limited editions - Community College of Philadelphia

LIMITED EDITIONS
2012
Community 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:
• Manuscripts must be typed and sent as Word attachments via email.
• Include name, email address, and phone number with each submission. • Please retain copies of submitted manuscripts because they may not be returned.
Submit to:
Julie Odell
Limited Editions Faculty Advisor
Community College of Philadelphia
1700 Spring Garden Street
Philadelphia, PA 19130
(215) 751-8658
[email protected]
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
Amberly Mendez
Erica Watson
We would also like to thank Gary Grissom of the Office of Marketing and Communications
for his time and effort spent converting this issue to printer’s format.
Also, we would like to thank Art Danek and Anthony Wychunis from Photographic Imaging
for their dedication and hard work in preparing these photographs for publication.
Thanks also to the Office of Student Activities for their continued support of this publication. Steven Aicholtz, Frank Torres and Allen Farrington from Business Services are responsible for printing this issue—thank you. Final thanks go to all the students who submitted
work for this issue and the wonderful Creative Writing and Photographic Imagining faculty
here at the College who encourage and nurture our student writers and photographers.
Limited Editions is sponsored by
The Office of Student Life
Community College of Philadelphia
Limited Editions 2012
Contents
Photograph by Sabrina De Jesus
cover
Photograph by Denise Turner
24
Photograph by Eleonora Antsis
2
Photograph by Charlene Brown
25
Poem by Linda Schiavo
3
Photograph by R.C. Watson
26
Photograph by Jhamiel Robinson
4
Story by Jonathan Francesco
27
Prose by Carolyn J. Terry
5
Photograph by Ed Yancer
31
Photograph by Alfred Walker 6
Photograph by Joseph Shane
32
Photograph by Audrey Kolyada
8
Story by Andrew Ly 33
Photograph by Lois Nelson
10
Photograph by Jennifer Tran
36
Photograph by Justin Lambert
12
Poem by Ashley Rivera
37
Photograph by Sam Spies
14
Photograph by Socheath Sun
38
Poem by Lisa Jennifer L. Kirby
15
Poem by Christian Fiorenza
39
Photograph by Matt Bergey
16
Photograph by Jennifer Kaminski
40
Poem by Nodira Nigay
17
Story by Marquita Hamilton
41
Photograph by Kate Efimova
18
Photograph by Tyrone Marquez
46
Story by Oscar Decker
19
Poem by Wade Sutton
47
Photograph by Zelda Santos
20
Poem by Anna Rauth
48
Photograph by Wanda Fernandez
21
Photograph by Rosa Sanchez
inside back cover
Photograph by Benson Zhang
22
Poem by Thomas Kronbar
23
Photograph by Shahira Ibrahim
back cover
Eleonora Antsis
2
Old Friend
Linda Schiavo
It’s been a while since I’ve walked your trails
I can smell autumn coming on
The air has that distinctive smell
Your exclusive special scent,
That can’t be bottled.
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.
And curse when I fall,
While you laugh at me.
I miss the serene silence of your woods
The lonely white birches,
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
Crackling conversation between ember and air
The sound of warmth.
The spicy smell of burning wood.
Wrapped in a blanket under the stars.
Just you and me.
And we sit,
Together,
Watching serpents of smoke,
Writhe their way to heaven,
And talk some more.
3
Jhamiel Robinson
Kerri Thomas
4
Perchance To Sleep
Carolyn J. Terry
It wasn’t always this way, not being able to close
my eyes after waking up in the darkest part of the
morning. I used to be able to let the day fall away like
the shedding of ill-fitting skin. When I was younger,
much younger, I didn’t wrestle around in bed searching
for slumber because it came without summons. Late
nights were a treat, a gift for finishing a long week of
study, chores, helping my younger sibs and staying out
of grown folks’ way. Back then, I had nowhere to be
and nothing to do but watch movies or cram my nose
deep into some book from the library. Things surely
have changed.
At 40-something, being awake after midnight
has lost its joy. Now bedtime is a game of clock watching and cussing frustration as I count how many hours
that I have left before I have to get in the shower and
get ready for work. Two of my coworkers are the same
age as I am and have the same issue. Considering our
shared symptoms of wakefulness at the wrong time and
reading material with fonts that seem to have mysteriously shrunk, they’ve deduced that we’re on target for
women approaching the half-century mark. Not only
that, but my sisters-in-aging believe that our penchant
for nights might be a sign that the wonder years of
menopause are fast approaching.
Personally, I don’t buy the lore of estrogen dementia or accept that my increased propensity toward
nighttime creeping has anything to do with getting
older or being eggless. There had to be more to why
my eyelids slid open without having to refocus in the
blackness of 4 AM, no matter how zonked out I was
when my head hit the cushions. When I did happen
to fall upon sleep, why was I so calm when I awoke and
saw that the clock read the same as it had the night before or that the night extended further before me than
behind? Up until now, the only pattern that I noticed
was that I stayed up more often, unintentionally of
course, when the weather transitioned from the energy
sapping humidity of a Philadelphia summer to the leaf baring breeziness of its fall. For peace sake, I learned to accept
my insomnia as just another me-ism, but this episode felt
different, and the same.
On this particular evening, the coolness of the air
drives away the sun, and I resist, at least that’s how I feel. By the time I leave work, headlights and street lamps burn
fully. With no heat emanating from the beams of light,
the breeze chills the flesh of my nearly bald head as I trek
south. Oblivious to the horn that blares a half-second
warning as its tires skirt by the curb, I step into the street
and swerve around its rear fender.
“The light’s green, bastard,” I scream and continue
across 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
walk toward City Hall. Instead of going straight, I turn
up the steps to the Municipal Building, weaving past the
litter of chess pieces, bingo chips, and domino blocks big
enough for Jack to play with in his beanstalk. Remembering where I am, I scan passersby for inclinations toward
nutdom without breaking my stride. Satisfied that my
pathway is free, I make my way past the bronze likeness
of Mayor Rizzo, wondering for the umpteenth time why
Philadelphia chose to honor a man who reigned by police
rule. I cross JFK Boulevard and escape a Yellow cab swipe
in time to dive down the metal steps and catch my train,
which lves in five minutes.
Seated for the twenty-minute ride home, I drop my
butt in the first seat, right behind the door, and allow the
jerky motion of the train to lull my eyes closed, but not my
ears. When I arrive at my stop, I begin to climb the stairs. Eyeing the rusty railing for support, I reject the impulse
to grab hold of it and hoist myself up each step because
microbes are not my friend, and fungus rate no better. Instead, I concentrate on stretching my breath out evenly
with each lift of my leg. At the final landing, I take a deep
breath and drag my right hand across my face to stem the
5
Alfred Walker
6
at the clock every ten minutes until I could no longer
delay the inevitable. Moaning, I showered, dressed and
shuffled the block to my bus stop. Tonight, though,
my irritation wanes along with my stamina. Instead of
thrashing about and sighing like a disgusted teen, I just
lie on my back and stare at the ceiling. There is nothing more to clean, anyway.
Going over the past week, I can’t think of anything nerve racking enough to stop me from conking
out at the end of each day. My coworker called off
two days in a row, leaving me to take up her duties
and push my projects a week past their due date. My
family didn’t release any firebombs of sickness, death
or other mayhem that would break my heart and send
me reeling. However, my manager did have one of his
“I want perfection” days, which made me roll my eyes
and double my trips to the office in back where I could
cuss openly. For me, it was a normal week of irking
idiocy. In as much as I wanted to be free to be dead to
the world for a solid eight hours, I was more concerned
that I’d repeat these nights of sleeplessness over and
over like a warped version of Groundhog Day.
After a few nights of mini naps, my eyes settle
deeper into my head, but I learn to adapt. As soon as I
punch in, I start my caffeine IV early and often enough
to be sufficiently productive, but I feel like a zombie
by closing time. Then, the cycle begins again. I walk
to my train, get inside my apartment and succumb to
something akin to sleep, like a power nap that ends
way too early. This time, I skip dinner, flop onto the
sofa without bothering to undress and arrange myself
in my sweet sleep spot--on my right side with my knees
tight against my belly. Before I register a change in
consciousness, I’m gone. Waking up in the dark, I’m
grateful to have snagged a few hours of soundless sleep,
but at what cost, as the day is longer before me than
behind?
Instead of working myself into a ragged weariness, I eat a sandwich, my late night go-to meal, and
turn on my laptop. Logging on, I have nothing in
mind, but Facebook is where I usually go when I
need to vent, even when I have nothing about which
to bitch. Not surprised that there are no other green
dots lit in the chat field, I troll my friends’ walls to see
feel of little animals biting my skin from all the caffeine
I drank.
Ten minutes later, I’m inside my apartment
bolting the door. Before I clear the rug protecting the
hardwood floors of the entryway, I kick my shoes off
and begin to unzip, unbutton and unbelt things bound
too long to my skin. In mid strip, I click on the television and sit down on the sofa to pull my pants all the
way off, without disturbing my socks too much. Sighing, I throw the garments to the floor and stare at the
Entertainment Tonight hosts as they shovel some celeb’s
business out there for the world to judge. Not really
hearing the who, what or where, I search for something
to eat that requires nothing but a condiment on it and
a paper towel to hold it. Back in front of the television,
I fill my belly and wait for my Thursday night line up
to begin, but I’m already buckling under the weight
of sleep deprivation. Desperately needing to feed my
Grey’s addiction, I struggle to distract myself from being deaf to everything, but I see nothing until I wake
up a few hours later. So ends another night of sleepless.
Thankfully, it wasn’t one of those days where I
was up for 24 hours with no hint of being closer to the
semi-comatose state that I craved. Only eighteen hours
had elapsed before I passed out and rose again, seemingly well rested. More out of habit than curiosity, I
look behind me to read the orange glow of the digital
clock. Sighing heavily, I guess that I faded to black
after the opening credits of Grey’s, four hours ago. As
usual, I’m not even groggily drunk, which I should be. In an attempt to create logic where none exists, I look
around for the noise, the odd movement, the anything
that pulled me from coma to cold-water-splashed-onyour-face wakefulness.
Finding nothing, I ignore the call to be as
productive as I had been yesterday, or should I say
this morning. In that unlit day, I washed dishes, did
laundry and scrubbed my bathroom from the backsplash to the tiled floor, trying to tire myself out. By
six, the grogginess that I hungered for tried to drag me
into a deep REM sleep, but I had to be up for work
in a little more than an hour. I was exhausted, but I
couldn’t allow myself the indulgence. As a consolation,
I let my body sink into the beckoning chaise, peeking
7
Audrey Kolyada
8
what’s happening in their world. When I read Darlene’s entry, I go no further.
“It’s been 2 years, and I can’t believe you’re gone. R.I.P. son.”
Darlene is my youngest sister. When we were
kids, I couldn’t shake her from my side, but that
changed with the ins and outs of life. We’d gone about
our day-to-day without a lot of face time, but we kept
in contact through family get-togethers. Like all my
sibs, Darlene has children who are like my own, as I
have none. Being a good aunt, I try to be there for all
the kids on their big days: proms, graduations, dance
recitals, cheerleading, whatever. Because kids will be
kids, sometimes they reward me with an act of sincere
gratefulness like a hug or a call, I mean text, just to
see how I’m doing. Most often, though, I get a thank
you and hold it up to the light of my own inner glow. To be honest, I’d still be there for them no matter
how lackluster their response was because they are my
babies. Over the years, they’ve surely tested the bonds
of my love.
Of the two dozen or so nieces and nephews that
I have, four of them belong to Darlene: a son and three
daughters. They’re a rowdy, tight, fighting crew, just
like their mother; that was until someone killed her
son in 2009. By no fault of his own, my nephew happened to be in striking distance of two men who had
beef over money. Lonnie had just turned 18, gone on
his prom and graduated from high school that June.
Four months later, a man stepped from behind the
broken boards of an empty lot situated three houses
from Darlene’s home, fired at the target that stole from
him, and hit everything that blocked his success except
the target. To this day, I still can’t figure out how my
nephew ended up lying on the cracked cement with a
bullet lodged in the back of his skull, while the man
for whom the bullets were meant escaped with what
amounted to a scratch on his bicep.
In the aftermath, Lonnie’s murder left Darlene
with a gash in her soul that will never heal fully, and
three girls whose lives she feared for every day since
then. Two years have passed, and all of them seem to
be thriving, but wounds like theirs run deeper than
time can ever hope to soothe. Mine still seemed to
ooze and scab over at will, but I must have learned how
to disengage because I had not registered the significance of the day. Today of all days, I have no mind for
memories so strong.
With a shake of my head, I feel something
settle within me, an omen of sorts. The oddness of
this round of unrest makes more sense, and I realize that the significance of the day had been with me
long before I acknowledged the burden that shook me
awake these past nights. In the midst of my quest for
sleep, I couldn’t pinpoint the cause but a kind of melancholy had begun to cling to me, making me cradle
my thoughts close and all else far. My body ached
imperceptibly, but I had no fever or strenuous activity on which to blame it. All these days, I sank deeper
into a rhythm of unrest without having an inkling as
to what lie underneath. Reading Darlene’s post again,
memories dislodge from a part of me that I closed off
for self-preservation.
It is October 9, and Darlene words bring it all
back to me in livid color. I see the text that Darlene
sent, telling me that Lonnie was shot. I’m back in
the tiny family room of the ICU where dozens of kin
camped out for days, even after the doctor told us that
he was brain dead. I hear the sound of children, too
young to grasp the meaning of finality, weep inconsolably when the casket was sealed. I witness the look of
utter confusion reflected in the eyes of every person
passing before what remained of a beautifully shy man
at the cusp of greatness, like shell-shocked refugees. I
remembered all of it. At the dawn of the New Year, I marked the date
of Lonnie’s death on my calendar. Although I’d done
the same the year before, I seemed to have been able
to brush it from my memory more easily because that
first year was maddeningly unbearable. Anything sent
me into a weeping fit, at the most unguarded moment. Moreover, everything reminded me of him, and I felt
his presence everywhere.
After being cocooned in mourning with my
family for twelve days, I had to merge back into my
daily routine. I don’t know why I expected the world
to be affected by a murder that had devastated those I
loved, but I had. And it didn’t. Everything moved as
9
Lois Nelson
10
it had before--fast, loud and without conscience, except
for this one day. I got off the 8:20 bus at Broad and
Olney and transferred to the subway with all of the
other working folks trying to make it downtown by 9
am. As I waited for the train, I remembered how the
amplified squeal of metal against metal that echoed
throughout the station. Nobody else seemed to be
bothered by the aural intrusion but me. When the express train arrived, I scooted inside
and staked my claim to the pole on the other side of
the subway car where I could see the stations if I failed
to 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
those riders in my view. For whatever reason, I must
have been daydreaming because my gaze fixed onto
a young, lanky brother slouched lazily in a seat, too
low to the floor to accommodate his long legs. With
hoodie pulled low and eyes unwaveringly pointed to
the nothingness of the passing tunnels, he plugged into
his music and disconnected us until the doors opened
at Erie Ave.
Just before the doors came together again, an old
woman stepped into the car clutching her purse tightly. There was nothing distinct about her except her victory
over time. She shimmied through the people who clustered around the door and reached out frantically for
anything to steady herself as the train jerked forward. With one hand grasping the coolness of a snatch of
the aluminum pole not covered by someone else’s
body part, the old woman remained upright, doublechecking the fastener on her purse. As she surveyed
the area around her, the old woman seemed to find no
response to whatever question was asked of the riders
seated nearby, until she locked gazes with the lanky
young man. Cautiously, her eyes widened, blinked
and softened before graciously accepting the gift of
temporary rest that he offered without a word. It was
such a Lonnie thing to do that I squinted and tilted my
head sideways, like my dog used to do, to get a better
look at the kid’s face as he grasped the bar above where
the old woman now sat. Shocked that the mirage of
my longing wasn’t real, I turned my head quickly and
swiped away the tears of disappointment that blurred
my vision. I had plenty more episodes of quiet hysteria
like that one.
On June 24, when Lonnie should have turned
nineteen, I was withdrawn but dry-eyed. This wasn’t
the case the week before when I warned my boss that
the day was coming. He understood that it might
be difficult for me, but I hadn’t really expected much
more than a misty moment or two because I hadn’t
lost as much as Darlene and the girls had. As the anniversary of his birth drew near, I was completing an
assignment for a night class that I was taking. After
pulling an all-nighter writing my story, Lonnie’s story,
it was nearly 8 o’clock and I was nowhere near done. Tired but refusing to turn in half-assed work, I called
my boss to say that I’d be late. Somehow, though, in
mid-dial, I started crying, salty droplets that tracked
my cheeks and dripped from my chin. Barely able to
stop the tears that seemed to come from nowhere, let
alone explain why I was blubbering, I began to talk.
“I can’t can’t seem to, seem to . . . ,” but I
couldn’t breathe through what felt like a punch in my
gut from the inside. “It’s his birthday and I’m not, not
. . . .” I don’t recall the exact words that followed, but
I remember feeling that my manager tapped into his
parental reserve because he consoled me with a surprising gentleness. Heeding his advice to take however
long I needed to get myself together, I hung up and let
go of whatever came up from my soul. I formed no
concrete thought, just choking gulps and tears from
some untapped well within. An hour later, I was finally able to get up from
the floor where I had curled up into a ball. With my
hand, I scrubbed the streaks from my face and wiped
the snot from beneath my nose and chin with a t-shirt
that I grabbed off a nearby chair, before making my
way to the bathroom. As I finished my story, I dared
not allow myself space to dissect what had just happened, but I wondered at the timing-- too many days
before his birthday. And, if I could be unseated emotionally by the anniversary of his nineteenth birthday,
how would I get through the next milestone? Coming
to no conclusion, I guessed that I needed to slough
off another layer of mourning, but it only exposed
one more hole in my heart that the year continued to
exploit.
Christmas caught me alone and angry. By
11
Justin Lambert
12
then, the murderer was in jail, but his blood still ran
warm in his veins while my family saw another holiday
season come and go without Lonnie. Sure, I prayed
earnestly for justice, but I wanted vengeance and the
City of Philadelphia seemed to agree with me, for a
little while. After months of summoning the family
to the Criminal Justice Courthouse and then cancelling for one reason or another, the district attorney
announced that they were going for the death penalty. It’s what my family needed, what I wanted. Such news
should’ve fed my thirst for the shooter’s blood, but
it didn’t, because my sister continued to memorialize
Lonnie on the ninth of every month, the date that she
let him go.
Two and a half years after my nephew was shot,
the district attorney’s office finally gave Darlene a trial
date. And I counted down with her, touting it as the
year of reckoning. Yet, I was no closer to forgiveness,
as a speedy trial was yet another unkept promise, like
justice. To make matters worse, the lawyer assigned
to the case neglected to tell my sister that the death
penalty was taken off the table. According to the legal
powers that be, first degree murder had a better chance
of conviction with life in prison. Dumbfounded, I
surmised that my fair city didn’t truly comprehend
the significance of seeing the man who murdered one
of my children fight for his life and lose. It would be
justified considering the life he took without thought
or reason.
Each time Darlene checked the docket number,
the agents of justice for the City of Philadelphia altered
some aspect of the case. With every change, they
carved chunks of peace from my soul as their assessment of the facts teetered between winning and losing
the case. Finding neither peace nor satisfaction, I
scurried into myself for solace, far from the aching that
thwarted any hope of closure.
Knowing that I could not survive
life after Lonnie by holding on to how he was taken,
I pulled away from Darlene and her kids. For me,
their pain gobbled up any desire in me to forgive and
move from there because consequences were inevitable, without my help. Darlene and her girls had a
right to grieve as long as they needed, but I knew me. Like all of my siblings, whether they embraced it or
not, Darlene is a part of me and that connection had
vessels that invaded every facet of my being. Because
Darlene is the baby, eight years my junior, I could tap
into what she couldn’t articulate; it was how I loved. Nevertheless, I understood that loving that hard would
soon settle me into a grave of hatred and depression if
I didn’t unshoulder the weight of thinking that I could
make it all better, if . . . . It’s been two years, and I still
had no suitable words that filled the blank after IF.
Rubbing the dip between my bottom lip and my
chin, 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
they gather and wait for me to accept their intrusion. Once I give them permission to fall, the weeping isn’t
all-consuming. It just. . . . is. Then, I am able to sleep
beyond night.
13
Sam Spies
14
This is Me.
Jennifer L. Kirby
Curly, Kinky,
My cups runneth over,
Afro Puffs. Wavy,
my hips sway
Corkscrew I
from side to side. My hair
can’t get enough.
on top, is my greatest
Full of life bounce
Pride.
to and fro.
My hair, my crown
I won’t try to fit in
of glory, watch how
this thing called sexy.
I glow.
I rather be
Unique, different, a
Natural beauty.
No need for it to be
Straight.
No heat to make it
So what if my hair
Right.
Sometimes get unrestrained.
Accepting what fate
And my thighs flirt with men,
Dealt me.
but am I to blame?
Curly, kinky,
It is in me, below my chocolate
My hair, my life.
covered skin, that I hope
No longer will I
All can see the most important
fight what is me.
The beauty Within.
I finally accepted my
whole body.
Curves run over
from head to toe.
No need to fit in a size
Zero.
15
Matt Bergey
16
Nodira Nigay
17
Kate Efimova
18
Dead Child Area
Oscar Decker
The stench of urine and dead animal ravages my
nostrils as I get off at Huntingdon station after a long
day at school. I have just traded sky scrapers and clean
streets for dilapidated houses, crack addicts scurrying
about, and graffiti embroidered walls. As I wait for the
light to turn green, I take a look around while Linkin
Park’s song “A Place for My Head” is blaring in my
headphones. I stare at a one way sign, and I think to
myself that for most people, that sign says that there is
no way out for them. There are a lucky few who make
it out of this place I call “Death Alley”; however, for
most, the only way out is the embrace of death.
The light turns green, and I make my way
across the street while I take notes on some Post-its
for a social awareness essay assignment. My vision is
obscured because some things are shining as bright
as diamonds; I squint my eyes and I notice that they
are not diamonds, but used needles that are simply
shimmering in the sunlight. Sneakers hanging from
electrical lines, bullet dented signs, and these so called
diamond needles are what decorate these streets. To my
left there is a silver house with baby blue windowsills,
a no trespassing sign, and burn stripes all over; I jot
down my notes as the house creaks and its eerie voice
says, “Welcome to . . . nowhere.” I turn away, and a
sign catches my eye; it’s a “Deaf Child Area” sign that
has the “f ” crossed out and replace with a “d”. “Dead
Child Area” is what the sign says now.
I wrap my mind around the sign, and I realize that it is completely true. Making it past nineteen
years old in this area is nothing short of miraculous; so
in essence, the people who are slain are children. It is
almost as if the ghetto hungers for the young like Jesus
yearned forgiveness for the world. The wind carries a
woman’s weeping toward me, and I turn around to see
what is going on. It is a young woman of 30 or so with
flowing brown hair like coffee with milk, caramel complexion, and a somber expression on her face. Tears are
streaming down her face as the pavement catches her
tears and weeps for her as well. Three built young men
are helping her down the stairs of the church they just
exited. Each one of them is holding her with one hand,
and grasping a candle in the other hand. The young
men are wearing white shirts with the words “RIP
Junito ’92 – 2010’ Gone But Never Forgotten” written
in blue and gold letters, and a picture of a young boy
who looks like a caramel colored Johnny Depp. This is
the reality that most mothers face here: burying their
young, making beds that will never be lain on again,
and cooking favorite meals that will no longer be savored. As I witness this before me, I wonder to myself
how many candles are lit inside of that church for each
child slain.
I am walking and weaving my way around
“Merchants of Addiction” on my way home; the smell
of weed and vanilla dutches engulfs me, the songs
of addiction: weed out, wet, and redi rocks are the
soundtrack to my walk. Murals adorn all of the walls
around me; a blue, green, and yellow mural with a
Latin King Crown and rosary hugs the wall to my left
that says, “RIP Loco 1974-1997.” I remember Loco
(means crazy in Spanish), he died way before his time;
twenty-nine shots was his escape from “Death Alley.”
Gunshots out here are like alarm clocks. When I hear
one, I know another life is lost, and that it is time to
watch Jerry Seinfeld. It is a shame that so many young
lives should be needlessly lost, but the fight against
violence feels futile. The people of this area are bruised
and battered from fighting against violence
19
Zelda Santos
20
Wanda Fernandez
21
Benson Zhang
22
Villa
Thomas Kronbar
I went outside and looked at the sun,
but it had swallowed everything,
before my journey had even begun.
So today, lonely, I walked to the bay,
where the blue dune leaves danced,
in the wind’s sweet sway.
I threw my shoes in the trashcan,
as I wouldn’t need them for a walk back.
I threw my cell phone in the ocean,
for I would never again need a call back.
I let myself go down into the sand,
yet this is the last place I wanted to be.
I threw everything else away,
now if the sun would just swallow me.
23
Denise Turner
24
Charlene Brown
25
R.C. Watson
26
Mirror, Mirror
Jonathan Francesco
Wandering blue eyes peered out the window of
the Gold Crown restaurant, gazing out at the afternoon
rush-hour traffic speeding to and from the corner’s
notoriously backed-up intersection.
“Skylar! Quit your daydreaming and finish up!”
An annoyed voice thundered from the kitchen.
Skylar, a young boy of age eleven, quickly jumped off
his seat and resumed wiping the tables clean with a
dingy rag.
“Sorry,” he said. “I got that attention defisomething thing and it’s hard for me to focus.”
“You kids and your ADD and ADHD and your
restless legs. I wish I had all of these disorders when I
was younger. Would’ve made slacking off a lot easier,”
returned the voice from the kitchen.
He squirted a table with cleaner. “I can’t help
what’s wrong with me.” He proceeded to wipe it clean
with a cloth.
“You ain’t been diagnosed with anything.” The
man came out from the kitchen. “The only thing
wrong with you is a case of juvenile laziness.”
Skylar looked at his watch. Four o’clock. “Darn
it.” He restrained his voice to a whisper. “Still got two
hours to go.”
Skylar’s boss approached him. “You got that right
kid.” He pressed his hand on Skylar’s shoulder. “So get
to work and show me why I’m paying you so much
money an hour.” He rubbed his bald head as he tapped
his foot on the tile ground.
“You only pay me minimum wage.” Skylar
moved away from the man and continued to wipe
down the table. “It’s not that much.”
“What?” The man recoiled in disgust. “You
ungrateful little twerp.” He grabbed Skylar by the
shoulder and turned him around. He shoved his finger
in front of the boy’s face. “Listen you, I don’t like a kid
working in my establishment. You’re inexperienced and
immature. The only reason you are here is because
your dad is a friend and he begged me to give you
a job to keep you out of trouble. He said the work
would do you good.”
“I don’t get into trouble.” Skylar shoved the
man’s finger away. “We just really need the money.
Dad’s boss won’t let him put in much overtime and we
owe a lot.”
The man sighed. “I know things have been
tough this past year. But I ain’t running a soup kitchen. I pay you a decent wage for what you do. Now get
to work.”
“The tables are clean.” He held out his hand to
the shine of the tabletop. “There’s nothing more for
me to do until somebody comes in.” He folded his
arms. “Unless of course you want me to cook.” Skylar
forced out a sly smile.
“No way am I letting you cook, kid.” The man
headed back towards the kitchen. “I don’t want a lawsuit on my hands.”
Skylar rolled his eyes. “Then can I take a break?
I have been cleaning for an hour straight.”
“Fine, take a break. Just be ready to start again
when I call you.”
Skylar ignored his boss as he walked into the
men’s room. He locked the door behind him.
Even if he didn’t need to use the toilet, Skylar
enjoyed locking himself in the bathroom as it gave
him the only privacy he had from three to six o’clock.
He stared into the mirror above the sink and
gazed at his reflection. He moved aside a bang of his
longish red hair to better look at his blue eyes. He
thought of what his boss had said to him before and
fought a tear. “It’s not my fault that we’re so poor.
He knows what happened. He just doesn’t care.” He
punched the wall.
27
He took deep breaths to calm himself and stared
back up at his teary reflection. He wiped aside his
tears. He refused to see himself cry. It ruined his
reflection.
Whenever he felt down, he wondered if there
was someone else out there who looked just like him.
He often pretended that his reflection was such a person and that this person had a better life than he did.
This person had two parents and didn’t have to work
an after-school job to help his dad with the bills. If this
boy worked, it was because he wanted the challenge.
After a few minutes, as he always did, he
snapped himself out of his daydream. He reminded
himself of reality; no such person existed. His life was
what it was. But, as often as he reminded himself of
this, the next time he saw a mirror, he again allowed
his mind to daydream for a minute.
He checked his watch and groaned. “Better get
back out before I get another round of scolding.”
He walked out and strolled back into the dining
room. “See? I wasn’t that long, was I?”
When he heard no reply, he looked around and
noticed that he didn’t hear a sound. “Hey, where is everyone?” He then noticed a trail of blood coming from
behind the counter. He froze in fear for a moment
before quietly tiptoeing over to investigate.
As he peaked behind the counter, he saw his
boss lying dead in a pool of blood.
His eyes widened and he let out a scream.
He turned and saw a man in the kitchen
standing over the bodies of the rest of the staff. The
man’s dark eyes met his and for a moment, they both
remained still.
The man raised his gun at Skylar. “Didn’t think
anybody else was here.”
Skylar bolted out the door. He jumped on his
bike and sped off without even putting his helmet on.
He had not yet gotten to the end of the block when he
saw a black car chasing him. “Damn it!”
His pulse racing and sweat dripping down
his neck, he felt like any second, a bullet would fly
through his chest and he’d be flattened in the middle
of the road. Unconsciously, he peddled faster than he
ever had before. He tried to lose his attacker through
a series of sharp turns into back roads but his endeavors failed to achieve his goal. The car stayed on his
trail.
When he saw his trailer park coming up, he
decided to quickly hop off the bike and try to hide in
the field of look-alike trailers, hoping to either lose his
attacker or for one of his gun-toting, redneck neighbors to take care of the problem.
He ran into his home trailer. It was just a
few rows in and he was able to get inside before his
assailant reached the park. He shut and locked the
door and behind him and took a rapid series of deep
breaths as he sunk to the floor. “That was close.”
After catching his breath, he saw that his father wasn’t
home yet. He must’ve been late. “For once, I’m glad
he’s not home yet.”
A fter a moment, he quietly crawled to the
window and peaked out. He didn’t see his assailant
anywhere or the black vehicle he rode in. It seemed
as if the coast was finally clear. He breathed a sigh of
relief. “Good, he’s gone.”
He looked around at the cramped living room.
He saw their phone next to a picture of him with his
mother and father on an end table. “I gotta call the
cops. I’m a witness.”
Suddenly, bullets flew through the door and
into the wall, only narrowly missing him. The killer
kicked in the door. “Nice place.” He locked eyes with
Skylar.
Skylar made a dash to escape but quickly had
to dodge another bullet. The bullet went flying into a
lamp on a table, shattering it into fragmented shards. Skylar then felt himself being lifted into the air and
then saw a hand clad in a black glove holding him
by his shirt. He was then thrown onto the sofa; he
landed with a painful thud.
28
father’s outside waiting for you. I know it’s a bit early
but you worked hard today. Go to him.”
Skylar became confused. “Thanks!” He took off his
apron and hung it on a chair in the back.
He remembered clearly being shot and he remembered clearly feeling his heart stop in that horrifying second. He peaked down his shirt at his chest. Not
even a cut. “What’s going on with me? This can’t just
be me spacing out.”
He walked outside and saw his dad. He looked
for his bike but it wasn’t there.
“Hey sport.” His father was waiting by the silver
car with a smile and a steaming brown bag. “I got
Chinese take-out, your favorite.”
Not wanting to let on that something was off,
Skylar put on a quick smile. “Thanks so much!” He
hopped into the back seat on the passenger’s side of the
car. He considered mentioning the missing bike but a
part of him felt that it wasn’t stolen; it just wasn’t there.
He inhaled the relaxing smell of Chinese food.
No matter what they ordered, that inviting aroma was
always the same. It almost drove the incident out of his
mind completely, making it seem like little more than
a daydream.
As they drove by the trailer park, Skylar felt a
jolt in his heart. He looked over and saw his body being removed from the trailer. It was in a body bag. A
paramedic closed his eyes before zipping him up. His
corpse was carried into the ambulance to be driven to
the morgue.
He then saw his father on his knees, wailing
heavily as he watched the ambulance drive off. Neighbors tried to comfort him but there was nothing that
they could do.
Skylar’s mouth dropped. He felt like he was
going crazy. His heart was beating heavily and he felt
sweat running down his face and back. “What’s going
on with me?” He kept his voice a whisper.
Suddenly, the car hit a speed bump and the
trailer park disappeared. However, it was replaced with
the park Skylar recognized as being across the street
Skylar looked up as the man pointed a gun
at him. He prepared to make another quick escape.
However, before he could, he heard two quiet clicks
from the muffled gun. “No!” A tear rolled down his
face.
He looked down and noticed two bloody holes
in his chest. He felt it strange that he didn’t feel any
pain at all. Being shot was supposed to hurt. But then,
he felt a sudden and irresistible urge to sleep. The
reason he didn’t hurt seemed to make sense now.
He looked at the photo of him and his parents
set on the table behind his killer. “I’m coming, Mom.”
He shed a tear. His head fell back but his eyes remained focused on the picture as his body went limp
where it sat.
The man walked over to Skylar and felt his
neck for a pulse. There was none.
The killer patted Skylar on the shoulder. “Sorry kid.
Nothing personal. I just don’t leave witnesses.”
The killer walked out, quietly closing the door
behind him, leaving Skylar’s dead body where it lay,
his bright blue eyes left open, blankly staring at the
portrait of when his life was happy.
The time was now five o’clock.
Skylar saw cars passing by during the end of
rush hour as he looked out the window. Suddenly, he
jumped back. He was in the restaurant. But then he
realized that this restaurant, while similar to the one
he worked at, was like a mirror image of it, facing east
instead of west.
His boss walked over to him. “You okay, Sky?”
He rested his hand gently on the boy’s shoulder.
Skylar replied, “I guess so.”
The man became puzzled by Skylar’s behavior.
The boy looked pale. “You can cut out early today.
You’ve worked hard all week. You can’t overwork yourself. I know you like to try new things but you’re just
a kid. Don’t overdo it.”
“Overdo it?”
“With the work. You already put in two hours
today. You should go home.” He smiled. “Plus, your
29
from his trailer park. He turned quickly to look at the
other side and sure enough, there was the trailer park
he had called home for two years. It was quiet. There
was no sign of his murder, only a few people returning
from work and a six-year-old kicking around a soccer
ball. Maybe all of that was just in his head after all. He
felt his body return to a relaxed state.
“This is so weird.” He took a few deep breaths.
“What is?” His father looked at him.
Nothing.” He forced a smile. “Just daydreaming
again.”
Skylar became even more puzzled when his
father didn’t pull into that trailer park, but drove on a
couple of streets until they came to a small and picturesque development. They rode past a few houses
and then pulled into the driveway of a homely looking
split-level.
Skylar was speechless.
As he got out of the car, his eyes widened. He
couldn’t believe that they seemed to live here. “Wow,
this is different, but really cool.”
His father stepped out of the car, carrying with
him the steaming brown bag containing their supper.
“Yo Sky, is something wrong? You seem a bit
distracted.”
Skylar quickly shelved his wonder. “I’m fine!” He
failed to keep his tone from sounding dismissive. “Let’s
go inside.”
The front door opened.
Skylar’s heart skipped another beat. His mother
stepped out from inside the house, clad in a rose-design
apron, in a get-up that seemed to be ripped from the
nineteen fifties into the modern day.
“Hi, honey!” Her smile and voice made him feel
warm inside. “Welcome home. I hope you had a good
day.”
Skylar couldn’t believe his eyes. He distinctly
remembered being nine-years-old, holding his mother’s
hand as she took her last breaths, losing her battle with
cancer. His nightmares had been long haunted by the
loud screech of the heart monitor recording her stopping heart. Yet, here she stood, alive and well, looking
perfectly healthy.
He ran to her and hugged her tightly. “Mom, I
missed you so much.” He tried to contain his tears.
Both of his parents were confused by his behavior. He
wasn’t typically an overly emotional child.
Perplexed, she said, “I missed you too honey,
but it’s only been about eight hours since you saw
me.” She kissed his forehead. “You’re acting like it’s
been years.”
Skylar pulled back. “I guess it just was a really
long day.” He wiped a single tear from his eye.
She smiled and put her arm around him.
“Come on, you’re probably just hungry. Let’s eat.” She
put her around him and they walked inside. “I already
got the table set.”
As he walked past a mirror on the way to the
kitchen, he took a gaze at his reflection. He couldn’t
put his finger on it, but there was something about
his reflection that seemed different.
He didn’t dwell on it too long; he had more
than enough motivation to thrust any doubts totally out of his mind. He didn’t know how this was
possible, but he didn’t want an explanation; he just
wanted it to last forever.
With eager enthusiasm, he joined his parents
at the kitchen table for the first meal he remembered
eating as a family in the longest time. He was truly
happy.
30
Ed Yancer
31
Joseph Shane
32
Everything That Had Been There Before
Andrew Ly
Away from the dust-speckled light that falls
through frosted windows, Sam and I sit on cinderblocks where the cool, dark air raises the budding hair
on our arms. Quarters clang on the hard, concrete
floor of the empty garage as Sam shuffles Bicyclebrand playing cards. After he deals, we each hide our
faces – widening our eyes at a good hand, drawing our
eyebrows in if not – behind thirteen cards spread like
red and white fans. I do not remember who wins or
loses or what happens with the money, only that after
each hand there is exultant dancing, banging of fists on
the ground, and always our riotous laughter.
“Suzie’s having a party tonight,” Sam says. He
runs his hands through the wild weeds of his hair and
smirks the way he always does, pulling his lips to one
side.
Suzie is a girl from school whose premature developments have garnered her a prominent reputation.
Before being Sam’s friend, I would have never known
about a party at Suzie’s. I nod in reply and after a moment remember to close my mouth. I move to push up
my eyeglasses, but realize they are no longer there; Sam
has persuaded me to switch to contact lenses.
In this poor suburb outside of Philadelphia, Sam
is my next-door neighbor, but not until the eighth
grade do we actually spend any time together. I am
a clueless, thirteen-year-old boy who takes his clothing cues from a crayon box: red shirt and pants on
Mondays, blue on Tuesdays, green Wednesdays, purple
Thursdays, and brown Fridays. Amazingly, I do have
friends, though they too wear eyeglasses and have
mothers who cut their hair. Sam, on the other hand,
wears jerseys given to boys on the football and baseball
teams. His hair is cut by balding men with thick, gray
mustaches. And I think he has even kissed a girl. I
want nothing more than to be like him.
As unlikely as it seems then, Sam and I begin to
spend every afternoon together. We make up games in
the yard and ride our bikes like mavericks through the
neighborhood. We race and we meander, cross paths in
helixes and let the wind lick the sweat off our faces, but
always Sam is ahead of me.
Sam takes me to the barbershop. The barbers gel
and spike my hair like his. Soon, he introduces me to
girls, and I marvel when he speaks to them in fullyformed sentences when I can only manage a guttural
“hello” (pronounced “ugh-oh”). Sam introduces me to
a blonde boy wearing a silver chain, like the one that
rests on my ribbed, white sleeveless shirt. When the
boy claims to have seen a girl entirely naked, Sam and
I turn to one another; we grin mad like thieves. And
on the day of Suzie’s party, I realize how much I have
changed when Sam says, “I’m taking you with me.”
I remember all this now. I am twenty-four. It’s
October in Manhattan, and heavy winds have gathered
in great, wide waves. They surge through the streets
and break along the thirty-first floor windows of my
office building. I can hear these winds from my cubicle
and see the windows tremble if I happen to be in an
office, Evan’s office. But I am in my cubicle where, for
hours unblinking, I should have been parsing through
numbers in spreadsheets and poring over words in presentations. Instead, I have been looking through photos on Facebook in search of something in these faces
that I find missing in myself. What I find, though, is
that Sam is dead.
My boss Evan, a vice president at the firm, calls
me into his office. If I continue in this job, he is who I
should aspire to become.
“Close the door and sit down,” Evan says. His
jaw is long and tight.
I close the door quickly and sit down in a chair
facing his desk. His office is unmemorable, except
33
for hills of papers, a single black picture frame, and
a floor-to-ceiling window, from which I have a clear
view of Grand Central Station.
“What are you working on right now?” Evan
asks. He is a towering man, so when he leans back in
his chair, he is still able to look down at me.
I stutter out the projects I have been working
on. I explain why they have been taking so long, that
they are more complex than they seem, although in
truth, I have been procrastinating. Evan crosses his
arms. He wakes up at five or six in the morning every
day to go to the gym no matter when he has gone to
bed. His arms bulge; they stretch the fabric of his shirt.
“Listen,” he says. “You see Isam over there?”
I nod, but do not take my eyes off Evan. Isam is
another one of my bosses.
“Did you know he started working here before I
did? But look who has the office and who still works in
a cubicle.”
I nod again, this time more vigorously. Isam
does work in a cubicle, I agree. I almost want to point.
Instead, I pull at my tie; it chokes me a little.
“Do you want to end up like him?”
I realize I am still nodding yes, so I overcompensate by
swinging my head violently left and right in a dizzying
gesture of no.
“Then get your shit done today. I don’t care how
long it takes.”
I stumble over my reply as I get up and leave.
In my cubicle, I estimate how long it will take me to
finish my projects. I know that Evan will stay in the
office too, until I am finished, whether it is midnight
or four in the morning. The one waking hour a day he
spends with the people in that picture frame – his wife
and three children – is not as important as this.
before me and the sun is bright, the ocean vast, and
I am being forced to turn away. I do the only thing I
can at the time: I curse at them and I cry.
We move, and I can’t remember saying goodbye
to Sam. But I do remember a summer afternoon about
a year later when I am back in my old neighborhood,
walking up to Sam’s door. I knock, but no one answers. Sam doesn’t know I am there to see him again.
I hear voices from behind Sam’s house, so I start down
the driveway toward the backyard. I move slowly; under my feet, loose gravel has time to decide if it should
stay or roll away. But I keep on forward.
In the backyard, Sam and a few other boys wearing chains sit on plastic chairs around a brown table.
They talk, they laugh. I stand there, and when they see
me their laughter stops, their faces quiet, and suddenly
it is bright, the sun is much too bright.
Sam rises quickly from his seat. He ushers me,
hand-on-back, to the front of the house. We both sit
on his stoop, looking forward. Across the scorched
lawn, the street glistens like a black river and the
houses beyond blur indistinct.
“How’s the new house?” Sam asks. He faces the
street, and his eyes squint in the sun.
“Good, I guess.” I sit a step below and turn to
look at him. I hold my hand above my eyes to block
the light.
“I bet it’s big.”
I look down and notice there is a shadow beneath my legs. I bring my knees to my chin and hold
them there. The shadow disappears. We sit quietly for
a few minutes, only to be interrupted by laughter from
the backyard. Sam turns his head toward the sound
and I keep looking down, holding my knees, and neither one of us says anything. Eventually, Sam gets up.
“I should get back.” He motions his head towards the backyard. His eyes are already leaving me.
“Right. Of course,” I say. “I can’t stay either.”
Soon after the day Sam and I spend playing
cards in the garage, my parents tell me that we are
moving. The new house will be bigger and the neighborhood safer, they say. We are only trying to make
your life better, they reason. But I feel that the winds
have only just changed, that great clouds have opened
It is October in Manhattan, and I have been
avoiding my work; I have been on Facebook. This is
34
how I learn that Sam is dead, from the messages that
line the wall of his profile:
“Miss You Sammy! It’s better on the other side
homie! You will be in my heart forever!”
“Fucking love u like a brother.. r.i.p. family..
shits unreal”
“NONONONONONONONO”
I send a message to a classmate from middle
school: “What happened?”
Coincidentally, only a month before his death,
Sam reconnects with me on Facebook. He sends me
an invitation to be friends, but I hesitate to accept. I
wish I could say otherwise, but it’s the truth. I linger
when I see his photos. In one, he stands with other
similar-looking men, all wearing oversized clothes with
their hands twisted in gang signs. In another, he holds
his infant son in his arms and his lips are pulled to one
side. But his sly eyes and their warm magic are lost; in
the photo, he looks down as if searching.
For two days after I send the message to my
former classmate, I wait for a response. I am useless at
work and obsessively refresh my Facebook page. F5.
Refresh. F5. Refresh. I wait for an answer that will explain how Sam has died, but I hope to find something
more.
For a moment, when I refresh the page, the
screen turns blank. And the pointer becomes a little
hourglass, and it seems to me that the pixilated sand
has almost run out. But inevitably, the page returns
with photos and words, everything that had been there
before. Sam is still dead, and I am sitting here in my
cubicle, trying every day to be more like Evan.
35
Jennifer Tran
36
Train Ride
Ashley Rivera
5:23pm
Train rides
too compact
aromas of
a saved cigarette,
clinging to his long black
trench coat
beer breathe
ham hoagies uneaten,
mouth dry, no water
just uncontrollable floods of
sweat
drool escaping from the
wailing children
headaches, no Tylenol
Next stop
Fresh Air
5:59pm
37
Socheath Sun
38
The Place
Christian Fiorenza
Concrete angels in the street
reach for lights draped, like tinsel, on cityscape
and confuse moonbeams, breaking through slivers of
insane clouds, enveloping corners that try and escape
a beat in the street, from calypso treats, for people
to walk and stumble abound, avoiding
shrieks from cafes and secrets, so loud,
over breaking branches and searching for chances
lost, through the holes in pockets, ‘til they stop it
and look up, whispering at the sky, no longer
staring at blank walls fearing meaning inside
a “hi”, for the rhythm, so sweet, it moves and makes
smiles and shakes a tear, that succumbed
to heartbreaks, over roaring EL’s and “ok’s”
after traveling far for quick returns home maybe alone - leaving technology clutched to one
or the other, gripping a world that doesn’t exist,
trying still to satisfy sin because extras were
not enough, for the woman on a bus
with her brown bag - she never opens up to the man who dreams of a place.
39
Jennifer Kaminski
40
18 months . . . pt.1
Marquita Hamilton
Yesterday, I sat in our . . . my bedroom. In the
stillness. In the dark. I stared. I thought. I wept. I
slept. I slept and I dreamed. I awoke and I remembered. I remember how yesterday, I longed for today. To be free . . . free to laugh with abandon. . . to smile,
genuinely . . . to rest and have peace of mind. To
be free from the chaos we called love. I fought with
myself, wondering how many times would I forgive
you? . . . how many times I’d ask to be forgiven? Each
“break up to make up” made me pray I would wake
up and realize this circus was only a temporary nightmare. You’d tell me how it hurt you to be away from
me when I’d leave, and I would come back; then, to
punish me, you would leave “to give me time to think
of what you’ve done wrong.” After you stormed out, I
didn’t even wash my face, wanting you to kiss the blood
from my lip and caress my bruised face. I wanted you
to see how much loving you hurt me. Although there
wouldn’t be any fighting while you were away, I would
still be anxious for your return. How long did I stare at
that door hearing my inner-self scream, “RUN! GO!
LEAVE!” but I wouldn’t. I couldn’t. I remembered
how much you said I needed you. I remembered how
you said I could do nothing, have nothing, be nothing,
apart from you. Fearfully, I wondered “What if he’s
right?” Panic began to badger me, demanding to know
when, or if you’d come back. the bed. I heard the heavy slam of the security door
onto our floor. I heard footsteps traveling the hall. I
remember thinking I must have been wrong about
the car because the sound of the falling steps were too
light and quick to be yours. I checked the window; it
was your car, but you were in it. Suddenly, there was
a knock upon the door. “Hello?” I heard. I stopped
and stood in the floor trying to piece together what I’d
just learned. “Hello?” I heard again with another rap
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
was a woman; she knocked again. I asked her to wait
a moment. I wanted her to wait while I scrambled to
bring order to the growing confusion in my head and
in my heart. As I eyed her through the peep hole, I
could see she was just as surprised to hear my voice as I
was to hear hers. I don’t know how, but I realized that
she was here because of you and I opened the door. “Um . . . this is awkward and. . . and . . . Well, Evan sent me to pick up his things . . . ”
The sound of her words were like a distant echo. I saw her lips moving, and I could recognize words,
but I can’t say that I really heard or understood what
she was saying. “Evan said you’d . . . this is the right
apartment right? Evan lived here?” she asked. When
I finally realized that she was here to get your things, I
didn’t know what to think. Who was she? Why was
she here and not you? Who was she to you? Was she
your lover? Did you love her? Why were you with her
and not with me? I looked at her through jealous eyes. She was pretty and younger, but not much thinner. I
stared at her through stinging tears that refused to fall.
I blinked and a tear fell, but I did not cry. My staring
provoked her to action; she awkwardly removed her
sunglasses. I looked at her again. On this second look,
I sat waiting, hoping, expecting to hear your key
inside the lock of our door. The passing of the hours
was torturous. My embarrassment and anxiety grew as
time passed. I was embarrassed at the confusion of my
feelings about your return; was I eager for you to come
back or to see you stay gone? As I was pondering, I
recognized the sound of your engine and my heart went
into my throat. I fought within myself to stay away
from the window and decided to stay in the corner on
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without her sunglasses, I saw that she was still pretty. I
also saw that she was . . . bruised. Bruised? She wore
makeup to hide it but I recognized it because I’d covered the same bruises the same way many times before! It was like someone unplugged my ears; the words she
was speaking became loud and clear. I understood! She said Evan lived here, past-tense! I looked at her
again and instantly recognized her as the answer to
my prayers. I invited her in and took her straight to
the bedroom, showing her your drawers and closet. I
ran between rooms, being sure to collect all of your
personal papers. She followed me through the small
apartment, visibly unnerved at my willingness to surrender you-- your things. Through tears of joy, which
I’m sure she confused with heartbreak, I continued the
scavenger hunt-- gathering shoes, watches, pictures,
jewelry. I stubbed my toe on the bureau, but since it
didn’t break, I didn’t bother to slow down. She asked
me if she could sit but I reminded her of your impatience and said I was almost finished. She stationed
herself, again, near the door. As I drew near her with
the last of your effects, our eyes met. She looked at
me. She looked at me with questions in her eyes. Who was standing before her? Was I the competition,
someone that she just one-upped? Was I the loserweeper to her finder-keeper? Was I an image of what
she could look forward to having as a reflection after
18 months of life with you? Our eyes were locked,
just for a few seconds by the clock but it seemed it
wouldn’t end. The sound of your car horn broke our
unspoken dialogue. That was yesterday. who inherited you from me. Yes, inherited, because
there are parts of me that are now dead after you. I
think about when our eyes met. What was exchanged
during those moments. Why hadn’t I warned her of
what she was getting into, try to save her from my fate? Would she have listened? Would she have received it
as advice from one sister to another, or as one sistah
hatin’ because she lost out? No matter. Time is a good
teacher, though not always the kindest or the cheapest. I’ve learned my lesson well. It cost me much. Yesterday, you were here, then you were gone. Yesterday, I thought life was over, but then I made it
through the night. You were my everything who left
me with nothing. Yes, that was yesterday and today
is too full for the past; but if I truly believe that, then
why am I still staring at the door?
Pickin’ up the pieces (18 months pt. 2)
Today, I am sitting in my apartment. The
windows aren’t open, there’s an early winter chill in the
air, but the blinds are open and the curtains are pulled
back. There’s nothing like natural light to lift your
mood. I’m sitting on the sofa (it’s new), looking at
the area rug (that’s new, too.). I had to do something
to make this place a little of my own again. My girlz
brought me by a couple of plants. They were nice
while they lasted (no one ever accused me of having
a green thumb). The music is playing softly. Fred
Hammond is becoming a favorite. At first I just started
listening because I liked the sound of his voice . . . and
it was the only one I had (loaner from one of my girlz).
Then something happened, I listened to the words. I
really listened. They were soothing. They were comforting. They were inspiring. Today, I am sitting in my bedroom. The music
is playing softly. I hadn’t listened to Stevie in what
seems like forever. I am sitting by the window. There
is a breeze blowing summertime through the small
apartment, complete with a honeybee. The bed is
made with new linens, but the smell of your cologne
is still in the mattress. The photos are all gone, but
the picture of you in my mind is still there. How do
you pack away memories? I think about the woman
I keep going back to the beginning retracing my
steps to see where it started to go wrong for us. Things
just never added up. I go back to the beginning and
look at it, how it started and how it contrasts to the
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end and I’m vexed. I guess I never allowed myself to
see how things changed. When I fell in love, it was as
if my brain were freshly poured concrete in which a
picture of you was molded and allowed to dry. Time
went on and things moved in and out of my mind, but
there you were just like always. No matter what the
fuss, no matter the length of the fight. I’d close my
eyes and in my mind, there you’d be. Now that you’re
gone I’m left with just that picture in my mind. An
image. An image in my imagination. With each passing day I realize that’s what I had all along, an image in
my imagination. The question is, “Who’s to blame for
my creation?”
time and no relationship to inspire introspection and a
revamp of your outlook.
Today, I am looking out the window. It’s chilly,
so it’s closed. But I can see the people moving, walking, living. Going about the business and busyness of
life. I think it’s time for me to get back into business. I notice a car sitting across the street. It’s been there
for a while. I thought I recognized the driver, a lady. I
couldn’t get a good look at her face because of the dark
glasses and big bangs she wore. It was almost as if she
covered her face on purpose. The driver opened the
door as if she was going to get out. She put one foot
on the ground and then changed her mind. She pulled
her leg back in and drove off. No matter. When you left, it took me forever to get off of
the floor. I stared on and off at that door for days and
days, in the dark, in the quiet, only moving as often as
nature required . . . listening for the closing of a car
door or the turn of a key. It never happened. I spent
hours staring numbly. Frozen. Stuck. You were gone;
how’d that happen? How did I feel about it? Initially,
glad. Glad was followed startlingly close by afraid
and sad. I almost felt crazy. Yeah, it hurts. But not
as bad as it used to. You bruised me good, but nothing’s broken. At first I had dozens of questions for
you: What did I do to deserve this? Why me, when
all I ever did was love you? Why don’t you want me
anymore? Did you ever love me at all? How long was
she in the picture? The more questions I asked, the
larger the silence in the room grew until the echo of
my own thoughts threatened to deafen me. Alone, as
I was and desperate for answers, I began to question
myself: What did I do to deserve this? Why me, when
all I ever did was love him? Why didn’t he want me
anymore? Will anyone ever love me, at all? How did
God let this happen? After a couple months of that,
I realized it was pointless. Even if the answers came
from on high, it wouldn’t change anything. It wouldn’t
change the fact that you left. Then it hit me! You left. You, not me. I was still here. I didn’t recognize myself,
now (compared to 18 months ago), but nothing like
A few months ago, a stranger was standing in
my living room, waiting to take away your belongings. You were long gone, before then. I know that now. You left me in pieces, believing you took the best of me
with you. Today, I’m living in my apartment, putting
the pieces back together, believing in spite of myself
that the best is yet to come. 18 months + 18 months = . . . ??? (18 months, pt. 3)
Today, I am sitting in a coffee shop, pretending
not to notice this big handsome somebody staring at
my legs. It’s amazing the difference some time makes.
Eighteen months ago I would have felt insulted at
another man’s attention, swearin’ he had the worst of
intentions towards me. Twelve months ago, I’d have
been so desperate for his attention it would have scared
dude half to death. But today . . . today is a new day. I like this place. It’s busy. The hum of activity and “indoor voices” is seasoned by a background
of neo-soul music. Jill is a bad girl! I’ve been coming here for a couple of months now. At first, it was
because it was some place to go besides that ratty
apartment. After I moved, I found I was just used to
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point. You always read stories about abusive relationships and think “It’ll never happen to me” and then life
shows you different. Not life, but bad choices and lack
of understanding.
coming here, so I kept coming (although my new spot
is really nice). Not fully furnished yet, but all things
in due time.
I go to cross my legs for Mr. Mister (gotta let
him know why he’s still starin’) and I see a familiar
face pass me by the window. She looks a lot older
than I remember. She’s alone today, still wearin’ big
glasses and big bangs. I jump up to see if I can catch
her and buy her a cup of coffee. Maybe we can have
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
can tell by the way she’s looking over the top of her
glasses that she doesn’t recognize me. She takes them
off to get a better look. She places my face and starts
to turn away. I call to her, again, “Sis, hey sis. I just
wanted to say hey and see how you makin’ out.” She
comes towards me, looking over her shoulder. What
I thought was a fancy scarf tied around her bag is
actually a make-shift sling for a badly-sprained wrist. She says she fell. I’m sure she did, though not without
some help. I ask her in for coffee. She explains she
can’t stay, the demands of domestication and all that.
I tell her I understand and offer her my card in case
she ever wants to talk (or run away). She reaches out
her good hand and hesitates, then withdraws it. She
says she’s fine and they are doing better than ever. He
is getting help real soon. Her cell phone rings and
tears well in her eyes as she reads the Caller ID. She
blinks and the tears fall, but she does not cry as she
says she has to rush off. “Jesus, watch over her” is my
sad prayer as she walks away. Time is a good teacher,
though not the kindest or cheapest. These types of
choices always cost more than we’re prepared to pay. When he first left, I remember feeling as though
I had nothing, was nothing. I felt that way because
he’d spent a long time subtly convincing me that
whatever I was and would ever be was so woven into
him and our relationship. It must have been several
weeks or maybe even two months later that I was sitting in the floor with my legs curled under me and my
head laying on the coffee table. Not crying, the well
of tears had run dry. I was running through my cycle
of unanswerable questions, and wishing a wind strong
enough would rush through the apartment and blow
me away. I didn’t care where it carried me, just long as
it was away from my life. It’s not that I didn’t think I
could live without him, but I didn’t believe that the life
I was left with was worth living. Suddenly, my body
felt warm. Not hot, like a personal summer, but really
warm. Like a comforter fresh from the dryer wrapped
around you on a winter morning, only this was from
the inside out. It’s hard to explain. Questions were
still running through my mind, only this time they
were different questions, with a melody. “How many
times, would I go against your will . . . . How many
times would it take for me to learn. . . . ” I remembered that song by Hezekiah Walker and started asking
myself the same questions, feeling dumb and dumber
with each repetition. Then, God answered me. Not
sharply. Not with the voice that shakes mountains and
causes fire to rain from heaven. Not with disdain or
disgust. It was the sweetest tone love could ever ring
inside a heart. “As many times as you need me to,
as often as you ask sincerely, I will come to you and
forgive you and love you. What I wanted in return for
the relationship I desire with you, I gave of myself a
long time ago. All you have to do is say that you want
me. I will give you the love that you cannot find in
anyone or anything else. I will teach you to have this
I stand in front of the coffee shop and watch her
through the distance until the crowded street veils her
path. “But for the grace of God . . . ” is my revelation as I return to the shop. I think about my lost
sister, whom I just saw. It hurts not just to see what’s
become of her, but also what I had become at one
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playing around. (One Day At A Time).
for yourself and when the cares of this world seem to
overtake you, I will provide a shelter for you to hide. I
have been watching and counting your tears and calling your name, waiting patiently for you to turn and
see me.” The well of tears that was once dry began to
overflow. Only this time as a beautiful cleanser, instead
of sorrowful regret. I answered True Love’s voice when
He called. Three years ago, I was in love. Eighteen months
ago, I was broken and he was gone. Yesterday, I was
sitting in the park listening to a free jazz concert under
the evening sky. Today, I laugh with abandon, smile
genuinely, rest and have peace of mind. There was a
time when my only thought was what he “was”. He
was! (smirk). No matter, ‘cuz t’day, I AM!
Catchin’ up on life is hard work. Hard enough
to make me not put living off as much as I used to.
When it was time to put the pieces back together, I
started with the most important, God. I know, I know
. . . everybody finds Jesus at the end of their rope. But
it’s the truth. Like any relationship, we have to get to
know each other. He’s teaching me about Himself and
myself. I realize that I settled/allowed certain things
because I didn’t love me. I didn’t love me because I
didn’t know me and didn’t know me because I didn’t
know Him. I didn’t know what I was made of or made
for. At the risk of using too many clichés, “Knowledge
is truly power!” Back to the present, the pace in the café has
slowed. Taking a quick survey, I realize my admirer has
gone and I hadn’t even noticed. I feel a little disappointed -- that is until the waitress comes and hands
me a business card she says a gentleman left for me. Hmph (smirk), Still got it. I love flirting. Would I call? Not today. I’ll call when I’m ready. When I want to
talk. Me, what I need and what I want are a lot more
important to me these days. Finishing my coffee, I
notice the time and see I’m almost late. Got a class,
then a meeting, then another class. Still being me and
mortal, yes, I like to flirt and show my legs, but trust
. . . before this Queen considers another Prince, he
had better know the King and be prepared with a ring
before he expects an-y-thing. I’m just funnin’. On the
real, though, I don’t think I’m ready yet for anything
serious and in the meantime . . . ain’t no sense in
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Tyrone Marquez
46
Marketing
Wade Sutton
What I thought was a murder
turned out to be catsup.
It rained steady
down the halls
Like that night down
south around swarming jewels
And a list of courtesy calls
from marketers
Even though my mind restless,
I counted five or six.
And with each pass
around the stars
And with each turn into the suburbs
And beyond the lives of the disenchanted
Yet so calm
to imagine anything but Rimbaud abroad
Whenever I think of charity
the lights begin to grow into a
Pair of used blue jeans
Far from being worn or frayed
in a way of disrepair
But strong and durable
made to withstand being bayonetted by
a savage militia
Whoever said old age diminishes
never heard the secrets of lightning
Or found coordinates to that fountain in Florida
And it is this chase
alone which holds youth
Or the tricks in language we use
To make a point worthy of earning paychecks
And my soul belongs to wages of
Last night’s bet on the 7 horse
in the third race
Or the commercial
between breaks
Sometime the phrase will cease to begin
And I will stop.
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Insect
Anna Rauth
Fragments of light dance along the smooth edge
of the killing jar
as I observe and calculate your every move.
Enamored, I record the fading colors of your wings.
Nailed down –
. . . a reminder of my inability to replace you.
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Rosa Sanchez
Shahira Ibrahim