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. // NUM 6 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 differ- ent 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. BURN Madeline Gautier The Aftermath 8 NUM 6 9 BURN 10 BURN 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. 12 NUM 6 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 13 BURN 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. BURN Tom Ford Seven Stairs he pitter-patter of raindrops on the pavement was an irritating re- minder 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 collec- tion 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.