LIMITED EDITIONS

2012Community College of Philadelphia

Limited Editions considers poems, short stories and creative nonfiction from all students enrolled at the Community College of Philadelphia.

GUIDELINES FOR SUBMISSIONS: • ManuscriptsmustbetypedandsentasWordattachmentsviaemail. • Includename,emailaddress,andphonenumberwitheachsubmission. •Pleaseretaincopiesofsubmittedmanuscriptsbecausetheymaynotbereturned.

Submitto: Julie Odell Limited Editions Faculty Advisor Community College of Philadelphia 1700 Spring Garden Street Philadelphia, PA 19130 (215) 751-8658 jodell@ccp.edu

Faculty Advisor’s Note Special thanks to Student Editor Andrew Ly

Many thanks to the Student Editorial Board for Poetry and Fiction: Christian Fiorenza Ashley Rivera Desiree Raucci AmberlyMendez EricaWatson

WewouldalsoliketothankGaryGrissomoftheOfficeofMarketingandCommunicationsfor his time and effort spent converting this issue to printer’s format.

Also,wewouldliketothankArtDanekandAnthonyWychunisfromPhotographicImagingfortheirdedicationandhardworkinpreparingthesephotographsforpublication.

ThanksalsototheOfficeofStudentActivitiesfortheircontinuedsupportofthispublica-tion. Steven Aicholtz, Frank Torres and Allen Farrington from Business Services are respon-sibleforprintingthisissue—thankyou.FinalthanksgotoallthestudentswhosubmittedworkforthisissueandthewonderfulCreativeWritingandPhotographicImaginingfacultyhereattheCollegewhoencourageandnurtureourstudentwritersandphotographers.

Limited Editions issponsoredbyThe Office of Student Life

Community College of Philadelphia

PhotographbySabrinaDeJesus cover

PhotographbyEleonoraAntsis 2

PoembyLindaSchiavo 3

PhotographbyJhamielRobinson 4

ProsebyCarolynJ.Terry 5

PhotographbyAlfredWalker 6

PhotographbyAudreyKolyada 8

PhotographbyLoisNelson 10

PhotographbyJustinLambert 12

PhotographbySamSpies 14

PoembyLisaJenniferL.Kirby 15

PhotographbyMattBergey 16

PoembyNodira Nigay 17

PhotographbyKateEfimova 18

StorybyOscarDecker 19

PhotographbyZeldaSantos 20

PhotographbyWandaFernandez 21

PhotographbyBensonZhang 22

PoembyThomasKronbar 23

PhotographbyDeniseTurner 24

PhotographbyCharleneBrown 25

PhotographbyR.C.Watson 26

StorybyJonathanFrancesco 27

PhotographbyEdYancer 31

PhotographbyJosephShane 32

StorybyAndrewLy 33

PhotographbyJenniferTran 36

PoembyAshleyRivera 37

PhotographbySocheathSun 38

PoembyChristianFiorenza 39

PhotographbyJenniferKaminski 40

StorybyMarquitaHamilton 41

PhotographbyTyroneMarquez 46

PoembyWadeSutton 47

PoembyAnnaRauth 48

PhotographbyRosaSanchez inside backcover

PhotographbyShahiraIbrahimbackcover

Limited Editions 2012

Contents

Eleonora Antsis

2

3

Old Friend

Linda Schiavo

It’sbeenawhilesinceI’vewalkedyourtrails

I can smell autumn coming on

The air has that distinctive smell

Yourexclusivespecialscent,

Thatcan’tbebottled.

The animals smell it too

A change is coming.

My feet miss the feel of your firm ground

That rock solid toughness I’ve come to depend on.

AndcursewhenIfall,

Whileyoulaughatme.

Imisstheserenesilenceofyourwoods

Thelonelywhitebirches,

Thriving in the culm.

I can only hope that I learn that resilience

And find the strength to stand alone as you do.

I miss the cool chill in the night air

And if I close my eyes,

I can almost feel the lick of a roaring fire

Cracklingconversationbetweenemberandair

Thesoundofwarmth.

Thespicysmellofburningwood.

Wrappedinablanketunderthestars.

Just you and me.

Andwesit,

Together,

Watchingserpentsofsmoke,

Writhetheirwaytoheaven,

And talk some more.

4

Kerri Thomas

JhamielRobinson

5

Perchance To Sleep

Carolyn J. Terry

Itwasn’talwaysthisway,notbeingabletoclosemyeyesafterwakingupinthedarkestpartofthemorning.Iusedtobeabletoletthedayfallawaylikethesheddingofill-fittingskin.WhenIwasyounger,muchyounger,Ididn’twrestlearoundinbedsearchingforslumberbecauseitcamewithoutsummons.Latenightswereatreat,agiftforfinishingalongweekofstudy,chores,helpingmyyoungersibsandstayingoutofgrownfolks’way.Backthen,Ihadnowheretobeandnothingtodobutwatchmoviesorcrammynosedeepintosomebookfromthelibrary.Thingssurelyhave changed. At40-something,beingawakeaftermidnighthaslostitsjoy.Nowbedtimeisagameofclockwatch-ingandcussingfrustrationasIcounthowmanyhoursthatIhaveleftbeforeIhavetogetintheshowerandgetreadyforwork.Twoofmycoworkersarethesameage as I am and have the same issue. Considering our sharedsymptomsofwakefulnessatthewrongtimeandreadingmaterialwithfontsthatseemtohavemysteri-ouslyshrunk,they’vededucedthatwe’reontargetforwomenapproachingthehalf-centurymark.Notonlythat,butmysisters-in-agingbelievethatourpenchantfornightsmightbeasignthatthewonderyearsofmenopause are fast approaching. Personally,Idon’tbuytheloreofestrogende-mentiaoracceptthatmyincreasedpropensitytowardnighttimecreepinghasanythingtodowithgettingolderorbeingeggless.Therehadtobemoretowhymyeyelidsslidopenwithouthavingtorefocusintheblacknessof4AM,nomatterhowzonkedoutIwaswhenmyheadhitthecushions.WhenIdidhappentofalluponsleep,whywasIsocalmwhenIawokeandsawthattheclockreadthesameasithadthenightbe-foreorthatthenightextendedfurtherbeforemethanbehind?Upuntilnow,theonlypatternthatInoticedwasthatIstayedupmoreoften,unintentionallyofcourse,whentheweathertransitionedfromtheenergy

sappinghumidityofaPhiladelphiasummertotheleafbar-ingbreezinessofitsfall.Forpeacesake,Ilearnedtoacceptmyinsomniaasjustanotherme-ism,butthisepisodefeltdifferent, and the same. On this particular evening, the coolness of the air drivesawaythesun,andIresist,atleastthat’showIfeel.BythetimeIleavework,headlightsandstreetlampsburnfully.Withnoheatemanatingfromthebeamsoflight,thebreezechillsthefleshofmynearlybaldheadasItreksouth.Oblivioustothehornthatblaresahalf-secondwarningasitstiresskirtbythecurb,Istepintothestreetandswervearounditsrearfender. “Thelight’sgreen,bastard,”Iscreamandcontinueacross Race Street, shaking my head. Pulling my collar up around my neck a little more snugly, I shove my hands in the pocket of my jacket and walktowardCityHall.Insteadofgoingstraight,IturnupthestepstotheMunicipalBuilding,weavingpastthelitterofchesspieces,bingochips,anddominoblocksbigenoughforJacktoplaywithinhisbeanstalk.Remember-ingwhereIam,Iscanpassersbyforinclinationstowardnutdomwithoutbreakingmystride.Satisfiedthatmypathwayisfree,ImakemywaypastthebronzelikenessofMayorRizzo,wonderingfortheumpteenthtimewhyPhiladelphiachosetohonoramanwhoreignedbypolicerule.IcrossJFKBoulevardandescapeaYellowcabswipeintimetodivedownthemetalstepsandcatchmytrain,whichlvesinfiveminutes. Seatedforthetwenty-minuteridehome,Idropmybuttinthefirstseat,rightbehindthedoor,andallowthejerkymotionofthetraintolullmyeyesclosed,butnotmyears.WhenIarriveatmystop,Ibegintoclimbthestairs.Eyeing the rusty railing for support, I reject the impulse tograbholdofitandhoistmyselfupeachstepbecausemicrobesarenotmyfriend,andfungusratenobetter.Instead,Iconcentrateonstretchingmybreathoutevenlywitheachliftofmyleg.Atthefinallanding,Itakeadeepbreathanddragmyrighthandacrossmyfacetostemthe

AlfredWalker

6

7

feeloflittleanimalsbitingmyskinfromallthecaffeineI drank. Ten minutes later, I’m inside my apartment boltingthedoor.BeforeIcleartherugprotectingthehardwoodfloorsoftheentryway,Ikickmyshoesoffandbegintounzip,unbuttonandunbeltthingsboundtoo long to my skin. In mid strip, I click on the televi-sionandsitdownonthesofatopullmypantsallthewayoff,withoutdisturbingmysockstoomuch.Sigh-ing,IthrowthegarmentstothefloorandstareattheEntertainmentTonighthostsastheyshovelsomeceleb’sbusinessouttherefortheworldtojudge.Notreallyhearingthewho,whatorwhere,Isearchforsomethingtoeatthatrequiresnothingbutacondimentonitandapapertoweltoholdit.Backinfrontofthetelevision,IfillmybellyandwaitformyThursdaynightlineuptobegin,butI’malreadybucklingundertheweightof sleep deprivation. Desperately needing to feed my Grey’saddiction,Istruggletodistractmyselffrombe-ingdeaftoeverything,butIseenothinguntilIwakeupafewhourslater.Soendsanothernightofsleepless. Thankfully,itwasn’toneofthosedayswhereIwasupfor24hourswithnohintofbeingclosertothesemi-comatose state that I craved. Only eighteen hours hadelapsedbeforeIpassedoutandroseagain,seem-inglywellrested.Moreoutofhabitthancuriosity,Ilookbehindmetoreadtheorangeglowofthedigitalclock.Sighingheavily,IguessthatIfadedtoblackafter the opening credits of Grey’s, four hours ago. As usual,I’mnotevengroggilydrunk,whichIshouldbe.Inanattempttocreatelogicwherenoneexists,Ilookaround for the noise, the odd movement, the anything thatpulledmefromcomatocold-water-splashed-on-your-facewakefulness. Findingnothing,IignorethecalltobeasproductiveasIhadbeenyesterday,orshouldIsaythismorning.Inthatunlitday,Iwasheddishes,didlaundryandscrubbedmybathroomfromtheback-splashtothetiledfloor,tryingtotiremyselfout.Bysix,thegrogginessthatIhungeredfortriedtodragmeintoadeepREMsleep,butIhadtobeupforworkinalittlemorethananhour.Iwasexhausted,butIcouldn’tallowmyselftheindulgence.Asaconsolation,Iletmybodysinkintothebeckoningchaise,peeking

at the clock every ten minutes until I could no longer delaytheinevitable.Moaning,Ishowered,dressedandshuffledtheblocktomybusstop.Tonight,though,myirritationwanesalongwithmystamina.Insteadofthrashingaboutandsighinglikeadisgustedteen,Ijustlieonmybackandstareattheceiling.Thereisnoth-ingmoretoclean,anyway. Goingoverthepastweek,Ican’tthinkofany-thing nerve racking enough to stop me from conking outattheendofeachday.Mycoworkercalledofftwodaysinarow,leavingmetotakeupherdutiesandpushmyprojectsaweekpasttheirduedate.Myfamilydidn’treleaseanyfirebombsofsickness,deathorothermayhemthatwouldbreakmyheartandsendmereeling.However,mymanagerdidhaveoneofhis“Iwantperfection”days,whichmademerollmyeyesanddoublemytripstotheofficeinbackwhereIcouldcussopenly.Forme,itwasanormalweekofirkingidiocy.InasmuchasIwantedtobefreetobedeadtotheworldforasolideighthours,Iwasmoreconcernedthat I’d repeat these nights of sleeplessness over and overlikeawarpedversionofGroundhogDay. Afterafewnightsofmininaps,myeyessettledeeperintomyhead,butIlearntoadapt.AssoonasIpunch in, I start my caffeine IV early and often enough tobesufficientlyproductive,butIfeellikeazombiebyclosingtime.Then,thecyclebeginsagain.Iwalktomytrain,getinsidemyapartmentandsuccumbtosomethingakintosleep,likeapowernapthatendswaytooearly.Thistime,Iskipdinner,flopontothesofawithoutbotheringtoundressandarrangemyselfinmysweetsleepspot--onmyrightsidewithmykneestightagainstmybelly.BeforeIregisterachangeinconsciousness,I’mgone.Wakingupinthedark,I’mgratefultohavesnaggedafewhoursofsoundlesssleep,butatwhatcost,asthedayislongerbeforemethanbehind? Insteadofworkingmyselfintoaraggedweari-ness,Ieatasandwich,mylatenightgo-tomeal,andturn on my laptop. Logging on, I have nothing in mind,butFacebookiswhereIusuallygowhenIneedtovent,evenwhenIhavenothingaboutwhichtobitch.Notsurprisedthattherearenoothergreendotslitinthechatfield,Itrollmyfriends’wallstosee

AudreyKolyada

8

9

what’shappeningintheirworld.WhenIreadDar-lene’s entry, I go no further. “It’sbeen2years,andIcan’tbelieveyou’regone.R.I.P.son.” Darleneismyyoungestsister.Whenwewerekids,Icouldn’tshakeherfrommyside,butthatchangedwiththeinsandoutsoflife.We’dgoneaboutourday-to-daywithoutalotoffacetime,butwekeptin contact through family get-togethers. Like all my sibs,Darlenehaschildrenwhoarelikemyown,asIhavenone.Beingagoodaunt,Itrytobethereforallthekidsontheirbigdays:proms,graduations,dancerecitals,cheerleading,whatever.Becausekidswillbekids,sometimestheyrewardmewithanactofsinceregratefulnesslikeahugoracall,Imeantext,justtoseehowI’mdoing.Mostoften,though,Igetathankyouandholdituptothelightofmyowninnerglow.Tobehonest,I’dstillbethereforthemnomatterhowlacklustertheirresponsewasbecausetheyaremybabies.Overtheyears,they’vesurelytestedthebondsof my love. OfthetwodozenorsoniecesandnephewsthatIhave,fourofthembelongtoDarlene:asonandthreedaughters.They’rearowdy,tight,fightingcrew,justliketheirmother;thatwasuntilsomeonekilledhersonin2009.Bynofaultofhisown,mynephewhap-penedtobeinstrikingdistanceoftwomenwhohadbeefovermoney.Lonniehadjustturned18,goneonhis prom and graduated from high school that June. Fourmonthslater,amansteppedfrombehindthebrokenboardsofanemptylotsituatedthreehousesfrom Darlene’s home, fired at the target that stole from him,andhiteverythingthatblockedhissuccessexceptthetarget.Tothisday,Istillcan’tfigureouthowmynephewendeduplyingonthecrackedcementwithabulletlodgedinthebackofhisskull,whilethemanforwhomthebulletsweremeantescapedwithwhatamountedtoascratchonhisbicep. In the aftermath, Lonnie’s murder left Darlene withagashinhersoulthatwillneverhealfully,andthreegirlswhoselivesshefearedforeverydaysincethen.Twoyearshavepassed,andallofthemseemtobethriving,butwoundsliketheirsrundeeperthantime can ever hope to soothe. Mine still seemed to

oozeandscaboveratwill,butImusthavelearnedhowtodisengagebecauseIhadnotregisteredthesignifi-cance of the day. Today of all days, I have no mind for memories so strong. Withashakeofmyhead,Ifeelsomethingsettlewithinme,anomenofsorts.Theoddnessofthis round of unrest makes more sense, and I real-izethatthesignificanceofthedayhadbeenwithmelongbeforeIacknowledgedtheburdenthatshookmeawakethesepastnights.Inthemidstofmyquestforsleep,Icouldn’tpinpointthecausebutakindofmel-ancholyhadbeguntoclingtome,makingmecradlemythoughtscloseandallelsefar.Mybodyachedimperceptibly,butIhadnofeverorstrenuousactiv-ityonwhichtoblameit.Allthesedays,Isankdeeperintoarhythmofunrestwithouthavinganinklingastowhatlieunderneath.ReadingDarlene’spostagain,memories dislodge from a part of me that I closed off for self-preservation. ItisOctober9,andDarlenewordsbringitallbacktomeinlividcolor.IseethetextthatDarlenesent,tellingmethatLonniewasshot.I’mbackinthetinyfamilyroomoftheICUwheredozensofkincamped out for days, even after the doctor told us that hewasbraindead.Ihearthesoundofchildren,tooyoungtograspthemeaningoffinality,weepinconsol-ablywhenthecasketwassealed.Iwitnessthelookofutterconfusionreflectedintheeyesofeverypersonpassingbeforewhatremainedofabeautifullyshymanat the cusp of greatness, like shell-shocked refugees. I rememberedallofit. AtthedawnoftheNewYear,Imarkedthedateof Lonnie’s death on my calendar. Although I’d done thesametheyearbefore,Iseemedtohavebeenabletobrushitfrommymemorymoreeasilybecausethatfirstyearwasmaddeninglyunbearable.Anythingsentmeintoaweepingfit,atthemostunguardedmoment.Moreover, everything reminded me of him, and I felt hispresenceeverywhere. Afterbeingcocoonedinmourningwithmyfamilyfortwelvedays,Ihadtomergebackintomydailyroutine.Idon’tknowwhyIexpectedtheworldtobeaffectedbyamurderthathaddevastatedthoseIloved,butIhad.Anditdidn’t.Everythingmovedas

10

Lois Nelson

11

ithadbefore--fast,loudandwithoutconscience,exceptforthisoneday.Igotoffthe8:20busatBroadandOlneyandtransferredtothesubwaywithalloftheotherworkingfolkstryingtomakeitdowntownby9am.AsIwaitedforthetrain,Irememberedhowtheamplifiedsquealofmetalagainstmetalthatechoedthroughoutthestation.Nobodyelseseemedtobebotheredbytheauralintrusionbutme. Whentheexpresstrainarrived,Iscootedinsideand staked my claim to the pole on the other side of thesubwaycarwhereIcouldseethestationsifIfailedto hear the conductor’s staticky announcement. To keep people out of my face, I usually stood against the doors that never opened and studied the feet of thoseridersinmyview.Forwhateverreason,Imusthavebeendaydreamingbecausemygazefixedontoayoung,lankybrotherslouchedlazilyinaseat,toolowtothefloortoaccommodatehislonglegs.Withhoodiepulledlowandeyesunwaveringlypointedtothe nothingness of the passing tunnels, he plugged into his music and disconnected us until the doors opened at Erie Ave. Justbeforethedoorscametogetheragain,anoldwomansteppedintothecarclutchingherpursetightly.Therewasnothingdistinctaboutherexcepthervictoryovertime.Sheshimmiedthroughthepeoplewhoclus-tered around the door and reached out frantically for anythingtosteadyherselfasthetrainjerkedforward.Withonehandgraspingthecoolnessofasnatchofthealuminumpolenotcoveredbysomeoneelse’sbodypart,theoldwomanremainedupright,double-checking the fastener on her purse. As she surveyed theareaaroundher,theoldwomanseemedtofindnoresponsetowhateverquestionwasaskedoftheridersseatednearby,untilshelockedgazeswiththelankyyoungman.Cautiously,hereyeswidened,blinkedandsoftenedbeforegraciouslyacceptingthegiftoftemporaryrestthatheofferedwithoutaword.ItwassuchaLonniethingtodothatIsquintedandtiltedmyheadsideways,likemydogusedtodo,togetabetterlookatthekid’sfaceashegraspedthebarabovewheretheoldwomannowsat.Shockedthatthemirageofmylongingwasn’treal,Iturnedmyheadquicklyandswipedawaythetearsofdisappointmentthatblurredmyvision.Ihadplentymoreepisodesofquiethysteria

like that one. OnJune24,whenLonnieshouldhaveturnednineteen,Iwaswithdrawnbutdry-eyed.Thiswasn’tthecasetheweekbeforewhenIwarnedmybossthatthedaywascoming.Heunderstoodthatitmightbedifficultforme,butIhadn’treallyexpectedmuchmorethanamistymomentortwobecauseIhadn’tlost as much as Darlene and the girls had. As the an-niversaryofhisbirthdrewnear,IwascompletinganassignmentforanightclassthatIwastaking.Afterpullinganall-nighterwritingmystory,Lonnie’sstory,itwasnearly8o’clockandIwasnowhereneardone.Tiredbutrefusingtoturninhalf-assedwork,IcalledmybosstosaythatI’dbelate.Somehow,though,inmid-dial, I started crying, salty droplets that tracked mycheeksanddrippedfrommychin.Barelyabletostopthetearsthatseemedtocomefromnowhere,letaloneexplainwhyIwasblubbering,Ibegantotalk. “Ican’tcan’tseemto,seemto...,”butIcouldn’tbreathethroughwhatfeltlikeapunchinmygutfromtheinside.“It’shisbirthdayandI’mnot,not....”Idon’trecalltheexactwordsthatfollowed,butIrememberfeelingthatmymanagertappedintohisparentalreservebecauseheconsoledmewithasurpris-inggentleness.Heedinghisadvicetotakehoweverlong I needed to get myself together, I hung up and let goofwhatevercameupfrommysoul.Iformednoconcrete thought, just choking gulps and tears from someuntappedwellwithin. Anhourlater,IwasfinallyabletogetupfromthefloorwhereIhadcurledupintoaball.Withmyhand,Iscrubbedthestreaksfrommyfaceandwipedthesnotfrombeneathmynoseandchinwithat-shirtthatIgrabbedoffanearbychair,beforemakingmywaytothebathroom.AsIfinishedmystory,Idarednotallowmyselfspacetodissectwhathadjusthap-pened,butIwonderedatthetiming--toomanydaysbeforehisbirthday.And,ifIcouldbeunseatedemo-tionallybytheanniversaryofhisnineteenthbirthday,howwouldIgetthroughthenextmilestone?Comingto no conclusion, I guessed that I needed to slough offanotherlayerofmourning,butitonlyexposedone more hole in my heart that the year continued to exploit. Christmas caught me alone and angry. By

12

JustinLambert

13

then,themurdererwasinjail,buthisbloodstillranwarminhisveinswhilemyfamilysawanotherholidayseasoncomeandgowithoutLonnie.Sure,Iprayedearnestlyforjustice,butIwantedvengeanceandtheCityofPhiladelphiaseemedtoagreewithme,foralittlewhile.Aftermonthsofsummoningthefamilyto the Criminal Justice Courthouse and then cancel-ling for one reason or another, the district attorney announcedthattheyweregoingforthedeathpenalty.It’swhatmyfamilyneeded,whatIwanted.Suchnewsshould’vefedmythirstfortheshooter’sblood,butitdidn’t,becausemysistercontinuedtomemorializeLonnie on the ninth of every month, the date that she let him go. Twoandahalfyearsaftermynephewwasshot,the district attorney’s office finally gave Darlene a trial date.AndIcounteddownwithher,toutingitastheyearofreckoning.Yet,Iwasnoclosertoforgiveness,asaspeedytrialwasyetanotherunkeptpromise,likejustice.Tomakemattersworse,thelawyerassignedto the case neglected to tell my sister that the death penaltywastakenoffthetable.Accordingtothelegalpowersthatbe,firstdegreemurderhadabetterchanceofconvictionwithlifeinprison.Dumbfounded,Isurmised that my fair city didn’t truly comprehend thesignificanceofseeingthemanwhomurderedoneofmychildrenfightforhislifeandlose.Itwouldbejustifiedconsideringthelifehetookwithoutthoughtor reason. EachtimeDarlenecheckedthedocketnumber,the agents of justice for the City of Philadelphia altered someaspectofthecase.Witheverychange,theycarved chunks of peace from my soul as their assess-mentofthefactsteeteredbetweenwinningandlosingthe case. Finding neither peace nor satisfaction, I scurried into myself for solace, far from the aching that thwartedanyhopeofclosure. KnowingthatIcouldnotsurvivelifeafterLonniebyholdingontohowhewastaken,IpulledawayfromDarleneandherkids.Forme,theirpaingobbledupanydesireinmetoforgiveandmovefromtherebecauseconsequenceswereinevi-table,withoutmyhelp.Darleneandhergirlshadarighttogrieveaslongastheyneeded,butIknewme.

Likeallofmysiblings,whethertheyembraceditornot, Darlene is a part of me and that connection had vesselsthatinvadedeveryfacetofmybeing.BecauseDarleneisthebaby,eightyearsmyjunior,Icouldtapintowhatshecouldn’tarticulate;itwashowIloved.Nevertheless,Iunderstoodthatlovingthathardwouldsoon settle me into a grave of hatred and depression if Ididn’tunshouldertheweightofthinkingthatIcouldmakeitallbetter,if....It’sbeentwoyears,andIstillhadnosuitablewordsthatfilledtheblankafterIF.

Rubbingthedipbetweenmybottomlipandmychin, I feel another knot of mourning unravel. This time, it does not overtake me. I let it come as I rest my head against my open palm. Tears don’t fall as much as theygatherandwaitformetoaccepttheirintrusion.OnceIgivethempermissiontofall,theweepingisn’tall-consuming.Itjust....is.Then,Iamabletosleepbeyondnight.

14

Sam Spies

15

Curly,Kinky,

AfroPuffs.Wavy,

CorkscrewI

can’t get enough.

Fulloflifebounce

to and fro.

Myhair,mycrown

ofglory,watchhow

Iglow.

Noneedforittobe

Straight.

No heat to make it

Right.

Acceptingwhatfate

Dealt me.

Curly, kinky,

My hair, my life.

NolongerwillI

fightwhatisme.

I finally accepted my

wholebody.

Curves run over

from head to toe.

No need to fit in a size

Zero.

This is Me.Jennifer L. Kirby

My cups runneth over,

myhipssway

from side to side. My hair

on top, is my greatest

Pride.

Iwon’ttrytofitin

thisthingcalledsexy.

Iratherbe

Unique,different,a

Naturalbeauty.

Sowhatifmyhair

Sometimes get unrestrained.

Andmythighsflirtwithmen,

butamItoblame?

Itisinme,belowmychocolate

covered skin, that I hope

All can see the most important

ThebeautyWithin.

16

Matt Bergey

17

Nodira Nigay

18

KateEfimova

19

The stench of urine and dead animal ravages my

nostrilsasIgetoffatHuntingdonstationafteralong

day at school. I have just traded sky scrapers and clean

streets for dilapidated houses, crack addicts scurrying

about,andgraffitiembroideredwalls.AsIwaitforthe

lighttoturngreen,ItakealookaroundwhileLinkin

Park’ssong“APlaceforMyHead”isblaringinmy

headphones.Istareataonewaysign,andIthinkto

myself that for most people, that sign says that there is

nowayoutforthem.Therearealuckyfewwhomake

itoutofthisplaceIcall“DeathAlley”;however,for

most,theonlywayoutistheembraceofdeath.

Thelightturnsgreen,andImakemyway

acrossthestreetwhileItakenotesonsomePost-its

forasocialawarenessessayassignment.Myvisionis

obscuredbecausesomethingsareshiningasbright

asdiamonds;IsquintmyeyesandInoticethatthey

arenotdiamonds,butusedneedlesthataresimply

shimmering in the sunlight. Sneakers hanging from

electricallines,bulletdentedsigns,andthesesocalled

diamondneedlesarewhatdecoratethesestreets.Tomy

leftthereisasilverhousewithbabybluewindowsills,

anotrespassingsign,andburnstripesallover;Ijot

downmynotesasthehousecreaksanditseerievoice

says,“Welcometo...nowhere.”Iturnaway,anda

signcatchesmyeye;it’sa“DeafChildArea”signthat

hasthe“f ”crossedoutandreplacewitha“d”.“Dead

ChildArea”iswhatthesignsaysnow.

Iwrapmymindaroundthesign,andIreal-

ize that it is completely true. Making it past nineteen

years old in this area is nothing short of miraculous; so

inessence,thepeoplewhoareslainarechildren.Itis

almost as if the ghetto hungers for the young like Jesus

yearnedforgivenessfortheworld.Thewindcarriesa

woman’sweepingtowardme,andIturnaroundtosee

whatisgoingon.Itisayoungwomanof30orsowith

flowingbrownhairlikecoffeewithmilk,caramelcom-

plexion,andasomberexpressiononherface.Tearsare

streamingdownherfaceasthepavementcatchesher

tearsandweepsforheraswell.Threebuiltyoungmen

arehelpingherdownthestairsofthechurchtheyjust

exited.Eachoneofthemisholdingherwithonehand,

and grasping a candle in the other hand. The young

menarewearingwhiteshirtswiththewords“RIP

Junito’92–2010’GoneButNeverForgotten”written

inblueandgoldletters,andapictureofayoungboy

wholookslikeacaramelcoloredJohnnyDepp.Thisis

therealitythatmostmothersfacehere:buryingtheir

young,makingbedsthatwillneverbelainonagain,

andcookingfavoritemealsthatwillnolongerbesa-

vored.AsIwitnessthisbeforeme,Iwondertomyself

howmanycandlesarelitinsideofthatchurchforeach

child slain.

Iamwalkingandweavingmywayaround

“MerchantsofAddiction”onmywayhome;thesmell

ofweedandvanilladutchesengulfsme,thesongs

ofaddiction:weedout,wet,andredirocksarethe

soundtracktomywalk.Muralsadornallofthewalls

aroundme;ablue,green,andyellowmuralwitha

LatinKingCrownandrosaryhugsthewalltomyleft

thatsays,“RIPLoco1974-1997.”IrememberLoco

(meanscrazyinSpanish),hediedwaybeforehistime;

twenty-nineshotswashisescapefrom“DeathAlley.”

Gunshotsoutherearelikealarmclocks.WhenIhear

one,Iknowanotherlifeislost,andthatitistimeto

watchJerrySeinfeld.Itisashamethatsomanyyoung

livesshouldbeneedlesslylost,butthefightagainst

violencefeelsfutile.Thepeopleofthisareaarebruised

andbatteredfromfightingagainstviolence

Dead Child Area

Oscar Decker

20

ZeldaSantos

21

WandaFernandez

22

BensonZhang

23

Iwentoutsideandlookedatthesun,

butithadswallowedeverything,

beforemyjourneyhadevenbegun.

Sotoday,lonely,Iwalkedtothebay,

wheretheblueduneleavesdanced,

inthewind’ssweetsway.

Ithrewmyshoesinthetrashcan,

asIwouldn’tneedthemforawalkback.

Ithrewmycellphoneintheocean,

forIwouldneveragainneedacallback.

Iletmyselfgodownintothesand,

yetthisisthelastplaceIwantedtobe.

Ithreweverythingelseaway,

nowifthesunwouldjustswallowme.

VillaThomas Kronbar

24

Denise Turner

25

CharleneBrown

26

R.C.Watson

27

Mirror, Mirror

Jonathan Francesco

Wanderingblueeyespeeredoutthewindowof

theGoldCrownrestaurant,gazingoutattheafternoon

rush-hour traffic speeding to and from the corner’s

notoriouslybacked-upintersection.

“Skylar!Quityourdaydreamingandfinishup!”

An annoyed voice thundered from the kitchen.

Skylar,ayoungboyofageeleven,quicklyjumpedoff

hisseatandresumedwipingthetablescleanwitha

dingy rag.

“Sorry,”hesaid.“Igotthatattentiondefisome-

thingthingandit’shardformetofocus.”

“YoukidsandyourADDandADHDandyour

restlesslegs.IwishIhadallofthesedisorderswhenI

wasyounger.Would’vemadeslackingoffaloteasier,”

returned the voice from the kitchen.

Hesquirtedatablewithcleaner.“Ican’thelp

what’swrongwithme.”Heproceededtowipeitclean

withacloth.

“Youain’tbeendiagnosedwithanything.”The

man came out from the kitchen. “The only thing

wrongwithyouisacaseofjuvenilelaziness.”

Skylarlookedathiswatch.Fouro’clock.“Darn

it.”Herestrainedhisvoicetoawhisper.“Stillgottwo

hourstogo.”

Skylar’sbossapproachedhim.“Yougotthatright

kid.”HepressedhishandonSkylar’sshoulder.“Soget

toworkandshowmewhyI’mpayingyousomuch

moneyanhour.”Herubbedhisbaldheadashetapped

his foot on the tile ground.

“Youonlypaymeminimumwage.”Skylar

movedawayfromthemanandcontinuedtowipe

downthetable.“It’snotthatmuch.”

“What?”Themanrecoiledindisgust.“You

ungratefullittletwerp.”HegrabbedSkylarbythe

shoulderandturnedhimaround.Heshovedhisfinger

infrontoftheboy’sface.“Listenyou,Idon’tlikeakid

workinginmyestablishment.You’reinexperiencedand

immature.Theonlyreasonyouarehereisbecause

yourdadisafriendandhebeggedmetogiveyou

ajobtokeepyououtoftrouble.Hesaidthework

woulddoyougood.”

“Idon’tgetintotrouble.”Skylarshovedthe

man’sfingeraway.“Wejustreallyneedthemoney.

Dad’sbosswon’tlethimputinmuchovertimeandwe

owealot.”

Themansighed.“Iknowthingshavebeen

tough this past year. But I ain’t running a soup kitch-

en.Ipayyouadecentwageforwhatyoudo.Nowget

towork.”

“Thetablesareclean.”Heheldouthishandto

theshineofthetabletop.“There’snothingmorefor

metodountilsomebodycomesin.”Hefoldedhis

arms.“Unlessofcourseyouwantmetocook.”Skylar

forced out a sly smile.

“NowayamIlettingyoucook,kid.”Theman

headedbacktowardsthekitchen.“Idon’twantalaw-

suitonmyhands.”

Skylarrolledhiseyes.“ThencanItakeabreak?

Ihavebeencleaningforanhourstraight.”

“Fine,takeabreak.Justbereadytostartagain

whenIcallyou.”

Skylarignoredhisbossashewalkedintothe

men’sroom.Helockedthedoorbehindhim.

Even if he didn’t need to use the toilet, Skylar

enjoyedlockinghimselfinthebathroomasitgave

himtheonlyprivacyhehadfromthreetosixo’clock.

Hestaredintothemirrorabovethesinkand

gazedathisreflection.Hemovedasideabangofhis

longishredhairtobetterlookathisblueeyes.He

thoughtofwhathisbosshadsaidtohimbeforeand

foughtatear.“It’snotmyfaultthatwe’resopoor.

Heknowswhathappened.Hejustdoesn’tcare.”He

punchedthewall.

28

Hetookdeepbreathstocalmhimselfandstared

backupathistearyreflection.Hewipedasidehis

tears.Herefusedtoseehimselfcry.Itruinedhis

reflection.

Wheneverhefeltdown,hewonderedifthere

wassomeoneelseouttherewholookedjustlikehim.

Heoftenpretendedthathisreflectionwassuchaper-

sonandthatthispersonhadabetterlifethanhedid.

Thispersonhadtwoparentsanddidn’thavetowork

anafter-schooljobtohelphisdadwiththebills.Ifthis

boyworked,itwasbecausehewantedthechallenge.

Afterafewminutes,ashealwaysdid,he

snappedhimselfoutofhisdaydream.Hereminded

himselfofreality;nosuchpersonexisted.Hislifewas

whatitwas.But,asoftenasheremindedhimselfof

this,thenexttimehesawamirror,heagainallowed

his mind to daydream for a minute.

Hecheckedhiswatchandgroaned.“Betterget

backoutbeforeIgetanotherroundofscolding.”

Hewalkedoutandstrolledbackintothedining

room.“See?Iwasn’tthatlong,wasI?”

Whenheheardnoreply,helookedaroundand

noticedthathedidn’thearasound.“Hey,whereisev-

eryone?”Hethennoticedatrailofbloodcomingfrom

behindthecounter.Hefrozeinfearforamoment

beforequietlytiptoeingovertoinvestigate.

Ashepeakedbehindthecounter,hesawhis

bosslyingdeadinapoolofblood.

Hiseyeswidenedandheletoutascream.

Heturnedandsawamaninthekitchen

standingoverthebodiesoftherestofthestaff.The

man’sdarkeyesmethisandforamoment,theyboth

remained still.

The man raised his gun at Skylar. “Didn’t think

anybodyelsewashere.”

Skylarboltedoutthedoor.Hejumpedonhis

bikeandspedoffwithoutevenputtinghishelmeton.

Hehadnotyetgottentotheendoftheblockwhenhe

sawablackcarchasinghim.“Damnit!”

Hispulseracingandsweatdrippingdown

hisneck,hefeltlikeanysecond,abulletwouldfly

throughhischestandhe’dbeflattenedinthemiddle

of the road. Unconsciously, he peddled faster than he

everhadbefore.Hetriedtolosehisattackerthrough

aseriesofsharpturnsintobackroadsbuthisendeav-

ors failed to achieve his goal. The car stayed on his

trail.

Whenhesawhistrailerparkcomingup,he

decidedtoquicklyhopoffthebikeandtrytohidein

the field of look-alike trailers, hoping to either lose his

attacker or for one of his gun-toting, redneck neigh-

borstotakecareoftheproblem.

Heranintohishometrailer.Itwasjusta

fewrowsinandhewasabletogetinsidebeforehis

assailantreachedthepark.Heshutandlockedthe

doorandbehindhimandtookarapidseriesofdeep

breathsashesunktothefloor.“Thatwasclose.”

Aftercatchinghisbreath,hesawthathisfatherwasn’t

homeyet.Hemust’vebeenlate.“Foronce,I’mglad

he’snothomeyet.”

Afteramoment,hequietlycrawledtothe

windowandpeakedout.Hedidn’tseehisassailant

anywhereortheblackvehicleherodein.Itseemed

asifthecoastwasfinallyclear.Hebreathedasighof

relief.“Good,he’sgone.”

Helookedaroundatthecrampedlivingroom.

Hesawtheirphonenexttoapictureofhimwithhis

motherandfatheronanendtable.“Igottacallthe

cops.I’mawitness.”

Suddenly,bulletsflewthroughthedoorand

intothewall,onlynarrowlymissinghim.Thekiller

kickedinthedoor.“Niceplace.”Helockedeyeswith

Skylar.

Skylarmadeadashtoescapebutquicklyhad

tododgeanotherbullet.Thebulletwentflyingintoa

lamponatable,shatteringitintofragmentedshards.

Skylarthenfelthimselfbeingliftedintotheairand

thensawahandcladinablackgloveholdinghim

byhisshirt.Hewasthenthrownontothesofa;he

landedwithapainfulthud.

29

Skylar looked up as the man pointed a gun

athim.Hepreparedtomakeanotherquickescape.

However,beforehecould,heheardtwoquietclicks

fromthemuffledgun.“No!”Atearrolleddownhis

face.

Helookeddownandnoticedtwobloodyholes

inhischest.Hefeltitstrangethathedidn’tfeelany

painatall.Beingshotwassupposedtohurt.Butthen,

hefeltasuddenandirresistibleurgetosleep.The

reasonhedidn’thurtseemedtomakesensenow.

Helookedatthephotoofhimandhisparents

setonthetablebehindhiskiller.“I’mcoming,Mom.”

Heshedatear.Hisheadfellbackbuthiseyesre-

mainedfocusedonthepictureashisbodywentlimp

whereitsat.

ThemanwalkedovertoSkylarandfelthis

neckforapulse.Therewasnone.

The killer patted Skylar on the shoulder. “Sorry kid.

Nothingpersonal.Ijustdon’tleavewitnesses.”

Thekillerwalkedout,quietlyclosingthedoor

behindhim,leavingSkylar’sdeadbodywhereitlay,

hisbrightblueeyesleftopen,blanklystaringatthe

portraitofwhenhislifewashappy.

Thetimewasnowfiveo’clock.

Skylarsawcarspassingbyduringtheendof

rushhourashelookedoutthewindow.Suddenly,he

jumpedback.Hewasintherestaurant.Butthenhe

realizedthatthisrestaurant,whilesimilartotheone

heworkedat,waslikeamirrorimageofit,facingeast

insteadofwest.

Hisbosswalkedovertohim.“Youokay,Sky?”

Herestedhishandgentlyontheboy’sshoulder.

Skylarreplied,“Iguessso.”

ThemanbecamepuzzledbySkylar’sbehavior.

Theboylookedpale.“Youcancutoutearlytoday.

You’veworkedhardallweek.Youcan’toverworkyour-

self.Iknowyouliketotrynewthingsbutyou’rejust

akid.Don’toverdoit.”

“Overdoit?”

“Withthework.Youalreadyputintwohours

today.Youshouldgohome.”Hesmiled.“Plus,your

father’soutsidewaitingforyou.Iknowit’sabitearly

butyouworkedhardtoday.Gotohim.”

Skylarbecameconfused.“Thanks!”Hetookoffhis

apronandhungitonachairintheback.

Herememberedclearlybeingshotandhere-

memberedclearlyfeelinghisheartstopinthathorrify-

ingsecond.Hepeakeddownhisshirtathischest.Not

evenacut.“What’sgoingonwithme?Thiscan’tjust

bemespacingout.”

Hewalkedoutsideandsawhisdad.Helooked

forhisbikebutitwasn’tthere.

“Heysport.”Hisfatherwaswaitingbythesilver

carwithasmileandasteamingbrownbag.“Igot

Chinesetake-out,yourfavorite.”

Notwantingtoletonthatsomethingwasoff,

Skylarputonaquicksmile.“Thankssomuch!”He

hoppedintothebackseatonthepassenger’ssideofthe

car.Heconsideredmentioningthemissingbikebuta

partofhimfeltthatitwasn’tstolen;itjustwasn’tthere.

HeinhaledtherelaxingsmellofChinesefood.

Nomatterwhattheyordered,thatinvitingaromawas

alwaysthesame.Italmostdrovetheincidentoutofhis

mind completely, making it seem like little more than

a daydream.

Astheydrovebythetrailerpark,Skylarfelta

joltinhisheart.Helookedoverandsawhisbodybe-

ingremovedfromthetrailer.Itwasinabodybag.A

paramedicclosedhiseyesbeforezippinghimup.His

corpsewascarriedintotheambulancetobedrivento

the morgue.

Hethensawhisfatheronhisknees,wailing

heavilyashewatchedtheambulancedriveoff.Neigh-

borstriedtocomforthimbuttherewasnothingthat

they could do.

Skylar’smouthdropped.Hefeltlikehewas

goingcrazy.Hisheartwasbeatingheavilyandhefelt

sweatrunningdownhisfaceandback.“What’sgoing

onwithme?”Hekepthisvoiceawhisper.

Suddenly,thecarhitaspeedbumpandthe

trailerparkdisappeared.However,itwasreplacedwith

theparkSkylarrecognizedasbeingacrossthestreet

30

fromhistrailerpark.Heturnedquicklytolookatthe

othersideandsureenough,therewasthetrailerpark

hehadcalledhomefortwoyears.Itwasquiet.There

wasnosignofhismurder,onlyafewpeoplereturning

fromworkandasix-year-oldkickingaroundasoccer

ball.Maybeallofthatwasjustinhisheadafterall.He

felthisbodyreturntoarelaxedstate.

“Thisissoweird.”Hetookafewdeepbreaths.

“Whatis?”Hisfatherlookedathim.

Nothing.”Heforcedasmile.“Justdaydreaming

again.”

Skylarbecameevenmorepuzzledwhenhis

fatherdidn’tpullintothattrailerpark,butdroveona

couple of streets until they came to a small and pic-

turesquedevelopment.Theyrodepastafewhouses

andthenpulledintothedrivewayofahomelylooking

split-level.

Skylarwasspeechless.

Ashegotoutofthecar,hiseyeswidened.He

couldn’tbelievethattheyseemedtolivehere.“Wow,

thisisdifferent,butreallycool.”

Hisfathersteppedoutofthecar,carryingwith

himthesteamingbrownbagcontainingtheirsupper.

“YoSky,issomethingwrong?Youseemabit

distracted.”

Skylarquicklyshelvedhiswonder.“I’mfine!”He

failed to keep his tone from sounding dismissive. “Let’s

goinside.”

The front door opened.

Skylar’sheartskippedanotherbeat.Hismother

stepped out from inside the house, clad in a rose-design

apron,inaget-upthatseemedtoberippedfromthe

nineteen fifties into the modern day.

“Hi,honey!”Hersmileandvoicemadehimfeel

warminside.“Welcomehome.Ihopeyouhadagood

day.”

Skylarcouldn’tbelievehiseyes.Hedistinctly

rememberedbeingnine-years-old,holdinghismother’s

handasshetookherlastbreaths,losingherbattlewith

cancer.Hisnightmareshadbeenlonghauntedbythe

loud screech of the heart monitor recording her stop-

pingheart.Yet,hereshestood,aliveandwell,looking

perfectly healthy.

Herantoherandhuggedhertightly.“Mom,I

missedyousomuch.”Hetriedtocontainhistears.

Bothofhisparentswereconfusedbyhisbehavior.He

wasn’ttypicallyanoverlyemotionalchild.

Perplexed,shesaid,“Imissedyoutoohoney,

butit’sonlybeenabouteighthourssinceyousaw

me.”Shekissedhisforehead.“You’reactinglikeit’s

beenyears.”

Skylarpulledback.“Iguessitjustwasareally

longday.”Hewipedasingletearfromhiseye.

She smiled and put her arm around him.

“Comeon,you’reprobablyjusthungry.Let’seat.”She

putheraroundhimandtheywalkedinside.“Ialready

gotthetableset.”

Ashewalkedpastamirroronthewaytothe

kitchen,hetookagazeathisreflection.Hecouldn’t

puthisfingeronit,buttherewassomethingabout

hisreflectionthatseemeddifferent.

Hedidn’tdwellonittoolong;hehadmore

thanenoughmotivationtothrustanydoubtsto-

tallyoutofhismind.Hedidn’tknowhowthiswas

possible,buthedidn’twantanexplanation;hejust

wantedittolastforever.

Witheagerenthusiasm,hejoinedhisparents

atthekitchentableforthefirstmealheremembered

eatingasafamilyinthelongesttime.Hewastruly

happy.

31

EdYancer

32

Joseph Shane

Everything That Had Been There Before

Andrew Ly

33

Awayfromthedust-speckledlightthatfalls

throughfrostedwindows,SamandIsitoncinder-

blockswherethecool,darkairraisesthebuddinghair

on our arms. Quarters clang on the hard, concrete

flooroftheemptygarageasSamshufflesBicycle-

brandplayingcards.Afterhedeals,weeachhideour

faces–wideningoureyesatagoodhand,drawingour

eyebrowsinifnot–behindthirteencardsspreadlike

redandwhitefans.Idonotrememberwhowinsor

losesorwhathappenswiththemoney,onlythatafter

eachhandthereisexultantdancing,bangingoffistson

theground,andalwaysourriotouslaughter.

“Suzie’shavingapartytonight,”Samsays.He

runshishandsthroughthewildweedsofhishairand

smirksthewayhealwaysdoes,pullinghislipstoone

side.

Suzieisagirlfromschoolwhoseprematurede-

velopments have garnered her a prominent reputation.

BeforebeingSam’sfriend,Iwouldhaveneverknown

aboutapartyatSuzie’s.Inodinreplyandafteramo-

mentremembertoclosemymouth.Imovetopushup

myeyeglasses,butrealizetheyarenolongerthere;Sam

haspersuadedmetoswitchtocontactlenses.

InthispoorsuburboutsideofPhiladelphia,Sam

ismynext-doorneighbor,butnotuntiltheeighth

gradedoweactuallyspendanytimetogether.Iam

aclueless,thirteen-year-oldboywhotakeshiscloth-

ingcuesfromacrayonbox:redshirtandpantson

Mondays,blueonTuesdays,greenWednesdays,purple

Thursdays,andbrownFridays.Amazingly,Idohave

friends,thoughtheytooweareyeglassesandhave

motherswhocuttheirhair.Sam,ontheotherhand,

wearsjerseysgiventoboysonthefootballandbaseball

teams.Hishairiscutbybaldingmenwiththick,gray

mustaches. And I think he has even kissed a girl. I

wantnothingmorethantobelikehim.

Asunlikelyasitseemsthen,SamandIbeginto

spendeveryafternoontogether.Wemakeupgamesin

theyardandrideourbikeslikemavericksthroughthe

neighborhood.Weraceandwemeander,crosspathsin

helixesandletthewindlickthesweatoffourfaces,but

alwaysSamisaheadofme.

Samtakesmetothebarbershop.Thebarbersgel

and spike my hair like his. Soon, he introduces me to

girls,andImarvelwhenhespeakstotheminfully-

formedsentenceswhenIcanonlymanageaguttural

“hello”(pronounced“ugh-oh”).Samintroducesmeto

ablondeboywearingasilverchain,liketheonethat

restsonmyribbed,whitesleevelessshirt.Whenthe

boyclaimstohaveseenagirlentirelynaked,Samand

Iturntooneanother;wegrinmadlikethieves.And

onthedayofSuzie’sparty,IrealizehowmuchIhave

changedwhenSamsays,“I’mtakingyouwithme.”

Irememberallthisnow.Iamtwenty-four.It’s

OctoberinManhattan,andheavywindshavegathered

ingreat,widewaves.Theysurgethroughthestreets

andbreakalongthethirty-firstfloorwindowsofmy

officebuilding.Icanhearthesewindsfrommycubicle

andseethewindowstrembleifIhappentobeinan

office,Evan’soffice.ButIaminmycubiclewhere,for

hoursunblinking,Ishouldhavebeenparsingthrough

numbersinspreadsheetsandporingoverwordsinpre-

sentations.Instead,Ihavebeenlookingthroughpho-

tosonFacebookinsearchofsomethinginthesefaces

thatIfindmissinginmyself.WhatIfind,though,is

that Sam is dead.

MybossEvan,avicepresidentatthefirm,calls

meintohisoffice.IfIcontinueinthisjob,heiswhoI

shouldaspiretobecome.

“Closethedoorandsitdown,”Evansays.His

jawislongandtight.

Iclosethedoorquicklyandsitdowninachair

facinghisdesk.Hisofficeisunmemorable,except

34

forhillsofpapers,asingleblackpictureframe,and

afloor-to-ceilingwindow,fromwhichIhaveaclear

viewofGrandCentralStation.

“Whatareyouworkingonrightnow?”Evan

asks.Heisatoweringman,sowhenheleansbackin

hischair,heisstillabletolookdownatme.

IstutterouttheprojectsIhavebeenworking

on.Iexplainwhytheyhavebeentakingsolong,that

theyaremorecomplexthantheyseem,althoughin

truth,Ihavebeenprocrastinating.Evancrosseshis

arms.Hewakesupatfiveorsixinthemorningevery

daytogotothegymnomatterwhenhehasgoneto

bed.Hisarmsbulge;theystretchthefabricofhisshirt.

“Listen,”hesays.“YouseeIsamoverthere?”

Inod,butdonottakemyeyesoffEvan.Isamis

anotheroneofmybosses.

“DidyouknowhestartedworkingherebeforeI

did?Butlookwhohastheofficeandwhostillworksin

acubicle.”

I nod again, this time more vigorously. Isam

doesworkinacubicle,Iagree.Ialmostwanttopoint.

Instead, I pull at my tie; it chokes me a little.

“Doyouwanttoenduplikehim?”

IrealizeIamstillnoddingyes,soIovercompensateby

swingingmyheadviolentlyleftandrightinadizzying

gesture of no.

“Thengetyourshitdonetoday.Idon’tcarehow

longittakes.”

IstumbleovermyreplyasIgetupandleave.

Inmycubicle,Iestimatehowlongitwilltakemeto

finishmyprojects.IknowthatEvanwillstayinthe

officetoo,untilIamfinished,whetheritismidnight

orfourinthemorning.Theonewakinghouradayhe

spendswiththepeopleinthatpictureframe–hiswife

and three children – is not as important as this.

Soon after the day Sam and I spend playing

cardsinthegarage,myparentstellmethatweare

moving.Thenewhousewillbebiggerandtheneigh-

borhoodsafer,theysay.Weareonlytryingtomake

yourlifebetter,theyreason.ButIfeelthatthewinds

have only just changed, that great clouds have opened

beforemeandthesunisbright,theoceanvast,and

Iambeingforcedtoturnaway.IdotheonlythingI

can at the time: I curse at them and I cry.

Wemove,andIcan’tremembersayinggoodbye

toSam.ButIdorememberasummerafternoonabout

ayearlaterwhenIambackinmyoldneighborhood,

walkinguptoSam’sdoor.Iknock,butnoonean-

swers.Samdoesn’tknowIamtheretoseehimagain.

IhearvoicesfrombehindSam’shouse,soIstartdown

thedrivewaytowardthebackyard.Imoveslowly;un-

der my feet, loose gravel has time to decide if it should

stayorrollaway.ButIkeeponforward.

Inthebackyard,Samandafewotherboyswear-

ingchainssitonplasticchairsaroundabrowntable.

Theytalk,theylaugh.Istandthere,andwhentheysee

metheirlaughterstops,theirfacesquiet,andsuddenly

itisbright,thesunismuchtoobright.

Samrisesquicklyfromhisseat.Heushersme,

hand-on-back,tothefrontofthehouse.Webothsit

onhisstoop,lookingforward.Acrossthescorched

lawn,thestreetglistenslikeablackriverandthe

housesbeyondblurindistinct.

“How’sthenewhouse?”Samasks.Hefacesthe

street,andhiseyessquintinthesun.

“Good,Iguess.”Isitastepbelowandturnto

lookathim.Iholdmyhandabovemyeyestoblock

the light.

“Ibetit’sbig.”

Ilookdownandnoticethereisashadowbe-

neathmylegs.Ibringmykneestomychinandhold

themthere.Theshadowdisappears.Wesitquietlyfor

afewminutes,onlytobeinterruptedbylaughterfrom

thebackyard.Samturnshisheadtowardthesound

andIkeeplookingdown,holdingmyknees,andnei-

ther one of us says anything. Eventually, Sam gets up.

“Ishouldgetback.”Hemotionshisheadto-

wardsthebackyard.Hiseyesarealreadyleavingme.

“Right.Ofcourse,”Isay.“Ican’tstayeither.”

ItisOctoberinManhattan,andIhavebeen

avoidingmywork;IhavebeenonFacebook.Thisis

35

howIlearnthatSamisdead,fromthemessagesthat

linethewallofhisprofile:

“MissYouSammy!It’sbetterontheotherside

homie!Youwillbeinmyheartforever!”

“Fuckingloveulikeabrother..r.i.p.family..

shitsunreal”

“NONONONONONONONO”

I send a message to a classmate from middle

school:“Whathappened?”

Coincidentally,onlyamonthbeforehisdeath,

SamreconnectswithmeonFacebook.Hesendsme

aninvitationtobefriends,butIhesitatetoaccept.I

wishIcouldsayotherwise,butit’sthetruth.Ilinger

whenIseehisphotos.Inone,hestandswithother

similar-lookingmen,allwearingoversizedclotheswith

theirhandstwistedingangsigns.Inanother,heholds

his infant son in his arms and his lips are pulled to one

side.Buthisslyeyesandtheirwarmmagicarelost;in

thephoto,helooksdownasifsearching.

FortwodaysafterIsendthemessagetomy

formerclassmate,Iwaitforaresponse.Iamuselessat

workandobsessivelyrefreshmyFacebookpage.F5.

Refresh.F5.Refresh.Iwaitforananswerthatwillex-

plainhowSamhasdied,butIhopetofindsomething

more.

Foramoment,whenIrefreshthepage,the

screenturnsblank.Andthepointerbecomesalittle

hourglass,anditseemstomethatthepixilatedsand

hasalmostrunout.Butinevitably,thepagereturns

withphotosandwords,everythingthathadbeenthere

before.Samisstilldead,andIamsittinghereinmy

cubicle,tryingeverydaytobemorelikeEvan.

36

Jennifer Tran

37

5:23pm

Train rides

too compact

aromas of

a saved cigarette,

clingingtohislongblack

trench coat

beerbreathe

ham hoagies uneaten,

mouthdry,nowater

justuncontrollablefloodsof

sweat

drool escaping from the

wailingchildren

headaches, no Tylenol

Nextstop

Fresh Air

5:59pm

Train Ride

Ashley Rivera

38

Socheath Sun

39

Concrete angels in the street

reach for lights draped, like tinsel, on cityscape

andconfusemoonbeams,breakingthroughsliversof

insane clouds, enveloping corners that try and escape

abeatinthestreet,fromcalypsotreats,forpeople

towalkandstumbleabound,avoiding

shrieks from cafes and secrets, so loud,

overbreakingbranchesandsearchingforchances

lost, through the holes in pockets, ‘til they stop it

andlookup,whisperingatthesky,nolonger

staringatblankwallsfearingmeaninginside

a“hi”,fortherhythm,sosweet,itmovesandmakes

smilesandshakesatear,thatsuccumbed

toheartbreaks,overroaringEL’sand“ok’s”

aftertravelingfarforquickreturnshome-

maybealone-leavingtechnologyclutchedtoone

ortheother,grippingaworldthatdoesn’texist,

tryingstilltosatisfysinbecauseextraswere

notenough,forthewomanonabus

withherbrownbag-sheneveropensup-

tothemanwhodreamsofaplace.

The Place

Christian Fiorenza

40

JenniferKaminski

41

18 months . . . pt.1

Marquita Hamilton

Yesterday,Isatinour...mybedroom.Inthe

stillness.Inthedark.Istared.Ithought.Iwept.I

slept.IsleptandIdreamed.IawokeandIremem-

bered.Irememberhowyesterday,Ilongedfortoday.

Tobefree...freetolaughwithabandon...tosmile,

genuinely . . . to rest and have peace of mind. To

befreefromthechaoswecalledlove.Ifoughtwith

myself,wonderinghowmanytimeswouldIforgive

you?...howmanytimesI’dasktobeforgiven?Each

“breakuptomakeup”mademeprayIwouldwake

upandrealizethiscircuswasonlyatemporarynight-

mare.You’dtellmehowithurtyoutobeawayfrom

mewhenI’dleave,andIwouldcomeback;then,to

punishme,youwouldleave“togivemetimetothink

ofwhatyou’vedonewrong.”Afteryoustormedout,I

didn’tevenwashmyface,wantingyoutokisstheblood

frommylipandcaressmybruisedface.Iwantedyou

toseehowmuchlovingyouhurtme.Althoughthere

wouldn’tbeanyfightingwhileyouwereaway,Iwould

stillbeanxiousforyourreturn.HowlongdidIstareat

that door hearing my inner-self scream, “RUN! GO!

LEAVE!”butIwouldn’t.Icouldn’t.Iremembered

howmuchyousaidIneededyou.Irememberedhow

yousaidIcoulddonothing,havenothing,benothing,

apartfromyou.Fearfully,Iwondered“Whatifhe’s

right?”Panicbegantobadgerme,demandingtoknow

when,orifyou’dcomeback.

Isatwaiting,hoping,expectingtohearyourkey

inside the lock of our door. The passing of the hours

wastorturous.Myembarrassmentandanxietygrewas

timepassed.Iwasembarrassedattheconfusionofmy

feelingsaboutyourreturn;wasIeagerforyoutocome

backortoseeyoustaygone?AsIwaspondering,I

recognizedthesoundofyourengineandmyheartwent

intomythroat.Ifoughtwithinmyselftostayaway

fromthewindowanddecidedtostayinthecorneron

thebed.Iheardtheheavyslamofthesecuritydoor

ontoourfloor.Iheardfootstepstravelingthehall.I

rememberthinkingImusthavebeenwrongabout

thecarbecausethesoundofthefallingstepsweretoo

lightandquicktobeyours.Icheckedthewindow;it

wasyourcar,butyouwereinit.Suddenly,therewas

aknockuponthedoor.“Hello?”Iheard.Istopped

andstoodinthefloortryingtopiecetogetherwhatI’d

justlearned.“Hello?”Iheardagainwithanotherrap

upon the door that jarred me to action. Confused and

cautious, I checked the peephole and realized I didn’t

recognize the person on the other side of the door. It

wasawoman;sheknockedagain.Iaskedhertowait

amoment.IwantedhertowaitwhileIscrambledto

bringordertothegrowingconfusioninmyheadand

in my heart. As I eyed her through the peep hole, I

couldseeshewasjustassurprisedtohearmyvoiceasI

wastohearhers.Idon’tknowhow,butIrealizedthat

shewasherebecauseofyouandIopenedthedoor.

“Um...thisisawkwardand...and...

Well,Evansentmetopickuphisthings...”

Thesoundofherwordswerelikeadistantecho.

Isawherlipsmoving,andIcouldrecognizewords,

butIcan’tsaythatIreallyheardorunderstoodwhat

shewassaying.“Evansaidyou’d...thisistheright

apartmentright?Evanlivedhere?”sheasked.When

Ifinallyrealizedthatshewasheretogetyourthings,I

didn’tknowwhattothink.Whowasshe?Whywas

shehereandnotyou?Whowasshetoyou?Wasshe

yourlover?Didyouloveher?Whywereyouwithher

andnotwithme?Ilookedatherthroughjealouseyes.

Shewasprettyandyounger,butnotmuchthinner.I

stared at her through stinging tears that refused to fall.

Iblinkedandatearfell,butIdidnotcry.Mystaring

provokedhertoaction;sheawkwardlyremovedher

sunglasses. I looked at her again. On this second look,

42

withouthersunglasses,Isawthatshewasstillpretty.I

alsosawthatshewas...bruised.Bruised?Shewore

makeuptohideitbutIrecognizeditbecauseI’dcov-

eredthesamebruisesthesamewaymanytimesbefore!

Itwaslikesomeoneunpluggedmyears;thewordsshe

wasspeakingbecameloudandclear.Iunderstood!

She said Evan lived here, past-tense! I looked at her

againandinstantlyrecognizedherastheanswerto

my prayers. I invited her in and took her straight to

thebedroom,showingheryourdrawersandcloset.I

ranbetweenrooms,beingsuretocollectallofyour

personalpapers.Shefollowedmethroughthesmall

apartment,visiblyunnervedatmywillingnesstosur-

renderyou--yourthings.Throughtearsofjoy,which

I’msuresheconfusedwithheartbreak,Icontinuedthe

scavengerhunt--gatheringshoes,watches,pictures,

jewelry.Istubbedmytoeonthebureau,butsinceit

didn’tbreak,Ididn’tbothertoslowdown.Sheasked

meifshecouldsitbutIremindedherofyourimpa-

tienceandsaidIwasalmostfinished.Shestationed

herself,again,nearthedoor.AsIdrewnearherwith

the last of your effects, our eyes met. She looked at

me.Shelookedatmewithquestionsinhereyes.

Whowasstandingbeforeher?WasIthecompetition,

someonethatshejustone-upped?WasItheloser-

weepertoherfinder-keeper?WasIanimageofwhat

shecouldlookforwardtohavingasareflectionafter

18monthsoflifewithyou?Oureyeswerelocked,

justforafewsecondsbytheclockbutitseemedit

wouldn’tend.Thesoundofyourcarhornbrokeour

unspokendialogue.Thatwasyesterday.

Today,Iamsittinginmybedroom.Themusic

isplayingsoftly.Ihadn’tlistenedtoStevieinwhat

seemslikeforever.Iamsittingbythewindow.There

isabreezeblowingsummertimethroughthesmall

apartment,completewithahoneybee.Thebedis

madewithnewlinens,butthesmellofyourcologne

isstillinthemattress.Thephotosareallgone,but

thepictureofyouinmymindisstillthere.Howdo

youpackawaymemories?Ithinkaboutthewoman

whoinheritedyoufromme.Yes,inherited,because

therearepartsofmethatarenowdeadafteryou.I

thinkaboutwhenoureyesmet.Whatwasexchanged

duringthosemoments.Whyhadn’tIwarnedherof

whatshewasgettinginto,trytosaveherfrommyfate?

Wouldshehavelistened?Wouldshehavereceivedit

as advice from one sister to another, or as one sistah

hatin’becauseshelostout?Nomatter.Timeisagood

teacher,thoughnotalwaysthekindestorthecheapest.

I’velearnedmylessonwell.Itcostmemuch.

Yesterday,youwerehere,thenyouweregone.

Yesterday,Ithoughtlifewasover,butthenImadeit

throughthenight.Youweremyeverythingwholeft

mewithnothing.Yes,thatwasyesterdayandtoday

istoofullforthepast;butifItrulybelievethat,then

whyamIstillstaringatthedoor?

Pickin’ up the pieces (18 months pt. 2)

Today, I am sitting in my apartment. The

windowsaren’topen,there’sanearlywinterchillinthe

air,buttheblindsareopenandthecurtainsarepulled

back.There’snothinglikenaturallighttoliftyour

mood.I’msittingonthesofa(it’snew),lookingat

thearearug(that’snew,too.).Ihadtodosomething

tomakethisplacealittleofmyownagain.Mygirlz

broughtmebyacoupleofplants.Theywerenice

whiletheylasted(nooneeveraccusedmeofhaving

agreenthumb).Themusicisplayingsoftly.Fred

Hammondisbecomingafavorite.AtfirstIjuststarted

listeningbecauseIlikedthesoundofhisvoice...and

itwastheonlyoneIhad(loanerfromoneofmygirlz).

Thensomethinghappened,Ilistenedtothewords.I

reallylistened.Theyweresoothing.Theywerecom-

forting.Theywereinspiring.

Ikeepgoingbacktothebeginningretracingmy

stepstoseewhereitstartedtogowrongforus.Things

justneveraddedup.Igobacktothebeginningand

lookatit,howitstartedandhowitcontraststothe

43

endandI’mvexed.IguessIneverallowedmyselfto

seehowthingschanged.WhenIfellinlove,itwasas

ifmybrainwerefreshlypouredconcreteinwhicha

pictureofyouwasmoldedandallowedtodry.Time

wentonandthingsmovedinandoutofmymind,but

thereyouwerejustlikealways.Nomatterwhatthe

fuss, no matter the length of the fight. I’d close my

eyesandinmymind,thereyou’dbe.Nowthatyou’re

goneI’mleftwithjustthatpictureinmymind.An

image.Animageinmyimagination.Witheachpass-

ingdayIrealizethat’swhatIhadallalong,animagein

myimagination.Thequestionis,“Who’stoblamefor

mycreation?”

Whenyouleft,ittookmeforevertogetoffof

thefloor.Istaredonandoffatthatdoorfordaysand

days,inthedark,inthequiet,onlymovingasoftenas

naturerequired...listeningfortheclosingofacar

door or the turn of a key. It never happened. I spent

hoursstaringnumbly.Frozen.Stuck.Youweregone;

how’dthathappen?HowdidIfeelaboutit?Initially,

glad.Gladwasfollowedstartlinglyclosebyafraid

andsad.Ialmostfeltcrazy.Yeah,ithurts.Butnot

asbadasitusedto.Youbruisedmegood,butnoth-

ing’sbroken.AtfirstIhaddozensofquestionsfor

you:WhatdidIdotodeservethis?Whyme,when

allIeverdidwasloveyou?Whydon’tyouwantme

anymore?Didyoueverlovemeatall?Howlongwas

sheinthepicture?ThemorequestionsIasked,the

largerthesilenceintheroomgrewuntiltheechoof

myownthoughtsthreatenedtodeafenme.Alone,as

Iwasanddesperateforanswers,Ibegantoquestion

myself:WhatdidIdotodeservethis?Whyme,when

allIeverdidwaslovehim?Whydidn’thewantme

anymore?Willanyoneeverloveme,atall?Howdid

Godletthishappen?Afteracouplemonthsofthat,

Irealizeditwaspointless.Eveniftheanswerscame

fromonhigh,itwouldn’tchangeanything.Itwouldn’t

changethefactthatyouleft.Thenithitme!Youleft.

You,notme.Iwasstillhere.Ididn’trecognizemyself,

now(comparedto18monthsago),butnothinglike

time and no relationship to inspire introspection and a

revamp of your outlook.

Today,Iamlookingoutthewindow.It’schilly,

soit’sclosed.ButIcanseethepeoplemoving,walk-

ing,living.Goingaboutthebusinessandbusynessof

life.Ithinkit’stimeformetogetbackintobusiness.

Inoticeacarsittingacrossthestreet.It’sbeenthere

forawhile.IthoughtIrecognizedthedriver,alady.I

couldn’tgetagoodlookatherfacebecauseofthedark

glassesandbigbangsshewore.Itwasalmostasifshe

covered her face on purpose. The driver opened the

doorasifshewasgoingtogetout.Sheputonefoot

on the ground and then changed her mind. She pulled

herlegbackinanddroveoff.Nomatter.

Afewmonthsago,astrangerwasstandingin

mylivingroom,waitingtotakeawayyourbelongings.

Youwerelonggone,beforethen.Iknowthatnow.

Youleftmeinpieces,believingyoutookthebestofme

withyou.Today,I’mlivinginmyapartment,putting

thepiecesbacktogether,believinginspiteofmyself

thatthebestisyettocome.

18 months + 18 months = . . . ??? (18 months, pt. 3)

Today, I am sitting in a coffee shop, pretending

nottonoticethisbighandsomesomebodystaringat

my legs. It’s amazing the difference some time makes.

EighteenmonthsagoIwouldhavefeltinsultedat

anotherman’sattention,swearin’hehadtheworstof

intentionstowardsme.Twelvemonthsago,I’dhave

beensodesperateforhisattentionitwouldhavescared

dudehalftodeath.Buttoday...todayisanewday.

Ilikethisplace.It’sbusy.Thehumofactiv-

ityand“indoorvoices”isseasonedbyabackground

ofneo-soulmusic.Jillisabadgirl!I’vebeencom-

inghereforacoupleofmonthsnow.Atfirst,itwas

becauseitwassomeplacetogobesidesthatratty

apartment.AfterImoved,IfoundIwasjustusedto

44

cominghere,soIkeptcoming(althoughmynewspot

isreallynice).Notfullyfurnishedyet,butallthings

in due time.

I go to cross my legs for Mr. Mister (gotta let

himknowwhyhe’sstillstarin’)andIseeafamiliar

facepassmebythewindow.Shelooksalotolder

thanIremember.She’salonetoday,stillwearin’big

glassesandbigbangs.IjumpuptoseeifIcancatch

herandbuyheracupofcoffee.Maybewecanhave

that talk that I put off so long ago. I see her and call

to her. I call again. She stops and I approach her. I

cantellbythewayshe’slookingoverthetopofher

glasses that she doesn’t recognize me. She takes them

offtogetabetterlook.Sheplacesmyfaceandstarts

toturnaway.Icalltoher,again,“Sis,heysis.Ijust

wantedtosayheyandseehowyoumakin’out.”She

comestowardsme,lookingoverhershoulder.What

Ithoughtwasafancyscarftiedaroundherbagis

actuallyamake-shiftslingforabadly-sprainedwrist.

Shesaysshefell.I’msureshedid,thoughnotwithout

somehelp.Iaskherinforcoffee.Sheexplainsshe

can’t stay, the demands of domestication and all that.

I tell her I understand and offer her my card in case

sheeverwantstotalk(orrunaway).Shereachesout

hergoodhandandhesitates,thenwithdrawsit.She

saysshe’sfineandtheyaredoingbetterthanever.He

isgettinghelprealsoon.Hercellphoneringsand

tearswellinhereyesasshereadstheCallerID.She

blinksandthetearsfall,butshedoesnotcryasshe

saysshehastorushoff.“Jesus,watchoverher”ismy

sadprayerasshewalksaway.Timeisagoodteacher,

though not the kindest or cheapest. These types of

choicesalwayscostmorethanwe’repreparedtopay.

Istandinfrontofthecoffeeshopandwatchher

throughthedistanceuntilthecrowdedstreetveilsher

path.“ButforthegraceofGod...”ismyrevela-

tionasIreturntotheshop.Ithinkaboutmylost

sister,whomIjustsaw.Ithurtsnotjusttoseewhat’s

becomeofher,butalsowhatIhadbecomeatone

point.Youalwaysreadstoriesaboutabusiverelation-

shipsandthink“It’llneverhappentome”andthenlife

showsyoudifferent.Notlife,butbadchoicesandlack

of understanding.

Whenhefirstleft,Irememberfeelingasthough

Ihadnothing,wasnothing.Ifeltthatwaybecause

he’dspentalongtimesubtlyconvincingmethat

whateverIwasandwouldeverbewassowoveninto

himandourrelationship.Itmusthavebeenseveral

weeksormaybeeventwomonthslaterthatIwassit-

tinginthefloorwithmylegscurledundermeandmy

headlayingonthecoffeetable.Notcrying,thewell

oftearshadrundry.Iwasrunningthroughmycycle

ofunanswerablequestions,andwishingawindstrong

enoughwouldrushthroughtheapartmentandblow

meaway.Ididn’tcarewhereitcarriedme,justlongas

itwasawayfrommylife.It’snotthatIdidn’tthinkI

couldlivewithouthim,butIdidn’tbelievethatthelife

Iwasleftwithwasworthliving.Suddenly,mybody

feltwarm.Nothot,likeapersonalsummer,butreally

warm.Likeacomforterfreshfromthedryerwrapped

aroundyouonawintermorning,onlythiswasfrom

theinsideout.It’shardtoexplain.Questionswere

still running through my mind, only this time they

weredifferentquestions,withamelody.“Howmany

times,wouldIgoagainstyourwill....Howmany

timeswouldittakeformetolearn....”Iremem-

beredthatsongbyHezekiahWalkerandstartedasking

myselfthesamequestions,feelingdumbanddumber

witheachrepetition.Then,Godansweredme.Not

sharply.Notwiththevoicethatshakesmountainsand

causesfiretorainfromheaven.Notwithdisdainor

disgust.Itwasthesweetesttonelovecouldeverring

inside a heart. “As many times as you need me to,

asoftenasyouasksincerely,Iwillcometoyouand

forgiveyouandloveyou.WhatIwantedinreturnfor

therelationshipIdesirewithyou,Igaveofmyselfa

longtimeago.Allyouhavetodoissaythatyouwant

me.Iwillgiveyouthelovethatyoucannotfindin

anyoneoranythingelse.Iwillteachyoutohavethis

45

foryourselfandwhenthecaresofthisworldseemto

overtakeyou,Iwillprovideashelterforyoutohide.I

havebeenwatchingandcountingyourtearsandcall-

ingyourname,waitingpatientlyforyoutoturnand

seeme.”Thewelloftearsthatwasoncedrybeganto

overflow.Onlythistimeasabeautifulcleanser,instead

ofsorrowfulregret.IansweredTrueLove’svoicewhen

Hecalled.

Catchin’uponlifeishardwork.Hardenough

to make me not put living off as much as I used to.

Whenitwastimetoputthepiecesbacktogether,I

startedwiththemostimportant,God.Iknow,Iknow

...everybodyfindsJesusattheendoftheirrope.But

it’sthetruth.Likeanyrelationship,wehavetogetto

knoweachother.He’steachingmeaboutHimselfand

myself.IrealizethatIsettled/allowedcertainthings

becauseIdidn’tloveme.Ididn’tlovemebecauseI

didn’tknowmeanddidn’tknowmebecauseIdidn’t

knowHim.Ididn’tknowwhatIwasmadeoformade

for.Attheriskofusingtoomanyclichés,“Knowledge

istrulypower!”

Back to the present, the pace in the café has

slowed.Takingaquicksurvey,Irealizemyadmirerhas

gone and I hadn’t even noticed. I feel a little disap-

pointed--thatisuntilthewaitresscomesandhands

meabusinesscardshesaysagentlemanleftforme.

Hmph(smirk),Stillgotit.Iloveflirting.WouldIcall?

Nottoday.I’llcallwhenI’mready.WhenIwantto

talk.Me,whatIneedandwhatIwantarealotmore

important to me these days. Finishing my coffee, I

notice the time and see I’m almost late. Got a class,

thenameeting,thenanotherclass.Stillbeingmeand

mortal,yes,Iliketoflirtandshowmylegs,buttrust

...beforethisQueenconsidersanotherPrince,he

hadbetterknowtheKingandbepreparedwitharing

beforeheexpectsan-y-thing.I’mjustfunnin’.Onthe

real, though, I don’t think I’m ready yet for anything

serious and in the meantime . . . ain’t no sense in

playing around. (One Day At A Time).

Threeyearsago,Iwasinlove.Eighteenmonths

ago,Iwasbrokenandhewasgone.Yesterday,Iwas

sitting in the park listening to a free jazz concert under

theeveningsky.Today,Ilaughwithabandon,smile

genuinely,restandhavepeaceofmind.Therewasa

timewhenmyonlythoughtwaswhathe“was”.He

was!(smirk).Nomatter,‘cuzt’day,IAM!

46

TyroneMarquez

47

MarketingWade Sutton

WhatIthoughtwasamurder

turnedouttobecatsup.

It rained steady

downthehalls

Likethatnightdown

southaroundswarmingjewels

And a list of courtesy calls

from marketers

Even though my mind restless,

Icountedfiveorsix.

Andwitheachpass

around the stars

Andwitheachturnintothesuburbs

Andbeyondthelivesofthedisenchanted

Yetsocalm

toimagineanythingbutRimbaudabroad

WheneverIthinkofcharity

thelightsbegintogrowintoa

Pairofusedbluejeans

Farfrombeingwornorfrayed

inawayofdisrepair

Butstronganddurable

madetowithstandbeingbayonettedby

a savage militia

Whoeversaidoldagediminishes

never heard the secrets of lightning

Or found coordinates to that fountain in Florida

And it is this chase

alonewhichholdsyouth

Orthetricksinlanguageweuse

Tomakeapointworthyofearningpaychecks

Andmysoulbelongstowagesof

Lastnight’sbetonthe7horse

in the third race

Or the commercial

betweenbreaks

Sometimethephrasewillceasetobegin

AndIwillstop.

48

Insect

Anna Rauth

Fragments of light dance along the smooth edge

of the killing jar

asIobserveandcalculateyoureverymove.

Enamored,Irecordthefadingcolorsofyourwings.

Naileddown–

...areminderofmyinabilitytoreplaceyou.

Rosa Sanchez

ShahiraIbrahim