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Fall 2017

Fall 2017

Volume 1 Issue 1

Clocktower Review

December 15, 2017
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  1. The Clocktower Review, 2017, Volume 1, Issue 1. © The

    Clocktower Review is a bi- annual publication, previously an annual publication known as the Athenaeum, of Xavier University, 3800 Victory Parkway, Cincinnati, Ohio, 45207. The views expressed herein do not necessarily reflect those of the administration, faculty, staff, or general student body of Xavier University. The Clocktower Review considers submissions of poetry, prose, photography, and artwork for publication. Submissions may be written in English, Spanish, French, German, Italian, Latin, Greek, Arabic, Japanese, or any other language that may exist in this universe. Translations are, however, required for foreign language submissions. Submissions are collected by email and must include the submitter’s name, type of submission (poetry, prose, or art), and the title of the piece. Submissions must be original and not previously published. All submissions are presented to the editorial boards anonymously and are reviewed blindly. Cover created by Khalil Muhammed and Sheridan Davenport. All text in The Clocktower Review is formatted all in Garamond. Printed by 48HrBooks.com, 2249 14th Street SW, Akron, Ohio, 44314. i
  2. Mission Statement The Clocktower Review, formerly known as the Athenaeum,

    is Xavier’s forum for creative outreach which strives to develop, nurture, and celebrate the creative abilities and talents of Xavier’s student body. The Clocktower Review features and showcases original poetry, prose, and artwork of all kinds as made by current Xavier University students in order to celebrate and promote the creative work of the Xavier community, and to create a greater and more inclusive environ- ment by allowing voices from people of all different backgrounds to be heard. We work to build and strengthen this community of creative individuals through cam- pus-wide events, sharing news of events other happenings off campus, and the semesterly publication of student work. ii
  3. Editorial Boards: Poetry kevin william thomas Marilyn Schneider Soondos Mulla-Ossman

    Jessica Griggs Emma Malinoski Prose Isabel DeMarco Elly Green Max Bruns Alex Ackermann Art Sheridan Davenport Faculty Advisor: Anne McCarty Layout: kevin william thomas iii
  4. From the Editors: First things first, we would like to

    thank you for picking up the first issue of The Clocktower Review—formerly known as The Athenaeum. So, you may be wondering why we decided to change the name of the magazine after 100 years of publishing under the name the Athenaeum, which was the original name of Xavier. We changed it to The Clocktower Review after pondering the origins of our school and considering how it was built with money soiled from oppression. We wanted the magazine to be centered around students and their voices, so we decided the clock tower in Gallagher Student Center was where our heart would be. The clock tower that rises from Gallagher Student Center represents a place where students can come any hour of any day to spend time with peers, grab a bite to eat, do homework, meet for clubs, and feel welcomed into the greater community. The clock tower remains the center of our community long after we have left Xavier, and we hope that the published works of our fellow students live on long after they have graduated to bet- ter things as well. As this is the first issue under the new name, we chose not to have a theme for the issue, but to focus on highlighting students’ voices and what they care about. The Clocktower Review strives to give a voice to all, regardless of background or experience—as long as there’s good writing, we want to read it, and we want to publish it. Essentially, we hope that all students, writers and non-writers, artists and non-artists, can find something they appreiciate and a narrative they can see themselves in. Much love, kevin william thomas, Isabel DeMarco, and Sheridan Davenport iv
  5. Table of Contents Prose Maddie Weiland I’m not a weed................................................................................

    Silly Human.................................................................................. Maybe I Can Be a Sunflower.......................................................... Nick Rittenhouse A Plebeian Outing......................................................................... Valiant Freeman The 4th of September..................................................................... Daily News................................................................................... Jax Benson Karkinos........................................................................................ David Nussman Thesis Problems.............................................................................. Katie Nichols A Guest......................................................................................... Anna Shapiro THE THINGS YOU TOLD ME........................................... Carly Johnson Prostitot.......................................................................................... Willy Manneh I Am African................................................................................. ................pg. 6 ................pg. 7 ..............pg. 12 ..............pg. 10 ..............pg. 16 ..............pg. 41 ..............pg. 18 ..............pg. 20 ..............pg. 26 ..............pg. 30 ..............pg. 31 ..............pg. 38 Poetry Simone Soleille Arrangement in Five Movements.................................................... Anna Shapiro Home............................................................................................. Molly Grothaus Boys............................................................................................... ................pg. 1 ..............pg. 21 ..............pg. 34 v
  6. Emma Malinoski [untitled], photo....................................................................... [untitled], photo....................................................................... [untitled], photo....................................................................... Jeff Richardson

    [untitled], photo....................................................................... [untitled], photo....................................................................... [untitled], photo....................................................................... [untitled], photo....................................................................... Daniel Zalla Aloe, drawing.......................................................................... Ammar Khan On the Banks of the Levee, photo........................................... Sarah Sivak [untitled], drawing.................................................................... Toni Carlotta Kendrick, drawing.................................................................... .............pg. 5 ...........pg. 15 ...........pg. 17 .............pg. 9 ...........pg. 14 ...........pg. 25 ...........pg. 29 ...........pg. 11 ...........pg. 19 ...........pg. 33 ...........pg. 38 Table of Contents Prose vi
  7. Arrangement in Five Movements by Simone Soleille I a shaded

    and shimmering forest, when lo! through the canopies, breaking softly forth, a trumpetous triumph of discovery! Three impressions: a little esplanade, bordering on a comely lake, a vast expanse of impressioned teal, disturbed by a cluster of sunny algae in chartreuse, a course of green and gold sparsely surrounded by little white flowers, winnowing in the warm breeze. The sun cast down, from its Olympus, a youthful heat, causing the horizon of land, as well as the long water, to shimmer impressionistically. This would associate in my mind with a certain phrase of music, architec- ture, and a longing for something beautiful to grace my senses. In the cor- ner of my eye, a mother duck and her four ducklings swam by, paddling the water with their tiny feet, causing the light to shimmer uncontrollably. I sat down on a bench by the north side, with my parasol to watch. I was alone, and delighted by the winsome spontaneity of writing in a pleasant mood in the park, with sweet beleaguering thoughts, tremulous memories of summers long past, and the curious music. I felt a boundless joy. The scene was, in its entirety, bathed in a warm, aestival gold, a gold that one could hear, bright and harking, like a trumpet. The limpid shadows of the clouds, the pure teal of the rushing cattails, all inspired in me a feeling of surren- dered bliss. I was subject to color and sound, that brought forth a myriad of recollections, when! the wind blew strongly, and everything danced! The horsetail and the coneflowers and the water scintillated- what was heard superficially was silence, but to me, there was infinitely beautiful music. II there she stood, the Pearl incarnate, in a luminous gown, as if drenched in moonbeams. Her hair was curled, and she was frowning slightly. On the stage, she was the Symphony in White. She was so dreadfully beautiful- and, I mean to say “dreadfully” beautiful, because there was a limpid expression of horror, twinkling at her dejected eyes and alembicated cheekbones. What was she? a melancholy, terribly unclean, largely girlish, almost frightened, Beautiful girl; a betrayed covenant, a happy expatriate, a Whistler girl, with rumpled sleeves like a trampled lily. What an image! soft oils, nacre, deathly pale. And her eyes! In her doe eyes was a dull cluttered light, like a dusty 1
  8. golden twilight, tawny, lyric, aqueous, and graceful. What, I wondered,

    what was the element of loss I saw in her eyes? What was that nascent lyricism that gave way to dusky exaltation, brown and muddy, like a flume after a heavy rain, when a child parts the waters and reveals an opal stone! What was it…what was it...Out of my question, my call, music emerged out of her architectural soul, and responded, skimming underneath, before she even sang. The music led me, on a undercurrent of intonation, guided me on a path veering into terra incognita, into a land unknown and not divulged. It posed questions of time and eternity, and responded in ways more vague and mysterious than any mortal Philosophe. I followed the phrase, enraptured and distantly humming, like a fly buzzing softly, sus- pended in the drowsy aestival sunlight, cast through the prismlike window of an old empty room. I felt my mind transformed, slightly and miracu- lously, no longer a witness to the passage of time, alone, in a newly revealed universe. III ah young waltz, at the tipping pink, laughing past the daylight, yawning over the changed lands, towards the haze of apricots and milk, sleepy, happy, tender, graceful- it came. Here it rose, sauntering over iniquities, like a dance between two maidens. Happiness came thus, with fragrant plumage, thun- dering over the lamentations of its people; happiness like a queen in pink and grey, with a shaded brim, pensive eyes, a somber face. Tall and haughty, the queen posed for a portrait- with a background of old silks, of a similar mottled color as the dress of the White Symphony. She bore a countenance reserved and modest, delicate, with two sparks of dull golden azure in her eyes. I gazed in absolute wonder. I found a certain stillness in her eager and luxurious eyes, batting softly like the pit-pat whimper of a butterfly. But it was not this that entranced me. It was the river of pink satin, flowing from her shoulder to the floor, shimmering splendidly and architecturally, like a stream of glass. In that supple river was vastness, consonance, and lyricism. What was more, I could hear the thread of music, peeking out from the satin that shone brilliantly in the golden light. She stood somewhere at the crest of intonation and vacillation, at the intersection of the permanent and the fleeting, where time was made insignificant, then vanished altogether. Such is the greatest gift music can give us, to suddenly exist in fresh atem- porality- while this mind-realm is evanescent and tainted with illusion, with 2
  9. practice, the illusion of time falls away to reveal the

    slip-lace of effervescent light. The little phrase of music thus haunted me and caressed me and led me; the lithe little pink sinew impregnating my most beloved memories seemed to melt away time, and subsequently carry me over humanity- only to unite me with that which was at once both human and divine. IV the hills sang on a clear day, by the sloping meadows full of green and dull gold. There was a little pathway that brought itself between the roars of arching grasses and the tiny pink flowers. I smiled to see it, the flowering grove, alive with the prancing of deer, the little pit-pat of the rabbits, and the dreamy slumbers of the oak trees skirting the grove. I eagerly imbibed the scene, in its tangible salubrity, and subtle lyricism. It was then, by a godly and musical force that I came upon a wild raspberry-bush. I plucked a berry from the thorny stem and raised it to my lips, and ate it slowly. Just as the juices touched my tongue, a pleasurable sensation, spiraling in a sort of orb, emanating from my heart, then spreading in tingles down my limbs, made me weep with unbounded joy. I felt a heightened sensitivity to the vivid emerald tones of the efflorescent meadow. I slowly heard a sound like the “Morning” work of Grieg; something so gradually consuming and lead- ing to a place of spatial infinity, that it resounded like the thrall of a thun- derstorm, while being gentle as a lamb. I felt a fine, ineffable joy, from some revelatory place, a paradise to which the gates are spread wide; a plain of pure happiness, supra-terrestrial happiness that could only be the sublime. V I had woken up too early. Here I was, on holiday in Venice, and – alas, something hideous had made itself present within my dreams, something very queer, amorphous, and dreadfully beautiful. My sleep had been like a shattered glass- terrible only because it had ended my existence in the fair realm of the most comfort to me. I was by myself, in the night, vacillating between sleep and wakefulness, lost in labyrinths so grim and stupefying, that they threatened to consume me whole. It was a ghastly situation. My dreams were wrought with pain and beauty; they were melancholy and stupendous, and thus, dreadfully beautiful. What was worse is that they were “in time”- that is, they were both iniquitous and impermanent, treading 3
  10. softly on a path not divulged, round and round forever.

    Time was a quag- mire, some hell-pit of dark fluid into which memories were submerged, and, after thrashing about like a fish, fell into a deathly torpor. It was not to say that my memories were inaccessible, but that I had never discovered them; I had never been led to them. But on this early morning, I felt a godly inclination to rise. I got dressed, had myself a coffee and half a grapefruit, and left the Hotel. Immediately, as I began to meander around the city, I was aroused by the quietude and beauty of somnolent Venice that was illus- trated in muted tones of blue and silver. I then came across a lagoon-harbor, in the same tones of blue and silver; a dominant, refreshing tranquility was spread coolly and softly before my sleepy eyes. Five boats- four fish-boats and one larger vessel- sat on the water in the foreground and the background, with the sea the same color as the sky. From one end of the horizon to the other, spanned a grey bridge. So much peace, so much strength resided in the vision…far across the lagoon, lights flickered and I began to think infinite thoughts. Then, of a sudden, a note appeared, far off in the distance, multiplying rapidly, flurrying over the bridge. The unheard music disturbed and pleased me, carried me, and caressed me. I thought of the past. What was the past- but a sequential fragment, until now, when- I saw something lighted, soft and golden, far away? This was rediscovered memory; pleasure at having recaptured a universe once lost, then, like the bridge-phrase of music, led me gently to a place at once more grand and more minute that any place I could comprehend. But something about this lyrical bridge struck me. Alas! It seemed to be a simple notion of music in time. There, across the waters, was a bridge from the lands of the past, over the waters of the present, to the lands of the future. In this way, the music caused me to know eternity. Is not the eternity found in music, or art, the only eternity that we shall ever hope to find? Is it not a consonant eternity, brimming with a simple glad- ness culminating in sublimity, leading from itself to itself, aqueous and gold- en, like a pool of golden tears? My dark dreams suddenly melted away to reveal a shining core, of revelatory imagination, light, beauty, and freedom. I wept for discovery and illumination. I thought only of eternity. 4
  11. I’m not a weed by Maddie Weiland I was a

    leaf once attached to a tree now torn from the fingers of a little kid who wanted to feel the texture of my back hear the crackly sounds I make between their thumb’s friction. I. me. my pieces were then scattered beneath the tree My trunk. I was crushed like pepper not able to taste the spice, fragrance, of an autumn that once was a texture of straw the color of plum ruby green. For I was plucked off by a pinch that detached my steam, littered my body like debris. Watching from the ground I saw the thumb reaching for another, another leaf- one that saw me torn, spiral down- that grieved, cried, “Don’t pluck me. I’m not a weed.” 6
  12. if you were a butterfly or a sloth or a

    water chestnut or a mere anemone would you fly away if willing? if you were an apple or an orange or a peach or a pair of jeans would you drift away, god willing? if you were a rattlesnake or a panther or a panda or a paper towel on a plate would you escape to a different land, if you could just take a break? would you fly high jump low leap steady Crawl away? Before eating your first slice of cake? What if I told you the world was flat How would you change? Would you change? would you Reproduce Metamorphasize Negotiate Put something new on your plate? Butterflies fly, but they seldom all fly away. Apples fall, Silly Human by Maddie Weiland 7
  13. but they noted do not drift. And rattlesnakes bite, yes,

    fearsome they do, but they do not evaporate and whisk their wands’ in proof. Silly humans need not bother understanding it all (life, species, objects too), but give them a plate and a towel two and another will appear with a wand and a spoon. Unexpected, I’d take? Silly human, anything’s possible. What started as one, always became too. 8
  14. A Plebeian Outing by Nick Rittenhouse A train passes, Carting

    an abundance of countryman. Why be so crass? They do what minimizes their sin. Fit for a king, you are. Passive when serious, Plaintive when curious. You elegantly exit the car. Dismissive, you approach the grass. I struggle for a realizable grasp. “For whom were the stars created?” She stops, turns to me, infuriated, “You’re joking, right?” Atop a blanket we sprawl, Carelessly reaching for a higher plane, We, among the ants, crawl, Toward some meaning, something to placate. I grasp the softness, The subtle pleasantry of your face. I whimper when I think of the chase, Of actions that mattered far less. With a furtive shift of your leaning, You reveal a concession misaligned. 10
  15. Drawing* by Daniel Zalla *This drawing is intended to be

    horizontal, not vertical. It had to be formatted to fit the page. 11
  16. Maybe I can be a sunflower by Maddie Weiland maybe

    I can be a sunflower I stand alone now what’s different from human to Flower? maybe I can be a sunflower because I don’t want to fall and shrink up and cave in and shrivel like those little petals of little flowers like the challenge little people with feeble wings face maybe I can be a sunflower because I like independence because I like freedom because I like the idea of a new place with open space and air that’s breathable and makes you want to swallow each sip with a fervor that so powerfully mimics grace somewhere nurturing somewhere safe maybe I can be a sunflower because sunflowers are beautiful and strong with a core that defies human strength and I like beauty, soft face maybe I can be a sunflower because sunflowers yield seeds and I like that mere dandelion wishes 12
  17. can be dreamed and achieved upon a simple seed and

    run sufficiently just me maybe I can be a sunflower because I choose to be something everyone secretly whispers to behind my big green thick leaves and admires and doesn’t pluck at to waste maybe I can be a sunflower because choosing defiance doesn’t mean choosing an escape but choosing opportunity to grow bud bloom with grace. 13
  18. The 4th of September by Valiant Freeman As you looked

    into the vault of heaven, The fireworks exploded upon the evening sky. And your eyes spoke of pure amazement. I stood before you, Admiring every move you would make. From the way you would smile To the way your honey filled voice Called my name… The image of your lilac skin, Illuminated by the burstful illustrations, Before the moon possessed heaven Has become permanently carved into my mind. On this day, deep within my chest My forgotten heart awoken From its frigid chambers. To the warm embrace Of a possibility, when you looked upon my face… -V 16
  19. Karkinos by Jax Benson In the ocean by the sea

    Where my family ventured And I have gone since age three Like a servant, indentured I am never free For I must always hearken To the call of the wild sea. Yes, in the ocean by the sea Where storms crash across the shore and winds blow wild and free clouds clash silver against the sky I will always be For I am beholden To the storm and to the sea. I saw a crab in the sea And caught it in my nets It thrashed against me And tried to cut my net As the waves crashed in the sea I looked in its eyes And saw what I must be. I saw the crab and the crab saw me As the waves broke against the shore And the cold spray splashed And dark waves crashed We saw what we would be As we were part of the ocean The ocean by the sea. I set my fellow traveler Free within the waves For we are both revelers 18
  20. Who live within our graves and world-weary travelers hope our

    souls to save A scavenger I must be And so I sing my life away In raucous cacophony For I am of the ocean And the ocean is part of me And so I know I’m safe In the wild, waking sea. Photo by Ammar Khan 19
  21. Thesis Problems by David Nussman My endless end-notes trickle down

    for years on end. To colleagues one and all I wish thus to extend A slight exaggeration of my haughty head, And pad my pages with abundant books unread. 20
  22. Home by Anna Shapiro I’ve almost grown to love the

    chunk of banister missing on the stair way. It leaves more room for me to place my shoes, which line the long entrance hallway on either side like wedding guests watching in awe as I stride from the front door to the kitchen. Sometimes, in the early morning, when I crawl down the stairs from my bedroom to fetch a glass of water, I think of what my shoes might be thinking about me as I walk pantless and disori- ented toward the fridge. We keep the filtered water in a Brita filter next to the “Light” 50 calorie vanilla almond milk that my roommate and I agreed upon. “Why can’t we buy the unsweetened? It only has thirty calories….” I whine every time we go to the grocery store. “It tastes like shit” Stuart always responds. It does. Stuart and I met when a mutual friend introduced us four years ago. She warned him that my frequent rehab stints had left me with the title of a “bad seed” in the local Jewish community. But Stuart isn’t Jewish and I was sober that year. Stuart had never seen me dead-eyed and abscess armed so he wasn’t afraid like everyone else seemed to be. When New Year’s Eve rolled around he invited me to see a film. Who knew what kind of relation- ship might be sparked by a Nelson Mandela Biopic. It all seemed innocent at fist, “That was a long movie” I said. “But very well done!” He responded. Shit. Was it? I thought to myself that he must be some sort of film expert. Maybe I could dazzle him with some history knowledge. “The continent of Africa has a fascinating history,” I said, “Do you know how they drew up the lines of the countries?” “Mhmm, interesting country indeed.” He agreed. I stared at him for what felt like a long while. “Oops, it’s not a country, it’s a continent.” We laughed hardily about our shortcomings, the very shortcomings that hold us togeth- er today. We were fast friends. In February of this year we finally got out of our parents homes after telling each other for months that we were too old to be living with our parents. We wanted to start a life, an adult life, togeth- er. I like to watch my bare feet on the hardwood floors. My outgrown pedicure with chipped polish and overgrown toenails. Our house was built in 1896 and the hardwood floors are original. When I step I like to imagine 21
  23. the many feet that stepped on the floors before me.

    I like to imagine Stuart steaming the hardwood floors in a fit of untreated OCD at one in the morning while I lie in bed asleep. Sometimes when I’m home alone I lie on the hardwood floor and try to feel the history in my bones. I think back to my old apartment, where I lived when I was 19 before moving back home thanks to panic attacks and the idea I could not shake that there were ghosts everywhere, and the fear that I would die in my sleep and no one would find me. There was the grey carpet that I never vacuumed. It would grow so full of crumbs and clothing tags that my mother would sneak in when I was at school and vacuum for me. Now my house is spotless (no thanks to me) other than the piles of books and articles and notebooks seen only in the homes of the most disorganized english majors. Did I forget the details? The layout? Does it matter? All you really need to know is that there are two bedrooms and two baths. That Stuart keeps his electric toothbrush in the upstairs bathroom next to his organic skin care products. That I keep my bargain value pack toothbrush in the downstairs bathroom next to a tube of mascara that I always forget to wear. That even when I do my makeup, I can still barely remember to brush my teeth. That Stuart’s room is clean and beautiful with photos and maps adorning the walls and a floral bed spread and accent pillows. That my room is dark with black bed sheets nailed over the windows and a wall of black and white prints of vintage shots of nude women. Stuart ordered me a rug because he couldn’t stand the dullness. Stuart ordered me a tapestry because he couldn’t stand the bare walls. Stuart hung my collection of vin- tage hats because he said my room needed some color. It didn’t really make a difference because most of my hats are black. I like it that way. If it were up to me we would paint all the accents black. If it were up to me the house would be filled with taxidermy and bugs in shadowbox- es. Stuart likes prints. He hung a curtain over the kitchen window that still makes my skin crawl when I catch a glimpse of the ornate floral pattern. We agreed that he could decorate if I got one room to myself. So he took over. So the kitchen plates match the color scheme of the kitchen rags match the color scheme of the potholders match the color scheme of the pillow that Stuart insisted on placing on what an optimist might refer to as a bay window. I tend to refer to it as a place to put my backpack and cigarettes. The living room rug clashes with the couch pillows which clash with the blanket folded neatly on the couch within which I curl up every morning when I wake up in what is really the middle of the night and 22
  24. sprawl across the couch and watch hulu. Right now I

    am caught up on the Mindy project because I want to see myself in Mindy Kaling’s character, but all that stares back at me is the effect that my self confidence is a mere shadow. Now I alternate between old episodes of Will and Grace, because everyone says Stuart and I are just like Will and Grace, and switching over to Netflix to watch Grace and Frankie, because at least I can pretend that Stuart and I are not just like them (but we are). Other mornings I lie in the dark and play track seven of the Decemberists album “The King is Dead” on repeat for two hours before finally turning on the light and starting my homework. And so Stuart has taken over the house with patterned rugs and shower curtains that make my skin crawl. And so the front room is all mine. This is the disaster. The piles of papers and highlighters, books and scraps of unfinished poetry. This is where I keep my things. Lists are often boring, people tend to skim over lists, but I urge you that this one is not to be ignored. On the shelves and the mantle are my vintage cameras, my frog in a jar, my antique poison bottles, my sealed case of sodium pentathol otherwise known as truth serum, my 1895 quack doctor electro shock therapy machine, my slice of human brain in a jar, and a small jar filled with a large kidney stone that the man who owns the oddities shop in Loveland gave me as a flirtatious birthday gift before realizing that I am half his age. These things don’t make me uncomfortable the way that Stuart’s patterns do. These things make my house a home. I should probably mention that despite the fact that I hate patterns and trying to find a specific article of black clothing is nearly impossible because everything I own seems to be black, I don’t hate colors. The white walls of the front room and the living room are covered in posters that I provided (Do not skim the lists!): Miles Davis crooning, Sid and Nancy locked in arms, a Picasso distortion of the ladies of Avignon, Botticelli’s venus, Bosch’s garden, that Ingre painting of the woman with a few extra vertebrae in her spine, and to keep in touch with my German roots, a Han- nah Hoch dadaist collage that I nabbed from a museum gift shop in Berlin. Stuart wouldn’t let me hang the Kirchner because the colors were too bright and the bodies were too distorted and he simply isn’t a fan of German Expressionism. Stuart wouldn’t let me hang the Vermeer because he said it was too boring. Stuart wouldn’t let me hang the poster of the cast of House MD because he said that the show had ended long ago and I need to move on. I pointed out to him that our matching tattoos, greyscale and beating 23
  25. anatomical hearts, were a direct reference to the show. He

    has always been the Wilson to my house, which means that he has always been the Watson to my Sherlock, which means that he has always been the voice of reason to my misanthropic misery. “But the edges of the poster are so torn.” He insisted. “But I love you.” I responded. “What does that have to to do with it?” “You complete me.” “You’re insane.” “That’s the point.” I often tell stuart that any house would feel like home with him liv- ing with me. My childhood home feels like home, too, but with an impend- ing threat. Raise my voice and my medication was adjusted. Talk back and someone would call my therapist. Now I’m an adult. Now I call my own therapist. Sometimes I hate hate the burden of having to tell on myself. When I tell stuart I’ve taken too many sleeping pills, “Not enough to kill me, don’t worry, just enough that I won’t dream to- night” Stuart grabs me, “I love you and I will see you in the morning.” He kisses me one the fore- head. No one calls 911, no one overreacts. I have space to make my own mistakes. It is a freedom I have never known. We drink coffee together in the mornings, K cups of french roast that I order on my parents’ amazon account. Stuart puts cinnamon and creamer in his coffee. I add the slightest dash of 50 calorie light vanilla almond milk. Sometimes we forget that it could never work. Nestled on the couch with my head in his lap we forget that we are both gay (or as I like to say, I am 30% straight and 70% lesbian) and we talk about baby names and which countries we want to adopt our children from. “I’m so bad at doing hair, we should adopt an asian baby so I don’t have to fuss over it. They have such nice hair.” I laugh. “You sound like a raging racist” he laughs back. “Look at me! I can’t even take care of my own hair!” “It might help if you showered more often.” “It might help if you saw a psychiatrist about your OCD and weren’t so obsessed with cleanliness.” “You still need to shower.” “Whatever.” I honestly shouldn’t complain about Stuart’s obsession with clean- 24
  26. liness. Stuart takes out the trash, Stuart does the dishes,

    Stuart mops the floors. All that Stuart asks of me is that I put my copious cans of diet coke and sugar free red bull in the recycling. I never do. I tell him that I like to see how much i’ve had in one day because it makes me feel accomplished. He tells me that that is a problem. Sometimes Stuart and I sit on the back porch flicking cigarette butts into flower pots. I whine that they will never finish painting, that we still don’t have smoke detectors, that the garbage disposal makes a funny sound. He tells me that I should try eating my dinner instead of putting it down the garbage disposal.He tells me that we are just lucky that we aren’t living with our parents anymore. He tells me that soon we will both grad- uate college much later than we should have and we will be like real adults with a house and a rent that we pay without the help of our parents. He tells me the landlord will finish painting soon. I tell him that I never want the landlord to finish painting. I tell him that I never want smoke detectors, or for anyone to fix our banister. I tell him that I was wrong, that I must have a peter pan complex. That I never want to grow up. That I want it to be the two of us for eternity. Photo by Jeff Richardson 25
  27. A Guest by Katie Nichols It was 2 am when

    the knocking came. A quiet tap, tap, tap. Pause. Maybe just the wind? A loose panel hitting the door? Then louder. Thump, thump, thump. Forcing its way into the crevices of my mind. “Answer me” No. Another pause. SMACK, SMACK, SMACK. The aggressor was unforgiving, but so was I. Lying in bed I refused to accept the pleading at the door. A longer gap this time. Finally the antics must be over. A wave of peace soaked me, drenched me to my core. Until I heard a key. I stirred, cautiously creeping to the door. Waiting, lingering, expecting – what? The knob turned and I braced. I saw his face, 26
  28. which was not a face, but a reflection, a pastel

    image, of everything he had dared to be. I met his eyes and I held them, so that I carried all of his secrets in me. The weight was so unbearable I had to drop my gaze. I couldn’t question him with my words, couldn’t remember how. He must have known. He answered anyway. “I heard what’s been going on,” he said. Why wouldn’t he try the key first? “I wanted to give you a chance to let me in.” Ha. Darkness lingered around him and my head twirled. “I came to help.” I sat down. Right there on the floor, I took a seat. He crouched near me and I swear I could feel my spirit being consumed. “I know I’m not welcome here, after…” His lips were crying but his eyes placid. “Word gets around. I know there’s been trouble.” My legs melted into the floor. I knew I would never stand again. 27
  29. “Do you hear what I’m saying?” I fumbled. Please go

    away, just leave me be. I promise I’m ok, really. Please don’t come back here. I’m not equipped to handle it. Everything will be better once you go. Please. Please go. His darkness was pulsating now. The mirror which was his face reflected something grotesque, morbid. His eyes pierced mine and I went helplessly blind. Somehow he sensed my paralysis. He scooped me off the floor, a move I found my body unwilling to object. He carried me through the familiar house and dropped me on the bed. I was seized by a recognizable fear. But he did not push. He left me in the stillness where his darkness hung like a cloak. I listened for a closing door but I only heard knocking. 28
  30. THE THINGS YOU TOLD ME by Anna Shapiro you told

    me I looked incomplete freezing half carved missing teeth and fingertips gangrene said you would paint me like a canvas complete the shading let the colors bleed you told me I looked broken cracked ice bones astray and grinding with each step that I take said I sounded out of tune said you would tighten the strings strum me me and make music you told me to stop apologizing said my hips do not scream sorry they scream shiver said you would stifle my mouth with turpentine rags you told me I looked like somebody standing tall among the ruins and chiseled to perfection cold to the touch reeking of your blood and a faint scent of formaldehyde you told me I looked like somebody worth loving freezing I said it must be the hypothermia speaking “This cold night will turn us all to fools and madmen” And you cold night shivering fool raving lunatic 30
  31. Prostitot by Carly Johnson When I look down my street

    corner I see cherry red lipstick, growing pains, and prepubescent breasts Peeking out of an all too see through tank top “-It’s her choice to be there. -Girls like sex too. -She can get out whenever she wants too. -She’s just a whore. -A prostitot. You know, a prostitute, But like young, not all used up yet.” But she is eleven. That “prostitot” is supposed to be selling ice cold homemade lemonade for 25 cents a cup, but instead she’s on that street corner every night selling her body over beverages. She’s selling her youth. Pillow fights and late night giggles over who the current crush of the week is In exchange for games of hide and seek where she refuses to be found Where playing tag is a game of who can outrun their pimp When ghost in the graveyard refers to confronting old demons and narrow escapes The king of her castle is a sociopath with a God complex bigger than the moat surrounding the walls created to keep her within Rather than to keep others out. She is a living breathing corpse. Dull eyes, bare limbs, pale skin 31
  32. It’s interesting that prostitution is illegal But necrophilia seems to

    be overlooked in her case And do not tell me that she is living. Because there is a difference between surviving and thriving. She’s selling an empty carcass to any John vain enough to think he can fill that entire void with one single piece of anatomy. She lives in a world where a pimp’s five digit extension is supreme law, And her self-worth is tethered to the amount of revenue she brings in. She is slavery with an ageless face. She is the cycle of countless perforated childhood dreams thriving inside dirty hotel rooms and dimly lit dashboards Eternally trapped in the tarnished remnants of an innocent youth stolen. 32
  33. Boys by Molly Grothaus “He has nothing, but he looks

    everything.” – The Importance of Being Ernest. Act 3, Scene 2 Max Simmons. Five foot eleven. 162 pounds. Auburn hair. Green eyes. Small hands, wide stance. Second Lieutenant of the 131st Infantry of the United States Army. Vietnam, 1969. Lieutenant Simmons’ title rang with fluidity. It was almost like he was born to lead a squadron into battle. If someone said the word “soldier,” Maxwell Simmons would come to mind. He was the spitting image of glory and patriotism. Every man in his platoon idolized him. He was charming and charismatic. Everyone seemed to like him. No, sorry, I’m wrong. Every- one loved him. He was good–exceptionally good–at his job. Simmons had successfully commanded our platoon for the past eight months and we passed through easily with just a few bruises and scrapes. Lt. Simmons knew exactly what to say and he always kept a positive attitude with the guys. No one ever doubted him. He had a way of holding himself; shoulders back, head high, feet set apart, and gaze straight forward. There was either always a smile or deadpanned determination on his face. I noticed that his uniform was kept in pristine condition–no wrinkles, no dirt. He was always combat ready. It was early November. I received the letter in February that I was being deployed to Saigon, just two days after my eighteenth birthday. My mother wept that entire week, crying out, “My boy! My boy!” every time I walked by. When I first joined the 131st Infantry, Lt. Simmons was the first to greet me. I remember him clasping one hand around mine, the other handing me a pistol. “You’re a man now, son,” he said. I admired Simmons since that day. He was the real deal. Being the youngest in the platoon, I was usually the butt of the joke. The lieutenant took a liking to me from day one which I never understood. He’d always put his arm around me and smile. I looked up to him more than I do my old man. Every morning at the crack of dawn the lieutenant was awake. He was the last to sleep and the first to wake. I never slept well. My back would hurt and I’d always end up staring at the night stars, wishing I was home. It was one of those nights where I couldn’t sleep that I woke up around 34
  34. the same time that the lieutenant did. It turned into

    one of those mornings where pink and purple fingers spread across the sky, pulling the clouds apart. I became fixated on Simmons sitting not too far from me. He was cleaning his assault rifle with an old rag. I never noticed how tiny his hands looked compare to his weapon. “Corporal! What’re you staring at?” The lieutenant’s words made me jump in my skin. I had been ob- serving him clean his assault weapon for the past fifteen minutes before the rest of the squad woke up. I sat up against the base of the tree behind me and drew my knees into my chest, my helmet teetering off to the side of my head. I glanced away briefly. “Nothing, sir.” I muttered under my breath, embarrassed. “Just enjoying the morning sky.” Simmons smirked, polishing his gun. “You’re always staring up at that damn sky.” “Yes, sir,” fixing my helmet. “It makes me think of a painting.” Lt. Simmons laid his gun across his knees and directed his attention to the skyline. “I suppose it does.” He took off his hunter green helmet and slicked back his hair. The pastel colors of the sky were reflected in his irises. He paused for a moment. “Wanna know something, Corporal? Back in Ida- ho, I’d wake up every morning right when the colors came out and I would play my piano.” “You played piano?” I asked, intrigued. He chuckled softly to himself. “Drove my mother nuts. She would always threaten to take that damn piano away from me. The funny thing is, three of the keys were broken and it was outta tune.” Simmons continued to clean his gun, a reminiscent smile on his lips. “My mother promised to buy me a new one on my birthday.” I nodded at the ground, listening to his story. A couple soldiers stirred in their sleep. One of them rolled onto his side and started listening. Our lieu- tenant rubbed the barrel of his gun with his rag, his minute hands carefully admiring his firearm. “My grandmother always told me that I had hands that looked like they were meant to play the piano. She was the one who gave me that piano. It was so old and outta tune but I loved it. Whenever I think of my child- hood, I can only think of the countless hours of practice and rehearsals I had every morning before everyone woke up.” 35
  35. By this point, everyone had woken up and was listening

    intently to his story. That is what was so magical about him–he had the ability to draw people in. Amidst a crowd of people, Lieutenant Simmons was always the one talking. “My grandmother would make me practice until my hands hurt,” he stopped cleaning his rifle and wrung his hands. It almost appeared as if he was massaging the rawness from his hands after years and years of prac- tice. Simmons smiled for a moment, his eyes glistening from the memories of his childhood. We looked around at each other, smiling about this shared experience. Sometimes you just need to talk about the past to forget about the present. The colors in the sky became brighter. They became so bright that I had to look away from its beauty. It sounded like fireworks. Everything happened so fast that I didn’t even have time to react to what was going on. Simmons started screaming orders at us. “Everyone fall in line!” We went into autopilot. We grabbed our weapons, strapped our helmets on, and bolted into the debris of the jungle around us. Fire poured from the heavens like steamy raindrops. Everything was orange and bright. The sound of guns and empty shells cascaded around us, creating a sym- phony of chaos. Simmons barked orders. The barrage of bullets was impenetrable. The trees were thick and hard to navigate around. The enemy was invisible. There was fire everywhere. My eyes stung from all the smoke, filling my nostrils with every breath. After what felt like an eternity, it stopped. I could feel my heart rac- ing, the adrenaline pumping through my veins. I knew by the sweat beading on my furrowed brow that this wasn’t over. Lieutenant Simmons wiped his forehead as the smoke started to clear. We all looked around at each other before a second wave of firing began. “Take them out!” Simmons screamed at the top of his lungs, firing his weapon in every direction. I thought my heart was going to burst out of my chest. In all the commotion, I realized I couldn’t see anything. The smoke, the trees, the stress–it was all too thick. My head began to whirl until it focused on Simmons. He was standing in the middle of the terror, the chaos, as if he was a lost boy. For the first time in these past eight months, his green eyes were wide with fear. He looked like he didn’t know what to do. Neither of us could see anything past the vortex of smoke. I blinked a couple of times as my vision started to become obscured. Somebody 36
  36. yelled in the distance but I couldn’t hear him. I

    was focused on the boy now standing in Simmons’ place. Right before the grenade went off, he looked at me with terror. “Lieutenant!” someone shoved past me and huddled onto the ground. I staggered around for a minute, trying to regain my vision and my balance. The smoke slowly dissipated and soon everyone gathered around our fallen leader. A bloody wound crossed from his hip to his stomach. He was cradling what was left of his hand against his chest, crying out in obvious pain. I looked around at everyone’s faces; everyone shocked just as much as me. “He’s going to lose his hand,” one of the medics whispered as he grabbed gauze and morphine. The entire platoon looked at each other, simultaneously thinking about the stories of his piano from this morning. All of a sudden, the lieutenant started to cry. Everyone paused and stared at our sobbing leader. His usual look of determination was replaced with fear and his eyes darted everywhere but our faces. Nobody moved, no- body breathed. It wasn’t the sight of the wounds that frightened us–it was the tears. It wasn’t until that moment that we realized he was vulnerable. He wasn’t the immortal figure everyone thought he was. We all stared. Max’s eyes were moist and glistening with fear. I glanced around at the boys beside me and realized that Max was just a kid – he was 22 – he was still a boy. We were all just kids who grew up way too fast. Max grabbed my shoulder with his good hand as he was lifted onto a make-shift stretch- er, tears gushing down his face like a waterfall. His gaze switched from his injured hand to my face. “Today’s my birthday,” he whispered. 37
  37. I Am African* by Willy Manneh *This piece was originally

    spoken word and should be read as such. I Am African I have always worn an American disguise But it’s crazy people always seem to tell me I look like an African And the times I really had the guts to tell them “I am one” they had trouble believing me When you think of Africans you think of rebels You see, ignorance is a common disease that a lot of people refuse to get cured from so when I tell you that we are not all the same and you still just so happen to label me as a rebel I will respond back with “I am one because I am fighting against stereo- types that just don’t know when to stop.” Being an African has always been a joke an And I remember all of the times that I was too weak to stand up and em- brace it So, I found myself being distant from my heritage like a free man’s wrist and a bracelet It is like I was Miley Cyrus living in the best of both worlds But because of my insecurities I lacked interest in my African side So Kente cloths and Dashikis were never a part of my attire I never liked writing nor telling my middle name but by the way It is Blessing And other than my family I never told anyone what I ate at home Even if they asked, but if you ask me now I would tell you that African foods are the best things in the world and I wish I knew how to make them I left Africa when I was four Maybe five I have a good memory but I just can’t seem to remember because I’ve been taking trips through negativity and it has been a very long ride My father He found us a new home and introduced us to America, where we have to learn history or should I say her-story? And I never once thought of going back to Mother Africa which make sit crazy how I know more about my stepmother’s background than my moth- erland I remember crying when I was leaving but all of those tears I shed were for 39
  38. nothing because when I got here I never once picked

    up the phone to call But you can’t blame me though, I was young But I do blame myself because I grew up lacking knowledge of simple facts about where I originated because I never asked And it’s crazy one I always do is ask questions Sometimes I think I hear my mother’s family back home calling me “Bless- ing, don’t forget us oh” “Make sure you come back to see us oh” Or maybe it’s just my conscience reminding me that I’m guilty Like all of the times I sat in a room puzzled meanwhile my family was speaking something other than English Yes, I am guilty! Es loco, sé más español que el dialecto de mi familia It’s crazy, I know more Spanish than my family’s dialect I’m growing up so I rarely use my disguise anymore So, when they say that my lips are too big to hide the African in me I’ll take that as a compliment Because at least I can still be described by what I really am An African. 40
  39. Daily News by Valiant Freeman Listen to our bleeding words

    Being spoken through the streets. Got our mothers screaming out, “Lord may he rest in peace!” Another black child lost within the pavement. As their soul becomes wrapped Around a bullet shell, While the earth becomes their cocoon. All this occurs while I watch the Nightly news. -V 41