Burn Magazine and Respective Authors

BURN Fall 2015 - winter 2016 masthead

issue co-editors: Cassandra JONES & Alina SZREMSKI

staff editors: Samantha ARNOLD, Miko DIMOV, Cat DOSSETT,

Emma FORBES & Abagail PETERSEN advising editor: Zachary BOS

founding editors: Catherine CRAFTS, Mary SULLIVAN & Chase QUINN

issue number 6 contents

Address to the Reader 3 The EDITORS Day One of Me 4 Pooja PATEL The Aftermath 8 Madeline GAUTIER Ragdoll Ballad 12 Lydia ERIKSON The Longest Night and Destroy, Relax 13 Vanessa KURIA Scene of a Separation in Unity 14 Evan GOTT Seven Stairs 16 Tom FORD Pretend You Are Drowning 23 Emma FORBES erasure: “Venetian” 29 Cassandra JONES Return: Individual Feelings 30 Evan GOTT The Apostle of Corpus Christi 32 Kelly GREACEN Transcendences 39 Theresa SENG While Studying 40 Kelly GREACEN Pyr 42 Cassandra JONES Mother 49 Madeline GAUTIER Dear Mom 50 Brett DEANGELIS Naughty Bokov 53 Kush GANATRA My Cuban Missile Crisis 57 Evan GOTT Red Line 59 Annie MELDEN “A tangerine peel... ” 67 Abagail PETERSEN The Handshake 68 Grègoire MAZARS Art Mausoleum 70 Evan GOTT Those Who Love 72 Kelly GREACEN Statued Wait 73 Evan GOTT erasure: “Hell” 74 Cassandra JONES Vertigo 75 Emma FORBES This sounds better as a song 76 Kate DAWSON To Ginsberg 78 Tom FORD About our contributors 82 music Disenchanted: Con Gai 26 Annie TSAI Promenade Sentimentale* (waveform) 57 Bobby GE Promenade Sentimentale (score details) 58 Bobby GE illustrations Hands 4 Emmy CROWDER Defacements 5 The EDITORS Film 11 Gayle MINER Glyphic Inscription 14 Abagail PETERSEN Devil Hand Girl 15 Tania DIAS VASCONELOS Noh Deer 22 Cat DOSSETT Creepy Boy 31 Gayle MINER Lace Girl and Veiled Girl 37 Tania DIAS VASCONELOS Roped Woman 38 Tania DIAS VASCONELOS Skull 39 Emmy CROWDER Videogame Snack Combos 41 Danielle HALL Paul McCartney 45 Cat DOSSETT Still Life w/Skeleton 50 Emmy CROWDER Girl w/Lilies 52 Samantha BURKE Telescope and Moon 58 Samantha BURKE Montage of Mustaches 59 Cat DOSSETT Sketchbook Deer 71 Cat DOSSETT Scoliosis Scar 76 Kate DAWSON Portrait 83 Emmy CROWDER Stegoman 84 Cat DOSSETT

FINE PRINT © 2015 by the editors of Burn Magazine and respective authors. // Cover illustration of London by Lauren Shapiro; “you have no fucking clue” graphic by Danielle Hall. Page layout and cover design by Zachary Bos. // Burn is published according to an irregular schedule by Boston University undergraduates under the supervision of the BU BookLab. Send submissions, inquiries, and encomia to [email protected]. // * Visit the issue webpage to download an mp3 of Bobby Ge’s “Prom- enade Sentimental.” // The editors wish to acknowledge and thank their supporters: the organizers of the 2015 Intercollegiate Literary Conference at Princeton University; the Nassau Literary Review; the Arts & Sciences Core Curriculum; and the NEH Distinguished Teaching Professorship. //

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by way of introduction An Address to the Reader

hen we signed on to relaunch Burn after several semesters of in- activity, we knew we wanted to go experimental. We have sought W to re-establish this lit mag as a hot-spot for the manic creativity of experimentalists who face ever-evolving frustrations as they encounter different aspects of tradition. The easiest claim for any writer or artist is originality; in striving for an experimental quality, magazine writing and magazine art doesn’t know instinctively how to avoid the pitfalls clichés of stubbed-out cigarettes, gaping skulls, and pretty girls. Instead, it has to be taken hold of and led away from those risks. We like to think we steered things in the direction we wanted to go. Consider this sixth issue as a metamorphosed and punked-out evolution of our inherited past. We kept some ties, defaced others, abandoned most, and embraced serendipity. What was there to lose? The magazine had been dark for four consecutive semesters; if we fucked up now it couldn’t really matter. Thus liberated from consequences, form became our playground. We hope that the editorial decisions and interventions we’ve introduced give you a light to chase after. If you find reflections of multiple dimensions of interpretation, evoking the spirit of dismantled identities blending and arguing among themselves, well then—well done us. As we drink the last of the coffee, as the semester comes to a close, as we put this issue to bed, hear this our dying wish: That the editors of Number Seven de- spise what we’ve done with Number Six, and resenting and scorning it, may they strive mightily to over-write it, and thereby recreate it, endlessly. Edits without end, amen.

Signed,

Alina Szremski and Cassandra Jones staff resurrectionists

3 Pooja Patel Day One of Me

It’s about time that I start writing about me; I’m a muse that can’t leave.

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Madeline Gautier The Aftermath

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Lydia Erickson Ragdoll Ballad

Witty little wee little scarecrow girl Stitches and stuffing neat as toddler’s curls Witty little wee little scarecrow girl Shedding straw riding ’round the twirly whirl

Someone stitch her up, can’t you see the straw dangling Littering streets, can’t you see her mangling Clutching it close and clinging tight Ripped to ruins in the middle of the night.

Ratty little ragged little scarecrow girl Can’t hold together on the twirly whirl Ratty little ragged little scarecrow girl Someone sew her up before night unfurls

Oh dear, dally here, don’t you see her dread chanting Twisting wickedly in her wild incanting Leaping left and springing right Raising red ruin in the middle of night.

Sing a little ditty dear scarecrow girl Glassy eyes gleaming with the gloss of pearl Sing a little ditty dear scarecrow girl Skirts rising up in a scandalous swirl

Welcome in to watch the main attraction A woman well worth your satisfaction Balancing bravely as she walks the wire The scarecrow-made-seamstress frolics in fire!

Balancing bravely and walking the wire The scarecrow-made-seamstress frolics in fire.

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Vanessa Kuria the longest night don’t shave, my sweet you let me pick the little flowers budding on your cheeks using my teeth, a delicate bud with taste lighter than my cotton sheets it’s always been your salt on my tongue and warm pavement pressed upon my feet loneliness defeated—brief eternity completed when I hear your heart beat

Destroy, Relax, when at first the sun wouldn’t rise they all thought God, God, has made his first mistake but it was his first mistake to put his Burning hands on my cold, coal back and my face in the grass he didn’t know all the while I prayed O, Sophia, give me wisdom like you have to pray to Shiva, to give me the strength to Destroy, like He has like he has this man who pushes white into green until it’s red and says Just, Relax, so black day of a sunless world and black soul of a widow black for I can’t let the son rise again

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Evan Gott Scene of a Separation in Unity

one part of my brain tries to quiet down another part

a third part is climbing over a fence

that will deliver a violent shock before anything can get out

a fourth part is on a swing

another part is looking for an icepick

14 (iii) Currently, my passion is for simple, natural portraits. Beauty and calm are achieved by becoming immersed in the details of the intricate patterns of lace, in the focus of the soft curves of the body, and in the textures of the metallics. As I become more comfortable with the camera and the subjects, the natural light becomes a malleable tool to remove the harsh details while still allowing for beautiful contrast. The contrast I want to achieve is not a shocking contrast, but instead a comforting, natural contrast that settles the soul. - tdv

Find these and other works by the photographer on Instagram: @taniadiasphotography.

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Tom Ford Seven Stairs

he pitter-patter of raindrops on the pavement was an irritating reminder of the foolishness of this trip. “Why does Dean have to see me T today, of all days?” he thought aloud. Jim Baker was well-respected around town, usually spotted behind the keys of his typewriter down at the offices of the local newspaper. Mr. Baker had worked his way up the journalistic ladder from crime reporter to editor, and now spent most of his time looking over submissions late into the night. It was because of this dedication that The Brushton Chronicle was regarded as one of the better publications in upstate New York. As such, Mr. Baker only allowed himself six or seven days off a year: one of which, the day on which he took this miserable walk in the rain, was Christmas. Despite his status as a bachelor, he quite liked the holidays; the atmosphere was impossible to avoid being swept up by. While he wasn’t quite St. Nicholas, it was difficult for him to resist dropping a few dollars in the Salvation Army’s collection pails every time he passed by the town marketplace. But back to the matter at hand. Mr. Baker hastily made his way through the rain on Christmas Day to his friend’s doorstep. The doorbell appeared to be out of order, so he reached for the brass knocker. Just as he was about to pound on the door, he heard a rustling inside the house, and the shuffling of slippered feet moving to answer his call. Before he knew it, he was face-to-face with Dr. Dean Miller. Dean was relatively new to town, having only lived in Brushton for five years or so; we say ‘new’ due to the tendency of the inhabitants to call the town home from the cradle to the grave. But alas, Dr. Miller had come to town to fill the opening of town physician when Dr. O’Neill passed in 1949. He was a fairly quiet man; he kept to himself and didn’t have too many friends around town. Dean had met his frozen, drenched guest at the supermar- ket the week he moved to town. It struck Jim as odd that he didn’t know the man who asked every passerby for directions, and he took it upon himself to make an introduction. The two were fast friends; Jim was always much more outspoken than Dean, although I suppose that fits the character of a newspaper editor. Conversations generally comprised of the happenings of the town, the burden of managing such a thriving periodical, and the occasional query into Dean’s practice. Still, it

num 6 was a good friendship; after all, every gossip requires an ear for validation. It was for this reason that Dean’s call was so strange; it was very much unlike him to initiate a conversation. Still, the two hadn’t talked in a few weeks or so, and Jim didn’t have the heart to ignore the ringing, especially on Christmas. After a quick hello, Dean led Jim into his parlor, where two cups of coffee were seated on a table near his fireplace—he had foreseen his friend’s griping over the cold. Jim sat down, took a sip from his coffee, and asked: “So, what the hell was so important that I needed to rush down here?” Dean smiled, and posed a question of his own: “Well jeeze, Jim, has the weather got you down?” Jim was unamused. He opened up a copy of the Chronicle that was sitting on the ground, and retorted, “Well, if there’s anything that ruins Christmas, it’s pneumonia.” “It’s a good thing you’re friends with a physician, I suppose,” Dean fired back. Seeing that his friend was visibly annoyed by his jokes, he got back on topic. “Yes, but back to why I asked you to come here. I trust you’ve noticed my scarce- ness these past few weeks?” To be honest, Jim really hadn’t noticed; he had been far too busy down at the office to keep up with his social obligations. Still, he humored his friend. “Of course, it’s lonely in the dairy aisle these days.” Content at this answer, Dean continued: “Have you watched the news at all lately? With all the talk about the Soviets?” Jim nodded from behind the newspaper, although he wasn’t quite sure where his friend was going with this line of questioning. “Well, they’ve been scaring the bejeezus out of me with all this nonsense about nuclear weapons and whatnot, and I figured I should have a plan in case something actually happened. After all, they’ve been teaching the kids down at the schoolhouse how to duck and cover, but I don’t think this coffee table,” tap- ping his table for emphasis, “would hold up in the line of fire.” Jim put the newspaper down, clearly intrigued by his friend’s sudden Rus- sian-related paranoia. “So, what is your plan?” Glad that his friend had finally shown some interest in his announcement, Dean finally got around to what he had been hinting at: “So I decided to do a little preparation of my own. One of my patients is in the business of installing bomb shelters. I made a deal with him to put one in my back yard in exchange for a free visit and examination.” He seemed very proud of himself for this astute business maneuver. “You really must come down to see it.” The insistence in his voice was overpowering, akin to that of a child dragging his parents out of bed on Christmas morning. Needless to say, it bore the same

burn result; Jim followed Dean out the front door, around the corner of the house, and into the back yard. There, in the center of the lawn, lay a small patch of mulch, which would have given the impression of a bustling gardening hobby if not for the lack of flowers. That, and the sewer cap-sized trap door dead in the center. When they reached the patch, Dean looked at Jim, gave him a look that seemed to say, “Impressive, huh?” and motioned for some assistance in opening the door. The door had to have weighed a few hundred pounds, as the two men were barely able to open it working as a team. Finally, after about ten minutes of struggling, the door lifted, exposing a staircase into the ground. It wasn’t the most welcoming tunnel—what little daylight was visible through the rainclouds revealed seven stairs, which collected pools of rainwater as the pair peered into the depths. “Come on, before we let too much rain in.” Dean started down the stairs, lighting his way with a flashlight that seemed to materialize out of thin air. After a moment of consideration, Jim followed after, taking care not to slip on the slick steps beneath his feet. At the bottom of the staircase, Dean flipped a switch, lighting the way into a room that very much resembled Jim’s living room. This was incidental, of course, as there was only one furniture retailer in town. Still, the remarkable similarity between this shelter and his own abode left Jim with a strange combination of comfort and unease. With that said, the room looked like a perfectly good place to wait out a nuclear apocalypse. There was a leather couch, a few cots folded up in the corner of the room, and a small kitchen, complete with pantries stocked with soups, canned meats, and preserved fruits and vegetables. Dean opened one of the cans of soup, poured it into a small pot, and warmed it on a small electric stove by the wall. It gave off a fair amount of heat, which would definitely come in handy during the imminent nuclear winter. Jim took a seat on the couch and made an attempt at turning on the TV; unfortunately, the electrician was due back in a week to finish the wiring, and the television stayed silent. The two fell to talking: “So, what do you think?” Dean asked. Taking a quick, contemplative look around the room, Jim answered, “It’s nice.” This answer seemed to satisfy Dean, and he changed the subject. “You’ve really gotta try this tomato soup I’m warming up, it’s unbelievable.” It was then that Jim remembered the pot that was sitting on the stove; the smell wafting over was promising. As though he read his friend’s mind, Dean stood up, walked over to the kitchen, and filled a bowl to the top. When he re-

num 6 turned with only one bowl, Jim began to protest: “Gee, it’d be nice if you got your guest a bowl.” Cracking a strangely amused smile, Dean shook his head, handed Jim the bowl, and said, “I just did.” It struck him as a bit odd that Dean wasn’t going to have a bowl himself, but the rain outside had chilled his bones to the point of desperation. He dove into the bowl like an Olympian, devouring his meal as if it were the most delicious on Earth. Frankly, it was terrible; it was a mediocre tomato soup, which definitely had the taste of something that had been sitting in a pantry for a while. Still, it was Christmas, and Jim thought it rather rude to point out his friend’s folly on such a day. Instead, he finished his bowl, sat back on the couch, and launched into a discussion of the recent Yankees vs. Dodgers World Series match-up. If he hadn’t gotten a job as a crime reporter to start, Jim definitely would have gone into sports journalism. Just as he was about to argue Dean’s assertion that Don Newcombe had a better year than Whitey Ford, Jim started to feel the onset of some strange sensation; he’d have brushed it off as indigestion from the questionable soup, but he could feel it throughout his whole body. It wasn’t pain, per se; it manifested itself as more of a full-body warmth than anything. Still, it was alarming. He yelled to Dean, rather, he attempted to yell, as he had lost the ability to move his mouth. The word ‘help’ lingered on the tip of his unmoving tongue, and his eyes panned the room in a panic. There sat his friend, seemingly unaf- fected by his struggle. In fact, there were hints of a smirk breaking across his face as Jim realized that his limbs were in the same condition as his lips. After a minute or so of struggling against his newfound limitations, Jim’s eyes met his friend’s. Unable to voice his pleas for help, he made every effort to communicate with his eyes. It worked, as Dean stood up, laughed, and chillingly answered all his questions: “What’s the matter, Jim? Was the soup really that bad? Not gonna talk to me now?” The mockery dripped from his speech as he paced in front of his disabled captive. “I guess I won’t be giving you the recipe, then. That’s rather unfortunate, as the recipe was pretty simple: four tomatoes, a bit of onion, some broth, some butter, and an ample amount of paralytic.” The coldness in his voice as he pronounced the last ingredient sent a shiver up Jim’s spine; at the same time, his mind was on fire, and his eyes screamed as he fully began to piece together his situation. “Yes, Mr. Baker, I’ve drugged you. Nothing poisonous of course, after all,” he brought his hand to his breast, “I’ve taken an oath to do no harm.”

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It was then that Mr. Baker realized he had stumbled into the devil’s snare; he scrambled to concoct some sort of escape plan, but what was one to do without being able to move? Dr. Miller continued his chilling monologue: “So yes, you’re probably wondering how it is you’ll be getting out of this shelter today. Unfortunately, it’s just not in your cards, my friend. You see, you’ve brought about my ruin, so I’m merely paying back my debt. If you care to look around the room, you’ll see there are no windows, no doors, no exits other than the staircase that I brought you down. In a few minutes, I’ll be going back up those stairs, replacing the door, and finishing the mulch work I started last week. The yard will look much better with a garden, won’t it?” Not surprisingly, Mr. Baker provided no answer to this question; rather, he was distracted by Dean’s accusation. He certainly had no recollection of doing this man wrong, yet was on the verge of being buried alive to repent for his sins. A thousand questions found no voice. Dr. Miller walked over to the pantry, assessed the stock, and turned back to face Jim. “Now, believe it or not, I’m not a cruel man. As you can see, the pantry has plenty of food for you to eat; you certainly won’t starve to death any time soon. Here’s the only problem: I may or may not have accidentally mixed a bit of my special ingredient into most of the foodstuffs you see before us. That being said, nothing on the shelf will kill you. You’ll just have to watch how much you eat at a time, or else you may end up, well, stuck for a while.” Jim was still fixated on the claims of life-ruining that supposedly put him in this position. He couldn’t think of anything he had done in the last five years to bring out the homicidal side in someone. The worst part of this predicament to him was not the dubious prospects of his future, but rather this state of unknow- ing that he now lingered in, all as his captor was about to leave him under- ground. This was likely the product of years of investigative journalism, which cultivated an obsession with answering questions. As Dean approached the doorway, he paused for a moment to soak in the moment, turned to Jim, and uttered two words: “Clyde Grover.” It took a moment for Jim to comprehend the meaning of these words, but when he did, he had found the answers to all of his questions. Clyde Grover was a man who had lived in Redford, the town where Jim got his start as a reporter. He had lived on the east side of town with his wife Nancy for twenty years, running a small bakery that sold fantastic danishes. All this came to a halt, however, when Clyde’s wife went missing. She had all of a sudden stopped attending her basket weaving class on Sunday afternoons, and an inquiry with the police led to an investigation that ulti- mately sullied Mr. Grover’s reputation. In his first big assignment, Jim Baker had

num 6 researched and written a damning exposé of Mr. and Mrs. Grover’s marriage, which included testimony from their neighbors about raucous fights and an overwhelmingly hostile atmosphere around their home. The article was picked up by many of the newspapers around the area, and soon all of upstate New York was buzzing about the murderous baker in little old Redford. Upon the publication of this article, Clyde was taken into police custody, interrogated, and released a few days later; it turned out that Mrs. Grover had left her husband, and was staying with her mother on Long Island. Mr. Grover had stayed quiet on the matter as, well, it’s rather embarrassing to have one’s wife leave him. Still, his vindication didn’t restore his reputation; his shop windows were smashed in by vandals, and he was forced to close up his bakery due to the lack of business. His house was broken into multiple times, and for fear of his life, he had moved away, leaving behind nothing but a slandered name. Jim had never actually met Mr. Grover; he left several messages at his home asking for an interview, but his advances had been rebuffed. In the hope of making a deadline, he had submitted the article without asking the man for his side of the story. Regardless, the story was a hit; as we’ve seen, it spread like wildfire in the press. Jim was commended for his work, and eventually accepted a position in Brushton as an associate editor. While he felt some remorse for the eventual falsehood of his article, he contented himself with the idea that Clyde Grover’s rapid exit from the town signaled wrongdoing of some sort, and that driving a dangerous criminal away justified a slightly libelous piece. As he finally pieced together the significance of those two words, a look of understanding came across his face. Dean saw this, nodded gravely, and climbed the stairs up to his back yard. The rain had stopped, although it was still a cloudy and sunless afternoon. He dropped the heavy cover back over the entrance, replaced the mulch covering, and walked back to the house to finish his cup of coffee.

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Emma Forbes pretend you are drowning

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Annie Tsai Disenchanted

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( . . . Con Gái: The Other Side)

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Cassandra Jones For a Venetian Pastoral by Giorgione

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Evan Gott Evan Return: Individual Feelings Individual Return:

the muscles in my face are relaxed are face my in muscles the synthetic like a rubber band rubber a like fling me across the room the across me fling snap me on the back of your little brother’s neck brother’s little your of back the on me snap wrap me around a stack of valentines of stack a around me wrap

anyone can make me smile me make can anyone but it’s always like an old lady old an like always it’s but pinching my cheeks my pinching as soon as she lets go lets she as soon as the birds flee and fly and flee birds the south

Evan Gott Return: Individual Feelings

the muscles in my face are relaxed synthetic like a rubber band fling me across the room snap me on the back of your little brother’s neck wrap me around a stack of valentines

anyone can make me smile but it’s always like an old lady pinching my cheeks as soon as she lets go the birds flee and fly south

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Kelly Greacen The Apostle of Corpus Christi i. So Spake the Dead

Who, pray, are you— You who would call yourself prophet You who would call me fool.

I was womb warm in the reds of Texas. I was no nun but I was alright. Til you brought me up to Kansas City to pray with the devout, and to worship you and the Nazarene with equal fervor, and equal zeal. You clairvoyant.

I took that sorry creature in He was stuck in a bad trip from last semester. He said he was looking for a savior. So happens I knew one.

Micah Micah you were too delicate, my husband—he caught you. He who would call himself prophet He who would call me fool.

He told you to touch him, with your sweaty blue hands. I bet he said you’d feel closer to god, and He a mediator of sorts.

He told you to touch me too. While I sobbed in our basement bedroom, while I sobbed in our marriage bed. It wasn’t your fault. Messiah—our mutual love— told you it was holy.

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And when you, Micah, martyr, covered my face in white plastic while I choked and spat and shook, I bet he had told you it would be your ultimate deliverance. That if you held your moon-pale hands round my throat until my sinful body was little more than a limp blood sacrifice— then you would be saved.

Do not waste salt tears on the bloodless for I have seen the light: You and I, we’re going to heaven. ii. Judas

Like a schoolyard bully, you confiscated my glasses. I was to be called Bobby and I was to be followed. My sweaters and slacks were outlawed, deemed “un-relational.” You picked my new wardrobe: polos and cargo shorts, short-sleeve button-down shirts. I suppose God bid me freeze.

Once I was Boze Herrington. Once I was unrepentant. You’ve got to remember your name.

At worship, you told them what God had revealed: I was a confirmed lech, afflicted with a fetish for cross-dressing. In fact, I had been stealing June’s clothes.

They all mewled and sheeplike followed, each fearing to be the scarlet heretic. You were divinely ordered to train God’s final army, you told us. With your fellow apostles in the vanguard, armed with The Final Quest, your bible, and your pretensions to divinity.

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While I dined on the floor you’d stand before me, calling the wrath of God upon one of your own. For eight months they shunned me: “Bobby is calling demons upon us.” You never loved me like the others nor came in my slight bed at night. You’ve got to remember your name.

Though your sins are many, prophet, you are victim too. The apostles destroyed you. I think they drove you mad. iii. The Crucified

He said to me, “I know you have it in you to do it. Many earthly mortals must fall, Micah, to bring The Great Tribulation upon us. You have a part to play in what is before us. I see power within you.”

O god but you didn’t see, I want to say. She sucked in the plastic, clawing for air. Her slim neck was purple. Not screaming, merely chewing. When her legs twitch I am shaking, face boiling with tears.

“What a crazy paradigm!” you said at the service. “When they brought her body, at first I cried, but then I laughed: she would hate how she looks.”

Later: “Bethany loved to spend time in the water. She loved small animals, like birds and squirrels.” Yes, I say, yes, she’d cup their white bellies and sing to them, on the shore of Longview Lake. There, she taught me to swim with the loons. There, she bled slow in the moonlight. Even in death—graceful.

Forgive me mother.

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He promised it would burn me clean. I wanted so bad to be clean. He chose me, groomed me for worship. He, so close to God—chose me. But it hasn’t stopped as he said. Mother have mercy—they possess me. I have only done as I was told. Blessed is the fruit of thy womb. iv. Torchbearer

On July 20, 2007, God commanded me form a worship group. He gave three names: June. Justin. Bethany Leidlein. Thus it was.

August 11, 2012: On this day, one of my favorites, I married the most beautiful woman in the world. She glowed. Serene as a swan. She had not yet keeled toward repression and avoidance. She had not yet hardened her heart.

October 30, 2012, was the day of her suicide. When I dream of it, she shakes wildly. Each time, I wake with a shudder, And moan. Jesus Christ is my ravishing bridegroom. People neither marry nor are married in heaven. Loss is trifling, on the road to glory.

On November 9, 2012, Micah Moore, brave martyr, charged with murder. So pious, he. Destined for the stake and not the battlefield (but all for heaven eternal). You are no pawn of Tyler Deaton, child. Oh no, not he. You are a drop in the tide (It is all His plan). Only some can call down His judgment upon those who would oppose. Only some can bring the dawn.

I pray and wait in Corpus Christi,

burn charged of no crime, for my heart is free of sin (we are of this world no longer). Once you give yourself up to the Great Tribulation, Earthly things have no power to harm you. He is coming to damn the unsaved. For Him, I will run the yellow rivers dry.

36 the photographer writes: (i) The process of making art, when I’m doing it in a way that’s right for me, is a uniquely peaceful experience. I strive for a powerful, yet elegant, vision of simplicity and contrast. My first successful arrangements of art were done in a floral studio, where I found myself focusing on the small details of each arrangement, capturing the vision in my head and assembling it in flourishes of petals, leaves, and stems. The details of hues and textures combined to make a final image of beauty. (ii) Immersion in and perhaps an eventual overdose of vivid color gave way to an interest in the contrast of rust and metallic textures, and finally to the peaceful, more subtle differences in shades of black, gray, and white. With careful selection and intentional removal of subject matter, black and white photography allows strict control of the final visual experience. The addition of humanness to my art has allowed me to connect with the models, evoking a layer of emotion that matches the mood I’m trying to achieve. Theresa Seng Transcendences

edgeless and vast: the ocean enveloping continents its tides taming the land’s heat

fertile and green: the fenced land of the warm prairie swaying its borders subdued by sunlight

vivid and live: music that sets the soul into motion in wordless infinite whirling

the human heart: a yearning thing oft hurt and undefined which casts up barriers when breached

editor abagail comments: I like this one. True, it’s not “edgy,” but variety can’t hurt. In fact, we can contrast the poem’s soothing nature with a graphic piece of artwork on the adjacent page. I think that would strike a good compromise. Because the poem is so spacious and calm, maybe it would fit better as one of the last pieces in the issue? To create a settling, of sorts…

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Kelly Greacen While Studying

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Cassandra Jones Pyr

ude, study dates are like an invitation to fuck, if you don’t know that, you can’t be part of this generation anymore.” D I laughed and pressed the phone tighter between my cheek and shoulder; sweat made the surface slippery and the number pad slid haphazardly against my skin as I pulled on a pair of jeans I’d found on my floor. “Yeah, I guess. I don’t…”—I paused to zip up—“… I don’t think you really can ‘get’ Callie until you know her, though. She tends not to conform. Plus, I’m fairly sure she’d sooner shank me in the eye with her highlighter than do me,” I said. “You’re just saying that because you want her to be special or something man, I’m telling you she’s just like every other girl out there. She wants the D.” I rolled my eyes. “I wish one or the other were true, that every girl wanted the D, or that she was like them. Yeah. Both. Wait.” “Yeah you do.” Tyler drawled on the other end. The left half of my face screwed up in annoyance. “Anyway, have to run, got better things to do than talk to your sorry ass,” I said, sliding two fingers down the heel of my shoe. You know, to fix that damn annoying fold that always busts up your ankle. Tyler snorted violently. “Sure, yeah, okay, have fun you goddamn piece a’ pyr—” I flipped my phone shut before Ty finished his tirade; he’d been ticking me off lately with his dickishness, but our friendship was initiated in the first grade when we pissed in Kathy Bachman’s sandbox together. It’s hard to stop being friends with that kind of history. I threw my Nokia on top of my dresser and jerked open my teeshirt drawer. Like a father tying a string around a tooth before slamming the door, I popped the drawer off the track, and it fell to the floor with an ear-busting crash. The American Spirits, burnt-down candle stubs, jumbo pack of matches, and my collection of tacky ninety-nine cent gas-station lighters I kept hidden under my crumpled tees skittered across the floor. “Awh, Christ,” I spat. “Pete?” my mom called from downstairs. “Yeah?” I yelled back, panic coloring my voice. “You okay?” “Yeah!” I bent down and scooped up the contraband in three quick grabs, dumping it all back into my hiding place before she could come investigate.

num 6

It took me three tries to shut the drawer without any clothes snagging the gaps. So, yeah, I guess you could say there are some minor setbacks to being a pyro. The first of ‘em is that the shit you have to hide takes up more room than the shit you’re actually allowed to have, and then your whore of a drawer won’t close. The second is that some part of you is always singed. Body parts, clothing, belongings—you name it, anything is fair game. When I was ten, I set off a fifteen-dollar firework in our living room. You know those directions on the back? The ones that tell you the minimal safety distance? Yeah, I wasn’t too keen on reading them. I just wanted to see some heat. Now, whenever I look in the mirror, I get to see my masterpiece of an eyebrow. A bald scar I burned in that day runs straight through the black arch, right and center. When it first happened, I was real upset about it. It’s surprising how attached a guy can become to an eyebrow in ten short years. But I got used to its particular aesthetic in the weeks I was confined to my room for destroying our meager furniture. That knit couch was ancient, anyway. In fact, everything in our last house was old. Hell, everything in our new house is old. The recliner chair? My grandfa- ther’s. The blender? My great aunt Martha’s. The goddamned toilet? My greasy Uncle Joe’s. Even my bed belonged to someone else—Marcus, my cousin. He smelled like cottage cheese and overripe bananas. So did the bed. So I set that on fire, too. Pyromania is rare, so I guess the man upstairs was feeling malevolently gen- erous when he slapped me together. Fire brings euphoria crucial to my sanity, kind of like a caveman but much more emotionally fucked up. So don’t judge me when I say I sent that stinking mess of covers up in flames. If you couldn’t release tension in any other way besides lighting shit up, and you had the choice between burning your prized record-sleeve collection and your cousin’s rank mattress, you would torch the mattress, too. All of that isn’t too bad, though. Not compared to starving children, and hitchhiking serial killers, and dying grandmas, anyway; but, there is one thing that really does blow about being a pyromaniac: it’s mind-numbingly easy to fuck up. When my room was ‘concerned mother’-proofed, I grabbed my jacket and copy of Prometheus, shoved my phone in my pocket, and jogged over to the

burn door. I was supposed to meet Callie in forty at Jolts Diner and I needed to smoke before she got there. I swung open my door, and there was my mother, her face unexpected and closer to mine than I would have preferred. Those million-year-old blue fluffy slippers she wore around the house must have masked her tread. I still couldn’t understand how they had survived. “Jesus, Mom!” I yelped. “Peter, language!” “Shit, right—” Her brow furrowed at my curse. “Dammit!” I yelled in frustration, as her lips pursed. “Awh hell—ah! Sorry!” She sighed. “When are you coming back, and what was that bang? You didn’t break anything, did you?” She asked, peering around my shoulder. I shifted slightly to my right to block her view, just to cover my ass in case a spare lighter or match had escaped my sight. “Nothing, nope. Should be back eleven, eleven thirty. Alright?” I closed my door, brushed past her, and took the stairs down two at a time.

ike a little bitch, I was standing outside Joe’s, the mechanic shop caddy-corner to Jolts, staking it out, smoking cigarette after cigarette, L climbing with the flame as it destroyed tiny ash cities and calmed my tumultuous guts. An old slate-grey Ford in front of me dripped purple and green swirls. The stub of my fourth cigarette was burning my fingers before I finally saw Callie. Her hair and my eyes linked up like two of those magnet balls they recalled ‘cause too many kids died swallowing them. Cal’s hair was always a loud color, blue, or green, or vermillion. With her it depended on the week. My gaze trailed her Lite-Brite orange pigtails as they bounced into Jolts, traveled from window to window, and finally settled at her booth. She had once told me it was her favorite because underneath someone had written what she insisted to be ‘G-U-M’ in multiple shades of wintergreen. I’m not so sure that’s what the vandal intended, but that’s what I liked about Callie. She saw the world as she saw fit. She believed what she wanted. On the flip, it was hard to dissuade her from believing what she wanted to believe, and that sucked major balls. At least for me, especially these last couple years. In theory, I was going to wait until she got there and then go in. I didn’t want

burn to be the first one there. I don’t know why, I just didn’t. Something about the idea of sitting alone, without and waiting for her, in the red vinyl seats exactly how we used to be before everything went down made my stomach churn. I was pussy- ing out; the moment was here and I didn’t want to go in. I thumbed the metal splices on my lighter, creating a quiet rhythm to fill the lonely space. The stepped ridges caught the skin of my thumb, and I pressed hard, sliding my finger down until sparks somersaulted into the void. I pulled again. Light flared, and I felt a small sweep of relief. With a twinge of regret, I let the fire die so I could set another cigarette between my lips. I was about to light the thing and go home when a flick of motion caught my attention. I’m not sure what made me look up. It could have been the waitress arriving at her table, or the car pulling out of the parking lot, but I did. And what I saw next was Callie’s smile. For no particular reason, she was just beaming away at her server. I knew her incisors lilted towards the center line of her face, and from where I stood I could see her nose wrinkle up in that familiar way, like a rabbit’s. I found myself smiling. I hadn’t been granted even a hint of that smile, her smile, since I burned down our townhouse with that firework in the fifth grade—not since we knocked on our shared wall in internet-learned Morse code, not since we had inside jokes, not since we shouted out the Jolts menu verbatim to each other over milkshakes. I tried to explain to her the day after that it had been an accident, that I hadn’t meant to decimate everything we and our families had in one fell swoop, but she hadn’t believed me. And that had been that. For seven years. She didn’t talk to me, not once, not until the other day in English when she asked me nonchalantly to meet at the “usual place,” and to bring my book with me. I stared at her in that moment outside Jolts harder than I’ve ever stared at anything in my whole life. I’m surprised I didn’t give myself some sort of aneu- rism. I was going to go in, I was going to go in, and everything would be fixed and I would talk to Callie again, and I’d say something and she would smile her smile, and I would know that she smiled her smile for me. Yeah. I smacked the box of Spirits against my thigh and began planning things I could say to her. It formed up like on one of those to-do pads that everyone just writes grocery lists on anyway. One, the little checkbox bloomed into existence in the cell of my brain, one: “Hi! Long time no see! Well, no, I see you every day.

num 6

(Laugh for comic relief.) You just don’t talk to me because I almost-killed-you- and-your-family and ruined-everything-and whydoyouwanttotalknowevencan- wehavesex because that’s how it works in the movies and TylersaysIcouldgetyou- backif—I screeched to a halt. Cal would slit my throat with the menu, laminated or not, if I said any of that to her. I could picture the blood squirting out of my neck in Monty-Pythonian spurts over my regular order of French fries and a hot dog like ketchup-colored pee. Re-do. Two: “Hey (much better), Prometheus, amiright? That guy sure knows how to have a good time. Not that he had fun cause he gave humans fire and all that. ’Cause fire isn’t cool. ‘D.A.R.E to rise above the influence,’ you know? Fire sucks. Yeah, fire is crummy. Prometheus is a bastard. But I’m not. Cause I didn’t mean to set your house on fire or anything, well our house—I lost everything too and all that made it was my mom’s stupid slippers and my records. Why are you such a bitch, seven years? Really? That wasn’t right either. I pushed my hand through my hair, at my wit’s end when it finally came to me. Three: “Sup?” Golden. Yeah, no. Fuck talking to her, I couldn’t do that. I didn’t need to do that. I lit my cigarette and leaned back against the concrete wall of Joe the mechanic’s. Standing there, I felt like a real debonair, hot piece of shit, until I didn’t. I thought of seven years worth of reasons why I shouldn’t go into Jolts, I remembered every time Callie flipped her hair as she turned away from me, every apology a different color. “Callie, wait, I’m sorry, please, wait,” peach, “I know it was stupid, but you have to understand, can’t we talk?” turquoise, “Look, I’m begging you, we sit next to each other in chem for fucks’ sake and you don’t even look at me. Callie, I don’t regret anything more in my life than that day. It was my fault, it was, and no amount of fucked up pleasure-receptors can ever excuse that away. I’m so, so, sorry,” eggplant purple. I didn’t want her forgiveness, not anymore. It only took about three seconds to know what I really wanted was to go in there, no matter how awkward it was, and find out if we still could connect. It didn’t matter if she dumped the coffee she probably ordered down my front or if we went back to my place and con- summated our study-date. Or whatever the hell Tyler had been hinting at. I sniffed, took one last look at my cig’s embers, and flicked it onto the black top. It rolled under the car, rotating along its length like G.I. Joe slipping under barbwire. My hand was reaching towards the door when I smelled the nauseating tang of burning gasoline.

burn

A little girl who’d just accepted a mint from the hostess looked up and tugged on her father’s polo; orange, red, yellow, and soothing blue flickered in her doe eyes. Fear replaced wonder in her mini eyeballs until it was mirrored in her father’s shouting. I wheeled away from the door and watched as the scene unfolded around me. People poured out of the diner to watch the car, and eventually Joe’s, light up. “What happened?” and “Who did it?” and “Call 911!” filtered in and out of my consciousness but all I could really hear was that fucking line from Prometheus: And all the woe that he is doom’d to bear; By his own choice, Why should the thirst for knowledge be aroused, only to be disappointed and punished… None of it seemed real, like I was the myth and that Titan or whatever lived in the twenty-first century. For a moment, it looked like the fire was bobbing away, hurrying down the sidewalk. Reality hit me when I realized it was Callie’s head disappearing from the scene. “Callie!” I shouted. She turned around, still walking away backwards. The corners of her mouth were pulled down. She shook her head. “Go ahead, look at what you’ve done,” her expression screamed. She didn’t need to come say it to me. She already had seven years ago, and Callie never repeated herself. So I did. I looked. Flames curled up and danced in rhythmic ebbs and flows around the building and the car until all that was was the warmth and buzz and vibrancy and famil- iarity and the sense that all of it was burning, burning, burning away. I could stand there and all that would remain would be my bones purged white, stark, and free—colorless and Callie-less. Setting the car on fire was an accident, but it was going up because of me. It was weird. I hadn’t meant it to, but it made me feel better.

num 6

Madeline Gautier

Mother, you never forgave him for not hitting you for being faithful for not becoming the man he was raised by

Father came back because you were pregnant got married because you were pregnant

Father stayed because you were pregnant

My sister never forgave you for fostering a broken family for never taking the dog for a walk for letting her become the woman she was raised by

Mother, you never forgave your body you never forgave your parents you never forgave your mother

Father never blamed you, mother; he tried to leave, but took the blame and placed it on your job the distance your family the fucking economy

Father didn’t leave with the kids that night

Father never forgave himself.

But mother I know you are a chain smoker a hard worker an insomniatic ball of pent up guilt

But mother I always

forgave.

num 6

It’s 2:54 on a Thursday afternoon and as I lie here in bed, my mind comes to you. Could I borrow your ear, just for a moment?

Never would I wish it, but maybe if you could feel what’s in my head and body, it’d make your skin peel like mine does every night I undress to take a shower and see the girl in the mirror that I want so badly to be a figment of my imagination.

Sometimes I try to convince myself that when the condensation clears on that goddamned mirror, your long lost son will be standing there.

That has yet to happen.

Last summer I flew down to you for a visit I will never forget. Be- cause when my bathing suit got wet in your new pool, it was only my swimming trunks. And I want you to think about freedom. Maybe the American Flag, or driving home from a long day’s work, or unpacking a bag. Whatever freedom means to you, you gave it to me last summer as you looked at me like a son from the eyes of his mother.

You let me swim without a tank top in your pool , not even caring what the neighbors would think. Last summer, I believe in that moment you saw my struggle, and if I know you, you were trying to break that haunting mirror for me, but I want you to see that you don’t need to. Instead of glass, I believe you’ve broken the barrier between your daughter named Brittney and the man inside of me.

One last question.

Would you call me your son, finally? All my love, Brett

num 6

Kush Ganatra Naughty Bokov

abokov, knight of my night, sire of my coins. My jinn, my goal. Ná-bó- kóv: the grip of the fist taking a trip of three shifts down-shaft to fap, at N three, on the teeth. Na, Bo, Kov: the artist aristocrat who when the Bol- sheviks came knocking on his Petersburg palace escaped through a back door, flailing a butterfly net while skipping off to a northern, Atlantic shore; who was even then being primed by what would later appear as the first throb of Lolita. Lolita: muse who fell from her footstool onto some backyard grass just before heaven would yield a door to place her in view of a hot, pulsing Humbert. I first discovered her eponymous novel in the aisle of a quiet bookstore, where a butterfly was perched atop a white paperback—pink lips on the front, a bald man on the back. Reading Lolita was like entering a laboratory and finding out one has been made the experimental subject. It was that same jolt of terrible surprise one gets when opening a familiar door only to find somebody brutishly engaged. Man likes to avoid testing his own principles; only the bravest nihilist can contem- plate those self-inflicted quandaries where no sooner does the endeavour begin than he realizes further probing would risk probity—discomfort setting in as the innocent ‘what if?’ loses it fun. But just as Nabokov’s patient lifts up his torso trying nervously to pardon himself, he is thrust back onto the bed and strapped tightly by the hand of a powerful nurse, the clipboard doctor taking careful notes behind the one-sided mirror, cueing the assistants to commence the vivisection. Dr. Nabokov, whom we can imagine heaving impishly in mute laughter as we twitch at the tricks of his hocus-opus, has an expert knowledge of the human psychology, and knows just precisely how to manipulate its dials to produce that artful glitch one feels when reading Lolita. I wish first to discuss Humbert Humbert, Nabokov’s pathetic hero who while hitting the pedal to the hilt thrusts his darling grace all across America in a rusty vehicle; and list those traits I feel to be pertinent in order to explain what has prompted me to take up writing in the first place, and why I choose Nabokov as a master to my apprentice in the second. If what follows does not form a unified whole, drawing a direct connection from the recipe of Humbert’s traits to how the reader should feel about them, then it is because I cannot do so. For there is a grand horizon of ignorance that sits between Lolita and my love for it; the same one that separates me from the knowledge of why I wish to emulate Nabokov to begin with. On to Humbert.

burn

Humbert is a literary genius, who sobs in response to the slightest reminder of his darling Lolita; thus, the explosive tangent Humbert unleashes upon the reader when a description of mother-Haze resurrects the image of the nymphet:

‘How the look of my dear love’s name even affixed to some old hag of an actress, still makes me rock with helpless!…Quine the Swine. Guilty of killing Quilty. Oh, my Lolita, I have only words to play with!’

There is beauty in these lines: therefore there is beauty in Hungry Humbert. But there is also vulnerability: he is in helpess pain, and the grief, as one weeps and wells to read during the closing lines of this lullaby, is genuine. Of course, Humbert is hilarious, but his comedy is not deliberate. It is Nabokov’s wit, not Humbert’s. Humbert is merely the author’s pawn, his galley slave, at whom rocks are thrown and the readers made to laugh and cry—cry for the creep who rapes a child. The uglier the thing which one wishes to say, the more beautifully one is obliged to put it. To ‘He rapes a twelve-year old girl twice a day for two years’ the least forthcoming response seems to be, ‘yes, but wasn’t it beautiful!’ It is to the credit of Nabokov’s conjuries that he is able to coax some such concession from the reader. Where the content should cause revulsion, Nabokov lures his guest into the lower depths of his mansion-lair. Look, the magnificent art on the walls, the tapestries; come down this stairwell whose walls are tacked with corpses. The carpet is red and rich, the wine is fine (the corpses have dined, huh?) and has long matured in its cask, come, follow—and lower and lower we follow. If the guest were to learn a few days later that the host had in fact erected the mansion in order to accomodate his corpses—that indeed all he had was a heap of corpses to begin with and the desperate need for someone to pass them by as normal— then the guest would feel something like I did when reading Lolita. Nabokov erects a mansion around corpses, and Humbert Manson has been appointed to welcome his guests. Humbert the Ghost, Humbert the Humbug Host… oh, Nabokov!

abokov has an exhibitionist mastery over English. One feels invited to a luxurious feast—this is before the sickness, of course (‘pardon me,’ N nurse, vivisection)—whose host makes lavish play with every platter of surface devices: in just the initial burst of Lolita we find in rollicking communion a mountain-range of assonance as backdrop to the alliterative fireworks in ‘tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps’. The prose is muscular and stable but not

num 6 static, like watching a musclebound walnut act out poses in one-minute frames. Rather, his words weave and flow with the limpid alacrity of a gymnast, by turns powerful yet flexible. For Nabokov, beauty is incidental. The explosions through which Humbert releases streams of lexical grace are only the debris of his pathos. I did not feel as if he was trying to impress me, though he was; the beauty did not seem deliberate, though it was. If this weren’t the case, then I would have felt deceived and placed Lolita somewhere next to Ulysses on my bookshelf. Joyce is in distress, and writes with the child’s tongue sticking out as he performs his verbal alley- oops and triple-spin slam dunks; but for Nabokov beauty is like a pretty top, an accessory with which to dress up Humbert. And it is this same beauty that I wish to reproduce when I write—to have it mingle with the sinister.

he work of writing is arduous. Myself, I first begin by splitting Lolita to a random page, jotting down whatever sentence or phrase I like, in- T ternalizing its notes, carefully studying the script. The reading is done in various ways. The first reading is done simply for semantics. In the second I pay attention to sentence structure, syntax, and punctuation, making note of how these vary along the paragraph and along the pages. Most importantly, I ask myself: “How does he do it?”, with the hopes that in slow, imperceptible incre- ments, I will filch at last the precious codes and rush to my laboratory where the germs of Humbert may begin to collect and vibrate anew. I continue in this way, reading and rereading, for about two hours, until I feel ready enough to put pen to paper; but just before connection there is always an initial freeze, a nervous pause, as my muse gathers into a heap the scattered sheet notes just thrown before the lyre (fire, Vladimir, admire, burn with desire, no sire, please, don’t sire, no, oh, oh!) and hastens to arrange them properly into clone prose. Once I tire of this wordless wait (Hail Muse! Muse?) I force whatever image happens to be in my mind onto the page, decorate it with puns and verbal ornaments, stretch it against what would be a reader’s good patience so that the result is a long, involuted sentence poem. I then go back to Lolita, and back to the crossed out page for the next trial. This iteration continues until I am finally able to man- age something like a Nabokovian sentence that might be able to camouflage in a page of his prose; but however tactful the transplant there will always be visible some stitch that gives away my little alien; let the cold critic place the following sentences under the lens of his most powerful microscope, and go mad twisting his (… or her, will you read me Nizara, should I stop bleeding, darling?) knobs. Silence please! From a love letter written to a girl at a hometown Barnes & Noble, who without knowing it possesses a piece of my plaster heart by having

burn read these throbbing lines:

…these effusions, dear miss, must be left to the secretive tactics of pen and paper and love-stained ink, for look at you and look at me: two faces, one the embodiment of grace (if with a faint, zebraesque allure) the other (oh, how I must cringe and hide!) the very aspect of dumb and disgrace. So, do not feel obliged to give any response or rejection; the smile which may have surfaced and which may now be coloring your caramel- cream face affords me a pleasure that more than repays my efforts in this writing. And, of course, remember that these are simply the therapeutic outpourings of a deranged mind which succumbs on occasion to delirious fancy at the sight of a sharp feline jaw and the soft colors of youth… [exit muse]

(Where are you hiding Nizara!) (Why are you hiding, darling!) ...... amus depicts Sisyphus rolling his rock ceaselessly up a hill, only for it to roll back and be pushed forward anew. Nabokov would have him C climbing an infinite rope in the total darkness of the cosmos, shouting infantile interjections. He is a master of bathos, but somehow is able to sub- sume this under a much more powerful pathos. Lolita for me is laughter in the awkward silence of the universe, drowned in further darkness; the rebellion of comedy is quelled, and the pathos is thereby intensified. It is easy to think that Lolita was written in spurts of neurosis. This is wrong, I believe. One must imagine, rather, Lolita being formed as a series of unbidden footnotes, collected and arrayed in the mind of a sad, solemn Nabokov as he wandered off one evening late at dusk, and sighed.

About the pornographer of these shy pages: He has the curious first name of ‘Kush’, a strong gust colliding happily with the mountain range of vowels in his last name, Ganatra. ¶ He was brought to life twenty years ago, and pronounced his first vulgar syllables as the doctor hastily laid the inverted trophy in the lap of his moist mother. Ever since he has been punished ceaselessly for his naughty vocab. ¶ One day when confined to a sandbox, Kush swiped his hand and discovered Plato; there is a strain which one may safely trace from that event to his decision to study humanities. ¶ The girl Nizara is a figment of imagination. Even so she slowly materializes, with her hand raised, in the classroom corner. Meanwhile a secret algorithm goes to work and shuffles the letters of an idol to produce that splendid Arabic anagram. And that, in a gram, is all that is known or may be said of the author, whose name means “Wind-fall.”

num 6

Evan Gott My Cuban Missile Crisis

I reread something you wrote long ago and it stirred a tranquil chemical pool inside of me, shook me

the way the great war that ends humanity will leave the Earth shuddering and vibrating

waiting for the plants that survived to learn to walk, to speak, to love

Your words that even now I know are beautiful turned me into a cold rock moved by Sisyphus

away from the explosives

it hid

num 6

Annie Melden Red Line

here is a whistle coming from the kitchen. An angry, panicked whistle, getting louder and louder, a white hot screech. He is quiet and still. T Still and quiet. He floats over to the door and opens it a crack. A strip of white light almost blinds him. It’s the tea kettle. It’s begging to be noticed, and his mother is asleep with her arm hanging off the sofa. He puts on his black sweatshirt, the one with the hood, and slips into the kitchen, turning the stove off with a click. It is quiet now. He brushes out the back door. The night air makes him feel at home. Grey cobblestones are starting to glisten and he looks up at the black sky. The rain drops are silent and cold. A group of tourists duck into the doorway of a shop. ‘$20 Psychic Readings’ is written in deep velvety purple on the glass. Tom pulls out his sketchbook and watches from across the street. The group chatters like crows until the drops stop falling. They are now coming towards him. He fumbles with his sleeves to cover his hands and he looks down at his boots, an iridescent black. They are all wearing ponchos and holding candles. Their shiny green stickers read “Salem Ghost Tours”. They are approaching. Faster now. He wants to be invisible. They swoop past him into the graveyard, barely noticing him. He exhales. He continues past the wand shop and up the hill. Beams of light stream out the windows of the church in the square. An organ plays Bach’s Toccata and Fugue. He sits on a bench that is older than time and closes his eyes and listens. The chords float out of the windows like ghosts and the staccato beats poke holes in his bones. He loses himself. An older couple is coming out of an alleyway and he covers his face but it is too late. His glow catches them off-guard and the woman’s scream stabs the night air. The man’s arms grip her body and all three of them stop breathing, stop beating. Little crescent moons are left pink on his palms. He releases his fists. He gets up and leaves. Enough. The movie theater is cold and quiet. He enters and brushes back his hood. Two townies are dressed in black behind the counter. He smiles. They are arguing. “Oh, Tom, thank God you’re here. Bridget’s gone crazy.” “What? Shut the fuck up!” She looks to Tom. “Seriously though, who’s hotter, Jennifer Lawrence or Taylor Swift?” They both fall silent and stare wide-eyed at him, waiting. He thinks about it

burn for a second to torture them. “Jennifer Lawrence,” he says, laying his hand on the glass for emphasis. “Yes!” Bridget says, “High five!” They high five. “Suck it,” she says to Martin. Martin scoffs. “Whatever.” “What time are you guys out?” Tom asks. Bridget shrugs, leaning on the glass case. She plays with her lip ring, the little black ball going back and forth and he can’t stop watching her. Martin looks at the clock. “We’re off in ten.” Tom nods. “Anything good happening tonight?” “Nah, not really. We could scare tourists, I guess. But that gets old after a while,” Bridget says. “Yeah,” they all agree. Martin closes the door with a click and they sit on the steps of the Peabody Essex Museum. Bridget pulls a pack of Natural American Spirits out of her purse, and clicks the latch shut. It is a slippery black. Her slender fingernails are chipping off black paint and Tom forgets to breathe when she hands him a cig and her hand brushes his. He turns red and smiles. They pass around a cigarette and he coughs like there’s fire in his lungs. They laugh until they can’t laugh anymore. He is still coughing, choking, wheezing, until he feels something coming up. White hot acid is burning his throat and he stumbles over to a potted plant in front of the huge glass doors. He expels the evil into the soil and kneels, panting like a dog. Now he’s lying down on the cold concrete, staring up at the deep black sky. He catches his breath and begins to laugh, first lightly, then deeply and fully from his belly. Bridget grabs his hand and helps him to his feet. “You almost died on us there,” she says, patting him on the back. “I’m very much alive,” he says. Tom opens the back door and silently drifts to his room. He can hear his mother and her friends laughing in the den and he guesses they are drunk. He always panics on recycling day. There are always too many green and white bottlenecks, poking their empty heads out of their bin on the curb. He sometimes takes a few and drops them in other people’s bins on the way to school. He knows strangers shouldn’t have to share his burden. His stomach hurts when he does it. By the time his father was dead, he was blind, and white as a bed sheet. His eyes were pink when he opened them. He rarely went outside, but when he did, the people would cackle in tandem, and sometimes shriek. Albino. Albino. “Don’t worry about me, Tommy,” he said, “Everybody’s got something. If somebody says you’re a freak, chances are they’re a freak too, just on the inside, where no one else can see.”

num 6

His mother is afraid of people on the outside. She prefers the indoor life where things are clean and people are invited. She is pale from being inside, though never as pale as Tom. He never has guests. He doesn’t want to upset her. Crawling into his bed, he notices how his feet hang off the end. It is the same bed he slept in as a boy. The memory of his father makes the veins in his heart feel exposed so he pulls the covers up to his lungs and lets them relax. Warm sleep drifts through him.

alloween is fast approaching. The streets are flooded with outsiders in plastic ponchos. The red painted line winds through town, and Tom H goes the back way to avoid it. He sits behind a Chinese restaurant and draws a cook on his smoke break. White tufts of nicotine swirl toward the sky. He heads to his favorite cafe on Essex Street where his cousin Jared bartends. Jared lets him sit at the bar if he plays it cool. He hops up on a stool and delicate- ly places his sketchbook on the sticky counter. He fixes the collar of his shirt and waits for Jared to notice him. Jared has black hair that is cut short on the sides. His body moves to the cadence of the music dripping from the speakers. He is so smooth. Wears black glasses and plugs in his ears. Tom stares at his earlobes. He wonders if the large holes ever draw attention from people. “Hey kid!” Jared says, bumping Tom’s fist, “What can I get you?” “Whatever’s free,” he responds, opening his sacred book. “Water it is!” Jared says with enthusiasm, grabbing a glass from under the bar. Tom looks around, scanning the room. Next to him, a woman dressed like a witch counts out a thick stack of cash that she pulled from her bra. Next to her, a girl in a Pikachu costume tunes a ukulele. Jared thumps the cold glass on the bar, breaking Tom’s focus. “That it?” he asks. “Yup.” “What are you drawing?” Jared asks, leaning his elbows on the bar like a schoolgirl. “This and that,” he replies, trying not to brag. “Give it here!” Jared says, and Tom gives it to him, nervously awaiting his evaluation. Jared slowly looks at the pages, cover to cover, and closes the book with care. He gently places it on the bar. “Dude.” “What?” Tom asks. “This is really good.” He sighs. “Like, fuck.” “Really?”

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“Yeah little dude. Really, really good. How old are you again? Twelve?” “16.” “Dude.” Tom smiles with his teeth for the first time in weeks. He draws there for the rest of the night. Tom leaves the cafe when it’s dark. He sees the red line from across the street and goes the other way. “You have to be careful,” Bridget always tells him, “The red line isn’t the only place they go. If you want to avoid them, you have to avoid most landmarks downtown, especially the church.” He knows this, but sometimes he forgets. Some of his favorite places trap tourists like fly paper. He avoids the line and walks down to the intersection of Washington and Derby. The street is almost deserted and he hops across to the other side. The bars softly shake with the sound of clinking glasses and drunken professions of love. He sees Jonathan, a tour guide and a friend of Jared’s, turning a corner. He wears old colonial garb and holds a small orange flag in the air. Jonathan spots Tom. He has a panicked, desperate look on his face. “Get out of here, Tommy.” A herd of ponchos emerges into the light behind Jonathan, fanning out in both directions. Tom is trapped. The crowd gasps. Flashes of light blind him as they excitedly snap photos. A child points. A woman giggles. Jonathan puts his arms up to quell the excitement. “Isn’t it part of the Salem experience?” someone asks. “He’s white as a ghost,” another mutters. Tom turns around and runs into an alley. He hides behind a dumpster and hugs his knees to his chin. He tells himself not to cry. He does anyway.

ridget just got her license and wants to celebrate. Martin and Tom meet her at the bridge to Beverly. She pulls up in her mom’s cham- B pagne gold minivan and tells them to get in. Martin calls shotgun and jumps in the front seat. Tom hesitates. He is wearing his baseball hat and thick sunglasse and SPF 100 hangs out of his back pocket. The bridge is vast and he can’t see the other side because of the fog that rolls over the ground. His friends urge him to get in, so he does. They fly past the green-haired art students at Montserrat and through the wealthy estates of Beverly Farms. The fences are so high they can barely see the dusty grey mansions on the other side. They wind up the coast through Man- chester and Magnolia, passing more horses than people. With the windows down, they smell apples and the ocean. Tom lets his arm float out the window like the wing of a bird. They reach Rockport and Bridget turns off the ignition with a click. The engine settles.

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They walk along Bearskin Neck and Tom goes into every art gallery they pass. He looks at the sacred paintings, holding his breath. They get ice cream and sit out on the rocks in the cold. Freighters pass and blow their horns and the waves slam against each other. Tom pulls out his sketchbook and a pencil. “Draw me!” Bridget says. Tom draws the delicate curve of her neck and the way her charcoal hair sweeps off her shoulders. He draws her eyes a warm autumn brown and the defi- ant twist of her lip ring. He finishes and shows it to her. “Wow,” she says, and looks up at him. “This is so good.” “Look at the time,” Martin says, “We need to head back.” He looks at Tom and taps his foot. “I guess so,” Bridget says, standing up. “What a day.” She looks at Tom and smiles, so Tom looks down at his feet and smiles, too. That night, Tom takes his sketchbook and goes down to see Jared. Since yes- terday, he has drawn a man in drag, a woman dressed as a cat, and a tour guide in full pirate gear. He also drew Bridget, which is his favorite. He sits up at the bar and waits for Jared to change one of the beer taps. “Hey kid!” he says, bumping Tom’s fist. “What can I get for you?” “Grape soda please,” he replies. “Wow! High roller. Do you have any money?” Jared grabs a glass from under the bar. “Nope. Just a good day,” Tom says. Jared pulls a few bucks of his pants pocket and sticks it in the register. “Really? How come?” Jared is excited for him, and he can tell. “Is it a girl?” “Kinda, I guess,” he says, trying to play it cool. “Oh shit! Tell me everything.” Jared pours the soda into the glass, the bubbles popping in the air. He pushes the glass across the bar, the soda a deep, frothy purple. Tom tells him about Bridget and Jared cheers. He pulls Travis, another bar- tender, over to share. Travis pushes his black bangs aside to look at Tom. “Tom’s got a crush on a girl,” Jared tells him. “Oh shit! Dude!” Travis says and high fives Tom. Travis pulls over Jane, a waitress with thick eyeliner. Her blonde roots jump out against her dark hair. She hears the news and stares blankly at Tom. “Great,” she says, and rolls her eyes at them. Tom turns red and sips his soda. After the commotion has died down, Tom shows Jared his sketches. Jared says they are great, and that maybe they could hang some of them up in the bar sometime. Tom is overwhelmed. He can’t even speak.

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He walks home with his hood off and his hands uncovered, his white-blond hair messy and free. Jared texts Tom the next day and tells him they would love to hang a few pieces in the bar during Halloween week. Tom reads the message several times throughout the day, just to make sure it’s real. He brings his sketchbook down to the bar after closing and they sit on the floor, deciding which ones will make the cut. They pick the drawing of Bridget, the drag queen, and the pirate. They hang them on the brick wall and stand there for a minute. The colors sing out like an aurora borealis. Jared puts his arm around Tom. “You did good, kid.” Tom arrives home later than usual, but no one notices. Instead of going straight to his room, he walks to the den. He hovers outside the door for several minutes gathering enough air to proceed. He slowly tiptoes in, and his mother looks over at him. “Hi Mom,” he says, gently and quietly like she likes. “Hi baby,” she says, her words blurring together like liquid. “How was your day?” “Good,” he says, sitting down and holding her hand. “Mom?” She nods. “You know the bar where Jared works?” She nods again, confused. “Well I’ve been doing some drawings, and he let me hang them up on the wall down there. They’re on display through the week.” She says nothing, just clenches her fists. “I was wondering if you would like to come see them sometime? I worked really hard on this.” She doesn’t respond, just closes her eyes and rocks back and forth. His chest starts to tighten in that old familiar way. His breath is restricted, like he’s choking. She speaks. “You know I love you right?” He nods. She draws in breath like it’s thick black smoke, sludge, slurring. “But I’m not capable of that.” She begins to cry, and her arms crisscross over her chest like a straight jacket. She rocks front and back. “You know I can’t do that.” She reaches for a bottle on the coffee table. He grabs it before she can. “You give that back!” she screams, the tears making her whole face glisten. He is much taller than her and holds it up in the air like a kid on the playground. She jumps pathetically but collapses on the ground in a pile, grabbing, reaching. “Fuck you!” she screams, wiping away snot with her sleeve. He tries to settle her but she pushes him away. She points to the door and tells him to leave. He takes the bottle and leaves. He slams the back door and walks out into the cold, pacing up and down the road. He is losing his air again, coughing and hissing like a helium balloon. He raises one arm and cracks the bottle open on a building, the little crystals falling

num 6 to the ground like stars. The jagged edge cuts him open and the velvety blood stains his ghostly white skin. He puts his hands together to staunch the bleeding, and for a moment he wonders if he’s praying. He leans against the building and sinks down on his heels to the ancient cobblestone. Hands together, he prays. He feels a deep pain in his soul for the next few days. Jared asks him about the bandage on his hand, and he makes something up. I cut it when I fell. Jared watches him closely from across the bar, drying the same glass for too long. Hal- loween is imminent.

alloween day, the bar is open in gallery form. Tom pulls his only suit out of his closet and irons it, but it’s ill-fitting. It was his father’s. It’s H jet black. He puts down the iron. The cathedral of his own drawings surrounds him and he paces from one wall to another. Drawings of his mother and father, dancing to Tony Bennett in the kitchen. Drawings of their family cat, Caramel, who ran away and never came back. And finally, the drawing of his father in the sterile air of Salem hospital, all his hair gone, and a chemo drip in his arm. The mole that turned to a lesion that turned to a black milky way galaxy on his forearm. Tears burn his throat. Tom puts on the suit and looks at himself in the mirror, noticing he’s so white that he’s almost see-through. He messes with his tufts of yellowy hair, but that doesn’t make it any better. He pictures himself with inky black hair. He pictures himself without delicate white eyelashes that flutter like moth’s wings. Putting on his black hat, he tells himself it’s for the cold, and not to conceal his identity. He checks the den. His mother is asleep on the couch. He puts a blanket over her and leaves. The gallery is packed and Jared is behind the bar. Tom walks in and sits down. “There’s the man of the hour!” Jared says, bumping his fist. “Go introduce yourself. The people are waiting.” Tom puts his hat in his pocket and surveys the crowd. He sees a sea of black hair and gauges and feels at ease. He spots Bridget and Martin and cuts through the crowd towards them. Bridget gushes with compliments and Martin gives his quiet approval. There is a stream of people in and out of the bar. He shakes several people’s hands and listens to their lofty praise. Jared is clearing glasses off tables and comes over and sticks a name tag on Tom’s jacket. “Tom—Artist.” Jared has been drinking and his cheeks glow red. He puts his arm around Tom and gestures to the crowd. “Salem loves you!” he exclaims. Tom begins to think it’s true. Bridget and Martin are heading towards the door. She turns around, walks

burn over to Tom, and kisses him on the cheek. His heart stops and starts. He grins like a schoolboy and watches her leave. Tom realizes he misses the cold, so he slips out the door. The night is loud. Bodies crowd the streets and musicians blast their chords above the chatter of the people. Masked men move in gangs. A child skips around, merrily shooting people with a plastic AK-47. Skeletons on steep stilts navigate the crowd, and the street is littered with bottles. Light flickers on shards of broken glass. Tom walks to the square and sees the church. It towers above him and two bats chase each other through the deep darkness. Tonight, there is no music coming from the windows of the church. He sits on the bench that’s older than time and he thinks about the state of things. But a scream makes him turn his head and look. In an alley, a woman cries out. Two men in masks are following her. They push her against a wall. One clamps his hand over her mouth and the other holds a knife. Orange light twinkles on the smooth blade. He doesn’t know what to do. He looks at the woman and thinks of his mother. He thinks of Bridget. He gets up and walks toward them. “Hey!” he screams, hardening his chest against the wind. The pressure bares down on him like a heavy stone. They don’t seem to hear him. The world is moving slowly. His heart is only beating once a minute. Blood pulses up to his ears, his nose. His heart catches up. “Hey!” he shouts, louder this time. He could smack them with his sketchbook, then pick up a rock and throw it at them. The two men in masks hear him this time. They slowly turn their horned faces toward him. Their yellow eyes seem to glow. He feels fear bubble up from deep in his roots and he almost wishes he was invisible. He takes one step closer and they take off running. They leave the woman and join the crowd of people, blending into hundreds of other dark figures with horns. Tom slowly approaches her, his hand out, so as not to spook her. He is sweat- ing, and he tugs at his suit. He is within arm’s length now, and he speaks to her. “Are you okay?” She looks at him. Her eyes grow wide and hunted. She backs away from him. “You stay away from me!” she screams. She runs down the alley toward the crowd of demons. He looks down. The red line glows beneath his feet.

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ABAGAIL PETERSEN A tangerine peel . . . is like the anxious love of my mother as she sent me away.

I tried to forget myself, like an umbrella, feeling older, braver than the scars on the softest parts of me

and even grass has blades.

In Boston I should have been the woman with the dog and charcoal throat:

Don’t trust anyone with your arms.

But the papayas at Haymarket, two for a dollar… the guts of blood oranges…

I wouldn’t have enough

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Grègoire Mazars The Handshake

I would dance with you But my double lurks around. He sews threads of doubt Like snakes that break our shells open.

Friends in cells crash on my shore Carrying anchors—like dreams Bound to sore the double Join the large inferno within.

Shovel more sand, ha—ya Move onto the wheel. It is a matter of hope to keep Asking more from fate.

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Evan Gott Art Mausoleum

Dead in a museum a pigeon lies, dwarfed by beauty. The way a convicted juvenile delinquent feels when he’s surrounded by adults. If anyone noticed him, which they won’t, the cause of death would be determined “head trauma by br u s h s t ro ke .” And as this pigeon— a bird that lives in the streets and the sewers and the diseases, but rarely the sky— is exhibited on the ground, without flight or breath, unable to feel sensation, he feels his own filth. In death, as in life, beauty perseveres.

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Kelly Greacen Those Who Love

In Catalonia ghosts of bull fighters haunt the prairie lands and the carcasses of gored beasts echo in the lane.

Rider who was trampled in the long shadow of the sea dangled so dainty before his blue carcass met the sea.

Those who love in Catalan, in its prize city stolen by cheats, hide in the dungeon metro tunnels, walk out gold.

Take me far inland, darling for we shall not linger long— they’re waiting in the grottoes of our dry ancestral home.

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Evan Gott Statued Wait

I’m looking for your kiss, black lipstick and a tongue like a key: unlock me.

Let’s trade songs, yours a hymn, mine sung in fields and in shackles, in desperation and in sleep.

Shadowed love, I am waiting like a sundial.

My existence is meditation, my lifeblood flowing to my inner eye the one which scans the landscapes, the ones that you fill, for something to hold onto.

I breathe slow and even, the way ice melts and seasons become each other when the days get longer.

Love like I have known before, I wait for you in a calm and faithful way.

You have left me once and will leave me again but there is something like Stonehenge inside of me, something that you signed, something that has taught me it is worth it to kiss your face again.

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Cassandra Jones (Inferno) Hell Canto XIV

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Emma Forbes Vertigo

1. the water on the pavement is stirred up in a frantic mist by passing cars ripped from crevices in asphalt ripped sparkling into fairydust pinpricks and caught by the lights two tons of force smashing downwards and forwards heavy machinery. if i tilt forward into the street, the shock of breathless impact will catch in my throat as the film of water on my skin evaporates before the headlights, with the rain this thought yanks me up on tiptoes and drops me in a heap by the roadside, all that potential energy a twoton car on my chest.

2. this skin shrinkwrappedvacuumsealed it doesn’t breathe it smothers instead. you have to make peace with the fact that scratching yourself open would make no difference, would only reveal tangled muscles birchwhite bones and other such practical bits of human matter you suppose you must have a soul: something’s trying to claw its way out.

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3. when i was five years old, i stared passively at my kindergarten teacher and was struck suddenly with the thought that should i choose, i could stand up on my chair and shout as loud as i wanted. i remained in my seat a coiledup spring, quite alarmed. i felt without doubt there existed a me that had risen from her seat, screwed up her face and howled. i could feel her howl scratching my throat. when i cross the bridge over the highway a dozen ghosts topple over the sides and crumple on impact they send sharp searing shocks through my feet and sometimes when our eyes meet across a room i think i can feel the shape of your face in my hands finger pads brushing hair and earlobes the exact shape and softness of surprised lips. walking home, a stranger stumbles behind me a little too close for comfort he’s talking to himself. i can feel him too. it’s startlingly real.

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Kate Dawson This sounds better as a song:

Widen my narrow jaw Straighten my crooked spine I’ve always loved my bones But they don’t always feel like mine

I’ve got a thick skin But I feel it wearing thin and once I get out It’s hard to get in again

Mismatched nerve endings A scar like a canyon My shoulder blades are mountains I only see in mirrors

And my face, my face keeps turning, turning, turning back again

Remind me I’m young Cause I just got comfy in this Fresh new flesh But I’m already worried About it falling off

And I’m not done having fun with it yet

So grab me a bottle Show me the lights Of the city I’ve lived in My whole life And just discovered

I really, really, really kind of like

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Tom Ford To Ginsberg

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Readers may wish to compare this poem to the html version available on the Burn webpage, and/or to the poem “Howl” by Allen Ginsberg, first published in 1955.

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about our contributors

Samantha BURKE (bu) is studying advertising and film. // Emmy CROWDER (bu) is studying mathematics. She is the owner of two excellent dogs, Django and Chili. // Kate DAWSON (philadelphia) ) is an amateur musician and professional crayonologist. She dreams of becoming either the next Robert Osborne or U.S. ambassador to France. // Brett DEANGELIS is an alumnus of Philadelphia University. // Cat DOSSETT (bu) is studying art history, with special interest in medieval art and the art of 19th century Europe. She’s currently developing a comic about deer in a post-apocalyptic world. // Lydia ERICKSON (bu) is a writer studying English, Spanish and psychology. She hails from Palo Alto; her hobbies include food, theatre, speculative fiction, and travelling whilst broke. // Emma FORBES (bu) is studying international relations and English. // Tom FORD (umass) is a medical student. He writes to get through heartbreak, college applications, and those rainy afternoons where coffee just doesn’t do it anymore. He’s editing his first novel, and outlining a second. // Kush GANATRA (bu) is studying political science. He loves anagrams and Anna Karenina, and loathes elevators and Christmas music. He detests the vile sun and the ludicrous colors it produces each morning. // Madeline GAUTIER attends Orange Coast Community College. // Bobby GE (uc-berkeley) lived in Shanghai for more than a decade after being born in Atlanta, Georgia. He is studying physics and music. After gaining experience scoring student films, he’s begun to gravitate towards writing for the concert hall. Listen: soundcloud.com/gashoe13. // Evan GOTT (bu) studied communications. He is now a copywriter at Hill Holiday. // Kelly GREACEN (bu) moved to Colorado after completing studies of English and journalism. She works as a snowboard instructor, and writes for publications like Breck Connection while continuing to work on poetry and creative nonfiction. // DanielleHALL (bu) is studying linguistics, art, and Chinese. Recently, she’s gotten into book-making and book-altering. She helps run the Power Pals ‘let’s play’ channel on YouTube. Connect: [email protected]. // Cassandra JONES (bu) doesn’t know how to write an author’s bio. Neither does she know how to make a lit mag, even as part of a team of ingenious women. Example editorial

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dilemma: what is the proper kerning for the word ‘fuck’ when it appears in small caps? But here we are. Connect: [email protected]. // Vanessa KURIA (bu) is studying chemistry. She can play six songs from The Sound of Music on the recorder. Check out her recorder cover of Soulja Boy’s “Turn My Swag On”: soundcloud.com/vanessakuria. // Grègoire MAZARS (bu) is from Paris. He can’t get rid of the accent. He took a poetry class with Jason Tandon, and that’s about it as regards his qualifications in writing. // Annie MELDEN (bu) is studying film and television production. // Gayle MINER (bu) is a photographer. She completes her studies of environmental science this fall, and thereafter will travel to Stone Farms in Hudson Valley to begin an internship at Blue Hill. Her photos in this issue are the outcome of experiments with film manipulation and toy cameras. // Pooja PATEL (bu) is studying international relations. // Abagail PETERSEN (bu): a nineteen-year-old studying English who sleeps every night under the light of the Citgo Sign. // Theresa SENG (bu) is studying biology as a pre-med student. // Lauren SHAPIRO (bu) is editor of Clarion magazine. She is a student in the Department of English. // Annie TSAI (uc-berkeley) is studying music and computer science. Her piece appearing in this issue was composed for the 2014 Vietnamese Culture Show. // Tania Dias VASCONCELOS is studying fine arts at Bristol Community College, where her work has appeared in campus gallery juried exhibitions. In her photography, she eschews extraneous detail, finding inspiration in Coco Chanel’s advice: “Before you leave the house, look in the mirror and take one thing off.” Her current series of projects involves portraits in water. Connect: [email protected], Instagram @taniadiasphotography.