Room 18 Issue 2 (Online)

7/31/2019 Room 18 Issue 2 (Online)

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LETTERS + STROKES

ROOM EIGHTEEN

MILAN AUBREY - MARCUS BROWN - ELLIE COHENBRIDGET DEASE - MAX FRESHOUR - LAURA FUNDERBURK -

LAYLA SHARAF - HELEN STEINECKE


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LAURA FUNDERBURK

SEAT FIVE: MON / TUE

2

Monday: Luane: 6.45 pm : Row Two: Seat Five: Route 70: Destination: Silver Spring

Luane was exhausted and wished she didn't have to rise so early. Or rather,

she wished she didnt have to wake up so early in order to leave the house. She would

snuggled if she had to. Snuggle for a living. She giggled at the thought. Everything onthe other side of the bus window was a blur and her day would be without order until

she soaked up at least one cup of coffee. She thought about the night before, and

when exactly she went to sleep. She had a tendency to fall asleep wherever. At thekitchen table, on the sofa, even on the stairs. It was all in a bid to avoid routine.

Routine, she feared, was the lifestyle of the spinster. She leaned her head on thewindow and a grease stain emerged. She grunted as she felt it, and moved her headaway. She thought about traditional job listings. How they were becoming a thing of

the past. She questioned if those that put the job listings together were losing their

jobs. Give her an out and she would take it, she thought. A severance. Another choiceavailable. In the meantime the early mornings, the five hour energy drinks and the

greasy hair were hers. Now If only she could find

Tuesday: Adam: 7:30 am: Row Two: Seat Five: Route 70: Destination: Silver Spring

his keys. He had left his keys in the house again. Near the door this time. So

close that they could be seen through the letter flap. He picked up his phone, movingaside the blue tie with the white boats away from his lap so that he could see into his

bag. He searched inside, brushing the guy beside him on occasion and following up

with an apology. Yes, he had definitely left them behind again. The number of timesthis had happened was embarrassing. He frowned, rubbed his tie with his fingertips,

and looked at the stupid boats. He thought that a grown man shouldn't be wearing a

tie like this at his age. It seemed like


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Bore: one who has the power of speech but not the capacity for

conversation.-BENJAMIN DISRAELI

LAURA FUNDERBURK -2

LAYLA SHARAF - 4

BRIDGET DEASE - 6

LAURA FUNDERBURK -10

HELEN STEINECKE - 11

MAX FRESHOUR -19

LAURA FUNDERBURK - 22

MARCUS BROWN - 23

MILAN AUBREY - 24

ELLIE COHEN - 26

COVER ART:

AURIELLE CATRON

ROOM EIGHTEEN - ISSUE II

CONTENTS

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5

I dont think I said much to Riley for the first two months of herinvasion but then her and Ren stopped being their usual giggly selves. Ifigured they had a little fight over a boy or something. Riley was never in theapartment anymore. Ren, on the other hand, neverleftthe apartment. It was anextremely awkward combination which I tried to avoid by staying in my room.It worked until Riley started coming into my room and asking questions. Iassumed she was bored but it became irritably frequent. I entertained her until itjust got annoying, then I just kept telling her I was getting dressed. She wasamazingly persistent, and her nature overpowered my resistance. She startedinviting me to places I was already going. I didnt mind the company. At thatpoint I had no idea where Ren was; whether or not she even left the apartment,I wouldnt know. Oddly enough though, this was the first time since the start of

sophomore year that it felt like the usual Friday nights with Ren, but they werewith Riley. Her church girl faade was more like the Catholic schoolgirls I grewup with; drunk sluts with drunk tattoos. Before I knew it Riley was sittingnaked in a room with six frat boys. Ren was standing in line for some movietrilogy, alone. I was sitting next to Riley.


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BRIDGET DEASE

THIS GIRLS LIFE1.

There is a girl who at the age of five receives the biggest shock of her life. She

is in recess, in both spirit and in school. Free of mind and of the classroom,

while inside teachers rearrange both their rooms and their heads; they areoblivious to the real countenance of students, and the faces they share amongst

each other.

A boy approaches the girl. She does not know his name, he rarely evershows up for school. He sits beside her on the bench and looks at her and then

at her shoes, before standing up as if to leave. He asks her why she is so slow

and when she does not respond, he rolls his eyes. And he runs towards theother kids, as if his aim was to rub the trail of his youthful energy in her face as

a tire may kick up dirt behind as a car accelerates. She would be asked this verysame question a number of times at school and will never know how to answer.She will never let up that the question almost always reduces her to tears.

The girl begins to realize the differences between her and the other kids, and

how those differences inform who she is, or rather the lack of what she issupposed to be. A child and what a child means; someone full of energy, full of

joy and curiosity. She cannot articulate these feelings, but from when she was

three, she seemed to have a good understanding of the world, and her place in

it; a skill that others her age did not acquire. She has paid for this talent withher limbs. She is cumbersome, she has never been as active as the kids that sheattended school with; a game of tag leaves her heart verging on the edge of a

cardiac arrest. Most times, she sits down next to the teachers at recess and

avoids activity. Fun is something she has to work at, to work at insuring thatgames of tag do not shudder to a halt whenever she is doing the chasing; as

they almost always invariably did. She can hardly keep up and in the eyes of

the other children she is condemned. She reads their messages clearly. She is

lazy. She is disappointing.

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9

6.Seventh and Eighth grade seems to fly by. The children are required to

wear the schools white and blue uniform so it makes the girl feel a bit

better about her scars. She can wear long sleeves and pants as much as

she pleases without being asked any embarrassing questions. There were

most days where the girl would limp down the hallways. Passersbyswould ask her what was wrong. Shed tell them that it was nothing. She

was not going to use the brown wooden cane for anything, except maybe

to kill hard-to-reach insects. She despises her cane. The arthritis shows

her no mercy, as if the pain is not enough it uses instruments, like the

cane, to add further humiliation. She does not want the cane to be asymbol of all the things she cant do. It was one thing to use it in

elementary school, where ignorant kids didnt know any better than totease and mock. But middle school is a new kind of game for her. The girl

refuses to be ridiculed and humiliated by kids that just wont understand.

7.

There is a young woman who realizes that she is no longer a

disappointment to anyone. Not to her peers, or to her family.

She is more confident in her appearance and wears clothing

that flaunts the healing scars. She is full of energy and joyand actually doesnt mind walking long distances. The young

woman knows that she is not useless. She is cherished. She is

cheerful. She is able.


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10

LAURA FUNDERBURK

SEAT FIVE: WEDS / THURS

Wednesday: Jamie: 1pm: Row Two: Seat Five: Route 70: Destination: Silver spring

the bus was emptying out as it limped forward, shuffling mere yards every

ten minutes or so. Jamies anxiety increased as the time slid by. The traffic wascongested, glued together as it often was during the rush hour. There had been an

accident up the street, car horns sounded incessantly and blood boiled beyond

reason. She wrinkled her nose, it tinged as the stench from the guy beside her waifedtowards us. She turned her face towards the window, resisting the urge to be

blatantly rude and turn her whole body in disgust. She looked out the window and

pretended as though she did not notice the Hispanic guy leering at her. It didn'tmake sense to her why they eyed her like that...she oftentimes wore baggy clothes

and barely had any makeup on, she wasn't wearing anything

Thursday: Frank: 11pm: Row Two: Seat Five: Route 70: Destination Silver Spring.

special. She was special to him. For all the wrong reasons. He wanted her

more and more as the days went on. He had her in his mind, pinned down to a bedwith him on top of her, showing her the man he could be. He had her dancing with

him. He had her on his text messages, constantly blowing up his phone with god

knows what. He had her as a wife, substituting his own. He craved her as he wouldan addiction, knowing she was unattainable, but even more than this, that she was

dangerous. She was a darkness that he had longed for, a smear on his soul, and he

hated


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HELEN STEINECKE (ON DAVID SEDARIS)

SANTALAND DIARIES


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MAX FRESHOUR

SATURDAYS


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LAURA FUNDERBURK

SEAT FIVE: FRI / SAT / SUN

Friday: Ariadne: 4pm: Row Two: Seat Five: Route 70: Destination Silver Spring

listening to that stupid song, Ariadne couldn't get it out of her head. It waseverywhere, like an apparition that had returned to haunt her, as though it soughtretribution for earlier grievances. She rolled her eyes and turned towards the window,

trying to ignore this latest source: the girl sat in front of her. The song was Rebecca

Black'sFriday. Just awful, Ariadne thought. She thought others on the bus shared inher disapproval as they, like her, shuffled uncomfortably. They all heard it, and there

was nothing they could do about it. She hadn't had her own I-pod, there was no

escape from it, she might as well

Saturday: Malaine: 1pm: Row Two: Seat Five: Route 70: Destination Silver Spring

swim in her sorrow, she was drowning in her own self -pity. Her hand was

resting on her son's back. He was slumped over her lap, asleep now after what hadbeen a long morning. She was all he had now. A mother. She started fidgeting with

the coupon in her hand, reminding herself that apple sauce pacified him. She shook

her head, closed her eyes, and tried to shut out the memories that attacked her mind.She didn't want to remember, she wanted to forget. Forgetting would keep her sane.

She opened her eyes and shielded them from the sun, wishing she had picked a

better

Sunday: Dwight: 4:45 p.m: Row Two: Seat Five: Route 70: Destination Silver Spring

seat. Dwight was pressed against the window, annoyed that the large frame

of the girl beside him was threatening to crush him. He shook his head and thenfidgeted in his seat, so as to send a message to her. He paused his I-pod and put it

away for its own safety. The girl reached over him and pulled the yellow wire to

request the next stop. When the vehicle came to a halt she rose and waddled off thebus. Dwight giggled and pulled the wire for the next stop, Silver Spring.


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The contents of the McNeils guest room closet consists of two comforters, threetwo-hundred thread count sheets unopened since the wedding day, an ironing

board, and a twenty-eight year old man with a ski mask. The man sinks into the

darkness of the closet. Both of his legs and his left arm have no feeling, but he darenot move. He has been in the closet for the better part of two hours after the eldest

daughters untimely return from her track meet. His third hour of solitary

confinement was administered by her boyfriends arrival. His name is Judas. Hewears his sisters jeans and drives his moms Corolla. After about an hour of

negotiating, Judas gets to the third base with his girlfriend but the victory is short

lived. The mood is severely impeded by the unexpected arrival of the patriarch ofthe McNeil household. Never before has a pair of size 26, 34 pants moved so fast.

In good time he makes it up the stairs and into the guest room. He hides behind

the door first, but his fear renders him indecisive. He ducks under the bed andeven behind the curtains. The fathers heavy footsteps can be heard climbing the

staircase. Judas is panicking now until he notices the closet. He darts in and

crouches right in front of the man in the ski mask. The father enters the guestroom and Judas instinctively backs up into the intruder. A scream escapes his lips

before the man with the ski mask can cup his hands around Judas mouth. Despite

the daughters pleading, the father goes for the kill and throws the closet dooropen.

MARCUS BROWN

REAL ESTATE


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MILAN AUBREY

I AM NOT WRONG


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ELLIE COHEN

WINDOWThe stool is wobbly and it hurts your back, but you still sit there. You sit

and stare out the grimy window, green from mildew. The air is filled with the

rancid smell of spoiled foods and uncleaned plates. When she was around this

never happened. Shed been gone for two weeks.You wish you didn't know why. Wish you could forget the debt you owe.

You'd much rather blame it on them. Them is anybody, so long as you have

someone to complain about them to. You shut eyes that water all too often andrub a face you sometimes forget is there. Your legs hurt. They hurt real bad.

You cannot reach the medicine cabinet. Not without her help. The braceson your legs don't allow for standing on tippy toes. So you wait. Wait for someoneto feel bad and visit and do all the shit you had others do for you for so long. You

stare at two people on the street. They are yelling. They are angry. It almost

entertains you, makes you smile. You find it interesting, the way in which theybicker. Sudden flashbacks of the family, pre-polio, come to you; days when you

could walk and yell at your loved ones as well as you pleased. Those days had

passed long ago. And now, all you had was the woman. The past tense ofhadsits

with you. She went by the name....what was it? Margaret? Margarita?

It wasnt important. She was there and you hated her. You had laid in bed

and volleyed your spite at her, hurtful words as she prepared your overcookedeggs and burnt toast, the cold, clammy turkey sandwiches that made your

stomach churn, laced with liquid medicine you refused to take like you should.She wasnt good for conversation.

Where was she from....Mexico? Uruguay? Somewhere where they spoke

Spanish. She spoke little English. The only words she knew were pain, hungry,thirsty, help and meds. Bitch from the time she fell asleep on the job and you

threw the coffee mug at her. Stupid since that was generally her name in this

household.

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You notice youve been sitting here awhile, drooling into your own hand. Itspathetic and you know you could be up and out there but you are accustomed to

being babied. At twenty it was your mother caring for you, spoon feeding you food.

At forty your mother gave up on you and you moved from sister to brother tocousins. Nobody wanted you. You wonder if Margarita wanted you, if she cared.

You doubt it. One day you decided to test her boundaries, struggling with her on

the braces clamped tight against your numbing legs. You stood and screamed at heras she cringed under you, and you threw everything that was in sight at her

shuddering body. She didnt understand the nasty words you said, but the language

of anger was one she was accustomed to and understood. She didnt fight back,

didnt do a damn thing. Was it because she cared? Or was she just stupid? God, youhated that woman.

The two people on the street have left and all that remains are a bustle ofblack suits. Business men, always in a hurry. You hate them too. They have

something. They might not have friends or family but there were people like them.

There were about a billion businessmen in the world, all the same, spendingweekends talking about stocks and real estate and all the things people skip over in

the paper. They were detestable, but there were people just like them. You are you.

And you are alone, a grown man who can barely live without the help of a womanwhose name you will never quite remember. You wonder if Margarita was like you,

alone. If she too watched people out the window and felt a burning desire to bethem rather than herself. Did she have a family? Did she have a home away from

the home she worked and slept in? A home like your home, with the pale yellow

wallpaper peeling slowly and the creaking floors and a smell like death? You feel asudden and unwanted sympathy towards her and, even worst, you feel as if there is

enough pity left over for yourself. Awkwardly, you adjust yourself in your seat and

look around your room. Its ghostly quiet without the sound of her voice, sharp andjaunty in her accent. Who did she talk to when she was on the phone? Family? You

havent called your family in decades, but the silence is making you uneasy. You

slowly stand up, walk yourself over to the ivory phone. You grab it, clutching it inyour hand tightly. And you dial. The voice on the other line calms you, reminds you

someone is there. You say nothing and they hang up.


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ROOM 18 ISSUE #2 MAY 2011

Documents

Room 18 Issue 2 (Online)