AVANT

A L ite rar y Magazine

Spr i ng 2020 - Spr ing 2021
Avant
Volume 63
Spring 2020 - Spring 2021

Avant is made by and for undergraduate students at Rowan

University each semester. We believe in helping writers and
artists at Rowan grow, giving students a platform for
creative work, and providing all authors with feedback on their
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All material is copyrighted, Avant 2020 – 2021.

To all the artists that persevered.
Table of Contents
Writing
Spring 2020
Finding Feet at Twenty-One – Tara Lonsdorf .............................11
Decalogue for Ceres – Jason Evers ...............................................13
When I was fourteen – Evan Goodfellow ..................................18
Oiseaux – Tara Lonsdorf..........................................................................19
Love Sonnet – Evan Goodfellow........................................................21
The Eugenicists’ Experiment – Tara Lonsdorf ......................23

Fall 2020
Black Dollar$ – Jocelyn Reuben ........................................................26
The Thing About Empathy – Tara Lonsdorf .......................27
Welcome to My World – Jocelyn Reuben ...............................30
Itchy Hands – Cat Reed ................................................................31
Christmas at Las Vegas Airport / New Year’s Eve in
Death Valley – Tara Lonsdorf ........................................35
How Life Began on the Second Moon –
Scott MacLean .......................................................................37

Sales Call – Robert Pallante ..........................................................40

indigo – Diana DeSimine ...............................................................46
Skipping Stones – Chloe Mortier ..............................................47
Astrophel – Jason Evers ................................................................51
Lexi – Aatish Gupta .........................................................................53
Kore – Daria Husni ..........................................................................60
What is Love? – Jocelyn Reuben .................................................63
Time Leech – Scott MacLean ......................................................65
Writer’s Block – Daria Husni ......................................................66
Two Poems from April 2020 – Tara Lonsdorf .....................67
Toil – Scott MacLean .......................................................................69
Further West – Robert Pallante ...................................................71
Spring 2021
Day 176 – Tara Grier .................................................................................76
Polo Blue – Kelli Hughes ..............................................................78
Mitosis – Sophia Romano ..............................................................79
A Dream of His Own – Chloe Mortier ....................................81
DOWNTOWN – Rachel Ventrella .............................................86
Miracle Spring – Jason Evers ......................................................88
Bathroom Stall Wisdoms – Kelli Hughes ..............................91
The Stanford Marshmallow Experiment –
Elizabeth Chesebro..................................................................92

Boxes – Hannah Tran ......................................................................99

Songs of the Moon Lotus – Jason Evers ..............................100
Home – Robert Pallante ................................................................102
Triptych of Dependencies – Tara Lonsdorf ........................106
Goodknight – Skyla Everwine ..................................................111
november 30th – n.l. rivera .......................................................112
Surgeon – Skyla Everwine ...........................................................114
SUNSHINE SUPERMAN – Rachel Ventrella .....................118
Wintersong – Daria Husni .........................................................120
The Welcoming – Heather Mulvenna .....................................121
Joyeuse – Jason Evers ...................................................................124
Evolution of Joy – Tara Lonsdorf ............................................125
The Detour, or Visions of the West –
Robert Pallante .....................................................................128
sum of our parts – Dina Folgia .................................................136
Images
Front Cover
Forest Floor – David Sheppard

Inside Images
Spring 2020
Long Shadows – Tara Lonsdorf .................................................10
Peace at Cole Run – David Sheppard .......................................12
Leaf Number Two – David Sheppard ......................................22
Scrub and Brush – Tara Lonsdorf ............................................34
Alluvium – Tara Lonsdorf ............................................................52
Outskirts of Vegas – Tara Lonsdorf ........................................70
Felines – Remy Desai-Patel ...........................................................85
Zabriske Point – Tara Lonsdorf ..............................................127

Fall 2020
Walt Disney – Krystal Manning .................................................39
Storm Trooper – Krystal Manning ...........................................117
Spring 2021
Flora – Abigail Leitinger .................................................................29
Utensils – Abigail Leitinger ..........................................................59
Untitled – Alexander Rossen ........................................................62
Walk a Mile – Rachel Ventrella ...................................................98
Spill – Abigail Leitinger ................................................................110
Sunflower, Vol. 6 – Rachel Ventrella ......................................123
Toothbrush – Abigail Leitinger .................................................135
CHERRY – Rachel Ventrella .......................................................137
AVANT MAGAZINE

“Long Shadows” By Tara Lonsdorf

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SPRING SEMESTER 2020

Finding Feet at Twenty-One

By Tara Lonsdorf

Envy from us outsiders to the language of things that “run”:

Less to “flee” than to “experience flight”;
Balance between freedom and precision;
Elusive to fish, to turtles, to big clunky girls in middle school and
beyond.

Foals expelled from womb also shake for

Moments before they are launched forward—
Propelled by that instinct which rattled inside of me, too: dormant,
once.
Somehow I had missed that which now seems simple.

Finding footing after so many years of conviction that I must crawl:

An instruction manual translated;
Laces tied and tightened;
Big clunky girl emerging from adolescence fully-fledged, as a thing
that runs, too—

Until I am the last thing left to catch me.

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“Peace at Cole Run” By David Sheppard

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SPRING SEMESTER 2020

Decalogue for Ceres

By Jason Evers

On the first day, we leapt off the side of the

overpass and climbed to the peak of suburban Mt.
Sinai. At the top, we surveyed the wilderness and
staked our claim as the rulers of everything we saw,
planning to build towers from flayed tree branches
and fortresses from mud, and we pondered how
we’d dig the moat from the duckweed-choked pond
under the highway.

On the second day, we found a Swiss Army knife

buried under the black root mass in the Rope Swing
Valley. We spent the day singing hymns and carving
third eyes in our heads and prayers to the moon on
our wrists, and at night, you cut a map of the stars
into my chest so that when I bled I could always
find my way home.

On the third day, you told me that our names were

not fit for royalty and that we would have to
establish new identities for our heraldries. You said
that my name was not the name of a king and that
yours was not the name of a queen. The sun was
resting and all golden in the bare branches of the
treeline, and when we were staring out over the
western ridges, I told you that I could be the King of
Marigold. You laughed. You said it was tacky. You

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said that your name would be Artemis. You said

that I might be Dionysus.

On the fourth day, we indulged ourselves on thin

wafers of light, salt, and diamond dust. In time, the
sky became a watercolor painting and the forest
floor was doused in mercury. The air filled itself
with sunburst colors and radio waves, and I swore I
could feel a golden corona wrapped around my
brow. We took up our Swiss Army knife and
decided to carve diagrams of our hearts into the
trees near Stone Creek. I carved a breathing
spiderweb of slashes and marks into the wood; your
etching was just a thin thread connecting two circles
in the bark, painted with two red drops of blood. I
looked in your direction and saw you standing
under an archway of branches, surrounded by nothing
but dead air and grayscale colors.

On the fifth day, I was sitting on the shore of the

duckweed pond alone. You took light steps and sat
cross legged behind me, sighing and saying nothing.
I felt you begin to make loose braids in my hair, and
it was at that moment I knew that there was
something troubling you. You said it was nothing,
and I said that I didn’t believe you. You told me that
when you were young, whenever you were in the
wilderness you saw thrones in moss-blanketed
boulders and crowns woven of rose bush thorns.
You whittled a sceptre with a kitchen knife you

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SPRING SEMESTER 2020

stole from your mother and, with your divine right

to rule, decreed that one day, when you no longer
had to get home by dusk for dinner, you would
make your kingdom real. When you finished the
braids, your head fell heavy against my shoulder
and you asked me if I had ever become
disillusioned with something I had dreamt of as a
child.

On the sixth day, when you fell and bruised your

knee by Odell Lake, a smoky cloud of fur like a
thunderstorm surged forth from between the oaks.
With light steps the thing stalked forward, and I
flicked open my lighter and fashioned a torch from
a mud-soaked branch; the beast was unafraid and
approached and when I thought it was opening its
jaws to devour you, it licked your wounds until you
could stand again. That night, reminiscing, I
thanked God it didn’t eat you. That night,
reminiscing, you cursed God it didn’t eat you.

On the seventh day, you fashioned us a blanket of

leaves and we rested.

On the eighth day, there was darkness when I rose

from our bed of leaves as smoky clouds blotted out
any blue spot in the sky. You were lacing up your
boots at the foot of the hill, and you gave me a bag
and told me that we had to search. You were silent
when I asked what we were searching for. We took

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the log bridge over the stream from Odell Lake and
walked in the shadow of the Rope Swing Valley. We
watched the trees become charred and black as we
ventured deeper into the woods, and we saw
sunflowers with broken stalks and ravens in the
trees; there were gates of spiderwebs and the cry of
an owl in the cadence of a funeral knell. You
stopped on the shore of a lake from which the husks
of wicked trees jutted out like spikes, and the rain
began to come down. You had waited til now to cry.
You cried and told me you were searching for
anything that felt like home. You cried and said you
missed your bed and your dogs and food that would
actually fill your stomach. You cried and said you
missed the potholes on your street and the plastic
flowers you glued to your window. You cried and
you put your arms around me and said you didn’t
know how much longer you could be out here. You
placed a thin wafer of light, salt, and diamond dust
upon your tongue, and you laid in my arms until the
sky was drenched in watercolors.

On the ninth day, I carried you on my back after

you collapsed in the night. Everywhere around me
was abyss black, and the clouds above filtered the
light of the moon into nothingness. Ravens shrieked
among the trees and I listened for directions in the
furious riffs of thunder. I came upon the trees by
Stone Creek into which we carved our love, and I
withdrew the Swiss Army knife from the bark. I laid

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SPRING SEMESTER 2020

your body down against your tree and I collapsed

before mine; with the weakest of wills I flicked
open the blade and traced the scarred astrolabe you
carved into my chest. I swore, at the moment the
blood began to run, that the veil of clouds above
parted and revealed the full light of the moon,
floating like an island in that dark sea of stars. I
picked you up from your resting place and, with my
map of the night intact, carried you back home.

On the tenth day, you awoke on a moss boulder

throne at the peak of suburban Mt. Sinai, facing
north and overlooking the entirety of our woodland
kingdom. I approached quietly from behind and
placed a rosebush crown smelling of yesterday’s
rain atop your head and a whittled oak branch
sceptre at your side, and I told you the tale of the
land upon which you looked in all its natural beauty.
You asked me what the names of this land’s rulers
were, and I said that these were the woods of the
King and Queen of Marigold, the divine rulers who
left their kingdom behind them, never to be seen
again. For the first time in days, you laughed and
held my hand. You laughed and said that the king
and queen had very tacky names. Hand in hand,
adorned in foliage, and bearing a Swiss Army knife
like a knight’s sword at my side, we left the
wilderness behind us. We climbed back up onto the
overpass and found our way back home.

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When I was fourteen...

By Evan Goodfellow

Cupid shot the arrow he pulled from Zeno’s quiver,

and sang His love songs like they were strange Sphinx riddles.
His arrow hung suspended in time forever.
His verse a forest obscure like ancient idylls
that rearranged the world into a great maze.
Its rising oak walls encircled me, hopelessly
I ran frantically lost in feverish pathways,
the impenetrable tune playing ceaselessly.
Hoping to find a spell to make the arrow pierce me,
I learned meter, the gilded forms, wondering if
my ink could find me love or somehow set me free
from dark passages leading to endless high cliffs.
Damn what I’ve learned, it has taught me nothing
I hang off the ledge on the verge of becoming.

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SPRING SEMESTER 2020

Oiseaux
By Tara Lonsdorf

(Oiseau de Guerre)

The Falcon Master strokes your feathers before sending you off
to battle. Somewhere with heavy artillery.
It is quiet there, and then it is not.

Does he love you? Or does he love the blood, le sang, the burnt copper
taste of munitions ruffling wind through your wings?
It does not matter. He is the Falcon Master. He flies the tricolor flag.

Qu’est-ce que c’est? Why do you frown? He strokes your feathers with
gentle fingers.
Or at least gentle enough. Do not think too much. He can do
whatever he wants with you.

(Oiseau de Paix)

The General holds you by the neck, two fingers

caressing the thrum of where brackish vein meets mottled flesh. Not
a noose.
Or so you’re told.

C’est la vie. You don’t speak French. You are an American. You
know nothing of arithmetic, nothing of philosophy. You ask what the
knives are for
a second before your wings are clipped.

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You are not an instrument of war. So explain the blood.

You are not on trial. You have nothing to feel guilty about. Not
this time.
So explain the missing feathers. Explain the pain. S’il vous plait.

(Oiseau d’Amour)

Do they conspire against you? Why would they. You have told them
all of your secrets. You fly no flags. You have no friends, no Masters
who have not already died with you.

They throw you breadcrumbs and nails. You are kept in a cage,
iron bars, metal floor, small mirror through which to
imagine companionship. Plastic water bottle.

Sing their national anthem. Peck at their

offerings. This is far more than you deserve. You do, after all
love them.

(Oiseau de Chanson)

Sing me a song, bird. Sing it for me

and then stop.

Very good. Or at least good enough.

This is home,
now.

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SPRING SEMESTER 2020

Love Sonnet
By Evan Goodfellow

Wholly naked, uneasily sexed, I could not embrace

my true love of man and woman that mixes dreadfully
between my legs. Love eager, blood rushes to redden my face.
Hurriedly like a harried housewife I run to clean the memory
but dark magic, unbidden, summoned by unconscious will
pours out to drench my lips, touch hungry, I kiss the sky
and stain the stars, I swallow their beauty and cover the kill.
I starve my flesh. I quit the self. The spirit, the pleasure, All I deny.
Misplaced no longer mine, the body fills with crystal sand
now buried like a hermit shell it all but turns to stone.
I try to drown in sugar-wine and beg the night to softly end.
I thrash through love-dreams, with my heart barely grown
while My lungs breathe guilty fever till I am half insane,
But through the madness I feel everything, All of the pain.

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AVANT MAGAZINE

“Leaf Number Two” By David Sheppard

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SPRING SEMESTER 2020

The Eugenicists’ Experiment

By Tara Lonsdorf

Scientists judge intelligence in animals

by compliance with
human demands.

Omnivores we are, we eat them all

regardless.
Cannibals hold court outside walk-in freezers.

Parsing personalities within prey,

as sadists seeking sentience must do,
something evaporates.

Its absence, though heavy,

goes unnoticed.
Did it ever matter to them, in the first place?

Or did they just relish in the delight

of destroying something so similar
but not exactly quite?

If all lives do matter, if they’re people, too,

does that not just raise the stakes
for hunters heavy with hatred on their breath?

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Shallow wounds lay upon their hides,

a pain they believe can be transferred
to another.

They do not dare

speak of such vulnerability.
Only of the outcomes.

They speak of me
and of people who are not me.
They speak of how we might taste.

And they wonder if such a feast

will be tantamount to love.
But never if it might not be.

And as carnivores pant by firelight, those same scientists sing

psalms of justification
for the horrors in which they do conspire.

They know that with which they tamper.

They know the outcomes of animal intelligence, of experimentation,
of carnivory.
Oh yes, they do.

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Avant
Editorial Board
Spring 2020

Editor in Chief: Hannah Tran

Senior Editor: Dina Folgia
Treasurer: Nicholas Philhower
Senator: Tara Grier
Assistant Editors: Nickolus Parker, Remy
Desai-Patel, James O’Brien
Layout Editor: Tara Lonsdorf
AVANT MAGAZINE

Black Dollar$
By Jocelyn Reuben

[White male, late thirties; set in the Corporate Office]

Tom: Let’s go, people! Hurry up! Conference room now! Tina… we are
literally losing money with every second it’s taking your incompetent
backside to get in here. (beat) Now that we’re all here let’s cut the fool-
ery. I am not a happy CEO right now! Does anyone wanna guess why
I’m not happy? No, it has nothing to do with people struggling and dy-
ing in this God forsaken pandemic. Quite frankly I’m sick of COVID…
no pun intended. Anyone else wanna take a stab at it? While the count-
less lives of Black people being taken right now is apparent, I’m afraid
we have bigger fish to fry here at Strange Fruit Smoothies. Think green,
people! We are going broke by the second. It has come to my attention
that posting a black square was not enough. Neither was standing in
“solidarity” — whatever that means — with them. Tamika aren’t you in
charge of PR? You should know what your people want! I’m confused…
are you not Black? You know what? It doesn’t matter. Just pack up your
office and go please. (whispers) It’s not racist if she wasn’t doing her job.
Now that I have everyone’s attention… somebody write me a statement.
I want us to do more than Taco Bell but less than Chipotle. Here’s what
we’ll do...wait how many Black employees do we have? Only 20? We’ll
save more money than I thought. Do they all go to school? Perfect! Let’s
give each of them $500 “scholarships” for school. Look, Tina just be-
cause we have money doesn’t mean we have to spend it. I suggest you
get on board if you’d like to continue to drive a Range Rover and afford
your son’s out-of-state tuition. Anyway, we’ll also sell limited edition
Black Lives Matter reusable straws… $3.50 a pop. Let’s get a Black influ-
encer to promote it and call it a day. My driver is outside… I want my
statement ready and all of this fixed by tomorrow morning.

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FALL SEMESTER 2020

The Thing About Empathy

By Tara Lonsdorf

My greatest fear (or one of them, at least)

is not that when I am driving at night, my headlights will not catch
the buck
before my license plate does.
It is not that the beast will simply collide with the vehicle
twisting the seat in which I sit into a pretzel of scrap metal, not that I
will hear the scream
of tires, of animal, seconds before blunt force into ribcage and lungs.

My greatest fear is not that I will hit the deer.

In my worst visions, I am always driving home from my boyfriend’s

house
always summer. I am always twenty, ten, five minutes from the
driveway.
It is always night, inky black, trees and asphalt coalescing into solid
mass.
I am trying to change the radio station. Fiddling with the A/C.
Contemplating getting gas.
In these visions, I am always smiling, barely twenty-two years old
right before the buck materializes lamp-like on the highway.

But my greatest fear is not that I will hit the deer.

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My greatest fear is that I will not remember what I’ve been told to do
right before I hit an animal, that I will not remember to step on the gas,
that I will instinctively try to brake to save the both of us, that it will
not work, because
that never works. My greatest fear is that rather than sliding bodily
over the car, the deer
will smash through the windshield, hooves tangling with steering
wheel and glass
before the conjoined mass of us hits a tree and we are both dead, two
bodies
pulling one another down, both drowning.

My greatest fear is never that I will hit the deer.

My greatest fear is that, in knee-jerk reaction,
I will try to spare the deer.

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FALL SEMESTER 2020

“Flora” By Abigail Leitinger

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AVANT MAGAZINE

Welcome to My World
By Jocelyn Reuben

Bienvenidos a mi mundo
Ain’t shit change since Jim Crow
All your filters and makeup look like a minstrel show
You love our culture but you don’t love us
When it comes to racial injustice,
You plead the fifth, don’t wanna discuss
When we take a knee it’s called treasonous
When you kneel and murder Floyd,
You ask, “What’s all the fuss?”
I’m at a crossroads of being proud as fuck
and scared as hell in my own skin
You claim you’re Christians,
Then teach hate, the deadliest sin to your kin
We’ve been taking it on the chin for over 400 years
Murder after rape, I’ve exhausted all of my tears
Meanwhile you’re saying cheers,
Sipping beers somewhere on the beach
We’ll be somewhere, anywhere,
using our freedom of speech to reach,
To preach, to teach everyone willing to listen
Using our voices to breach the system oppressing us
Til the wheels fall off and burn
I will fight with every fiber of my being
Until the point of no return
Til my ancestors rest peacefully,
Looking proud at what we’ve done
That Black square was NOTHING…
The Revolution’s just begun

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FALL SEMESTER 2020

Itchy Hands
By Cat Reed

Content Warning: Detailed description of OCD

There is this itch on your hand. A terrible itch that keeps on

spreading. It goes up your arm and reaches your shoulder. It travels
down to the base of your back. It fills your entire body with a discom-
fort that you can’t escape. You scratch and you scratch but the itch
won’t go away. There is this nagging sensation in the back of your
mind that this might just be what it feels like to be dirty. Where is the
nearest bathroom? How can you escape this nightmare? You walk,
avoiding people as best as you can, but they still cling onto you. The
bubble, the distance, that you’ve made for yourself is constantly being
squandered. You enter the bathroom and move to the sink, standing in
front of it blindly as if that will somehow cure your itching. You look
down at your chapped hands and start washing under the automatic
faucet that sometimes neglects to register your presence. Washing and
washing and washing. You wash your hands with soap and water.
Much longer than the twenty-second recommendation.
This is a public restroom which makes the itching all the worse.
The signs lingering around you on all sides enforce the misery in your
mind. “Keep 6ft apart.” “Wash your hands for 20 seconds.” “Please
wear your mask inside at all times.” The signs tell you. Okay. You
get that. So you adjust your mask without paying attention to the fact
you’ve touched the fabric in front of your mouth. The fabric that faces
people. That itch returns. You stare at yourself in the mirror, telling
yourself that it is going to be fine, but you move your hands back to the
sink and wash your hands all over again. The itch doesn’t leave. That
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feeling remains even as you feel the burning sensation of skin leaving
your knuckles. You can feel the cracking and the cuts that might form
later but the itching remains. Why did you decide to leave your house
today? Surely there wasn’t anything so important that you’d have to
leave the sanctuary of your own abode? There is no work today, no
work any day, everything is closed. You aren’t entirely sure of where
it is you are right now. What is happening around you? All you can
focus on is the itching of your hands and the distance between yourself
and the world, or rather, the distance that should be there and isn’t.
Upon leaving the bathroom you once again notice all of the
people surrounding you that aren’t following the guidelines. They
stand too close to each other or with their masks down past their nose.
You stare at them behind your sunglasses and decide that whatever it
was you had to do today can wait. You still aren’t sure what it was that
you were meant to be doing. The itching consumed your mind instead.
You can’t handle it. None of it. Not the itching, not the people,
not being outside. You can’t even handle the announcements sounding
through the roof of the building. Yes, you know they’re following the
guidelines, or at least trying to, but the customers have minds of their
own. Avoiding eye contact at all costs from the safety of the sunglasses,
you rush for the door and open it with your foot instead of touching
it. One of those “push” situations where you can just kick. You were
lucky this time.
You walk on the sidewalk in the direction of your car and cross
the pavement to get to that small safe haven. Once you’ve sat down,
you stare at the wheel, disassociating from that nightmare you’ve just
experienced. You reach for your small bottle of hand sanitizer and
pour a large dollop on your hands. Still itchy. They’ll always be itchy.
Is there even such a thing as cleanliness? You can’t remember a time

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FALL SEMESTER 2020

when your hands weren’t this itchy. You’d like to think that before
this, before the whole pandemic, the itching of your hands never both-
ered you. That was so long ago, so many months, so you’ll never know
for sure if your hands ever felt clean.
“But that doesn’t matter now,” you mutter to yourself under
your breath. “I’m not sure anything matters anymore,” you let out a
long sigh and rest your forehead against the driver’s wheel. What was
it that you were supposed to do? You try and try and try to think but
the anxiety builds up in your torso.
“Whatever,” you sigh once again, completely defeated. “It was
nothing the internet can’t solve.” You start the car and begin driving
home, where you will add on to that intense credit card debt, because
going in person to use cash just wasn’t working.

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“Scrub and Brush” By Tara Lonsdorf

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FALL SEMESTER 2020

Christmas at Las Vegas Airport

/ New Year’s Eve in Death
Valley
By Tara Lonsdorf

Wrapped in the embrace of a barrel cactus, my right

leg numbs as poison replaces blood.
California winter, middle of a fault zone: I did not think
I could learn to live with offset, and yet all college-educated twenty-
somethings seem to pilgrimage into deserts, to “find ourselves” in
peyote and
claim to fall in love under meteor showers — self-stylized as
Authentic Deadheads, Authentic Poets, Authentic Beings of Love and
Light
for being able to shoulder the burden necessary
to suffer for weeks, to not shower regularly, to promise that we’re
gonna
learn how to play that guitar one of these days—
and to get to call that Subversive, get to claim Enlightenment.

I remove cactus needles from flesh already purple with bruises and
wait for
stiffness in the joints. The poison is not lethal, but it is not fun.
My wallet is somewhere on the side of a highway
in the town of Pahrump, Nevada. My dignity is somewhere inside
of a Chinese buffet. I remember crying for weeks on the inside
of myself
before the plane landed on the Las Vegas airstrip.
I did not want to become a Deadhead, did not want to learn
how to play guitar. I did not need to fall in love again,
meteor shower or not. I did not need to

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learn how to suffer and how to call it art. I was tired. After all, how
could I have handled yet another burden?

When my palms are scraped from climbing, when

my hair is matted with dirt, I think I will crawl out of the van
in a Walmart parking lot across from a gun shop, and deal with the
damn thing.
All I’d wanted in the first place was the embrace, the
squeeze of my hand while my peers perform
roadside surgery with toothpicks and hand sanitizer.
Middle of a fault zone, half of my New Jersey-born body
thrown clear across the gorge toward Mexico.
A boy from Alaska throws the other half there to meet it.
A girl Texas slips over the rocks to sew it back together.
Sky clouded, there are no meteors, but all other promises held true.

And so I let myself eat bad kung pao chicken between a brothel and
a psychic,
set off fireworks somewhere where the brush wasn’t so dry,
go for a run the morning after getting drunk in the trailer kitchen,
write in journals and sleep all day and don’t even shower
while we listen to the Grateful Dead. I let Alaska drive us all back to
Nevada to search for my wallet, the one we all know is gone,
but we all trudge along the highway and pretend to know nothing.
We wrap my leg in antiseptic, let it sting with the
misery it had demanded all along. I let California claim me
as the clock strikes midnight, as one wound closes after another.
We don’t think about these things until we are
back on another airstrip, and only then do I let myself

cry in plain sight, laden with the absence of all that has been removed
while the desert grows smaller and smaller, away.

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How Life Began on the Second

Moon
By Scott MacLean

They knew they would be devoured. The citizens of Earth

had the technology to detect the great beast wandering through the
universe, tearing large chunks out of planets and continuing on it’s
destructive path. The citizens quickly went to work at finding ways to
destroy the beast, readying their weapons of mass destruction. Howev-
er, the bombs would destroy not only the beast, but the citizens as well.
Some suggested trying to reason with the beast, but the beast did not
care for pleas, the beast was hungry.
Days passed and many resigned themselves to their fate, wait-
ing for the day the beast would appear and bite into the earth’s crust
like one would an apple. Before that day came, a lone cook devised a
plan: What if the beast did not like what it tasted? Perhaps, like a child
with a piece of broccoli, the beast would spit out its bite before chew-
ing the citizens to dust.
The citizens immediately went to work, filling the earth’s crust
with any substance that would cause them to spit out their food. One
at a time they threw their abhorrent contributions into the great pit,
praying that the beast would be deterred. Curdled spoiled milk, greasy
tarantula leg hair, rotting fish lips, toxic runny cheese, maggot-filled
mud pies, skunk-spray soup. Anything and everything that the citizens
imagined might displease the beast.
The day came where the beast wandered into the solar system,
eager for its next meal. Its eyes settled on Earth’s vibrant greens and
blues, mouth agape and drooling. The beast’s teeth dug into the earth

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and tore a meaty chunk out of the planet. The citizens hugged their
loved ones close, preparing to be chewed by razor sharp fangs, but the
beast’s mouth froze. All the tastes settled on the beast’s tongue but a
single substance was so vile, that for the first time in the beast’s exis-
tence, it no longer wanted to eat. The beast grimaced and turned its
head, spitting the chunk of Earth into space, where it began to orbit the
earth much like the moon.
The citizens cheered as the beast fled the solar system in search
of something to cleanse its palate. All the survivors on the new moon
wondered what could have soured the beast’s appetite, but one little
girl knew it was her genius contribution that felled their foe.
“It was the broccoli.”

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FALL SEMESTER 2020

“Walt Disney” By Krystal Manning

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Sales Call
By Robert Pallante

“Hi, I’m Jeffrey McMahon of McMahon Air and Water. Forty years ago, my
father founded this company because he wanted to ensure that his family had
the safest and purest air and water. We engineer our products to be top-of-the-
line because what’s best for our family is best for yours.”

***

My parents named me Jonathan, but people call me Jack. I sell

air and water for McMahon Air and Water, a family company. Today, I
was tasked to make cold calls down at the commercial district and port
in Elizabeth. I don’t own a car, so I commute; public transportation
isn’t the ideal time to organize for work. I dropped my work material,
and it got soaked in what smelled like urine and gasoline.
The tram is usually packed, but this morning it wasn’t,
probably because of today’s headline that there would be a high level
of pollution in the air today. People would probably want to stay
inside — I couldn’t, I had to work. A little boy sat in front of me, his
glasses were dirty, the smog and dust collected on them from years
of toxic exposure. The same was probably happening to his insides. If
only he had bought a mask from McMahon Air and Water, a
family company.
My cell rang, it was my boss, maybe she had some leads.
“Hello?” I said.
“Jack, I just got a call from a gentleman down at the port, he’s
interested in buying some of our products,” she said.

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“Sounds great!”
“I want you to push our new stuff, Jack, I know there’s been
some issues with them but offer him discounted service calls.”
“Okay.”
“Good, I’ll send you the information.”
Sales wasn’t always my forte, I actually wanted to be a teacher,
but life did its thing and here I am. I make a decent living, the commis-
sion is generous.
Outside of Elizabeth, I saw a billboard for McMahon Air and
Water, a family company. “Seize the Power, It is the People’s Mo-
ment!” had been graffitied across it, the motto of a national environ-
mental advocacy group, what a silly motto it was. The Elizabeth port
smelled like fish, gasoline, and death in general, definitely a place that
would need some good air filtration. The address my boss had given
me was for a large warehouse near the end, it looked relatively new ac-
tually. Across the side was a sign that read “Hogan’s Industrial Laun-
dry Service.”
Inside the warehouse were giant industrial-sized washing
machines. It was also as humid as the rain forest, its own little
microclimate inside this enclosed place. I could barely breathe, and my
glasses stayed fogged up.
“Excuse me, I’m looking for the person in charge,” I said to a
worker that was pushing a large cart full of fabric.
The worker, a man of eastern European descent, maybe Polish,
who was also tired from hours of non-stop work and no break, pointed
to an office at the top of some stairs. Written on the door to the office,
in gold leaf lettering, was the owner’s name, “Thomas Hogan How-
arth, President of the Board, CEO, and Floor Supervisor.” I knocked on
the door, a tall pudgy man answered.

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“Yes, can I help you?” the man said.

“Ah yes, sir, my name is Jonathan Wessel, but my friends call
me Jack,” I said, “I’m with McMahon Air and Water, a family
company.”
“Yeah, yeah, I called on your office. I wasn’t expecting them to
send someone out today.”
“Well, sir, I was in the area, and my boss told me to stop by, all
customers are important to us.”
“Yeah, well, I’m just looking for something cheap.” The man sat
back in his chair, putting his feet up on his desk and resting his head
back on his hands. “You see, I recently was cited by the state labor
department.”
“Ah, I see, may I ask what for?”
“Stupid shit, really. I’m not up to code for air quality and all.
And I have fifteen days to fix it, or I get shut down.”
“Well, we can certainly help, I just need to get a better look at
what we’re looking at.”
“I can show you around, and I’ll show you our current air
filtering system.”
“Sounds good.”
The work floor was loud, something I had noticed before. It was
actually hard to hear the man, who was currently complaining about
the regulations that were making him upgrade his systems. He took
me to this room near the warehouse’s rear, inside was their current air
filtration system.
“I’ve had this thing since I started this company twenty years
ago,” the man said.
“When’s the last time you’ve had it maintained?” I asked, “Had
the filters switched out and all?”

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“Oh, I don’t know, maybe a couple years ago?”

“I see, well, we can certainly give you a good deal on replacing
this whole system.”
“Replacing the system? Can’t you just sell me some of
your filters?”
“Well, sir, if you’re looking to have a system that works and
won’t break down on you, I’d recommend you replace the whole thing.
If it’s a matter of cost, we can offer you the best financing.”
“Does it have to be replaced?”
“Not technically, but you’d barely pass inspection, and you
may not pass in the future.”
“Well, I can deal with that when I get there. There are ways
around it I can find.”
“A brand new McMahon Air Filtration system would come
with three years of free maintenance. and I’m sure your employees
would be appreciative.”
The man laughed, “Yeah, I’m sure, but my bottom line
wouldn’t.”
“Well, I can get you some quotes.”
“Let’s do that, then I’ll make my decision. If you could get those
to me by the end of the day, that would be great.”
The man showed me the way out. Outside, a few of the
employees sat at a bench on their lunch breaks: the same eastern Eu-
ropean man from earlier, a younger Hispanic woman, and a boy who
didn’t look older than seventeen. They looked tired and sick.
I felt a little sick, so I decided to head to the office, get those
quotes written up, and maybe get some food. My head hurt, so I rested
my eyes while on the tram back downtown. I thought about how irre-
sponsible the man was. Two years and he hadn’t had that filtration

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system looked at, you’re supposed to do it every three to six months.

Those workers’ insides must be caked with pollution. If only they had
a new filtration system from McMahon Air and Water, a family
company.
“What are you doing back so early?” my boss asked when I got
back to the office.
“Well, I wasn’t feeling so good,” I said, “and I wanted to pre-
pare some quotes for a potential client.”
“Okay, well, if you need anything, let me know, I’ll get
it approved.”
“Thank you.”
My office downtown was on the 42nd floor and had a view of
the whole city, my desk sat right by the window. Every day I would
look out over the clouds of fog, pollution, and smoke.
Opportunity is what McMahon’s top executives would call it, all that
pollution was an opportunity to sell our products.
“Hello, sir,” I called the man at Hogan’s Laundry, “I’ve pre-
pared several different quotes for you, I’ve been able to convince my
boss to allow me to give you the best deals possible and I think you
will be happy with what I have. Can I send them over to you?”
“Yeah, why not,” the man said, “but to be honest, I may just be
looking at buying some new filters for the system I already have.”
“Totally understand that, sir, but I do think you will be happy
with what you’ll see. I’ll have them sent right over.”
Time to head home, the tram around that time of day was
usually full. Working people mostly, heading home from work, run-
ning from one job to another, students also heading home to an empty
house because mom and dad were working. I was usually the only

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person in a suit, which I wore because of my job — people would

sometimes look and wonder why I was there.
My apartment had only two rooms and a bathroom. Nothing
fancy, not even a McMahon Air Filter, which I couldn’t afford as of yet,
but I had an electric stove and refrigerator and a bed, so it was enough.
I had food and was able to buy bottles of purified water, and the rent
was affordable, why complain? After dinner, my cell rang, it was the
man from Hogan’s laundry.
“Hello, sir,” I said, “so do we have a deal?” I knew we didn’t,
but I was still trying to sell to him.
“Well, boy,” he said as I felt myself slump back in the chair that
I was sitting in, “I don’t think I want to put that much out right now
and all. So I think, for now, I’m just going to buy some of your
filters.” The filters would, of course, break down after a while, and any
benefit would be gone, but cheap is cheap, it’s the way of the world.
“Ah, I totally understand that, sir.”
“I’ll keep you in mind a few years, maybe about replacing the
whole thing.”
“Thank you, sir, I’ll give you a call in the morning. Have a
good night.”
After selling him those filters, I would never hear from him
again. I didn’t expect to, not much is expected of people. His employ-
ees would breathe okay for a while, but then they would go back to
working in the pollution surrounding us all. And when they
inevitably succumb to some illness related to this pollution, one would
have to ask themselves, what would have been different had they had
a new air filtration system from McMahon Air and Water, a family
company?

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indigo
By Diana DeSimine

but when I felt his touch

my runaway conscience
stopped in its tracks, and I
remembered rosy days,
and places I’ve called home,
and counted them like pearls.

bad days, like stepping stones,

led me to this ocean.
I’m still learning to breathe
between the memories.
I leave bubbles to burst,
and discover new blues.

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Skipping Stones
By Chloe Mortier

Thea grips the smooth stone in her hand firmly and keeps her
breathing even. Inhale, hold for three seconds, and steadily exhale. Her
eyes have a slight squint as she looks out at the horizon. Morning light
drips from the sky and bounces off the crystal blue lake. She reels her
arm back and flings the stone with all her might.
It plops into the water a foot in front of her.
A brassy laugh erupts from John De Rosier and the girl swirls
around to glare, cheeks puffed, and arms crossed high up her chest.
He lies on the striped blanket, propped up on one arm, the
opposite leg bent. His dress shoes are neatly placed by the edge of
the blanket and he’s rolled up his pants and shirt sleeves. Darla, his
overweight golden Labrador, is snuggled up against him and quiet-
ly snores. Small, circle framed reading glasses hang low on his thin,
crooked nose and a book lies on his stomach. It’s the most relaxed Thea
has ever seen Mr. De Rosier — even his usual pulled back blonde hair
is freed from its short ponytail. The man sitting before her is unfamil-
iar, and so unlike the one she sees intensely gazing at paperwork in his
study for hours or busing around the hotel.
Before rising from his seat, the man takes one last deep breath
of the thin cigarette set snuggly between his lips and then snubs it out
against a nearby rock, smoke easing out of his nose. His steps are light,
barely making a sound as he searches the lake’s edge for another stone.
Once finding a few that meet his standards, fitting nicely against his
palm with a uniform flatness, he hands one to Thea and stands by her.
“Thea, my dear, there is an art to skipping a stone. Your
technique was admirable, but lacked the finesse,” he says, a grin pull-
ing at the corner of his lips as she gives him a look of offense.
He kneels down to show her how to grip the stone in her hand,

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right between the thumb and index finger. He places one leg behind
and pulls his arm back. “Now pay close attention to how I throw it.”
His wrist bends back and he flings his arm forward, flicking his
wrist and throwing downward at the same time. The stone skips four
times, to Thea’s amazement, before descending underneath the water.
There are stars in the girl’s eyes as she stares up at Mr. De Rosier, fists
clenched with determination to learn his secrets of the perfect toss. He
helps her practice the swing, and once she becomes comfortable, he lets
her give it a try.
Thea looks out to the horizon again and breathes. She checks
her footing and the position of her arm. With higher confidence, she
propels the stone into the air, and it skips once.
Mr. De Rosier ruffles the top of Thea’s head, a few strands of
her fair hair coming undone from her pigtails. “Nice job, kiddo!”
A surge of pride — or what she believes pride must feel like —
flourishes within her and she smiles shyly. It’s an odd feeling. Every
other foster parent had only complained about how useless she was,
her arms littered in various sized scars and few burn marks from
heated fire pokers in reminder of the fact. Somehow the sisters at the
orphanage were even worse, ganging up on her just like the other kids
did, and would often send her to solitary confinement: an empty con-
crete room with only a single slice of stale bread to keep her through
the day. She was an easy target, small and frail with abnormally light
hair and nearly translucent skin. “Look, it’s Walking Corpse!” the kids
would taunt.
After a couple weeks at each foster home, Thea was always
brought back to the orphanage, unwanted and seen more as a burden
to take care of. But Mr. De Rosier saw something different.
Thea remembers the day the young man walked into the
orphanage. All the other kids were playing outside, but she burned
easily, so she stayed in her room. Often enough, she grew bored of
counting the speckles on the ceiling, so she roamed the halls. After
hearing the two nuns on patrol pass by her door, she slipped out and

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walked in the other direction, hand scraping along the old brick walls.
Before turning a corner, which led to the front entrance, she heard
Sister Josephine’s ear splitting voice, and instantly smacked her body
close against the wall. Thea trembled and her heart raced so fast it felt
like it would burst out of her chest and take off down the hall, back to
her room, flying under her cot.
Curiosity getting the better of her, Thea moved her head a
smidge to peek. Sister Josephine had a vice grip around Henry’s arm,
her talon nails sinking deep in the boy’s dark flesh. A man she’d
never seen before stood near them, eyes scrunched into slits and his
mouth bearing a small sneer. He wore the finest navy blue suit, brown
dress shoes, a golden watch that Thea swore was actually twinkling,
and his hair was slicked back. Thea only caught parts of the conver-
sation, but it was enough to understand the situation. The man found
Henry trying to escape and brought him back.
In the process of rolling his eyes, Henry caught Thea hiding and
smirked. “Hey Walking Corpse! What are you doing outside of
your room?”
Sister Josephine whirled around and her eyes ignited. If the
man hadn’t been standing there, she would have gone absolutely feral.
“Thea, get over here this instant!” Sister Josephine spat. The
girl crept out of her spot and over to the nun. “You know it’s against
the rules to walk the halls alone. I guess Henry will have company in
solitary confinement. Forgive me for these disobedient children, sir.
Children, apologize to this fine man at once!”
Turning to the man, they mumbled, “I’m sorry.”
When Thea met his gaze, her heart sank. He looked at her with
wide, glassy eyes that scanned over her entire body. She instinctively
hugged herself, feeling her bony ribs jutting out, and wanted nothing
more than to hide. The man, noticing that his good deed had been
filled, bid a swift farewell and Thea thought that would be the last
she would see of the rich stranger. Yet, a week later, he returned and
requested to become her foster parent. Upon receiving the news, Thea
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waited for someone to tell her it was just some cruel joke; but after
spending the most lavish week at his mansion, she hoped never to hear
such a thing. A month later, when she gained the courage to ask why
he bothered to come back for her after such a brief meeting, he only
told her, “You reminded me of when I was younger and the only thing
I wished for most was for someone to save me from the hell I
was living.”
They take a seat back on the blanket and Mr. De Rosier
passes Thea a perfectly cut tea sandwich. Their munching joins the
symphony of buzzing cicadas and ruffling of leaves.
“Thea,” Mr. De Rosier prompts after a moment, “Would you be
alright with me adopting you?”
The piece of the sandwich she just bit off nearly falls from her
mouth. Her head whips to look at him, her expression a mixture of
confusion and excitement. She silently prays she didn’t mishear him.
He smirks, “Yes, you heard me right. So, what do you say?”
Words jumble in her throat, so she resorts to fiercely nodding
her head, and tosses the rest of the sandwich to the side to fully col-
lide into Mr. De Rosier’s side. He howls, but securely wraps his arms
around her. The sleeping dog wakes to scoop up the discarded food
and drifts back off.
“You don’t have to be so formal with me then. I’m not asking
you to start calling me dad or anything. I want you to feel comfortable,
so you can call me John or continue with Mr. De Rosier. Whatever
you’re okay with,” he says.
He digs into his pockets, producing two more skipping stones,
and hands one to Thea. He rises from his seat and tosses the stone. Six
whole skips! He lets out a long whistle, settling his thumbs into his
pockets. Thea doesn’t join the man to toss the rock. She lets her thumbs
slide over the smooth surface and holds it close to her chest.

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Astrophel
By Jason Evers

You are my darling lady of the night

And I a distant gazer of the stars;
Your name alone sets the dark sky alight,
The saying sound, the stellar thing you are;

The distance from my heart to yours measures

In many lasting interstellar miles —
Removed from my celestial treasure,
The thought of which renders me immobile —

Forlorn I gaze upon the sky at dusk

With fleeting hope that I can catch your eye;
In dreams I gather vials of stardust;
It disappears at dawn and I repine!

How can an astronomer hope to be

Noticed by Stellar beauty such as thee?

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“Alluvium” By Tara Lonsdorf

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FALL SEMESTER 2020

Lexi
By Aatish Gupta

“I feel like I’m inexplicably attracted to tall women. I know I

don’t have a chance with them because some sort of societal conven-
tion has eliminated their view of me as a potential suitor, and there’s
nothing inherently sexual about their height. Or maybe it’s because my
mother’s short and I want to find a woman that’s as different from her
as possible to convince myself that I don’t have an Oedipal complex.”
“And I feel,” she says, twisting the sleeve of her coffee cup as
she speaks, “like I keep sleeping with these guys that I have coffee once
or twice with and go on long, Holden Caulfield-esque monologues be-
cause they think that their ability to articulate the feelings that everyone
has will somehow account for their lack of social graces.”
She looks up at him after saying this. He sucks in his cheeks
and looks down. She takes pride in both humiliating him and in the tit-
illation he feels from affirming her attraction to him along with what it
has in store for him. His skinny body makes her want to wrap her legs
around his face and muffle his pretentious banter.
“You got me there,” he says and smiles, still looking at
the table.
“I’m six two by the way,” she says, “Does that make you hard?”
“A little, not going to lie,” he says.
She snags his foot with hers under the table. He seems like he’ll
be fun in bed. Harbors a little aggression towards women.
They make eye contact for a second and she lets go. “So you
honestly think you don’t want to fuck women that look like
your mom?”
“Well I think I’ve been conditioned to think that I want to, but
no,” he says, “I mean, you look nothing like a short Italian lady and
you definitely smile a lot more.”

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“Really? I think I have kind of a resting bitch face.”

“You’ve got nothing on my mom. She has an active bitch face.”
Harshida cannot contain a laugh at this. She reaches to cover
her mouth slightly. She can’t stand when someone she disapproves of
says something clever. She hates this about herself.

The dog cowers from Harshida as she kneels to touch it and

tries to hide under the kitchen table. It is not a pretty dog. It is clear-
ly in its later years and has sorrow written into its countenance. It is
doing its best to disappear into the wall. Harshida looks around. The
walls are bare, the furniture limited to a plastic chair and a busted up
couch that was no doubt lifted off of a curb somewhere.
She had somehow expected something a little more upscale.
“How come you never told me you had a dog?”
“I don’t tell a lot of people,” he says, taking off his coat by the
door, “because then they’ll ask to see her. I got her from the shelter a
few weeks ago. She’s nervous around strangers.”
There is a silence. She expects him to lecture her about the
virtue of adopting older dogs over puppies but he doesn’t. Instead he
fishes a jar of dog treats out from beneath the sink. He tries to coax the
dog out from under the table with one.
“C’mon Lex,” he says, “That’s right, come here. It’s ok. Harshi-
da is nice, she’s not going to hurt you.”
Lexi comes out and Jacob strokes her fur with one hand and
breaks the treat in half with the other. He stands and hands Harshida
one of the halves. He says, “Don’t move too fast.”
She takes the treat and nods. She crouches down and holds it
out. The dog is hesitant at first but comes to her. She shakes as
Harshida pets her, not at ease in the slightest. When she finishes the
food she turns and goes to hide behind Jacob’s legs.
She expects him to apologize for Lexi, to make some indication
that her fear of Harshida will subside with further interaction, but he
doesn’t. He strokes her, and lets her scamper back to her bed.

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The clinking of glasses and the dull chatter surrounds them in

a way that feels like dipping your head in a warm bath; it mutes the
music playing in the background and washes them with a sense of
security from the cold world around them.
“I saw a dog that looked like Lexi today,” Harshida says.
“That’s interesting,” Jacob says, “Where did you see her?”
“I saw it on Fifth and Bishop. It was pissing on a fire hydrant. I
wonder why they do that.”
“I think it has something to do with marking their territory.
They always lift their legs really high, to get piss as high on the object
as possible, which makes them seem bigger to the other dogs in the
neighborhood.”
“Not that different from men, I guess.”
“What?”
“Well, you know how men are always trying to compete with
one another, in the stupidest ways. With their shoes, their car,
their watch.”
“Oh yeah? What about women? I’ve seen the looks that you
guys give girls when they haven’t put effort into what they’re wearing.
Women contend for ‘big dog’ just as much as men.”
“That’s so fucking sexist. Women aren’t inherently catty. I nev-
er talk shit about other women.”
“Yeah, well. I don’t wear a watch.”
“Where’s all this woman-hating energy come from? You
probably have some serious mommy issues.”
“Yeah, maybe I do.”
Harshida lightly pushes his shoulder and laughs. “What did
she do to you? Beat you? Call you names? OH! I know. She probably
made fun of your penis size in front of your friends or something. My
mom used to do that to my brother and now he’s fucked in the head.”
“You told me your brother is a successful OBGYN.”
“Yeah, but he’s got a foot fetish.”
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“Right. Well if you really want to know why I have mommy

issues, it’s because my mom killed my dad.”
Harshida laughed. She then saw that he was not smiling. “Wait.
You’re fucking with me.”
“I’m not fucking with you. You can look her up, her name is
Jennifer Russo, arrested in 2004 for homicide. It was on the news.”
Harshida does not pull out her phone to look this up. “I’m so
sorry, Jacob.”
“Yeah, well she’s not.”
Jacob takes off his glasses and sighs, rubbing the bridge of his
nose. “My dad was a runner. He used to go on twenty mile runs on the
weekends. My mom wasn’t into exercise, but she was always support-
ive. On Sundays they had a kind of ritual. He would wake up real ear-
ly, like five AM, and run out to this trail that was about thirty minutes
away by car, and she would meet him there. Oh yeah, and he would
take our dog with him too. My mom would bring them both water and
snacks for after their run and they would walk a few miles before she
drove them back.
“When I was in seventh grade, my mom got in a car accident.
She was hit on the side going through an intersection. She went into
a coma for a few months. While she was asleep, my dad would wan-
der around the house at night, and he lost half his weight because he
couldn’t eat.
“My mom had some pretty severe head trauma, and the doc-
tors didn’t know if she’d be able to even live a normal life once she
woke up. But miraculously, she lost no brain function, and was able to
go back to work in a matter of weeks. My dad was able to sleep again
with her there, and he started eating.
“It wasn’t all rainbows though. My dad developed super bad
separation anxiety. He would have panic attacks if he didn’t see her for
a few hours. She wanted none of it. She became irritable. She would
snap at him and me randomly, and began yelling at our dog or slap-
ping him when he went on the couch or begged. She would go on long

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drives or just disappear for hours and sometimes days. My dad would
be a nervous wreck while she was away, and when she got back he
would try to hug her and she would scream at him to get away from
her, that he was smothering her. She would blow up if things were
misplaced in the house or chores weren’t done on time. Eventually she
started hitting my dad when he did anything to upset her.
“I told you before that my mom was a small woman, and my
dad was an average sized guy that was in excellent shape, so of course
it didn’t affect him that much physically when she did those things. It
hurt him on the inside, but that wasn’t enough for her. She wanted him
to fear her. She started hitting him with things, pots, pans. Her favorite
was her water bottle. It actually got dented from how she would wail
on him with it.
“Eventually she stopped screaming, or even getting noticeably
angry. I remember she saw that there was a broken glass in the trash
once when she came back from work late one day, and I saw her lip
twitch. I thought she wasn’t going to do anything about it, because she
just put a pot of water to boil on the stove and went about her business.
My dad came downstairs and she scolded him lightly.
“I remember how calm she sounded. Give me your hand, she
said. He did. She dragged him over to the sink. She picked up the
pot of boiling water. And she fucking poured it on his hand. My dad
screamed and screamed, but she didn’t stop until the water was gone.
Then she just went upstairs while he frantically poured cold water on
the wound.
“He told me not to tell anyone what was happening, or they
would take her away from us. I think he blamed himself in some
fucked way for the accident, or made himself believe that he
deserved it…
“All throughout this though, they never stopped doing their
Sunday hikes. Even before the accident, if they ever fought, they would
go out to that trail regardless. I used to think there was some part of
my mom that was still there the whole time, because she got in the car
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every Sunday and went out to that trail to meet him. But now I think
it was just habit. She was gone. Her body was just doing what it had
always done for thirty years.
“And one day, when I was sixteen, she went out to that trail
with a knife and she murdered my father and our dog.”
Jacob takes a sip of his drink. Harshida feels sick.

Harshida squeezes Jacob’s head like she’s trying to crack it.

He’s hard at work. Rain beats against the windows, and the wind
whistles through the trees. The storm is egging him on. Harshida is
about to orgasm when
A flash of lightning lights up the room, and a few seconds
later… CRACK. The thunder is so loud that it seems to shake the apart-
ment building. A howl comes from the other room. Jacob immediately
pulls away and runs out of the room. Harshida is dumbstruck.
She puts on her panties and walks out to the living room.
“What the fuck was that, Jacob? I was about to—”
She sees him sitting cross legged under the dinner table,
naked, holding a whimpering Lexi in his arms and rocking back and
forth. He is humming to her and stroking her fur.
Harshida feels a wave of discomfort wash over her. She has a
sudden, uncontrollable urge to vomit. She runs to the bathroom and
barfs into the toilet.
Jacob can hear her retching, but he does not move an inch.
“It’s ok, Lexi. It’s ok.”

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“Utensils” By Abigail Leitinger

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Kore
By Daria Husni

“Terrible things,” she says

looking out past the meadow
where old familiarity fades to the forbidden.
“Great and terrible things in the dark.”
And I am afraid
but not for the reasons
she wants me to be.
“Terrible things,” she says
and I nod.
I am not afraid of the fog
wrapping its way around my limbs
a permanent caress of hazy newness
the magic of the forest
dangerous (to me)
fearful (to her)
a half step between waking and remembering.
Tonight the moon is a hollow whisper
and I can see the shadows twisting
like a hand reaching out,
like a voice calling me forward.
She moves away now—
my mother, the Mother—
she expects me to follow.
Expects, as if the whispers of “daughter” are written
down to the fiber of my bones

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as if I cannot shake them off

merely by breathing,
as if the foliage wrapped around my toes
can’t strangle,
as if trees can’t rot under the moon.
As if the danger is not the darkness
but what I might find,
I shiver under arid starlight.
When I was a child
I wandered close to a ledge
but was snatched before I saw what lay beyond;
now she holds me with words instead of hands.
I want to tell my mother
that I am not afraid of the dark—
I tell the trees instead.
“So what are you afraid of?”
the trees whisper back;
the fog beckons me
and I know I am lost.
“Safety.”
She is calling to me
and I am caught;
the magic of the forest cannot convince her
that I have never been afraid
of great and terrible things.

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“Untitled” By Alexander Rossen

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What is Love?
By Jocelyn Reuben

They say love is patient… love is kind.

But sometimes I find that you make me feel like I’m out of my damn
mind… for loving you.
What we have… is it true?
Of course it’s you… tell me who else can I run to
To stay up all night with, listening to Erykah Badu?
Love is complex.
Love should be more than an Instagram flex.
Love has crazy side effects. It should come with a
WARNING: this product may contain
Butterflies, super highs, little lies, a couple of cries, some good,
some bad
I’m sorry I have to admit, you’re the cutest when you’re mad.
Now don’t get it twisted, you piss me off too
That’s the reason I’m so sick of love and I don’t know what to do.
Cuz all of me loves all of you… all your hoodies, food, and damn near
everything that you own.
Bring that ass here boy with that intoxicating unknown cologne
Please stop with all the games… boy you know we too grown.
Be forreal, tell me how you really feel.
Why settle for a snack when you can have a whole meal?
Love is cringey.
Love is lit.
Love is whatever the hell we make it.
Here’s my heart, please don’t break it… or do. I don’t care. I’ll never
regret what we share.

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Love is goofy.
Love is that same feeling you get before you take off on a flight.
Your love is my light and you are my knight in shining joggers.
Your love is everything… and for it I’ll continue to fight.
Your love makes me hate saying, “good night.”
Love is what we have… right?

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FALL SEMESTER 2020

Time Leech
By Scott MacLean

A siren’s song luring me

With sickly sweet words and sugary promises
Injecting venomous hope, flooding my lungs with toxicity

A moments taste, sour on my tongue

Caressing my smooth skin with scaled hands
Breathing my name, gasps of repugnant air grasping my throat
Gripping me, possessing me, trapping me

Suckling time and youth from the marrow in my bones

Desperate to flip over the hourglass
Claiming me and carving the innocence out of my chest

When you finished you clung to me, merging our skins

Sewing up the tears, knitting together our intertwined bodies
You hadn’t noticed the blood, streaking my cheeks, revealing my
shame

From boy to Man in a passing breath

A sword cleaving me in two, then remaking me
Into a hollow form I no longer recognized

And you asked that desperate question, never meeting my eyes

“Was it good?”

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Writer’s Block
By Daria Husni

I want to carve out this aching from my chest,

pin the still bloody words in stanzas
like moths to a picture frame, paint with
rivulets of stagnant scarlet ink
echoes of a chorus ringing in every stroke,
every word — when you left I thought I would remain here;
waiting to breathe, choking on the dust
of yesterday’s failures. I am not a bird in a cage
but my words, like feathers, are frozen
in magic I am forbidden to touch.
Yet still I feel them — pulling, pulling,
where are the bars that hold this haziness hostage?
Like fae blood on iron, I can pry at
this pound of flesh, but not the fire beneath.
When you left I thought I would remain here.
I was right.

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Two Poems from April 2020

By Tara Lonsdorf

1. my current “grief work” takes the form of

mylar balloons bouncing

through hallways of high schools, above heads: happy birthday;
digits declaring droning teen progression;
foil gold and silver under fluorescent government bulbs—
like so many public declarations of
love, like flower grams and decorated lockers and a tagged
photo on some silly social media app
I did not care about, no, not at all, not at all, not at all. shut up.
momentos, bent photographs and folded notes
I keep in my memory box from those years now remind me
not of fears once tethered so tightly to my skin, that
held my arms to my body and tied off with a bow—
but that it was not my birthday, there, no
not even on the days when it was.

2. my hope for a boy who says he loves me takes the form of

soil
packed tightly around planted bulbs, drawing
slumber
before the roots that want nothing more than the embrace;
somehow

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claustrophobia does not make an appearance, does not deter either

party;
somehow
she always knew that there was nothing to fear from the closeness,
from the warmth of

summer
calling the humid rains down to earth, bonding together the atoms of
sugars
colliding with ancient precision inside the flower.
somehow
seed and root give rise to fruit;
somehow
bulbs were first planted;

someone
must have known the result by instinct, without ever needing to
be told.

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Toil
By Scott MacLean

I often wonder how something so vibrant and large comes from

such a tiny seed. But all life starts out small, and grows until it reaches
its end. I sliced into the patch of earth, planting sixty bulbs. I watered,
watched, and waited. Must’ve been duds I thought; maybe the
bulbs rotted.
Was it too much water? Too little? Not enough sun? Perhaps
the soil couldn’t sustain life? Day after day I waited.
The bulbs are surely dead.
Maybe a rabbit dug them up? Or a squirrel? Could’ve been
a groundhog? Maybe everything I touch dies. Maybe I don’t have a
green thumb. Maybe this was a waste of time.
Finally I gave up. I failed. The gladiolus would never know the
sun’s caress. They would remain stillborn, deep in the earth.
And then it rained. It rained like I had never seen. Lightning
struck and thunder rattled my home’s frame. After it finished I was
drawn outside, by the scent of wet soil and together the earth and
I inhaled.
I looked upon the graves where my bulbs were laid to rest, only
they were graves no longer, for a single sprout had clawed its way
through the earth and breathed in the rain-soaked air with me. Togeth-
er we watched as the sun cut through the mist to bask us in its glory.
Soon one sprout would be many.

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“Outskirts of Vegas” By Tara Lonsdorf

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Further West
By Robert Pallante

Room 209 was at the end. I left the air conditioning so that it
would be cold when I came back.
“I’m just down,” I said to the man.
I picked him up outside a rest stop along the highway. The man
hadn’t said much on the drive back to the motel.
“If you want, get comfortable, I’m going to go freshen up in
the bathroom.”
The man nodded.
The bathroom felt humid, and one of the lights above the sink
had blown out. After freshening up my makeup, I stayed and just
looked at myself in the mirror. I stared and wondered what the night
would bring. When I came out the man was sitting by the front win-
dow, fully dressed.
“You going to get comfortable, honey?” I asked.
“If you don’t mind, I’d actually like to talk,” the man said.
“We don’t have much time.”
“I’ll pay for the whole night, double if you want.”
I thought about it for a second.
“You’re not going to do anything weird, are you?”
“No, trust me, I just want to talk.”
“Okay.”
“Good.”
I laid down on the bed and threw my shoes off.
“Would you like something to drink?” the man asked.
“Um, I don’t know.”

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“Coffee? Tea?”
“Coffee is okay.”
I probably should have been cautious of the man. My johns
usually just want to fuck and get out — they pay for a full hour but
never stay that long. A john wanting anything else should be a red flag,
but I felt different about this one. I’ve never had a john ask me just to
talk. The man handed me a cup of coffee.
“You smoke?” he asked.
“I do,” I said.
“Cool, let’s go talk outside.”
“Okay.”
We stood outside on the railing, which overlooked the motel’s
pool. Across from the motel were a diner and gas station.
“So, what’s your name?” asked the man.
“You tell me yours. I’ll let you know mine,” I said.
“Jack.”
“Well, Jack, my name is Rebecca.”
It was cold, and the moonlight reflected off the motel pool,
which was enough to see outside.
“Here’s my jacket,” said Jack.
“Oh, thank you,” I said.
“So, what are you doing here?”
“At the motel?”
“Here, right now in your life?”
“Well, I’m a hooker, so there’s that.”
“Does that bother you?”
“What? Being a hooker? It’s fun, the money’s good. Of course, I
don’t want to do it forever.”
The man nodded.

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“And what about you? What are you doing here?” I asked.
“I’m just passing through,” he said. “Been lonely lately, wanted
someone to talk to.”
“So, you decided to buy a hooker?”
“I’d rather talk to you than some drunk in a bar.”
We decided to sit by the pool. There was a light breeze that was
blowing off the water in the pool. It was cold, and it felt good. Jack and
I talked for what must have been another two or three hours. In the
end, he ended up paying me more than triple what he owed me.
We hugged.
I wanted cigarettes, so I walked to the gas station.
“Hiya,” said the cashier behind the counter.
“Hi,” I said.
“What can I get you?”
“Yeah, can I get a pack of menthols?”
“Shorts or 100s?”
“Shorts.”
“$6.89.”
I paid for the cigarettes and left. I was tired, and I needed to
sleep. The motel room was still freezing. A three-blanket-kind of night.
I slept well that night.
The next morning, I was having breakfast at the diner. It
was packed.
“What’s with all the people?” I asked my waitress.
“Oh, all these people? They’re here for the UFO,” she answered.
“UFO?”
“Y’all didn’t hear? Yeah, a UFO apparently was spotted down
at the canyon.”
“I didn’t see it.”

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I didn’t really care. I was just hungry and looking forward to a

day off, no johns or anything. I ate, quickly paid, and went back to the
motel. The motel was also packed with all the UFO
aficionados, I sought the quiet haven of my room. There was one thing
I kept thinking about, though — my conversation last night with Jack.
Jack and I talked about politics. We talk about the poor and the
working people. We talked about their struggles and how
everything they did was for their families. We talked about life, and
we talked about what it meant to be living. We just talked, and it was
good. Jack was the most exciting john I’ve ever picked up, and he
wasn’t even really a john.
Lying on the bed in the motel room, I got the urge to leave. Not
just leave the room but to leave here, to head further west to the coast,
toward the shore where it would finally be okay. I knew I needed to
go, and so I did.

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Avant
Editorial Board
Fall 2020

Editor in Chief: Hannah Tran

Senior Editor: Dina Folgia
Treasurer: Tara Lonsdorf
Senator: Tara Grier
Assistant Editors: Matt Berrian,
Jason Evers
Layout Editors: Tara Lonsdorf,
Daria Husni
AVANT MAGAZINE

Day 176
By Tara Grier

The incessant ringing of your alarm wills your eyes to open.

You despise the sound, but it’s the only thing that annoys you enough
to get out of bed. Getting out of bed has been hard. Your limbs feel
heavier with each day, and the tight feeling in your chest twists at the
thought of living another. The sun’s early rays shine through your
window and remind you that somewhere far away, out in the universe,
things are the way they always have been. The sun still hangs in the
sky, the stars still sparkle, and the planets still align. But you’re
stuck here.
You’re out of bed and in the shower. Your hands are raw from
too much washing, and your eyes linger on the cracks in your skin as
you wash your body. After shutting off the water, you dress in sweat-
pants and a faded t-shirt you wore two days ago. The logo has begun
to crumble. You try not to look in the direction of your closet full of
your favorite clothes that collect dust. There’s been no reason to wear
what makes you feel good, what makes you feel alive.
Drops of water fall from your hair and slither down your back.
Your body shakes. You go to the kitchen to make coffee, more out of
routine than need. You’re on autopilot — going through the motions
you have every day since… actually you’re not sure. When did this
stop being abnormal? When did this go from a short-term vacation to
your life? When did you grow so tired from the lack of interaction with
others, with the world, with yourself, that you stopped feeling any-
thing that resembles a sense of purpose?

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Your coffee stains your teeth as you watch the news. Soon you
can’t tell the taste of it from the bitter sense of dread that slides down
your throat into the pit of your stomach. You turn it off. Once your
mug is empty, you put it on top of the pile of dishes that have yet to be
done and turn to your laptop. Is today a day full of virtual meetings,
or working on your own? It doesn’t really matter, either way you’ll
feel drained. You stare at a screen for hours upon hours, and anyone
else who may live with you does the same. Even if you’re in the same
room, you’re isolated. Alone. You type, read, and ignore the longing
for Before until that sun has disappeared and the moon has taken its
place. You remember to eat dinner, noting that at least you can still
taste it. You finally do your dishes and then your laundry, a basket
with cloth masks peeking out between sweatshirts and lounge pants
you’ve grown to resent.
With the work done, just enough productivity for you to avoid
the crippling guilt that comes with perceived laziness, you sit on the
couch. You watch a new episode of the same show you watched the
night before. And the night before. Sometimes it lets you escape, and
you ignore the stabbing envy that comes with every party, gathering
of people, traveling, or sense of normal life you watch on screen. The
walls of your home feel suffocating.
You glance at the ticking clock. It’s late. With a sigh, you set
your alarm. You crawl into bed. And you prepare yourself to do the
same exact thing tomorrow.

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Polo Blue
By Kelli Hughes

“Polo Blue.”
“Glass bottle.”
“‘Men’s perfume.’” “Pungent stench.”
“Handsome smell.” “For men in tuxes.” “Top
shelf musk.” “Bathroom spritz.” “Creature
comfort.” “Confidence bottled.” “Dads on
dates.” “Puberty repellant.” “Hollister.”
“Aftershave and stubble.” “8th grade first
dates.” “Not fit for a ‘lady.’” “Exploration.”

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Mitosis
By Sophia Romano

Meet me in the morning

With fresh eyes and a new song
Catch my lips with kisses and a soft voice
Count me in
And I will sway to your number
One two and
One and Two
My feet on beat
Pounding in my heart
And on the worn strings
Of a vintage telecaster

I am anew as I listen to you

This morning’s product
Caked into my mitosis
And your cancerous words
Will sound like butter to my soul
One cell, Two cell
One cell, Two
Until my whole body is new flesh
Until my organs have rolled over
And each time you will feel my tumorous skin
You touch a new woman

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I am a lipid
Burn me day into night
I can play the tambourine at one
Harmonise at two
And call you handsome in between
One and Two and
One cell, Two
You will find that I am not soluble
Yet I am never the same
Rebirth, a new consumption
A new day light

Sunshine through my window— 10 am

Your words hit my ears— again

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A Dream of His Own

By Chloe Mortier

The day he first opened his eyes, he knew exactly what he had
to do, even before he knew his name. In fact, he roamed the world
nameless for centuries till one fateful night, a child spoke it
into existence.
“Do you think the Sandman will visit me tonight, Mama?”
asked a young boy as he rubbed his weary eyes.
His mother grinned, using one hand to pull the thin blanket
over his body as the other cupped his cheek. She bent over, kissing the
top of his head. “I am sure of it. Sweet dreams, my love.”
She blew out the candle on the side table and left the room,
taking one last glance at her son before shutting the door.
The bringer of dreams watched closely from the window, a
slight ache pushing at his heart, which he thought odd, but wouldn’t
dwell on it at the time. He slipped into the boy’s room and looked
upon him for a moment, watching the slow rise of his chest and emo-
tionless expression. Digging deep into the leather pouch slung around
his hip, he pinched a few grains of the sandy textured powder that
sparkled dimly in the dark room. Rolling it between his fingers he
thought, “Hmm… Sandman. Quite fitting.”
He sprinkled the dust over the boy and waited for his favorite
part: the boy’s face softened and a small smile dawned upon his lips
like a rising sun peeking over the horizon. A similar expression reflect-
ed back on Sandman and he reiterated the mother’s words,
“Sweet dreams.”

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The name “Sandman” quickly made its rounds throughout the

village, finding its way overseas, and with it came immense joy. He
loved his job, being able to send off people to a land of infinite possibil-
ities, and to be known by so many made him feel lighter. The people’s
love wrapped around him like bandages, healing wounds of uncertain-
ty, and surged electricity through his veins.
But the fascination begins to fade with every passing century
he lives. A heaviness he cannot explain weighs down on his shoulders
and the smiles of children no longer warm him. Envy reaches out its
ugly, green hands and presses its nails into Sandman’s arms and legs,
slowly pulling him apart.
Sandman never grows tired and therefore he does not sleep. No
sleep, no dreams. He is immune to the magical powder, once having
thrown it in his own face, but receiving no reaction. He tried closing his
eyes, forcing something he knew would never come, and was met with
only the haunting abyss of nothingness. His body sprung forward after
being in the realm for mere seconds, sweat trickling down his brow.
A feeble hand clutched his thumping chest and a violent shudder ran
down his body. That was the first and last time he ever attempted
dreaming. Still, it doesn’t stop him from considering what he
would imagine.
Sitting on the edge of a cliff, watching the sunset and waves
crash over on themselves, he thinks back to the boy who gave him his
name so long ago, his mother, and the gentle hand she laid upon his
cheek. The ghost of the aching pain he felt loomed by his side ever
since and only now can he put a name to it: loneliness.
He always knew why he existed, but how he came to be and by
whom are an elusive mystery. Was he made by the gods he’s heard so
much about from the humans, granting him these powers? Or perhaps

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he had real parents and was chosen to take on this role by some mysti-
cal force, but in the process, forgot his past.
“How!?” Sandman yells out to the sky, hot tears pricking at the
corners of his eyes. He fumbles to his knees and clasps his hands tight-
ly together. “If anyone is up there, then tell me who I am! Where did I
come from?”
He waits for a response, but is only greeted by a gust of wind,
throwing the scent of salt in his face. A broken plea hangs from his lips,
but is swallowed down. They would never answer. They never did.
Sandman’s hands tremble, the tears staining his cheeks. Some-
how, he finds the strength to stand, sneer up at the sky, and inch to-
ward the edge. He peers over the cliff and lets the thunderous crashing
of the waves soothe his mind. The wind picks up, aggressively pushing
at his back, and like a rag doll, he lets his body fall forward. Rushing
air hisses against his ears as he plummets, keeping his eyes on the
sharp rocks below. His heart pounds vigorously, but the corner of his
lips turn up.
Before meeting his doom, a cloud swoops in to catch him and
soars him into the sky above the rest of the clouds. Sandman sighs,
sinking deeper into the white fluff, “Caught me again, huh?”
A piece of the cloud breaks off and tickles underneath his nose.
He laughs, wafting it away.
“Hey Cloud, do me a favor and play it out for me again?”
Cloud nudges his cheek.
“Please?” Sandman whines, “I know I said I would stop asking
so frequently, but I really need this right now.”
After a moment’s hesitation, Cloud dives into a passing clump
of clouds and swirls around to form three faceless figures: a man, a
woman, and Sandman. His eyes flicker across his clone, amazed at

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how Cloud is increasingly getting better at capturing his likeness, even

without a face. There are the soft waves of hair that stick up in every
direction and the same small frame of a pubescent teenager. Sandman’s
eyebrows scrunch to meet in the middle, huffing a complaint under his
breath. It irks him how he never grows, and being known as the Sand-
man is an extra stab to the ego.
He brings his knees to his chest, arms grasping them firmly in
place, and rests his chin on them. Cloud molds a dog which begins
to prance around the family’s feet. Their movements are light as they
begin to chase each other, the ghost of laughter filling the air. Sandman
squeezes his legs tighter, digging his fingernails into his skin. Why isn’t
this working? Why does nothing feel right anymore?
“Stop this,” He orders.
Cloud does as they’re told and crashes into the three figures till
they dissipate into small clumps. Sandman turns his back to Cloud as
they slowly approach to avoid their intense eyeless glare filled with I
told you this would happen eventually.
A tingle itches at the back of his neck. Another human who de-
mands a dream. He stops himself from scratching, clenching his hands
into fists. He forces a smile and glances back at Cloud. “Come on, bud-
dy. We have dreams to deliver.”

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SPRING SEMESTER 2021

“Felines” By Remy Desai-Patel

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DOWNTOWN
By Rachel Ventrella

walking around downtown, accompanied by

old friends Overthought and Crisp Trepidation,
haven’t walked down these streets alone
since I was seven (and a half).
I just woke up, got a gut intuition for rain
but there’s nothing but blue skies looking down.

both friends look at me, forcibly grab my hands,

and then my fingertips start feeling funny.
I look between my two hands
I look between my two accomplices
I catch glimpses of me between window panes:
oh no. not now — here we go again.

my chest feels shaky, my ribs achy,

sinking down to the ground
the buildings move in closer
to stare into the eyes of the wall
that’s only mocking me as I lose
all my energy to fight back

my hands shake like an addict’s

my breath runs short and excited
my mind gets stu-uc-k like a
br-br-broken re-record

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wondering why it decided to rain

on a golden and sunny day

did I know why I was panicking?

I never do.
did I know what knocked me
two steps backward?
I never do.
did I understand — I never do.

I back up against the brick

with nowhere else to go
I cover my eyes but
I hide in my knees but
still search for light in my head:

what do you do when the city seems small?

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AVANT MAGAZINE

Miracle Spring
By Jason Evers

We hoisted ourselves up over the top of the grey barrier boul-

der — and we were there, staring at our destination from above.
At the center of a great stony basin, a pool of the clearest water
we’d ever seen — a bowl of crystal water, sparkling with flecks of mica
and lined with blankets of velvet moss. It drained downhill at the lip
of the bowl, flowing west, cascading over and polishing the mountain
rocks below. We rejoiced — we climbed down the barrier boulder and
ran to the water’s edge, dropping bags, supplies, and clothes all about
the rocky bowl.
The water of the spring soothed our aching bones. The cool-
ness of the water and the silver mountain air rejuvenated us, bringing
us new life and tending to the many little blows we were dealt by the
climb up the mountain. We had hardly talked for hours, the six of us.
The climb requires all the breath you have — to spare any on non-es-
sential communication would only be slowing you down. And finally,
we were there, finally resting in the waters of our campsite, but there
were no words to be found. All we could manage to do was smile, taste
the minty mountain air, and sink into the spring.

The sun was setting over the distant mountaintops, throwing

slant and honey-yellow rays of light into the campsite. Everyone else
was setting up tents, or starting fires, or tossing stones into the spring
— but I couldn’t bring myself to move. I stood at the edge of those
polished rocks where the crystal water rolled down the hillside, back to
the sun, watching all my friends dancing in the motion of their lives.

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I looked at them and heard laughter. I thought about love, and

I saw in them the hidden life of the forest. My friend skipped a heart-
shaped stone on the water and frowned when it slipped under — I
stared at them with wonder, and they hardly felt the weight of my eyes
upon them. They were light. I knew they could feel the same lightness
I was feeling — that undeniable lightness you can feel whenever there
exists a link to someone that cannot be severed.
With the last light of the sun slipping away behind the peaks, I
closed my eyes at the edge of the basin.
I felt the touch of the mountain air chilling my skin…
I listened to the laughter, the songs, and the life of my friends in
the basin…
The magical coolness of the Miracle Spring danced around my
feet, healing them after the long day’s hike…

Am I really feeling this?

I wondered,
Is this what love really is?

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Bathroom Stall Wisdoms

By Kelli Hughes

What do the scratchings on a bathroom stall tell me?

Someone else was here, in this moment, too.
Tattooed into the partition is the presence of another person,
living in that moment. Their thoughts are captured and immortalized
in powder coated steel.
Two initials kept within a heart, carved into chipped paint.
Amateur poetry scribbled by a Bic pen near running dry.
Kind words of affirmation painted in colorful Sharpie.
The stall is a public message board. Words plastered over top
each other, commentaries, doodles tucked into corners. There are con-
versations that span gaps of time, held between individuals who have
never met, will never meet: a spat, a bonding, a one-sided connection.
The graffiti tells me about a person I have no face for; shares the
dirtiest of details with anyone who will spare a glance at them. Does
the name-calling say more about the name attached or the person who
took the time to write it for the world to see?
The basest things the mind can conjure up can be found in
those walls, the ones that teeter on the edge of being called a “thought”
at all. Dredged up from the pools of the mind, scattered like mud and
worth about the same.
What about the brazen political statements tucked within the
stall? The shabby attempts at revolution, beckoning action from an
audience with only one goal in mind? Or, perhaps, it’s someone whose
voice is too small to be heard over the crowd so they speak their mind
in the most private public place possible.

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What was that person thinking when they put the marker to
steel and let their hand lead them through the motions? Were they so
bored, fingers twitching to do something, that turning towards minute
vandalism was the best choice? Were they engulfed by an emotion,
spurred to materialize it through writing?
Or was it because they needed so desperately to leave
their mark?
They needed something to tie them to this world and make
their existence real.
You’ll spend life passing by countless billboards, victim to the
subliminal messaging, but you’ll forget. Cards are tossed. Letters are
ripped up. You’ll walk by headstones without thinking twice about the
words engraved on them.
So does it really matter where you leave your mark?
All you need is a space to say “I was here.”

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The Stanford Marshmallow

Experiment
By Elizabeth Chesebro

C/W: Gore, violence, cannibalism

I smiled and walked lightly on my way to the Stanford campus.

The fresh air and sunlight felt better than they ever had in the exercise
yard of the prison. I laughed to myself thinking of all the chumps who
were going to be stuck in orange for the rest of their days while I was
free. If I hadn’t been such an expert at hiding my crimes, I’d just be
another of those chumps, but since the police knew only of my most
careless cover up, I was now experiencing the warmth of the outside
world again. This psychological study I was heading to was the first
paid position I’d found upon being released.
I passed a group of security guards staring down a group of
student protesters, entered the designated building, and signed into
the psych study. The student monitor looked about twelve years old
and wore a whitecoat and glasses in what I assumed was an attempt to
appear professional.
“I’m Bill, and I’m in charge of the study you volunteered for. If
you follow me, we’ll get started,” he said to me, anxiously yet enthu-
siastically, as he led me into the study room. “I apologize for the drop
cloths, but there’s some repainting going on when the room’s not in
use,” he added as he opened the door.
I gasped when I entered. Although my counterpart was already
seated, I could tell by his long femurs that he was incredibly tall. Every
inch of his torso, arms, and legs was covered in thick muscles, and

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intense blue eyes stared at me from beneath light-yellow hair. I’d kill for
a piece of that Aryan ideal, I thought, smiling at the man.
Twelve-year-old Bill unfolded a chair directly across from the
Aryan and motioned me to sit. “The study is simple.” He gestured to-
wards the Aryan, “You stay there.” He turned towards me as I sat and
continued glibly, “And you stay here too. If you don’t eat him within
ten minutes, I’ll get you another!”
I scoffed. “Excuse me?”
Bill pushed his glasses down his nose and stared at me over
their tops. “Look,” he said, “my psych class is boring, but I need the lab
credit to pass it. It’s a simple test of self-control, recreating Professor
Mischel’s marshmallow experiment, and impossible to fuck up. Ok?
So just sit here for ten minutes, abide by the rules of the test, get your
paycheck, and we all live happily ever after.” He pushed his glasses
back up his nose, and I detected a curious spark in his eye that cooled
in a flash. He then started a stopwatch on his wrist and left the room.
After a moment’s silence, the Aryan tapped his feet on the
ground and said, “Isn’t this interesting?” He offered me his hand to
shake. “I’m Christoper.”
“Nice to meet you. I’m Ro.” I’d lost some weight in prison but
was still able to shake Christopher’s hand with a strength my
appearance belied.
“So, do you do these sorts of things often?” Christopher thera-
peutically massaged the hand I’d almost just crushed.
“No.” I wondered how honest I should be with someone I’d
never met before, but Christopher seemed genuine, so I decided to lay
all my cards on the table. “To be perfectly honest, I’m doing this be-
cause it’s the first opportunity to make money I came across after
doing time.”

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Christopher nodded. “I get it. I spent time in and out of juvie as

a kid...What were you in for?”
I sighed. It was difficult to look at this Adonis without actively
drooling. “Cannibalism.” Christopher shifted in his seat and chuckled
uncomfortably. I laughed and added, “I’m just joking. Given the pa-
rameters of the experiment, I couldn’t help myself. I was really only in
for a bad check.”
Christopher smiled; my words seem to have assuaged his mo-
mentary fear. And then my stomach almost gave away my intentions
when it started gurgling. I rolled my eyes and said, “Damn. Shouldn’t
have mentioned eating, even jokingly. Haven’t eaten in a couple of
days and now my stomach’s hating me for it.”
“Well after the experiment is over, if you need some food, I
could buy you lunch.”
“Thanks, but I actually have a meal planned. I do wonder how
long this is going to take, though. How many people do you think Bill
will bring in?”
Christopher shrugged. “At most, it’ll probably be an hour-long
study, so I guess maybe five more.”
I leaned back and sighed. The thought of feasting on six people
was almost orgasmic, but at the same time, I doubted my ability to
physically subdue that many. I probably couldn’t even take on three. I
thought, I could wait until that little brat brings in another person, but then
again, I’m very hungry, and if I let Christopher keep talking, I might become
too attached to do anything later.
Making up my mind, I sat upright in my chair again. The key
was to catch him off his guard. “Right,” I said, “let’s get this party
started. Since we have no better way to pass the time, why don’t we
arm wrestle?”

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Christopher chuckled and nodded, rolling up the sleeve of

his tight shirt to expose an enormous forearm. I smiled hungrily and
grasped the hand he extended towards me. “Do you want to do the
honors, or shall I?” Christopher asked.
“You go ahead.”
“Right. Ready, set, go.” Christopher squeezed my hand and
began pushing it down, but my mind wasn’t on the match. I stood up
quickly, twisted Christopher’s arm backward, and moved until I stood
behind him with his hand pinned to his back. He began to squirm ner-
vously, but I bared my teeth and dug them into the side of his neck be-
fore he was able to wring free. I pulled my mouth away from his neck,
ripping his carotid artery out as I did so. In a few minutes maximum,
he’d be dead, so I had to work quickly. I spat out the chunk of flesh
in my mouth and sucked on Christopher’s wound. The thick, warm
blood, with gamey, irony undertones, was satisfying after having gone
so long without tasting it.
Christopher’s skin paled even more as I drank from his neck
until he went limp and fell off his chair. I estimated I had about five
more minutes before the whitecoat was obliged to move forward. But
even if he intervened early, I could take him down too. I knelt beside
Christopher’s body and ripped open his shirt. I straddled him and sank
my teeth into his pectoral muscles, triumphantly tearing the flesh away
from his body. I felt like the rogue wolf who takes down an elk, like the
big game hunter who snags an elusive cat.
I heard a rustling behind what I now realized was a two-way
mirror, and Bill burst through the door, his eyes wide and face pale
from what he’d witnessed. “Holy shit. You really— you fucking ate the
guy…”
I didn’t bother to face him but dug my fingers into Christo-
pher’s chest wound and began pulling the flesh from his ribs. “So,

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what are you going to do about it? You made the mistake of coming in
here without backup, knowing full well I’m capable of subduing and
killing you too.”
Bill approached me and I was surprised when he offered me a
scalpel. “The truth is,” Bill said, sitting in Christopher’s chair to calm
himself, “I did a little background check on everyone who volunteered
for this study, just to be safe. I’ve never met a cannibal before. And
considering I just finished reading that new thriller, Silence of the Lambs,
your background became even more interesting to me. I’ll admit I
shaped the study because of you.”
I took the scalpel from Bill and began methodically cutting into
Christopher’s body. I bet I was a butcher in a former life, I thought before
saying out loud, “So you’re not going to do anything about it?”
Bill shook his head and I saw the same spark in his eye that I’d
seen earlier. “In fact… ever since reading Silence and reading about
you, I’ve had some thoughts about cannibalism myself. What’s it like?”
His open-minded curiosity delighted me and I paused my work
to reflect.
I thought back to the very first person I killed and ate, a twelve-
year-old girl who was just looking for a ride home. I remembered
every person I’d eaten between then and when I was imprisoned, and
a flood of euphoria engulfed me. “It’s life,” I said, “Power. You con-
trol their fate, their fear, their bodies. You are the highest tier predator
there is. You are a man hunting other men and taking their lives and
strength away.”
“Wow… and how do you justify it?”
I shrugged. “Some people have a taste for cows, some for
chickens. I have a taste for humans, and all the justification I need.”
I finished removing the flesh from Christopher’s chest and stacked it
neatly to the side after cutting a few choice pieces off and eating them. I

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removed Christopher’s pants and began carving his legs. “I feel you ar-
en’t being completely transparent with me Bill, so tell me point blank:
do you want to eat someone?” Bill nodded. “Well then, here you go.”
I cut off a small piece of tensor muscle from Christopher’s thigh and
gave it to Bill.
He grimaced. “Not raw, sorry… Bad experience with sushi
last spring…”
“No problem. Do you mind if I—?” Bill shook his head, so I
consumed the muscle. I pulled Christopher’s abdominal muscles back
in front of me and cut them in two pieces. I wrapped one half in his
shirt and gave it to Bill. “Pan-fry it with some oil, oregano, and basil.
Serve it with Italian bread and dipping oil. I find sparkling wine or
even root beer pairs well with them.”
Bill chuckled. “So, no fava beans and Amarone?”
“Humans don’t need to be gourmet to be enjoyable.”
Bill stood up and hid his portion of meat under his whitecoat.
He patted my shoulder and said, “This has been a mind-opening expe-
rience. I really appreciate you taking the time to educate me.”
I shrugged, momentarily distracted by a tattoo that marred
Christopher’s calf. “Yeah, sure… damned unusable now. Oh, wait a
minute.” Bill turned at the door. “What are we going to do about this?”
Bill smiled and I saw the spark in his eye again. “Don’t worry,
I’ve got it all worked out. Nobody’ll ever know.” He paused and add-
ed, “You mentioned not having eaten in a few days. Would you like
me to send in another one?”
“Yes, please.”

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“Walk a Mile” By Rachel Ventrella

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Boxes
By Hannah Tran

they’re always finding a way to put you in boxes

you know, them
those higher-ups and their cronies,
and all those apathetic people that
care enough to tear you down
but don’t give enough of a shit
when it really counts

this is your doing and now I have to deal with it,

thanks a lot,
I mumble under my breath,
as photoshop finally loads,
and I place my taller-than-it’s-wide photo on the canvas,
so square crop can’t cut off my art

fuck you square crop.

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Songs of the Moon Lotus

A collection of haikus
By Jason Evers
I.
on a summer’s night
i apply a vapor rub
just to feel something

II.
i just want to say:
listening to mcr
isn’t real emo

III.
boneless chicken wings
are not really wings at all
they’re chicken nuggets

IV.
is this pain i feel
the dark wound that seals my fate?
or a hernia?

V.
sweatpants are so gauche
do not leave the house in them
have some self-respect

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VI.
breakups are so tough
the heartbreak has just one cure:
sweaters from depop

VII.
the moon lotus shrieks
burning up inside a bowl…
wanna rip the bong?

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Home
By Robert Pallante

The bar would usually close at one in the morning, but not
since they had announced there were about three weeks before ev-
erything would come crashing down. A meteor, the size of a mid-size
city, had been discovered hurtling toward the Earth. Nothing could
be done. Humans began to come to grips with their fate. Most peo-
ple chose this time to be with family, reconnect with loved ones. But
the bar became a sanctuary for those with no one. Alcoholics came to
drink, the lonely sought connections, and outcasts found a place where
they could live out their final days.
At the bar sat Abraham Wessel, deep in his fifth scotch — or
maybe it was his sixth. Ever since the announcement, the bar had
become run over with drunks, speed freaks, homeless, and people just
seeking others. They slept in the booths and on the floors, drank from
dawn until dusk, and wallowed in what their lives didn’t become.
“Look what I just found in the back,” a drunk exclaimed as he
came stumbling out of the closet. He held what appeared to be a micro-
phone. “I think it’s a radio.”
“Where’d you find it?” Abraham asked as he snatched it from
the drunk’s hand.
“In the—um, the corner.”
In the corner sat a large speaker, a screen, and a bunch of other
microphones. “You dumb fuck, it’s a karaoke machine.”
“Karaoke machine?” someone yelled.
“Yeah.”
“Hook it up.”
“Why? You wanna fucking sing?”

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“Who doesn’t wanna fucking sing?”

“You be my guest.” Abraham rolled his eyes. These drunks and
losers were going to sing themselves through the apocalypse, a sad
way to end things, he thought.
Abraham sat at the bar, watching the others attempting to set
up the microphones and teleprompter. He finished his seventh scotch.
“You want another?” asked John, the middle-aged widower
who owned the bar.
“Just water, please.”
The phone behind the bar rang, and John picked it up.
“It’s for you,” John said, handing the phone to Abraham.
Abraham wondered who’d be calling for him. He took the
phone from John.
“Hello.”
“Dad,” said the voice on the other end.
“Clara?”
“Dad, where the hell are you?”
“Well you called the bar, I’m here.”
“I’ve been looking for you for two weeks, are you aware of
what’s going on?”
“Other than the world ending, not much else going on.”
“Dad, you need to come home.”
“This is my home.”
“No, we’re your home. Me, Tommy, and your grandson, we are
where you need to be right now.”
Abraham slammed his glass down, it shattered. Water poured
everywhere, soaking his shirt and pants.
“Are you still there, dad?” said Clara.
“I am, sorry, I just don’t think it’s best.”
“Dad, just stay where you are okay.”

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“Okay.”
Clara hung up. The others in the bar had finished setting up
the karaoke machine and were bickering about who would be singing
what song.
“Everything good there, Abe?” asked John.
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
“Who was that on the phone?”
“No one, it was no one.”
John gave Abraham a look but didn’t say more about the
phone call.
“Why don’t you join in on the fun,” John said, pointing to all
the drunks singing and dancing, “bet would help keep your mind off
of whatever might be bothering you.”
“Nothing ain’t bothering, does it look like I’m bothered?”
“No, Abe, just thought you may enjoy it.”
“It’s fine, I’m sorry, just ain’t a music and dance person.”
“You don’t gotta be good at it to do it, though.”
“I just don’t like it, long story.”
The last time Abraham danced and sang was at Clara’s wed-
ding to Tommy. Since then, Abraham kept his world silent, ignoring
that which would bring him more than just contentment. Abraham
used to enjoy these things. When Clara was four — or maybe it was
five, Abraham didn’t remember — she attended dance classes. Abra-
ham would help her practice before he left.
“Dad,” said a voice behind Abraham.
He turned around, and standing in the doorway of the bar
was Clara. She wore a long green trench coat. Abraham recognized it
because it was similar to the one her mother used to wear. Clara
looked scared.
“What you doing here, Clara?”

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“I came to get you.”

“Why?”
“Because you need to come home.”
“I ain’t have no home.”
“Not true, your home is with us, dad.”
Abraham didn’t say a thing.
“Please, dad,” said Clara.
“After everything I’ve done, you really think that’s good?”
“You know, dad — I forgave you a long time ago, I think it’s
time for you to forgive yourself.”
Abraham looked at Clara, his daughter, who he loved but never
thought he could do enough.
“I’m taking you home, dad,” said Clara.
Abraham grabbed his coat and paid his tab.
“Thank you, John, you’ve been a good friend.”
“Just doin’ my job, Abe.”
“How you going to spend the rest of your time on Earth?”
“Same as always, just listening to these fools,” John chuckled
and pointed again to the others in the bar.
Abraham then looked at Clara.
“Hey do you want to dance?” he asked her.
“I don’t really dance, dad.”
“You did when you were younger, we danced together.”
“Just for a little,” said Clara, “then home.”
Abraham and Clara danced, they listened to the music, and
they sang. They lost track of time. One hour turned into two turned
into three. Abraham and Clara started from where they had left. The
bar became a place to turn back time, to discover what had evaded the
two, to find what they both lost. Home.

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Triptych of Dependencies
(Poems for Three People)
By Tara Lonsdorf

I. Resentments I’ve Held Onto

Being your roots was not easy, but I held firm
as you passed butane over my then-green lips. The poison
entered my bloodstream before it grazed your skin; then it
soldered our soft seams together, a single chimera
bound by the alchemy of something that felt like love, love, love, love
because it burned so bad it had to be.
There were no boundaries that fists and screaming could not break
down
into cellulose, dissolved into decay by a mutual tolerance
for the consequences of your actions on our one body; there’s shame
in that
perhaps trauma sutured us together, but I held the needle for
every stitch.
I was all you had
on the phone and over video call and
when you needed protection from the screaming and
when you needed to talk to someone and
whenever you needed me.
I was all you had.
Just as in gray, depleted dirt, we face the blame of codependency
together: we just do not know how to love one another
in the absence of violence.
Nothing good grows

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from sick soil. There’s butane in there, to burn.

There’s nothing but butane between us.

II. Highs I’ve Been Chasing

I want to be
back in Melrose Diner with you and Matt
having hiked two miles in the rain down the bad part of Philadelphia
off the Patco train from Camden.
Damp, miserable, in the yellow tinted dining room,
the first time I’d ever tasted a strawberry cheesecake:
I thought I was going to die, that’s how sweet it was.
I didn’t know, then, that I was going to want to marry you, badly and
for real,
hadn’t quite started talking about the future with you yet
but I knew I kind of loved you, was kind of in love with you
that I had just tasted the sweetest thing of my life after suffering
mightily for it.
Matt wore cargo shorts. I wore a hideous raincoat. You wore the best
smile in the world
and still do. It was all just so much newer to me, then.
None of us remembered an umbrella but
there was no one to apologize to, that day,
except for the ghosts of all bad decisions previous.
There was no one except for the three of us
and the waitress serving Matt coffee at the lunch counter.
We both don’t drink coffee. We both reject bitterness by choice.
The other details all seem so incidental, rainy oil slick chrome. All I
really know is

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I want to fall in love with you for the first time, again.
I want to run down those streets with you, again.
I want to visit that yellow-tinted diner with you, again.
I want to sit on that train with you, again, even when the station grows
dark as
it approaches Locust Street Station underground. I want to once more
step onto the platform
your hand in mine, both of us clueless about the sheer bigness of the
world beyond
both of us brand new
as we shuffle toward the light.

III. Lies I’ve Been Telling Myself

I like to pretend to see prophecy while you like to pretend to kill god.
These are things neither of us really wants, but
I like to tell myself that you died in our childhood
kind of the way those baby woolly mammoths that fell into tar died,
too: complete
and immaculate, a few hairs damaged but otherwise as in life.
You can imagine fear on some of their faces, as if they knew their fate
settled, bodies sucked down deeper with every attempt to escape. You
can imagine
how they must have cried for their herds to help. Did their herds try
to help?
I always delay gratification indefinitely, admire the cake without eating
it, love
toys for children preserved in original packaging. I love to look
without touch

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even as I have one foot out the door and my suitcase packed for a life
away from you,
away from all those years spent in your parents’ backyard, our
unconditional love.
Maybe the herds never even knew to help. Maybe the mammoth never
even wanted help
afraid it might drag its friends down with it: maybe that was its fear,
not death.
So many fossils are found alone.
These are things neither of us really wants, but
I think you like to tell yourself that I am already dead, too, but
without memento.
Maybe I am imagining things but
I think you like to imagine that I am rotting, in the throes of decay
already gone forever (with you forgotten long ago), that I am
ribcage-turned-to-
dust scattered, immaculate also in its transience
in the wind that carries it away from your parents’ backyard.

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“Spill” By Abigail Leitinger

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Goodknight
By Skyla Everwine

You sing me to sleep

wrapped in narcosis and crushed lullabies,
into worlds of fairy tales and lore
where my bones are eggshells
that fracture into phoenix feathers
tracing my veins.
Where the withdrawal can no longer
pull the hair from my scalp,
or the enamel from my teeth—
where they will never find me
in my labyrinthine chamber.
Adorned with amethyst and lapis,
I am christened with rose water and myrrh;
I place the pills on the back of my tongue
like I am taking communion—
like I am knighted by the high,
crystallized and sublime.
And when you find me in the castle,
passed out on beds of lavender and sage,
untouched by age or consequence—
Do you dare kiss my moth-breath?
Dare to shift me from oblivion’s
jagged dragon jaws?
Or do you leave me to succumb
to sorcerer potions and let
the forest have its feast?

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november 30th
By n.l. rivera

november 30th, 2017

and i sit on the couch,

atop peeling black leather,
damn near about
to cry from the pain
of having my stomach ripped open
and sewn back together.

she sits with me,

silent,
and understands me in that wordless way she seems to do.
she holds my hand
with her brown leather fingers.
they are frail,
but she does not let go.

i am too afraid to thank her

as she looks at me
with those eyes.
the ones that say
i understand everything
and i love you
and you are mine.

so i smile,
and i sit,
and i will tell her later,
when my spanish is better.
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november 30th, 2019

and i sit on the stiff upholstered seats

of my mother’s new leased car.
I am wearing my fast food uniform,
about to clock in
for my 5-9 shift,
when we get the call.

and i wish that i had said thank you

or at least held her hand
in that damn hospital bed
when i knew this was coming.
but i couldn’t bear to see
the blank stare behind her eyes,
the same eyes that had told me
all that our words could never say.

so i imagine a place
where she is still alive
and i visit her so I can say,
with what little spanish i have,
que comprendo todo
y te amo también
y yo soy tuyo.

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Surgeon
By Skyla Everwine

C/W: Surgical gore, implied sexual assault

Did you wash your hands before?

The gloves do not protect you. From the moment your scalpel
touches my flesh I am soaking through the scrubs and latex and into
your veins. My aura is poison gas and I end up in your lungs, curled
fetus-style into your every breath. Your hands in my abdomen, re-
arranging my insides, do not protect you from your own inevitable
humanity. When you hold my life in your hands, you take my soul into
yours. I swim around your brain and through you I run the room. I am
in control. It is all we ever wanted. You tear me apart and I do not feel
it; I am not there. This is not happening.
My skin is not skin — it is clay that you mold like art. You
peel it apart like fruit, and you eat it with your eyes closed. The nurse
catches the juice dripping onto your collar; the stains are unprofession-
al. They will throw away all the clothes, except the ones I keep. I will
pull them out once a year and smell them, searching for you. I will tear
apart every seam and search for bloodstains. I crave evidence.
I cave into myself and upon myself. I am an exploding star in
the operating room. I am the star — I am every color, I am sunrise and
sunset. I am a cornfield full of Texas bluebonnets and mountain ranges
and a canyon deeper than you can reach. I am the distance you cannot
cover, and you will try, but I have more blood than you have anger.
You crave control, and I hope it kills you as it slips away.
Because now I see through you.

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I am performing the surgery. Our arms are still and sure, prac-
ticed and premeditated. This is not your first time, nor your last time.
The body on the table is a cadaver in waiting, but you leave her face
uncovered. She is silent and still, bending to your touch — submissive
and asleep. She is not me.
She is a doll you play pretend with in the lab. She is plastic and
food coloring and rubber soul mechanical heartbeats. You play family
and she is the baby who will not stop crying, who will not stop bleed-
ing. You cannot kiss it better. The blood dripping into your sock will
not make you gag when you take it off tonight — it is water. It is apple
juice when you’re stoned, and you are always hungry. She is apple
flesh and you do not care how much you eat. But you can see her face
the whole time. She forgot how to cry.
Polymer clay skin stretches open, lotus style across the sterile
surface and we are ascended. You ask the anesthesiologist for a little
bit more, I am not soft enough. I do not slide off of the knife like warm
butter, I do not remind you of home cooked meals and childhood. I am
too tense and rigid and alive—I reject your touch and your healing is
just hurting me. You are not God. You are a man, and I am a hemor-
rhage. I do not stop fighting.
When you are elbow-deep in my blood and cannot say where
the bleed is coming from — you cannot tell me why it hurts — it’s okay
because I am no longer there. You will want to stuff me with cotton
and gauze and stitch my smile upwards and open my eyes and you
will say you fixed it. And then everybody will cheer for you. But there
is nothing left, and my last breath is dripping from your hands.
What do I leave you with? A clump of hair stuck to your shoe,
a bloodstain on your pants and sleeve. What do you carry when I carry
the world? You are free. I wonder how that tastes. Is it warm and salty,

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fresh picked from the garden? Does it curl your toes and wrinkle your
nose to know that you will always come out on top?
Do you even know my real name?
You are fresh cherries and whipped cream kisses when they
come asking questions. Popped and picked apart, I am behind your
eyes. The world is taller than I remembered, and I look so small. I don’t
remember how to get home anymore. I am the thought in the back of
your brain telling you that it is over. To end it.
I call the time of death. I free myself. And maybe you will crack
open my chest and beat me back to life, but I am not machine. I am not
medicine or escapism. You can only kill me for so long — your secrets
did not stick in the stitches — I am not yours. Maybe you will give up
and let me go. Carry me in between tequila shots and chess games. You
will live half a life, and I will talk to you through moths.
You let me go because you have to. But you do not tell the fami-
ly and you do not call the morgue.
You will not tell anyone what you have done.
And neither will I.

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“Storm Trooper” By Krystal Manning

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SUNSHINE SUPERMAN
By Rachel Ventrella

you came out of nowhere,

mouth dripping honey sunlight,
a golden aura radiating around,
one that tasted like cherries,
pulling me away from what would end me
turning with you to make me invigorated.
you embody all the philosophy I love —
remind me of who I was before —
helped me see everything in yellow light.

take me down risks I’ve never taken

like sitting on an open windowsill
psychedelics running through our blood
and letting me sing off-key.
within five minutes of knowing you
I wanted to know, know you —
to be part of your life but
not as pair of past lovers,
rather be the artsy best friends
that people can’t get out of their heads.

I love how you speak with intelligence,

but not at the expense of corny humor,
with listening thoughtfully as others speak.
you’re full of emotion you

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can’t put a price on, an

exchange of vulnerability.

I can see you now, yellow flared corduroy,

eyes green, messy chocolate swirled hair,
dancing in the kitchen to the
music spinning dizzyingly on record players.
a calm, deep sounding voice
in song and in speech;
humble nobility with a
pure soul and everyone’s sanctuary.

I just want to drag you to my favorite

paintings in the museums
to know how you feel about them too —
I want to steal your books to see
what you wrote in the margins,
if we laughed at the same parts —
I just want to pick your mind apart,
Just to see how it works.

I can feel you shine on my skin,

the mustard yellow warmth you bring,
but I can only watch you on 8mm film rolls.
a sunflower needs a sun it can turn to,
you’re my sunshine superman,
don’t set on me just yet.

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Wintersong
By Daria Husni

There is a tremor in your heart,

Wintersong,
deep enough the vibrations reach my bones
send shock waves through the earth
chill the breath between you and me.
Is this what it means to love?
To fall into touch so tender
I half-drown in comfort,
to watch you tear off tinder,
burn up your branches to keep us warm.
The air turns bitter and cruel
and I tremble in your embrace;
So strong
it keeps me protected;
So soft
it makes me afraid.

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The Welcoming
By Heather Mulvenna

I can’t get comfortable in my meditation

I welcome my discomfort and all the cicada of thoughts that come
with it.
It is not a failure to be uncomfortable in your own skin.
It is a different kind of knowing

Shoulders back, chest rises, spine lengthens

I inhale into all that I am in this moment.
Breathing in I allow every cell to feel alive.
What strange permission I must always give to myself to be alive.

I welcome this feeling for this is what life is. To feel.

I welcome all the parts of me and layers I cannot see.
I welcome even the places still numb that one day will awaken.
I welcome the rhythms of breath and heart and soul song within.
I welcome every part of me that reaches for another part with love.

Shoulders back, chest rises, spine lengthens

I inhale into all that I am in this moment.
Breathing in I allow every cell to feel alive.
What strange permission I must always give to myself to be alive.

I am comfortable with my discomfort.

This is the pain of deeper reflection and growth.
This is the elixir that opens me to what I want from what I don’t want.

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My life is mine. The Creator’s pen passed into my hands.

My life. My story. All that is mine. I give with each exhale
instinctively.

Shoulders back, chest rises, spine lengthens

I inhale into all that I am in this moment.
Breathing in I allow every cell to feel alive.
What strange permission I must always give to myself to be alive.

All that I am is a gift to the world.

All that you are is a gift to the world.
All that we were, are, and will ever be
Is a gift that has no end that the Creator can see.
Breathe with me. Let’s welcome ourselves to simply be.

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“Sunflower, Vol. 6” By Rachel Ventrella

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Joyeuse
By Jason Evers

A week a go we were all at my ap artment

and on a scr ap of cardbo ard you wrot e
“I love all my friends so much!”
Da ys later, in my roo m, I go t a call
tell ing me wha t had hap pened to yo u.
And it made me won der how some one
cou ld just be ex ting uished like that
so sud denly and with out war ning,

The night after they told me I drea med of

A be ing wrappe d in bli nding white, an d its
head was a dawn ing planetoid wit h
sun flow er petals explo ding auburn in or bit,
an d its eyes they—shot bea ms of light in
all dir ec tions and I caught myself, crying,
wondering, was it wh at yo u rea lly were?
was it what you were really try ing to be?

Whe n I think of you no w, my che st

shrivel s up, co ld, shiver ing, thinking
“What if it’s me next?
What if I’m the next to go?”
Bu t I just smile in spi te of the fear
Think ing and Dream ing of your memor y
beca use I know yo u wouldn ‘t have wanted it th is way
bec ause I kno w you want us to li ve on wi th joy
because I kno w you’re laugh ing, smi ling,
watching all the friends that you love so much.

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Evolution of Joy
By Tara Lonsdorf

I must have been more cicada than child

the way I hummed songs of my own creation: loudly, shedding
crayon corner-page yellow suns everywhere, every image
summer. I performed song as I performed all tasks: as compulsion
instigated by nature taking the wheel and deciding
that this would be who
I was, predestining me as a creature that hummed, but

only until the day I was no longer to be. It was one of those
childhood moments
where you can feel the wildness leave your body physically with
the word, feel
it exit through your mouth and evaporate, while the rest of you
shrivels, just a little bit, with its absence. I must have been five.
Get called annoying once, and your corner-page sun shrinks and
migrates overhead,
humming unbecomes, and you try to keep yourself quiet. But

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nearly seventeen years have elapsed, and some days

every cell of my body still vibrates, still screams. Some days I still wish
I could become cold, could become a perennial winter thing, could
hold close to my body what precious scrap of wildness
persists, protect it from all
threat – but it needs to burst forth. It needs to emerge.
It needs to hatch, to hum
in yellow summer heat. You can delay it, but not stop it.
My wildness has lain dormant, but

nature decided long ago it all needs to happen

just like this.

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“Zabriske Point” By Tara Lonsdorf

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The Detour, or
Visions of the West
By Robert Pallante

Paddy’s Diner stood at the corner of a three-way intersection.

Inside, Thomas Reeves sat in a booth facing the entrance. People filled
every table in the place, and several people waited to be seated. He saw
the intersection through the windows and watched all the cars come
and go to or from the three directions. He didn’t know where those
directions led. In fact, he didn’t know where he was.
“Hello, sugar, can I get you something to drink?” asked
a waitress.
Caught off guard at first, Thomas replied, “Um, coffee — and a
glass of water, please.”
“Coming right up.”
“Hey, can I ask you where I may be exactly?”
“Paddy’s Diner, honey.”
“Where?”
“Paddy’s. Yuma, Arizona’s #1 food destination.”
The answer caught him off guard. Arizona was thousands of
miles from Thomas’s home, and he had no recollection of how he got
there.
“Lemme go get you that coffee and water,” said the waitress.
Thomas rubbed his temple, his memory was fuzzy. The last thing he
could recall was pulling out of his driveway. Something about his fa-
ther, but the memory faded. He slammed his hands down on the table.
It made a loud noise, and the people in the diner began to stare.
“Here’s your water and coffee,” said the waitress with a con-
cerned look, “you need any cream?”
“Um — no, no thank you.”

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“Did you want to order something to eat?”

“No, I’m good.”
“Okay, well let me know if you need anything.”
He laid his head back on the booth and closed his eyes but was
aroused by the feeling of someone or something. A gruff-looking man,
a short-order cook from the diner, sat across from him.
“Eat, Thomas,” the cook said.
Thomas was taken aback, he didn’t know this man, he’d never
met him in his life. “Do I know you?”
“Yes — and no.”
“Well what do you want?”
“Yeesh, a hello would be nice, I’m just here to talk.”
“I’d like to know what’s going on. I’d like to know where I am.
The last thing I remember is — I don’t know, I can’t think straight.”
“You know, Thomas, you remind me of my brother, he was
curious too, but impatient. Now I told you to eat.” The cook gestured
to a plate sitting in front of Thomas. “The food’s getting cold.”
“I just want answers.”
“Soon, but first the food.”
“If I eat, you’ll tell me what’s going on?”
The cook shook his head. Thomas ate quickly. Bacon and eggs.
The best bacon and eggs he’d ever had. “There, I ate.”
“Nice, want a reward?”
“I’d appreciate if we do without the fucking attitude.”
“Okay, okay, just trying to liven up the mood because we gotta
talk.”
“About what?”
The cook stood up out of the booth. “We’re going to talk about
you, now get up and follow me.
“Where are we going?”
“Outside.”

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Thomas got up and followed. He looked at every person there

in the diner. Families. Couples. People alone with themselves. Outside,
the air was humid and dense. Thomas stood there for a second, letting
the dry sand brush against his skin, chapping his lips. “Why am
I here?”
“Like here here, or the proverbial here?” said the cook.
“I guess both, like I’m from Jersey so Yuma is pretty far
for me.”
“You’ll understand soon. Now come sit over here.” The cook
beckoned for Thomas to follow. They took a seat on a bench outside
the diner. The two watched customers coming and going.
“I want you to pay attention,” the cook said.
He pointed to a car on the far end of the parking lot. The car
looked familiar to Thomas, but he couldn’t remember where he’d seen
it before. Then it hit him. “That’s my car,” he exclaimed.
“Just watch,” said the cook. The driver’s side door swung open,
and out stepped a male figure. Thomas squinted, and then his eyes
widened. He was looking at a mirror image of himself.
“What’s going on here,” he said, “this is a dream right? Or am I
in a coma? Am I dead?”
“You’re not dreaming, and you ain’t dead.”
“Okay, but that’s me.” Thomas stood up and was going to get a
closer look. “You can’t interact with him.” the cook said.
“What?”
“He can’t see you.”
“Why?
The cook shrugged, “beats me, I don’t make the rules.” The
cook stood up and began to follow the doppelganger into the diner.
“Let’s go.”
Thomas and the cook sat in the booth behind the double. “What
are we doing?” Thomas asked.
“Hold on,” said the cook, “just wait.”

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They sat there for what felt like an eternity. Thomas stared out
the window, looking at the cars in the parking lot. He played with fin-
gers. “What the hell are we waiting for?” he asked the cook, “he’s just
sitting there, all he’s done is sit there and drink coffee.”
“Patience,” said the cook. He then pointed toward the entrance.
A woman with auburn hair and the brightest green eyes walked
toward them. The double stood up out of his booth and hugged the
woman. They seemed to know each other, but their embrace
felt distant.
“Who is she?” Thomas asked.
“She’s your wife,” the cook replied, “well soon to be your
ex-wife.”
“Ex?”
“Yes, you were married for about a year before she broke it off.
She said you weren’t being reciprocal in the relationship. A very closed
off person.”
“That’s not true, I’m a very outgoing person.”
“Well clearly something changed that.”
Thomas watched the woman and his double. They were
talking. At first, it seemed cordial — but then it got heated. The wom-
an yelled something like, “This is what I can’t deal with. I don’t know
why I even agreed to meet you today.” The double stayed silent,
then said, “I just — just thought we could talk and maybe talk things
through.” The woman laughed, “That’s impossible with you. You nev-
er want to talk.”
“What’s going on?” Thomas asked the cook.
“Oh just life, you know. It goes on, other people go on, you
don’t I guess.”
“Why am I here then?”
“We’re here because you asked to be brought here.”
“Well I want to go home,” Thomas said, standing up from the
table, ready to have it out with the cook. “I’m done, you either tell me
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what’s going on. Because right now I feel like this is all a joke being
played on me!” People in the diner were staring again. Nevertheless,
the woman and his double never took notice.
“Sit down, Thomas,” the cook said, “you’re causing a
disturbance.”
“I’m causing the disturbance? I’m the one here against my
own will.”
“If you didn’t want to be here, you wouldn’t be here. You can
leave at any time.”
Then the woman brushed past Thomas as she ran out the door.
His double stood up and ran after her. “I’m going to talk to him,”
Thomas said.
“You can’t, Thomas, I told you that,” said the cook.
Thomas followed his counterpart outside. Across the parking
lot, he saw the woman getting into a car, his double was standing
beside it trying to talk to her. Thomas ran to meet them. “Stop,” he
yelled. “Stop! Stop! Stop—”
The woman peeled her car out of the spot and sped off, leaving
the doppelganger in a cloud of dust. Thomas watched as his double
just stood there. “Go after her,” he yelled at him, “don’t just fucking
stand there!”
“I told you he can’t hear you.” Thomas turned around, the cook
stood there behind him.
“He’s not going after her though, what’s his problem?”
“His problem is your problem.”
“You keep telling me there’s a problem, but you won’t tell me
what it is.”
“You already know what it is, Thomas, that’s why you’re here. I
can only provide you with the answers you already have.”
“I don’t know, I don’t know,” Thomas yelled.
The cook grabbed him by his shoulders, shook him, and spun
him around. “Look,” he said, pointing to the intersection.

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Thomas walked toward the road, looking in either direction on

the one that ran next to the diner. “What am I supposed to be looking
at?” he said.
“This is a local road,” the cook said, “it doesn’t leave town.
Follow it either direction and you’ll end up right back here. Now look
at the road that cuts off and heads onto the highway.”
Thomas turned his attention toward the other road. At first, it
seemed like a normal road, “I don’t see what you mean—” he was cut
off by the sudden vision of the endless road heading toward a setting
sun, toward the west, toward a new beginning. He saw the coastline,
waves crashing against the sand. He saw himself walking there. The
woman, the one that had driven off, was there too. They looked happy.
“What is this?”
“Something that could be,” the cook said.
“I don’t understand,” Thomas said, “is this place even real?”
“This place is very much as real as you are.”
“So why am I here?”
“Think harder Thomas, what was happening before this?”
Thomas peered back into his mind, looking for an answer. It
then all came rushing back. His father — he was dead, his father who
abandoned his wife and children years before. His father, who seem-
ingly had the inability to have any meaningful relationships in his life.
“I think I’m afraid,” he said.
“Of what?” the cook said.
“Of being the man my father was.”
“You don’t have to be, the cycle can stop, you can forge your
own way.”
“Is that what this place is?”
“This is sort of a way station between paths, created by
your mind.”
“So what do I do?”
“I don’t know.”
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“Wow, you’re such a big help.”

“How about instead of begging others for the answers, you
look at yourself. You have everything you need. You’re so focused on
not being like your father that you’re becoming him.”
Thomas stood there in the middle of the parking lot, reflecting
on what the cook had just said. “You’re right,” he said, “I’m living with
this burden that’s preventing me from moving on. What my father did
was wrong but I have to forgive him so that I can finally become my-
self — I think I’m ready to go home.”
“As you wish,” the cook said, leading Thomas to a bus stop at
the corner of the intersection. “You will take the #529 bus, it will get
you to where you need.”
“Thank you,” Thomas said.
“You’re welcome,” said the cook, “I’ve gotta go, the lunch rush
is about to begin.”
Thomas sat at the bus stop wondering about the morning he
had just encountered. He’d seen things he didn’t like. He’d never wish
to see himself become that version of himself he’d just witnessed. For
now, he had a family to be with, a father to bury, and memories to
finally put to rest.
Over the horizon, a bus appeared, lit across the sign on top was
“#529”. It pulled to a stop right in front of Thomas. The doors opened,
and the driver looked down at him and asked, “heading home?”
“Yes, I am,” Thomas said, hopping on the bus.
“Alrighty then, it’s not far.”
The bus pulled off the side of the road and onto the highway.
Thomas took his seat, the bus was empty except for him and the driver.
He looked out the window and watched the scenery fly by as he head-
ed toward his own future — unwritten.

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“Toothbrush” By Abigail Leitinger

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sum of our parts

By Dina Folgia

I don’t know if I love you

or my life now that you’re in it
but I think both
are of equal
merit

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“CHERRY” By Rachel Ventrella

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Avant
Editorial Board
Spring 2021

Editor in Chief: Hannah Tran

Senior Editor: Dina Folgia
Treasurer: Tara Lonsdorf
Senator: Tara Grier
Assistant Editors: Matt Berrian,
Jason Evers
Layout Editors: Tara Lonsdorf,
Daria Husni
SPRING SEMESTER 2020

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