ts wide, smil ing arms.

Three: the sky fal ls into the oceanas the water pul ls in the boat .No longer bl ind,I cascade into the shal low water.Closer and closerI bring myself to the wooden mess ahead.Sooner and soonerI real ize i t is not the same as I remembered.

Each step pul ls apart the boat ,planks tearing from its bel ly.They fal l in front of me,beckoning me closer.One step, one plankgradual lyone leap, one plankBuilding upwardCarrying me skywardLooking downward no longer impresses me.

Below me the ocean gets smaller.A darkness grows larger and darker with every inhale .Planks spreading wider,I am suspended.

At last ,a boat suspended in shards.The darkness greets mewith grand arms and an even greater grin .

m a r y l o u f e r g u s o n

d a y d r e a m sJennifer Keogh

The yel l ing starts and I c lose my eyes .

I open them, alone in sanctuary:a f ire- l i t cave.I take in the new surroundings .

I learn each stoneby i ts colored grating.I f the yel l ing reaches me,I ’m ready.

The more I know,the more gray my eyes become.They wil l defend me, now.

I run hands through hairand feel leather, s lendermovement and l i t t le love bitesfrom new pets .

I don’t jump or cringe;they feel famil iar atop my head,l ike they ’ve always been there.

Here,there is no moreblack eyel ineron white nights .There are no moredoubts about foreveror hands that can only hold too t ight .

Here,I am Medusa and you are merely a man.

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o p p r e s s i o nChristopher Mulrooney

for that the city doth cry out

in i ts very stones

pull them down and the countryside

if i t moans

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“D

ande

lion

for

est,

” ca

rina

all

en

m y b o d y i s j u s tMarlee Gaffey

i could skim you l ike creamfrom the top of raw milk .my body is just a shape,i mean, my body is a cup for wheni am thirsty.i am not thirsty.

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D a n e s a g e r

m a y b e , a d i e uKatie Mendes

I fe l l out of t imeand into wavery scarves of secondsgl ittering of snowflake anticipation, andminutes of quiet purring joy.Tonguing thickening clouds of breathsteamhe has always been a famil iar stranger;every joint is a champagne cork, whitemarble smile that bubbled

over wooden l ips . Oh daddy dear,tel l me a tale . Tel l a storyin ten words or less , tap f ingers pointed l ike gunstwice against her hot temple , smileand half a tooth st i l l bloody. Tel l a story with oneword, bang, and sock away the other nine.Turn to a cat and say, I ’ve got your tongue.We sat together on our heels in the smokeand snowfal l , the plumed weapon of breath

melt ing. Cars s l ide into the lot , ice over easy.The alcohol tasted l ike soap. I t is not enoughfor maybes and not know hows gratingcheepcheap common sense, fai l me now.

Maybe you didn’t write LOVE on herbattered wrist but LIVE instead,maybe you stole al l the magnetic a’soff the fr idge, you’re not the onewho highl ighted instructions on a macaronibox, so you broke al l the chalk and wrotethe name of your chi ldhood dog above the s ink.

Maybe “hosti le” is a fuzzed blue comforterthree months past laundry day, every l intbal l sharp as the word “cut ,” the word “bitch,”the word “scream.” Maybe I ’m naive, sentimental , butI bel ieve in the common kindnessl ike a common cold running thinin threads of worn out heart chambers .

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” M o o n r i s e , ” C a r i n a a l l e n

” M o o n r i s e , ” C a r i n a a l l e n

[ f i c t i o n ]

m o n s t e rAlessandra Siraco

Kenny had lots of fr iends, but he didn’t usual ly want to hang out with them because, more importantly, he had a driveway. I t was square and covered with leaves a lot of the t ime, so he could sweep them up in patterns and pretend the broom was a microphone or a weapon. His fr iends would always ask to come over and play, or for him to go to their houses , but he l iked to be alone outside most t imes so he usual ly said no. He l ived in a house with his parents on a street that ended with the paved piece that his mom cal led a “cul-de-sac ,” but that he cal led a driveway. “Cul-de-sac” sounded too fancy. His house faced another house and stood next to a third one; they al l were in a c ircle around the paved part . He l iked to think of i t as his driveway even though his dad said i t was for parking and not for playing. On nights when his dad was at work and his mom was busy making dinner, Kenny would go outside and make up stories . He didn’t have any sibl ings , and he decided that he would just make up stories and use the driveway as his thinking space. Even when he was with his fr iends he thought of stories , tucked them away in his head and tr ied real ly hard to remember them for when he got home and could be alone again. He decided to make up one about a monster that c l imbed out of the woods. The driveway was bordered on three s ides by houses but on the fourth s ide was a forest , deep and dark, that his mom wouldn’t let him go in alone. The forest had a small fence in front of i t that used to be plain white but now had a bunch of chips on i t from cars accidental ly hitt ing i t . Kenny had also written his name in block letters there once, but then he thought that might be mean in case someone else wanted to write their name and he had taken up al l the space on the white fence post . He crossed i t out and wrote “sorry ” next to i t in a di f ferent color marker. Mostly, Kenny watched the neighbors for ideas when he wanted to think of new stories . He hadn’t met the new people who moved in next to him yet but he had seen them carrying suitcases a few weeks ago. He l istened to them talking as they came in and out of the house, and he knew the girl ’s name was Jess and the boy ’s was Harry. They were older than Kenny but not real ly grown-ups. They l ived together and he heard them f ighting sometimes, but they had always just smiled at him and kept walking. He noticed that Jess l iked to smoke and used to come outside and smoke while st i l l ta lking to Harry through an open window. Kenny wondered i f the house got cold because she was always opening the window to talk through i t .

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When he heard them f ighting through the open window, sometimes Kenny imagined that he was trying to save Jess from Harry. He would prepare a dragon and a spear to throw at the boy in case i t got violent and he’d come up to the window at night to save her from whatever i t was they were yel l ing about . But today they weren’t home, so Kenny decided to make up a monster story. He always wanted to be outside. He didn’t l ike playing video games—he thought they were boring. His mom spent a lot of t ime cooking. She made healthy food, something cal led “keen-wah,” and i t took longer to cook than stuff other kids his age ate , l ike yel low mac and cheese. Sometimes when she said “keen-wah,” Kenny thought she was saying his name funny unti l he remembered that i t was their food and she was cooking i t s lowly. He took a giant st ick that he always used to help him think of his stories . He’d found it at the edge of the forest after a big rainstorm and i t was almost as tal l as he was. He kept i t underneath the fence, on the other s ide of i t so no cars would run i t over, but c lose enough that he could reach i t without going into the forest . I t was early in the morning. He could st i l l taste the Engl ish muff in he had for breakfast on his tongue. He didn’t l ike Engl ish muff ins but his mom said they were good for him, so she made them for him with no butter or je l ly or anything. She said that stuff was “ fake.” Kenny l iked fake things , l ike stories , but he didn’t tel l her that . He didn’t tel l anyone about his stories . He tr ied to swallow spit so he could get the taste of the Engl ish muff in out of his mouth. The story should start with a monster that came out of the forest . The monster was covered in pine needles , l ike the ground was in the wintert ime. I t looked l ike a person, but i t was fat with pine needles al l the way to i ts core . I t would be big . Monsters were usual ly big—tal ler than he was, tal ler than his dad even. The monster would be almost as big as the tree in the middle of the forest . He’d never actual ly seen the tree up close , but he could see the top of i t pointing above al l of the others . The monster had brown eyes that blended in with the brown, old pine needles that dotted i ts face . I t wouldn’t be a boy or a girl , but just a monster. I t held a pine needle sword that was thin but sharper than al l other swords. I f i t hit you, i t would dig deep into your heart and leave a t iny hole forever. Kenny held his st ick straight out in front of him, over the fence and facing into the forest . The monster would move slowly. He adjusted the st ick in his hand, feel ing the rough bark of the tree rub off onto his f ingers . He kept i t st icking straight out for a few minutes and imagined the monster moving closer and closer to him. I t was gett ing angry because i t couldn’t move faster and i ts pine needles began to fal l of f one by one as i t struggled to come toward him. His arm began to hurt but he didn’t put the st ick down. I f there was real ly a monster he would have to be brave, he thought , and strong. He couldn’t just put his weapon down whenever his arm began to hurt . “Kenny,” his mom said. He could hear her coming out of the house, the screen door shutt ing behind her. I t was the fal l , and she was probably coming to give him a sweatshirt . He didn’t turn around. “Kenny,” she said again. He heard her take a few steps crunching on the leaves that he’d missed when he was sweeping the driveway. She sighed. I f there were a monster, he wouldn’t be able to turn around. His mom should know that .

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“Kenny.” She was mad now. She always got mad on the third t ime. He turned, st i l l keeping his arm stretched out with the st ick . As he turned he whacked a car that was parked in a spot next to him. “Oops,” Kenny said . He looked up to the neighbors’ window. They owned the blue car. Kenny knew that because his mom told him they were nice people but always parked their car crooked. “What are you doing?” his mom asked. She handed him a sweatshirt . He took the sweatshirt with his other hand and put one s leeve on, but he couldn’t put on the other s leeve because he was st i l l holding the st ick . He stood l ike that for a minute . His mom watched him. She might be laughing at him in her head, so he didn’t look back at her. Instead of laughing, she came over to Kenny and helped him into his sweat-shirt . I t was too big for him so she rol led up the s leeves . His mom always smelled l ike cookies even though she didn’t eat them. He didn’t know why she smelled l ike them. Maybe i t was because she was always in the kitchen near sugar and choco-late chips that she said were the healthy kind. “Do you want any of your fr iends to come over today?” she asked. He shook his head. “ I ’m playing a monster game,” he said . His mom smiled but only one side of her mouth went up. “But don’t you want to hang out with your fr iends?” He shook his head. “ I t ’s nice of them to ask you to play,” she said . “You should play with them. I t ’s more fun to play monsters with other kids , isn’t i t?” Kenny nodded; that ’s what his mom was wait ing for him to do. She always wanted him to play with other kids . Whenever she found out that they asked him to play and he said no, she’d shake her head. She told him that she wanted him to have fr iends and he told her he already had fr iends. Lots of them; that ’s why they always asked him to play. “They ’re going to stop asking you,” she said quiet ly. “ I f you don’t say yes sometimes they ’re just going to stop asking.” She went back inside the house and Kenny saw her in the kitchen which looked out over the driveway. She began cooking something. Kenny wondered i f i t was for her breakfast or for lunch. He didn’t think they would stop asking—they seemed eager al l the t ime—but he didn’t know i f he would care , e ither. His fr iends were nice but they weren’t as excit ing as his monsters . He didn’t think i t would be more fun playing monsters with his fr iends. And he didn’t cal l i t “monsters” in his head. I t was his story—it wasn’t a game and i t wasn’t something he played al l the t ime even though his parents thought he did . I t changed every day. I t wouldn’t be any fun to f ight of f monsters with his fr iends. I t was only scary i f he was standing in the middle of the paved driveway watching a pine needle monster come out of a forest . Alone.

“Why do you l ike playing by yourself ?” Kenny ’s fr iend Dean asked him. “Don’t you want to play with us?” Dean always seemed to stare at him hard when he asked Kenny to play, as i f he was wait ing for the r ight answer.

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They were in carpool and Kenny was sitt ing next to Dean. Al l their moms had mini-vans so the seats were in twos and threes . Dean sat next to di f ferent people every day, depending on who he l iked the most that day. I t was usual ly Kenny. Kenny didn’t know why people l iked him, but Dean had told him once i t was because he always seemed busy. He said that people wanted to hang out with him because they knew they were special i f Kenny said yes . Kenny didn’t tel l them that he only said no because he l iked playing stories by himself . Nobody knew that he made up these stories and he didn’t want to tel l them. He didn’t want to have to share them. Kenny looked out the window and adjusted so that his backpack was further from his feet and he could stretch. Dean’s mom’s car smelled l ike her perfume: f lowery. “Yeah, I l ike playing with you, too,” Kenny said to Dean. I t was true, but Dean always wanted to play video games and Kenny didn’t l ike them enough to play with Dean al l the t ime. Dean glanced at Kenny and sl id down in his seat . “We’re going to go to Ray ’s house tonight to play video games,” Dean said . Video games hurt Kenny ’s eyes , but he didn’t say anything to Dean. Dean didn’t say anything else and Kenny waited for the invitat ion, but i t didn’t come. He could feel Dean staring at him in the car and he knew he was wait ing for Kenny to ask i f he could come. He turned away and watched the trees go by as they left the neighborhood.

A few days later, Kenny was back in the driveway thinking about the monster. He stood with the same st ick in his hand. The bark had worn down so that where he held the st ick was smooth. He stood facing the forest . The monster was c lose by now, almost to the edge of the fence. He put up his other hand as a shield and made a sound in his head, dum-dum-dum-dum, a drumroll to get the excitement going. Then he heard a car door c lose and people crunching on the leaves next to him. He looked over and saw Jess and Harry holding grocery bags . Jess was wearing a big sweater that went down to her knees and Harry was wearing sneakers that were white and shiny. He watched them as they carried grocery bags in and out of their house. They looked l ike they were arguing. Kenny saw Harry rol l his eyes . “Whatever,” Jess said , and she pul led more bags from the car. Harry took a trash barrel and began dragging i t to the curb. Jess came back out to the car for the last plast ic grocery bag. I t cr inkled and broke as she pul led i t out and a can rol led under the car. “Shit ,” she mumbled, and then looked over at Kenny. He was st i l l holding the st ick straight out . His arms didn’t hurt that much anymore because he had been practicing. He didn’t l ike the word she’d said but he’d heard her and Harry say i t before when they thought nobody was around. The girl looked at him and he forgot to look away. He usual ly remembered not to stare , but he had been distracted by the way they were moving—fast , l ike they were in a rush, and the way they were talking—angry.

Jess stared back at him for a minute , then she bent down and reached under the car to pick up the can. Kenny watched as she pul led up her jeans and stuck the key in the lock. He heard the snap as the locks of the car went up. She pushed her bangs out of her eyes then she turned to face him. “What are you looking at?” she said . She adjusted the plast ic bag on her f ingers and Kenny saw the red marks on her skin from the bag being too heavy. “Well? Are you going to answer?” Kenny didn’t answer. He wasn’t supposed to talk to strangers and Jess looked so angry, staring at him and holding her heavy grocery bag. He hadn’t heard Jess speaking so angri ly before—he usual ly thought Harry was the angry one—and it fe lt scary being directed at him. He heard Harry walking back around the corner of the house. “What ’s your name?” she asked. “Kenny,” he said . “Hi , Kenny ,” she said . She said his name slowly, l ike his mom said “keen-wah,” but meanly, saying i t loudly, not looking at him. When she said i t , Kenny felt his stomach drop and he real ized that she didn’t know him at al l . She didn’t know that he had been l istening to her and Harry, that he knew a lot about them. She didn’t know him and she didn’t seem to l ike him; the way she spat out his name, a t iny piece of spit f lying from her l ips , made i t seem ugly. Ugl ier than the ugl iest monster. “ Jess ,” Harry said , putt ing his hand on her arm. She f l icked i t away and began stomping towards their house. “He’s fucking staring at me,” she said . Harry looked at Kenny and smiled before turning around and fol lowing the girl . He waved as they went into their house. Kenny stood there looking after them. He could see them moving around in their kitchen, the girl throwing things from the bags onto the counter, the boy putt ing things away l ike Kenny ’s mom usual ly did . Jess looked so angry and Kenny felt a knot in his stomach. He wondered i f she hated him, i f she was mad at him, i f she thought he was stupid to stand there, i f she wished she l ived next to someone who wasn’t a lways outside, who would talk to her instead of stare at her. She probably thought he was weird, standing in the driveway with a st ick held out for a long t ime, staring at a forest that nobody even went into . Al l a lone. Kenny tried to go back to his story but he wasn’t scared of the monster anymore. He tr ied to see i t coming towards him again, but whenever he stuck the st ick out al l he saw was that girl ’s face , her angry glare and the sounds of the can rol l ing on the cement and her spitt ing out his name. He put the st ick down in front of the fence, on the other s ide where the cars drove up, and then he moved i t forward a l i t t le so that i t was lying straight across the parking spot . He hoped that tomorrow when a car drove up, i t would run the st ick over and crack i t in half .

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t r o y s h i r b r o u n

T h e p l a c e t o g o Cody Strait

Peter Proud had switched the radio off and told his daughter to l isten. The road snaked along the c lean mountain range. When he had seen i t as a boy, he had thought of giants molding them out of c lay. “Listen to what?” she asked. “Amy, I just want you to look around. I loved i t up here.” “ I can look even i f the radio’s on,” she reached for the knob—he told her no. “Can’t we just look, now? Please? I thought we could talk ,” he said . “We’ve been in the car for three hours .” “ I know—I know that . Just for a l i t t le while , I want the radio off .” They pul led into the scenic area: a notch on the s ide of the road. I t was l ined with a low fence just where the ground dropped down into a deep val ley. Peter could barely coax the girl out of the car for a picture. “Uncross your arms please,” he said , holding the camera. She let them fal l l imp by her s ides . “Pul l the headphones out too.” “ Just please take the picture, dad.” The camera cl icked. “Good,” he said , looking disappointed. “We can go.” They rounded a corner and passed the peak where the Old Stone Face had been. He explained how it had fal len and how it had looked when he was young. “Your grandmother has a great picture of i t ,” he explained, “with some cl imb-ers dangl ing from the side.” “Okay.” “ I love i t up here. I think we’ l l have fun. There’s a l i t t le amusement park across the road,” he said , “and the thing I read says there’s a s l ide that comes down the mountainside.” “Sounds nice .”

They drove less than a minute to their bui lding, crossing the tracks of the scenic rai lroad on the way. Amy carried her bags inside while her father looked at the barbeque area across the lot . “Dad,” she shouted, coming out of the bui lding shaking her head. “What is i t?” “Our room isn’t ready yet .” “What?” “The maid is st i l l in there.” “For how long?” “I don’t know.” “Well ,” he said , leaning on the car, “how about we check out the r iver?” She shrugged. “ It runs r ight behind this place; the Saco.” “ I wanted to go eat .” “We can. Right after this , we’ l l go eat at the l i t t le café . We can sit outside i f

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you want .” He put her bag in the trunk and shut the door. “Please? I t ’s beauti ful .”

As they were walking, the train was making i ts way past the resort on i ts way to Crawford Notch. They turned to see chi ldren with their parents waving to the people from the side of the tracks . The path leading to the r iver was muddied, so Amy took off her shoes and held them. Peter offered to hold them, but she said i t was al l r ight . The Saco River was shal low in many spots that year and had been for a num-ber of years before. Chi ldren stood with their inner tubes in the middle of the bed and the water only came up to their waists . The r iverbank was covered in sand and large rocks which made walking a l i t t le di f f icult . The parents were sitt ing on the rocks yel l ing to the chi ldren in the water. A red-haired chi ld was making his way up against the current and he was warned not to get too far away. The boy seemed not to l isten or to care . Peter was recal l ing old t imes at this spot . “We took you here when you were l i t t le ,” he said to Amy. “ I know.” “We couldn’t keep you out of the water.” “ I don’t real ly remember.” “Well , you were l i t t le .” He convinced her to walk along the bank with him in the same direction that the red-haired boy had gone. Just then, they were cal l ing his name: Andrew, they yel led. When the two turned the bend they could see Andrew bobbing in his tube some distance away. He was steadi ly moving towards the shore, then turned and began to cross again. Peter spotted something bright orange on the opposite bank caught in a thicket of roots and rocks . He squinted at i t for just a few moments before turning back to Amy. “When I was a kid ,” he said , “ I used to come out here with your grandpa. We’d stand with these l i t t le nets and keep minnows in a bucket . They make great f ishing bait .” “That ’s mean,” she said . “ I suppose.” Andrew was close to the other bank when he started to scream. He waded frantical ly towards his parents who were making their way to him. They asked what was the matter and Peter dist inct ly heard him answer, “dead man.” The body of the hunter was bloated, dressed in camouflage, with an orange vest z ipped up to his throat . No one got a good look at i t unti l uniformed men waded to the other bank and brought i t back. I t took some t ime for the pol ice to show up. By then, only Peter and the other father remained. Amy had been sent to wait at the l i t t le café . “This is real ly something awful ,” Peter said . “ I feel bad for the kids ,” said the man, “They love i t out here.” “Yeah?”

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“Sure—but , now they ’ l l never want to come back.” “That ’s too bad. Real ly awful .”

He found Amy sitt ing at the bar with a soda. The room was empty except for the bar tender. Peter took a seat by his daughter and ordered a bourbon. “We don’t have to stay i f you don’t want ,” he said . “Why?” “I was just trying to take you somewhere nice .” “ I t ’s a l l r ight .” “ I loved taking you here. But we can go in the morning.” “ I t ’s real ly not a big deal , dad. We should stay.” “Yeah?” “Yeah. I t ’s nice—the mountains are pretty.” “ I know al l this stuff has been hard for you over the past year,” he said . “But , i t ’s important to me that we spend t ime together. That ’s kind of what this is about .” “Okay.” They each sipped their drinks in turn and discussed eating in the café . “Did you see the body up close?” she asked. “Yes .” “Was i t gross?” “It was how you’d expect ,” he said . “How come you sat at the bar?” “It fe lt l ike the place to go after seeing a dead body.” He laughed. “Am I wrong?” she asked. “ I guess not .” “Also, I l ike the big windows.” Peter nodded, “So do I .” The day was st i l l bright and clear and the view of the mountain across the road was l ike a postcard. They ordered up two more drinks from the bartender and moved outside to the l i t t le café . Peter felt he had made great progress with Amy, and as they waited for the food, they heard the scenic train passing again on i ts way back from Crawford Notch.

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T r i c k o r T r e a t Brad Costa

I t ’s only in retrospect that our l ives make any sense. The leaves scratched across the pavement as the potato sack scratched across my skin. I was young and we were poor, so a mop head as a wig and a potato sack shirt became Raggedy Andy, a lthough I never saw Andy wearing anything quite that threadbare. I t was Hal loween, one of the few nights of the year I truly loved—a mix of the occult and the candy. We weren’t permitted much candy in our house. Sister was al lergic to just about everything and Brother was diabetic and al lergic to al l nuts . But on Hal loween, I was al lowed to indulge my sweet tooth, to go house to house, and col lect as much sugar and chocolate as I could f i t in a pi l lowcase only to rush home and devour some. For the remaining week I could have a st ipend at school each day and then the rest was donated to other local poor famil ies . We were standing on the s idewalk in front of the house wait ing for the last minute locking up when the phone rang. Usual ly we didn’t answer i t , afraid of bi l l col lectors , but Uncle had been missing for a few days; he had told us he was coming over and never material ized. Fearing the worst , Father took the phone out of i ts cradle . I ignored the voices , just tr ied to get my things together, when Father hung up and said we had a change of plans . Uncle was in jai l , something about steal ing a car while drunk and on junk and crashing i t in front of the pol ice stat ion. We were heading into the heart of the city to post bai l ; the bai l money was always kept hidden underneath a loose f loorboard for a night such as this . We al l knew about the bai l money, but we never talked about i t ; just s lowly retrieved i t and let the stash bui ld back up for the next t ime a family member was in need. Brother and Sister were out somewhere, probably at part ies . I t was just Mother, Father, and me. I remember looking up and asking i f I would st i l l be able to go tr ick-or-treating, as i t was the most important question to me at the t ime. Father said yes . He didn’t want to go into the jai l for various reasons, so Mother would have to post bai l for her brother-in- law. Father would take me around the neighborhood which surrounded the jai l . We sped over and parked on a random side street in the middle of the housing projects next to the jai l . We walked Mother al l the way to the front door before turning around and walking back. I was naïve and thought that the neighborhood would not af fect my haul . Hal loween was sacred to me; so long as you put t ime and effort into your costume you were treated to sweets . I was wrong. House after house, door after door, we were greeted with the urban mindset of ‘why did you come to my door? ’ We were greeted by men holding knives on a few occasions, not in threat but because they were tweakers and had forgotten i t was Hal loween, paranoia running so deep they thought they would have to f ight to survive at any moment . Some houses had guns lying around. When we eventual ly walked back to the car, I had 12 pieces of candy, a l l fun-sized. Not exactly the great stash I had imagined.

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t r o y s h i r b r o u n

We got home that evening and went about the proper preparations. Uncle got in the shower to wash off ja i l and, bit of the booze, Father sat just outside the door, and Mother went around hiding the l iquor. I went to counting my candy, a l l 12 pieces , over and over again as i f somehow they would mult iply. Uncle got out of the shower and stumbled into the kitchen. He had forgotten to c lothe and was naked. Father started to yel l immediately, but Mother wasn’t looking. She had been staring at me oddly for the last few minutes . She got up quickly, walked over to me, grabbed my pi l lowcase, and walked to the door. “Well… are you coming?” she said as she looked back. I t was late when we walked outside, and quiet . I could hear Father’s voice for a block or two before we got away. At f irst I thought we had only left so I could r ing some more door bel ls . I thought we were walking far because the front porch l ights were off and in this neighborhood it meant ‘do not come near.’ After another four blocks I looked back and saw Mother smoking a c igarette , a rarity, something that only happened when she was real ly stressed. I real ized she was fol lowing me and that I could go where I want . I made my way to the Nice Houses . These were the houses that my fr iends and I used to s it around and wonder what they could possibly do with al l that room. They were only a few blocks away but a world apart . They were mult iple stories tal l , they had wide windows, and one family. Even two car garages couldn’t hold al l of their vehicles . Each house had a basketbal l hoop while we shared a communal one with no net . I knew Mother would real ize where we were after one stop. I had to pick my house wisely. I t was the music that attracted me, something haunting yet l ively dri f t ing from a house surrounded by parked cars , laughter dancing on the breeze. The l ights were st i l l up which meant I could go and ask for more candy. S lowly, ever so s lowly, I made my way to the door and rang the doorbel l . I t was a novelty bel l and i t sounded l ike a ghost . The most beauti ful woman I had ever seen answered the door. I can’t remember her features at a l l , but I remember thinking that I would never fal l in love with another face , the way only chi ldren can. A man walked up beside her and stared down at me, wearing what I would later discover was a tuxedo. “Yes?” That s ingle word jolted Mother back to the present and condemned my social status al l at once. “ I ’m sorry, your l ight was on and…” Mother stuttered. “ I t ’s too late to have your chi ld out on the streets .” His voice cut l ike acid and he c losed the door in my face . Without a word we turned and walked away, tears bui lding up in my eyes and throat . The beauti ful woman start led me by touching my shoulder. When I turned around, she had a plast ic bag f i l led with candy al l di f ferent variet ies and sizes . “Sorry about al l that ,” she said to Mother. “Here you go. I l ike your costume.” She handed over the bag and retreated. That was al l she had to say. I t didn’t matter that I had to go back to my own

29

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neighborhood where I belonged. Nothing else mattered except for the beauti ful woman. And in the years to come, i t would be the memory of her and her beauti ful house that would keep me warm at night .

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w r i t e r s p o t l i g h t

w r i t e r s p o t l i g h tErin McCabe

Hail ing from Sussex County in northern New Jersey, Erin McCabe f irst came to our attention in Issue 001 of East Coast Ink . In that issue readers could f ind not only her micro f ict ion but also her photography. She continued to impress our editorial staf f in the spring “Six Word Story ” contest , where her submission, “Artist found dead at his cubicle ,” won by a landsl ide. A pet- lover taking a gap year before col lege, we spoke to McCabe about yoga, her love of st i l l l i fe , and how she reluctantly fel l into writ ing.

H o w l o n g h a v e y o u b e e n d o i n g y o g a ? I s i t a d a i l y r o u t i n e f o r y o u ?McCabe: I ’ve been doing it for about three years, but on and off . Recently, within the past couple of months, it ’s become a daily routine. So I practice at home almost daily, and then go to classes throughout the week.

W h a t a r e y o u h o p i n g t o p u r s u e i n c o l l e g e a s a m a j o r ? D o y o u h a v e y o u r h e a r t s e t o n a s c h o o l y e t ?McCabe: Well , I wouldn’t say my heart is exactly set on it , but I plan on going to Princeton University. I ’m honestly not sure on a major yet . I had a plan to major in molecular biology, but the more I think about it , the more I ’m leaning away from it . I think my plan right now is really just to not have a plan. I ’ l l take classes that interest me, and see where it goes from there.

A l r i g h t , l e t ’ s t a l k a b o u t d r a w i n g a n d p h o t o g r a p h y . D o y o u s t i c k t o m a i n l y d i g i t a l p h o t o g r a p h y o r a r e y o u i n t e r e s t e d i n d a r k r o o m w o r k a s w e l l ? W h a t d o y o u l i k e t o d r a w ?McCabe: Digital photography and instant photography. In high school , I did darkroom work. I don’t have access to a dark room anymore, but in college I ’d l ike to do more analog stuff . Recently, I ’ve been really interested in instant photography. I ’ve got an old Polaroid, and a modern day instant camera. It ’s a lot of fun, but digital will always be my main focus. As for drawing , I ’d say I doodle more than draw. I just l ike to doodle most of the time, and see where it goes. Sometimes I do sketches of just random objects throughout my house when I feel l ike it .

H a v e y o u e v e r c o n s i d e r e d g o i n g a f t e r a w r i t i n g m a j o r ? W r i t i n g a s a c a r e e r ?McCabe: Yes, i t ’s definitely an option!

W o u l d y o u b e h a p p y a s s t r i c t l y a n a u t h o r , o r w o u l d y o u g o i n t o j o u r n a l i s m , o r e d i t i n g , o r p u b l i s h i n g . . . ?McCabe: Well , I sort of have a goal to get a children’s book published at some point in my l i fe. Though, I know I would need a more steady salary, so I think I ’d also be a journalist or something of the sort i f I took the writing path.

A r e y o u m o r e i n t e r e s t e d i n t e l l i n g o t h e r p e o p l e ’ s s t o r i e s t h a n y o u r o w n ?McCabe: Good question. I think I could go either way. I ’d just l ike to tell interesting stories, whether they ’re mine or someone else’s .

G o t c h a . S o w h a t d r e w y o u t o w r i t i n g ?McCabe: Due to some scheduling conflicts during my senior year of high school , I was stuck taking creative writing . I wouldn’t have chosen to take the class on my own, but I ’m so glad I did. I definitely had a love/hate relationship with it , but it did make me realize that I do love writing .

W h a t d i d y o u h a t e a n d w h a t d i d y o u l o v e ?McCabe: I hated that I had writer ’s block way too often, but my procrastination definitely didn’t help. But once I came up with a topic/story that I found really interesting , that ’s when I loved it .

D o y o u r e m e m b e r y o u r f a v o r i t e a s s i g n m e n t s / p r o m p t s f r o m t h a t c l a s s ? O r y o u r f a v o r i t e s t o r y y o u w r o t e ?McCabe: My favorite assignment was definitely the children’s book. And that was probably my favorite piece of work. I also loved ballads and sonnets. Before that class, i f I were to write poetry, it was just free verse. So I really l iked learning about the different types of poetry.

W h a t d o y o u f i n d y o u r s e l f w r i t i n g m o s t ? C h i l d r e n ’ s l i t e r a t u r e , p o e t r y . . . ?McCabe: Poetry, definitely. I haven’t written a short story since that class. I ’d l ike to try it again, but I always seem to get bored with them.

33 w r i t e r s p o t l i g h t

T e l l t h a t t o t h e 2 0 0 + s t o r y f r a g m e n t s I h a v e o n m y h a r d d r i v e . A r e y o u a b i g r e a d e r ? D o y o u w a n t t o b e ? W h a t w r i t e r s i n s p i r e y o u ?McCabe: I used to read al l the time. I really want to get back into that . As for writers, I used to be really into John Green. But since all the publicity he’s gotten, he doesn’t seem as great to me anymore? Honestly I don’t really know why. I read two of Markus Zusak’s books and absolutely loved them! He’s definitely an inspiration, especially his book, “I Am the Messenger.”

S o y o u ’ r e n o t t h e t y p e o f w r i t e r w e ’ d f i n d h o l e d u p i n y o u r r o o m o n w e e k e n d s s c r i b b l i n g i n n o t e b o o k s a n d t u r n i n g p a g e s .McCabe: Aha, oh not at all .

H o w d o e s i t f e e l t o b e p u b l i s h e d w h e n y o u w e r e o n l y r e c e n t l y b i t t e n b y t h e w r i t i n g b u g ?McCabe: It feels great . It ’s definitely motivational to keep going! Though I have to say, I never expected to win this contest . I almost didn’t even send in my story. I was definitely caught off guard with winning .

w h a t ’ s y o u r w r i t i n g p r o c e s s l i k e ? D o y o u w r i t e p r e t t y c o n s i s t e n t l y o r o n l y w h e n i n s p i r a t i o n s t r i k e s ? D o y o u f i n d y o u r s e l f w r i t i n g l a t e a t n i g h t , e a r l y m o r n i n g , w i t h a c u p o f c o f f e e o r t e a . . . ?McCabe: I write pieces when inspiration strikes, but I ’ve got a journal that I try to write in daily. It ’s usually just me writing about my day, but sometimes I brainstorm writing ideas in it , as well . I pretty much always write at night . And I write in my bed, which a lot of people say isn’t good, but I ’ve just never been fond of desks. I usually do my first draft handwritten. I f ind hand writing much more enjoyable than typing .

L a s t q u e s t i o n a n d t h e n I ’ l l l e t y o u e n j o y y o u r F r i d a y n i g h t . W h a t d o e s w r i t i n g g i v e y o u ?McCabe: Writing gives me a place to dump all my ideas, emotions, frustrations, anything really. It ’s too much to have it all f loating around in my head, so writing gives me a place to put it al l .

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35 w r i t e r s p o t l i g h t

m y i d e a s

My ideas are not l ight bulbs over my head, but rather, str ings of l ights wrapped around my mind. These strings of l ights , they occasional ly tr ickle down my arm, reaching my f ingertips , and landing themselves upon a page. There on that page, perhaps they stay i l luminated, perhaps they grow and grow and i l luminate str ing after str ing. Or, perhaps they shut down. Utter darkness . But the ones that stay i l luminated, the ones that i l luminate others , these str ings of l ights , these ideas , these are gold .

m y t r i p o d

the world is my tr ipodwobbling rocksstacks of bookssandy beachesfal len treesi ’ l l place my camera anywhereand i t ’ l l capture me

O u r W o r l d u p h i g h

I f only we could hike up the mountainsto experience the Earth at i ts best ,to see those waterfal ls , nature’s own fountains .Up there we’d have no bi l ls , standards, or tests ,but we could reach and perhaps touch a c loud,to be one with the atmosphere, so free .On that great expanse we’d be not a crowd.A view so grand, a l l the things we could see.Surrounded by such a glorious sky, how can one care about anything elseother than this planet ’s natural high,to know there’s so much more than just yourself ?Ah, but I wil l sett le for this insteaddreaming of such a l i fe while on my bed.

36w r i t e r s p o t l i g h t

r e m e m b e r j a c k ?

I once knew a marsupialA kangaroo named JackHe led me throughout Austral iaAnd then he led me back

Jack was not your Average JoeHe only had one eyeHe was a cyclops kangarooAnd this is not a l ie

Jack was even able to f lyWith his very own wingsA f lying cyclops kangarooOh, and he also s ings

So me and Jack got pretty c loseHe told me al l he knewBut the thing I remember most He told me he knew you

He said he showed you Austral iaThe same way he showed meAnd you had a rather good t imeUnti l you had to f lee

Jack never got to say goodbyeSo this is his farewellJust a message from Jack through meRemember to stay swell

I f the name does not r ing a bel lThink of a kangarooA f lying cyclops that could s ingIt ’s Jack I promise you

t h e s t a r v i n g a r t i s t

The starving art ist is real . Not because the art ist can’t af ford food. No, not because the career of the art ist is so lacking in profit that the art ist has not a dime to spare for nourishment . Not at a l l because the art ist can’t even pay her bi l ls . The starving art ist is real because the art ist is so wrapped up in her current project , in her lat -est idea, in her own l i t t le world, in her paint brush strokes , in her shutter release, in her str ing of words, in the possibi l i t ies of creation. The art ist is so wrapped up in art that she can spare not a thought for food. She can’t be bothered with the mere idea of mastication. The starving art ist is real not because the art ist lacks the means to f i l l her stomach but because the art ist lacks the desire to have a stomach ful l .

m

ary

lou

ferg

uson

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[ m i c r o f i c t i o n ]

1 0 / 5 / 2 0 0 3Adam Barrett

I t was Sunday morning, 6:02 a .m. Clayton Lloyd had f inished his morning coffee and decided to take a walk in the woods behind his house. As he walked towards the path, breaking t iny mirrors of dew built up on the grass , he heard a group of birds cal l ing back and forth to each other in a beauti ful ly complex rhythm. There was a gust of wind and he wrapped his windbreaker around him t ightly. The leaves were beginning to change and fal l from the trees . They crunched beneath his feet , and Clayton Lloyd thought of everything beauti ful in his l i fe : the f irst t ime he heard Coltrane’s “Giant Steps ,” playing catch with his father in his youth. He walked past the stream and stopped for a minute to admire the way i t whispered to him. Clayton found a certain peace in nature he couldn’t f ind elsewhere, and he couldn’t imagine anywhere else he would rather be in this moment . He fol lowed the path as i t curved and twisted unti l he got to the c learing. Sometimes, i f he came early enough and was quiet enough, Clayton could catch a group of deer congregating in the f ie ld , but i t was too late and he just saw the sun peeking over the tops of the trees . Then, Clayton Lloyd reached into his waistband, pul led out his pistol , pressed i t hard against his temple , and, with more convict ion than he had ever done anything in his l i fe , he pul led the tr igger.

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alex

kha

tcha

dour

ian

t o p o f t h e w o r l dDee Travis

Eddie looked around with concern as howling winds pushed the walls of the tent inward. The summit of Mount Everest was no place for a nine-year-old . Brushing empty juice boxes aside, Eddie opened his pack and found just two marshmallows remaining. He might not last the night . “Temperature check?” he asked. Hi l lary answered without looking up, scribbl ing in her diary. “St i l l two mil l ion below.” I t fe lt l ike i t , too. Eddie tucked his hands into his armpits and rocked. A woman’s voice suddenly pierced the dark. “Kids , pizza t ime!” Pizza! Perhaps they ’d survive after al l . Eddie made for the tent door when Hil lary grabbed his arm. “It ’s just what they ’d want us to think.” Of course—an enemy trick , and he had almost fal len for i t . Eddie loaded foam bal ls into his gun as Hi l lary l i f ted the last water bal loons. “Ready?” she said . He nodded. A count to three, then Hil lary ’s hand arced with the zipper, cold rushed in , and two explorer-spies charged forward with guns blazing, their last stand, screaming into the night from the top of the world.

m y c o u s i n s t e l l aIsabel le St . Clair

My seventeen-year-old cousin Stel la was in love with the Orion constel lat ion. We were stretched out on our backs in her backyard, the cool grass t ickl ing the napes of our necks , when she f irst confessed her love. With the dark sky draped over us , she pointed out the three brightest stars—Orion’s Belt . That dist inct pattern is cal led an asterism , she said in af fect ionate voice . I gazed hungri ly at those three l i t t le stars and extended my eight-year-old hand toward them, wanting to pluck them from their astral fabric and cradle their glowing bodies . How those stars never fel l down to Earth, how they never disappeared, and how they never reached back at me were beauti ful , tragic mysteries . Even as I lay thousands of l ight years below, I couldn’t help but feel a part of the constel lat ion, too. So as my cousin Stel la painted the Orion constel lat ion above me, she taught me to forget the love I never received and to embrace a new one.

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d e c i s i o n sErin McCabe

She did what they expected her to do. She thought what they expected her to think. She wanted what they expected her to want . Then one day she made a decision. She decided to make her own decisions.

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[ n o n f i c t i o n ]

s p e c t r e ( a p a r t b u t n o t f o r w a r d )Emma McPherson

She visits me between bouts of endless transcribing, f ingertips on the keys the way leaves blow along city s idewalks where the wind feels most al ive and ful l—intersections cutt ing through mid-rise rows—as the tapping becomes louder than the voices they chase, she visits me and the scream in her laugh l iquefies l ike part of a stream, running cold tr ickles down my ribs and forming ice in my stomach, the smell of chemical dye, acryl ic paint , shampoos ful l of fruit and engineered softness; a sensory Hiroshima, l ighting with a f ire so quick you bl ink yourself out of your body and into the black. She visits me and i t tugs at my reins , rears me back as though I real ly was worth opening to l ike a day l i ly, able to take i t back and give i t up with the sun and moon, real ly was worth giving up so young l ike maybe she was mistaken (maybe attention just a lways feels l ike love) l ike maybe when the fun turns into bramble r ips in the skin i t ’s t ime to retreat to the girls with charcoal f ingertips and charred kohl eyes—she visits me al l day and drops my blood below freezing in my veins and says I didn’t want i t anyway—I let i t loose, I gave i t no curfew, unlocked the door and let i t choose which way to run. She visits me. She visits me on long drives in other people ’s l ines , she seeps in other people ’s stories l ike a s ighting down the hal l at a locker that isn’t mine, l ike learning to write yourself notes again, l ike being too pol ite—a mercy smile , a laugh that snaps spines . She comes in and sometimes she was there f irst , looks up as I real ize I ’ve been st i l l in the doorframe l ike a statue constructed for Hesitat ion, the very real and very sol id art i fact of what i t looks l ike when your synapses forgot which is f ight and which is f l ight . She visits me in board meetings while I s i t across from our c l ients and al l their years , strewn amongst f igures and miles and every inch of themselves they ’ve pretended to sacri f ice for a common project , as feet away beyond concrete and glass raccoons balance at the helm of an oak, grooming and scratching with unwavering confidence that the drop to the fal len leaves below is not a real i ty they could be part of . Physics has denied that a scienti f ic possibi l i ty, much l ike how gravity doesn’t know how to let the cavern beneath my ribs inf late with anything but air and emptying, shal low breaths; much l ike when inertia told her body to keep moving apart but not forward. She visits me. She comes in when she pleases , the same way she nonchalantly takes me

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around the neck the few t imes a decade we’re with high school fr iends and she’s as soft as lake spray against warm skin or long locks fal l ing on your bare lower back when propped up on your elbows in bed—she visits me whether I ’m present and awake or a puddle of skin and bones on hardwood f loors , devout but not divine, and whether she comes or not I a lways f ind myself looking.

s h e a n d iAbby Ringiewicz

Vulnerabi l i ty is a bitch: an invasive , impractical bitch. She’s knocked on my door several t imes over the years—several doors , actual ly, as I ’ve never stayed in one place for longer than i t fe lt new and disposable . She’s fol lowed me across oceans and borders , both physical and conceptual ; she’s watched me jeer at her, impaired by my own ignorance. Once, she snuck into my single , unclean bed and refused to leave. She held me down late into the afternoons and early into the wet morning hours . I was made a mockery of : She coaxed me into bargains I didn’t bel ieve in and feel ings I couldn’t understand She tr ied to make me feel ; maybe she succeeded. After a year her grasp loosened, and I was free . But free doesn’t share the happiness of i ts counterpart , freedom. Free is an escape: i t ’s a miscalculated leap of faith in yourself that later buries you in the depths of another miscalculat ion. She tr icked me into burying myself . She has the combined wit and purity of a l l of my past opposers . She fol lowed me to a new place. I hadn’t seen her s ince the last interim I had l ived in—I’d kept hidden from her so that she couldn’t f ind me, and for a while , i t worked. I had stayed out of her reach, bouncing around and f i l l ing my t ime with habits of no permanence or passion. In the absence of freedom, I was free—don’t be misled: I was unhappy—and removed from her sel f lessness and the consequences I ’d learned. I enjoyed the new place too much. I enjoyed my new accomplice far too much. And, s ince enjoyment mirrors happiness , she found me, and she tugged at my doubts with her al l -knowing scrutiny. She feeds on temptation, on my impulsiveness and inabi l i ty to accept her. I learned her habits and I learned to evade them. I didn’t of fer mangled sheets or promises for her to c l ing to . I left no evidence of her, no trace that we had met before. For me, i t was bodily and immediately grati fying, and she hated that . She watched with anger, sadness , and, I think, envy. I put physical pleasure above the emotive. She was out of her element , out of her wake—and so she left .

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Her intentions were good, but I refused to accept them; my ignorance had already assumed her untrustworthy and overzealous. And in her leave I fe l l apart . Without the game of avoiding her I had nothing to feel for, and my pleasures became idle . She wasn’t there when my knees bled; when my skin blotched; when my thoughts swelled. In the dark, I learned that she had been protecting me, and that ’s when I surrendered. I had crumbled without her weight , too weak to separate my emotions from urges , wants from needs. I learned her love and warmth through another, most generous individual . He scooped me up—a very deep, heavy scoop—and l i f ted me out of my sel f ish trenches. Out of shame, I couldn’t look at her; instead I looked to him for her guidance, and he repl ied with patience and love. We compromise, she and I : I have space with which to exercise my l imitat ions, while accepting her necessary power.

46 “ A l o n g t h e E a s t c o a s t ”

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