A Bike in the Woods

Tripping Letter from the Editors To our readers, This year’s edition of the Red Shoes Review is all about change. Be- tween these covers are pieces about reflection and pieces about regret - about paths not taken and paths better left behind. But here are also pieces about simple beauties, silly sights, and faith in the journey. This magazine is dedicated to the authors and artists who’ve changed since they’ve created their works, and the experiences that have shaped them. We are so proud of the efforts of our staff, and so happy about what we’ve become. Come on a trip with us, Sankhya Amaravadi Christine Rachel Joseph 1 Literature 8 Bruised Blood 63 Waves 10 Arcade Coin 65 Untitled 14 Reality 68 Apathy 15 A Sonnet - Son of the Sun 71 A Place that Builds Itself 17 Meant to Be 75 Danny Digging a Hole 22 Wlflwr 78 The Epic of Ilumasahu 24 A Goodbye on a Snowstorm 82 Wind 26 Miss Porter 84 Handling Faith 28 December Nights 86 The Boy on the Bicycle 29 The Drop 88 The Sealing 31 A Bike in the Woods 94 Jamaican Countryside 37 The Girl in the White Coat 96 Acting Like Yourself 38 Nocturne 100 Abnormal Me 40 Presence 42 Searching for Stars in the Water 52 Maritime 54 “I’m from Joliet, and like poetry” 60 friends 61 ~~~~ >-----> 2 Art 9 Colorblind 74 Hospice Saint Michel 16 Two Peacocks in a Pod 83 In Dubai 25 Smoldering 87 Volt 30 Blue 95 Beautiful Meowrning 36 Tripping through Kerala I 101 Tripping Through Kerala II 41 Veins of Life 53 Over the Edge 59 Peace 62 The Experience 69 Not on the Same Page 70 Reflections of the Past Staff Listing Editors-in-Chief Editors Sankhya Amaravadi Anjali Chacko Christine Rachel Joseph Lenny Ditkowsky President Jordie Formicola Alexis Smyser Sankhya Amaravadi Polatip Subanajouy Vice President Kathleen Lieffers Readers Tam Au Treasurer Serena Korkmaz Hoda Fakhari Chinwe Ndukwu Layout Editor Nayfah Thnaibat Nidhi Suthar Cover Design Layout Staff Christine Rachel Joseph Tam Au Alexis Smyser Advisor Professor Silvia Malagrino Webmaster Darlene Ymson Acknowledgements & Editorial Policy We thank the contributions of: The UIC Honors College Sara Mehta Dean Ralph Keen Abigail Kindelsperger Associate Dean Timothy Murphy Editorial Policy The Red Shoes Review is a journal of free and creative expression. The views expressed here are those of the authors and artists and do not necessarily reflect those of the editorial staff or the Honors College. The journal welcomes and publishes work that represents a diverse range of beliefs and does not discriminate against race, ethnicity, religion, or disability. With the exception of grammatical changes, the content of this magazine is presented as is and is chosen through blind voting and panel review. All works presented are created in total by UIC students who were of undergraduate standing within the course of the 2015-2016 academic year. They represent only but a small portion of all UIC writers and are not necessarily associated with the UIC Honors College. Bruised Blood by Tyler Benavides I’ll give it all up in sync. I feel the blood rush to my head. I feel it leaving my fingertips. It is not red; it is not blue; It is purple, and it is not liquid. It is my bruised veins slithering out Underneath each fingernail. My body begins to suffocate and Now as my head drains and slowly crumples With the rest of my body I see where these battered strings are going. There is no time to look back at the empty husk, Deflated in a pile of grey skin and vacant eyes. My lifelines speed elsewhere, breaking off From one another, Heading towards different sides of the compass. I will search in all directions Until my blood bubbles warmly. I will call upon the other parts of me And tell them we are home. It is time to rebuild, reconnect, and Reawaken our body once more. 8 Colorblind by Hoda Fakhari 9 Arcade Coin together. He had no friends to turn to. He was never good at so- by Betty Krasnik cializing with others. It made him nervous. So his only option was He was in the alley searching living on the streets. He would through a dumpster full of rot- get a job. It shouldn’t take more ting garbage, hoping that some- than a week to find one, he fig- where underneath the moldy re- ured. In no time the whole thing mains of Subway sandwiches and would blow over, and he would empty Starbucks cups, he would get back on his feet. It would be find a cardboard slab. At last, ok. his fingers felt something dry He stuck his hands into his and smooth beneath them. He empty pockets. He shuddered, pulled out a shoebox, ripping off remembering how his dad kicked one of its sides. All he needed him out just as midnight struck, now was a permanent marker. marking his eighteenth birthday. The city was still sleeping, so he He had grabbed him by the hair, would have to wait until the sun emptied every cent from his came up. pocket, and shoved him out the He slumped behind the moss front door. green dumpster. A lump formed He swallowed hard, remem- in his throat, as he struggled bering the next hour of crying, to hold back an aching cry. He banging on the door, and plead- reminded himself he could cry ing to be taken back. His dad had now—that no one was here, as opened the door, but only to give he was all alone in the dark. But him a final beating. Reality had if he cried, he was giving in. And set in. His life there was over. He he couldn’t bear to do that. It had to pick himself up and move was the only thing keeping him on, no matter how hard it was. from hitting rock bottom. He had no choice in the matter. He was exhausted, but sleep He never wanted to live there did not come easy. Instead, anyway. His dad abused him and thoughts brewed inside his head. spent the rest of the time blast- He was an outcast. The disease ing the Packers game and drink- of society. He felt humiliated just ing Jack Daniel’s whiskey. thinking about it. Maybe it was a good thing He had to be logical—think he was kicked out. His life would things through and get his life 10 have gone nowhere in that hole. worse than ignorance. The sun rose in the sky, and After morning rush ended, the sound of cars hummed in the he stared into his cup, noticing distance. It was morning, which a few quarters, nickels, pennies, meant people running around the and one gold coin. city in their business suits—and He held the shiny gold coin spare change. between his fingers. An arcade He found himself at Wal- coin. It was new, with gold paint greens with his cardboard slab, that would eventually peel, only writing with a permanent marker, to reveal rusted old metal. It ap- his life story condensed into one peared to be a gem amongst the line. Dad kicked me out. Broke. other change—but it was worth- Please help. less. It wasn’t anything special, but He counted his real change, he was never the one to think relieved to find that it had added of something clever to say. He up to a little over one dollar. stopped by McDonald’s and It was just enough for a small picked up a plastic cup, before he chicken sandwich at Wendy’s. He finally made his way out on the truly felt lucky. busiest corner he could find. As days went by, he found People in dark-colored suits himself desperately counting up hurried through the streets, change and clearing the cup once quickly turning into a giant blur. it reached a dollar, unable to Cars honked, and tires screeched wait any longer for food. But his as stragglers hurried to make the cup was never really empty. The crossing signal. arcade coin was always there, “Help me please,” he said sitting at the bottom of the cup, over and over again to the blob glistening like fake jewelry. of walking people. The sound Days grew into weeks and of his own voice was ignored so the throbbing hunger turned into definitely, he wondered if any- a constant ache. On his lucky one had even heard him, or if days he gathered enough change he truly was invisible. Once in a to eat, while other days, he was rare while, someone would drop left starved. Weakness crippled a few coins, still walking quickly, his body. It was like a creature sat almost as if ashamed to have on his back and slowly nibbled helped. The feeling was even away at his flesh. 11 He had applied to count- it was the only thing that reflect- less restaurants, but without ed any form of light. He circled identification, he might as well his index finger around its rigid have thrown out his applica- edge. Holding it in the palm of tion himself. On one particular his hand, he felt safe. He wasn’t gloomy day, he leaned against the sure why. He slipped it into the wall of a building, feeling the hot pocket of his jeans. summer air stick to his face. For The clouds in the sky dark- the past two days he had barely ened, and lightning flashed in the enough change for food.

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