Volume 1Spring 2014

DisclaimerNo personal preferences were taken into account in the selection of materi-al for publication in this magazine. Each staff member reviewed and ranked pieces individually using a scale system of one to five (1-5). These rankings were then reviewed by the group at large and the pieces that received the highest rankings overall were the ones chosen for pub-lication as space allowed. This method was also applied to all artwork submitted.

Font Arts and Literature Magazine #1, Spring 2014. Copyright 2014 Font Art and Literature. All artwork and literature contained in this publication are copyright 2014 to their respective creators. The opinions and ideas expressed within are those of the respective authors and artists and do not necessarily reflect those of the editors, Hofstra University administrators, or the Hofstra community. Department of English, Mason Hall, Hofstra University, Hemp-stead, NY, 11549 -hofenglishsociety@gmail.com- Any similarties to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. None of the contents of this publication may be reprinted without the permission of the individual authors or artists.

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The fonts in this magazine include:Garamond

Albertsthal Typewriter

A Production of the Hofstra English Society

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EDITOR-IN-CHIEFElly Weinstock

MANAGING EDITORAlie Coolidge

PRODUCTION EDITOR Alex Demarest

TEXT EDITOR Gillie Houston

ART EDITOR Melissa Rostek

ASSISTANT EDITORJaipreet Ghuman

SPECIAL THANKSEric BroggerCraig Rustici

Scott HarshbargerHofstra University English Department

Hofstra Print Center

GENERAL STAFFJacqueline HsuNicole SpencerBryanna Zerella

Nora KiridlyHayley BetzToby Jaffe

Melanie Rainone

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TABLE OFWriting

Solaris by Nelly Nickerson 6Until I Belong to the Wind by Victoria Lauren Cocolaras 8 Departure by Batson X. Li 10Alex by Louis St. Pierre 12Slant by Alice Gunther 16Floaters by Victoria Snak 17Get Up by Breshay Wigglesworth 18Dandelion by Julia McGuire 20Amnesia by Mike Cicchetti 22Bartley by Mariel Vazquez 24Bottles and Smoke by G.A. Demarest 26Give Me Life by Brian Stieglitz 27What If by Candace Brown 28Birthright by Gillie Houston 30Above the Soil by Devon Preston 31Zombies: A True Story by Julie Pate 32Alvida by Jaipreet Ghuman 35The Bull Curve by Nora Kiridly 36A Mournful Pair by A.M. Graham 38Melancholy by Victoria Lauren Cocolaras 40Saccharine Pt. 15 by Breshay Wigglesworth 41Creation of the Cynic by Zach Johnson 42Gone by Elly Weinstock 44Colorblind by Victoria Snak 46No Such Thing as One True Love by G.A. Demarest 47

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CONTENTS

Artwork

Photo by Nora Kiridly 7Overcome Fear by Erica Genece 11Nostalgia by Ebube Ezeh 16A Little Party Never Killed Nobody by Jenn Smulo 19Photo by Lauren Webb 23Photo by Ebube Ezeh 26Photo by Lauren Webb 29Photo by Jenn Smulo 30Photo by Julie Pate 34Keyla by Kay Hopkins 35Photo by Nora Kiridly 40Money Shot [MAC Cosmetics] by Alvia Urdaneta 43Photo by Ricky Michiels 45Photo by Emily Davidson 46Deep Sea by Kay Hopkins 50Photo by Nora Kiridly 52Photo by Lauren Webb 56Photo by Ricky Michiels 57

Changeling Lullaby by Lucia Palazzo 51Remember When by Elly Weinstock 52The Virgin Promise by A.M. Graham 53When I’m Twenty-Seven by Anonymous 54Alone by Anthony Shore 56Beautiful Strangers by Michael Riscica 57

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In a cyberpunk dusty worldWith a snake for a shadowAnd a fang for a feelingThings implode in a clusterOf doomed plastic stardustWhere one’s heart and mindFreeze like an inkblot moment In a blind, airless space. The cosmos in blood On a metal coke canIn the realms of Blue lit parking garagesWhere steel silver corridorsHear electric singingBehind caution tape and leadAnd deep, copper ringing earsSurge and tear and ripSomething alien rises Beneath concrete and diamondHissing and spinning And knowing and whiningAs the neon lights see smoke

SolarisNelly Nickerson

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Photo by Nora Kiridly

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Until I Belong to the Wind

Shivering in a naked arm chairnothing but me, the pen,and the paper. The mahogany tip,steady in my hand, hovers over the slightly yellowed paper as I find my words arecarried awayby the wind. My focus shifts to the intricate designof the pen,rotating in my handlike a motor. The precision is nearly impossibleto have been crafted by any humanand the harsh truth hits me.The originality it once held is gone;I toss it asideand reach for the uncapped marker,almost too big for my fingers. The child in meglides it over the parchment that is his bodyand the words flow effortlessly.

Victoria Lauren Cocolaras

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I step backwards,frame my fingers,and my gaze is drawn to the calligraphy that now covers his skin.Something about it pierces me, holds me rooted,my hands still held up to my face. He moves now, puts on his jacket, and touches the side of my cheekas the ink runs down my lips until his name is written across them. They soften and I feel myself start to relax but my leather bound bookis nearly halfway out the window.One more blink to remove the fog and he’s gone, taking my story with him; I never even read the ending.

The confusion of the day ceases and the music in the breeze stimulates every sense until I belong to the wind. The night air overtakes me and I stand there, unable to move.I should have never leftthe windowopen.

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Departure

A whole new world awaits an adventure and ignites My burning passion for an imminent departure.

In your watery eyes I will never return, yet I promiseThis is the death of my presence,

Not the death of me.And I will still make you smile, when you read

The memoir, my stories are written well.

Before I depart this old world,I have to make our memories anew.

I lay on the middle of your old cozy bed and you Say you see the baby who used to sleep

Between you and grandma.Then I hold your left hand like you held mine,

And climb the favorite bridge from my childhood In the same path you led me.

On the final day, I enjoy that delicious noodle soupYou made on my thirteenth birthday morning

As my last breakfast. I promise my second departure will be for you,

Before I board and fly across the sea.

Batson X. Li

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After I depart for the new world,I will tell you my enthusiastic lone journey.

If you receive my smile, and before it vanishes From too much light exposure, you will frame it

And put it on the old book shelf. When you hear my voice after lunch, you will

Carefully listen to me talking, kiss grandma for meAnd that will make your day.

You will not only see me in your daily dreams,I will be with you all the time when you close

Your eyes and think of me.I am never too far from you, even on a journey.A big success will sooner bring me back to you.

You will know my second departure.You will see the worth of adventure. When two metal wings hum across

The sky and the memory fog disperses In front of your eyes,

Behold the return of a glorious colorTo your life’s beautiful sunset.

Overcome Fear by Erica Genece

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AlexLouis St. Pierre

Alex walked back into the office with two guards and the rag-ged man. He turned around, eyeing up the man from head to toe. The clothes he wore were stained with oil and blood and his shoes were nearly falling apart. His hair was long, matted, and oily, covering his face in tangled auburn strands. To say he had a beard would be in-correct; a beard, he thought, would have at least some semblance of grooming or order. What he could see of the man’s face was almost completely darkened with soot, and he could see that the man’s lack of cleanliness had led to a breakout of acne. The few patches of skin not blackened by dirt or reddened with acne were sickly pale. The man, in fact, had two bouts of coughing on the way to the office from the café. What could Ms. Avery possibly want with this wretch? He watched the man as one of the guards did some quick blood work and checked the man for ticks and fleas. The man, at least, was cooperative, and did as the guards asked him without saying a word. Finally, Alex got the ‘all clear’ from the guards. “That will be all gentlemen,” he said to them, and they left without saying another word.

The man looked at him carefully and pensively. Alex stared back, studying him. Sudden-ly, the man broke his silence. “I’d appreciate it if you stopped staring at me like I’m some sort of new car,” he said in a dark but clear tone. “New? I’d hardly call it new. If you were a car, I’d proba-bly recommend a new paintjob, a new transmission, a new engine block… in fact, I’d probably scrap you and just buy a different car,” he said without thinking. For what seemed like for-ever, the man just stared at him, his eyes now alive and full of rage. The man did not move and did not speak for several minutes, choos-ing instead just to stare at Alex, who was becoming more and more uncomfortable. Finally, Alex broke the silence. “I have been instructed to test you, to make sure that you are everything Ms. Avery thinks you are. She doesn’t want to think she wasted her money, so I recommend cooperating,” he growled. “Do you look at everyone like that? Seeing only what value you can understand? Human life is worth more than can be calcu-lated in profits. I’d hoped some-

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one young and intelligent like you would be above that sort of thing, that you’d realize that there’s more to life than just the dollar bill. Of course, it’s easy to see why you would only understand the value of the world in terms of the dollar,” he said, staring deep into Alex’s eyes. “If you see the world the way she wants you to see it, you give her all the power. If you see only money, then those who have the money will own you. You think I am the slave because my wrists are bound, yet I am not the only one.” Once again, silence filled the room. For once, Alex had noth-ing he could say in response. Never had someone been so quick, brutal, and effective in confronting him. Not even the words had gotten to him. It was something about this man that he couldn’t define that was so incredibly terrifying and yet, he concluded that the man’s issue wasn’t so much with him as with the world he lived in. He sat down on the desk behind him, quietly thinking to himself. Is this really who I’ve become? Surely there’s more to life than just money. There has to be more than that. He tried, but couldn’t bring himself to look the man in the eye. “I, of course, would like to thank you for that brief, albeit thorough medical exam. It’s been a while since anyone’s checked to

see if I’m still breathing” said the man. Somehow Alex knew he was still under the man’s cold, pensive glare. “It feels nice to know that someone cares, even if they only care about the money I can make them.” Alex looked up at the man. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…” He stopped, unsure of how exactly he could put into words what hap-pened. I violated him. He’s a hu-man being and even for a brief mo-ment, I treated him like he wasn’t. He felt sick to his stomach. This has been the way of his life, treated as a sub-human tool. I will not do the same. I am better than that. He looked again across the room and asked the man his name. Something in the man’s ex-pression changed. It was like a part of him was visibly relieved that someone was finally making the effort to treat him as an equal. An-other part was equally disturbed. “My call-sign is Camulos”, he stat-ed plainly. “No. What is your name? What do you want me to call you?” he asked. “The last name I had was the name given to me by an abu-sive drunkard. It brought me no joy… only shame. He wasn’t even my father, but hell, I don’t know who my real father is. Whoever he is, I don’t think he’s alive, so I’ll

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likely never really know what my name is anyway.” Alex stared at him, puzzled by the brief narrative. “For record’s sake, my cur-rent name will be Camulos. It is the only name that has ever given me any sort of pride in myself,” the man retorted. “Camulos it is then,” Alex replied. “Good.” “You really want me to call you Camulos?” he asked. Wait, what am I doing? “Hmm. No. Call me Rollo, I guess, if you don’t want to call me Camulos.” “Why Rollo?” he asked. I should quit now while I’m margin-ally ahead. “Rollo was the name of the first Duke of Normandy. His grand-son was William the Conqueror. His name has power, and yet it is so uncommon that it still holds some value to it. If I’m no longer a slave, then I want to have the name of a strong Viking lord.” “Oh. That makes sense,” Alex replied, still mildly perplexed. What a strange person. “Yes. And since I’m not a slave, I won’t need these any-more,” he responded coolly as he dropped his shackles on the floor. Alex looked down at the cuffs, then back to Rollo’s eyes.

“How did you…?” “I didn’t like them. They were unpleasant, so I took them off.” “But how?” he asked. “By removing them. I have certain skills. See, even in the American scheme of valuing things and people, I’m fairly valuable, de-spite having been a slave these past five years. Why else would Ms. Avery have spent around three mil-lion just finding me, then an extra thirteen million on my purchase and shipping? You could argue that most of the thirteen million went to the plane, but its net worth is only six million. Then, factoring in my new salary—as slavery is illegal here and I will not be working for free—you can add at least an ad-ditional three million over the next year or two. To her, I’m worth at least 19 million dollars. But that doesn’t even begin to stack up against my intrinsic value or my talents.” “What?” Alex asked. “I mean, I get what you’re saying, but how does that answer the ques-tion?” Rollo looked at him pen-sively for a moment, then replied, “I don’t think it really does. I guess I just hadn’t finished my rant from earlier. I used the paper clip I grabbed from the café. The one that held my paperwork together.”

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“Ah. Ok.” “Do you know where I can find a shower, and maybe a razor? It’s been a while, and as you could imagine, I’d like to clean up a bit.” “Sure, but I think Ms. Av-ery would prefer I get some of these tests out of the way first…” Again. Why must I speak before thinking? “I’m sure they can wait. I’m also a bit hungry. They brought me to a café to be purchased and didn’t even get me a biscuit.” “Ok, but only because you’re supposedly valuable. If Ms. Avery says anything…” “If she has a problem with good hygiene then she can shove off and eat shit. But yes, if she asks why it’s taken so long to get them done, I’ll tell her how I had a long list of unreasonable demands and how I refused to do anything until they were met.” He looked at Alex, then down to the folder on the desk. “What are the tests, anyway? What exactly did she have in mind when she bought me?” Alex picked up the folder and looked through it. It was full of maps, schematics, equations, long essays and journal entries. None of it seemed to fit within any sort of basic field. “I don’t know. It’s sort of all over the place. I don’t know what she wants you to do here.” Rollo looked at him for a

moment, looking like he was wait-ing for a serious response. When he concluded that Alex was telling the truth, he rolled his eyes. “Joy” he replied “There’s a private bath-room back there,” he said, pointing to the corner with the bookcase. “The bookcase is a hidden door. I don’t know why, but for some rea-son my predecessor was paranoid about people knowing he had a pri-vate bathroom. Just give it a push and it should swing open. There should be everything in there. I’ll call someone and have them deliv-er some fresh clothes.” Rollo walked over to the other end of the room and opened the bookcase-door. He turned around and faced Alex. “Thanks” he said, with a look of sincerity that Alex hadn’t expected. Then he walked through the doorway, pull-ing the bookcase shut behind him. This will be interesting. It’s not ev-ery day you meet a person like that.

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an italic’s just a letterleaning backupon its elbowsfastened tothe floor withvelcroes

SlantAlice Gunther

Nostalgia by Ebube Ezeh

I noticed the other dayyou stopped floating.Maybe it was the lifeboat holes that drownso many souls in diluted dreams,or maybe you found the air too thinand forgot what reallyfeeds our lungsbut either wayyou sank.Pouring out pockets to pay meant you fell to the pavement andif I was to be a virtuoso in anything,it would be playing with gravity’s hold.I would turn the world upside-downso you and I were always,always falling.I would never have to be toldyou were indifferent to heightsas we’d drop forever into sky.It’s a funny thing,so many people these daysfind that fatal.

FloatersVictoria Snak

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Get UpBreshay Wigglesworth

Ask her about North Hollywood. She’ll feign to tell you.

She’d rather drone on of drumsticks

And glitter, Led Zeppelin, lace and lightning.

Open palms offer callus, not pruned cuticle.

Ring finger unchained, she can kill even

The Killer Whale, french the L I double R conductor

for a ride across the water.

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Dock nicely in the Caribbean,

slurp and swallow maple from bark of palm trees

and chase it down with Sunoco fuel.

She does those voodoo warrior witchy things

while sinking deeper into the faux leather couch,

watching network TV, imagining

being better

than she is now.

A Little Party Never Killed Nobody by Jenn Smulo

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DandelionJulia McGuire

Reaching out to me,your old, withered hand

limp.But I saw it as strong.

I see no pain on your face.

I see

a golden dandelion,carefully created

by your gentle brush strokes.

Voices,rushing all around,

like petals of flowers on the high wind.

Do you hear my cries or any sound?

You gave me my voice.Please hear me.

I watcha dandelion bloom

from your paint and your brush

Bloom from the canvas of earth beneath.It blossomed, but how did it grow?

I look in your eyes,What color are they?

I hold your handand whisper, “please don’t let go.”

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The dandelion,so stunning,

was beginning to wilt,and slowly was dying.

I see the pain on your face.

It came from your hands,Your sturdy, stable hands,

and grew,a vine reaching for me.

Your eyes must have been bright,the dandelion is.

You must have been strong,the dandelion is.

You must be lost,the dandelion is.

And I see you reaching out to me,dandelion in hand.

I remember the dandelion,and with my gentle brush strokes,

it grows.

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AmnesiaMike Cicchetti

I remember when she heard the news that her Papi had passed.Her mouth curled and dried up like old prunes.Her ears turned a bright red, as bright as skin could turn.the bags under her eyes matched the height of her cheekbones.She didn’t fall apart. Only teary-eyed and sniffling she sobbed.And I wrapped my arms around herLike her little boy used to do when he was home once in a while.

I remember when he heard that his brother was gone.We were supposed to go to work that day.I sat on the couch in an empty houseUntil they all came up from the basement.He belted his weeping, strange for his statureand he fell apart in his hands,the pieces too fragile to put backand too many to sort out quick enough.And I stayed petrified, unsure of what to doLike I always had at that age.

I remember when she died.I couldn’t feel a thing, any signof remorse or reliefand how could Iwhen all there had been leftwas now turned as if it didn’t exist?So I brokeand I carried myself home,losing all but a few pieces.And I haven’t felt anything compellingLike the one time things were ok.Ok. Nothing ever is.

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Photo by Lauren Webb

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BartleyMariel Vazquez

He sauntered down the steps, champagne glass in hand. As he brought the bubbly gold liquid to his lips, a satisfied smile broke out across his face and he cocked one eyebrow. Bartley you dignified, glorified fool. You’ve done it yet again, he thought. Pompousness and sarcastic self-criticism were his best known character traits, yet here he was – hosting one of the most populated parties of the year. Bartley allowed one light blue eye to rove over his extensive tract of backyard. If I die tomorrow, I shall be the most admired bachelor in New York.

Fingering the empty china, he descended the remaining stone steps and approached the table nearest the edge of the gravel walk-way. There sat a woman in a light pink silk gown thoughtfully sipping wine. Bartley extended his hand for her to shake, but she would not acknowledge him. He waited a few seconds before waving a hand in her face, and still, nothing. He was taken aback by her effrontery and watched her plum colored lips slow-

ly sip her wine, methodically, me-chanically. Shaking off his sudden feeling of embarrassment, Bartley coughed and threw back his head, listening to the clink of glasses, the music of a falsetto violin, and the chatter and sounds of amusement escaping the guests. All their noise and burps of approval boosted his ego to an infinite degree, which is why he could not fathom this wom-an’s indecency. Maybe another… more agreeable guest.

Leaving the woman in the silk gown, he indignantly walked up to a tall, broad-shouldered man in a business suit, the gravel crunching under his fine leather shoes. The man was chatting with an older woman of high distinction in the upper class. She was growing gray and Bartley could not imagine her conversation containing any sub-stance worthy of comparison to a conversation with him.

“Excuse me my fine man,” Bartley interrupted with an air of self-righteousness. He tapped the tall man on the shoulder and was again met by stony silence. By now

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Bartley was verging on furious as he walked around to face the business-man. He looked him straight in the face… and received no recognition for his efforts. Stunned beyond comprehension, Bartley quickly became infuriated by the man’s negligence.

Just then a tall, slender figure in a floral sundress came skipping across the grass toward him. Her auburn hair and bright smile made him grin with antici-pation and delight. Finally, some-one with sense. Who made up the guest list anyway? However, as she approached, Bartley realized that her gaze was directed over his shoulder. She sailed right by him in a wave of ignorance of the little man she’d disappointed. Bartley lost it: “What is the matter with every-one?! Have I no distinction? Am I to be overlooked like some low life!” he shouted aloud. Deciding to display an outward semblance of calm so as to encourage those of his sensible guests to think that not even the most paramount of in-sults could harm his dignity, Bartley

disposed of the champagne glass, thrust his hands in his pockets, and jauntily continued down the gravel path to the end of the yard. Bask-ing in the mid-afternoon sun and his glory, Bartley again lifted his head to the sky to await the curious guest whom he was positive would inquire after his thoughtful, medita-tive manner.

But no one came. Bartley received no tap on the shoulder, no “why hello there,” no praise for the magnificence of his grand estate. He was left to his thoughts and quietly stood astounded at society’s callowness nowadays. His anger receding to defeated puzzlement, he jerked his head to the right in order to catch a glimpse of the gathering in his peripheral. But nothing met his vision save the looming figure of a Tudor mansion in the distance. He turned around fully, slowly, with a dawning expression of wonder. Nothing covered the vast expanse of his finely landscaped yard, but grass.

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Bottles and SmokeG.A. Demarest

It strikes quarter past a nickelTime didn’t pass we just lost it for a whileBottles and smoke, fog and glass

All the friends sitting togetherTalking with each other but not to each otherBottles and smoke, words and gestures

Everyone dressed in dress for the occasionEach person looking at the other but not seeing themBottles and smoke, sight and cloth

The head of the girl I adore asleep on the lap of the brother I loveEvery person seeing, hearing, and patient but me not understandingBottles and smoke, passion and hands

We go through the paces each timeEach time is still like newBottles and smoke, smoke and bottles Photo by Ebube Ezeh

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Give Me LifeBrian Stieglitz

I want to be batteredI want to be tossed, I want to be thrown, I want to be vigorously ravagedI want to relinquish all my control and mortal interference to the world around meWith the ease of the stoics I want to donate my mind and body to natureI want it to tear down my walls, I want my city to crumbleAnd up from the ashes will come oblivionAnd while the waves crash against me, and while the wind shatters my facade And while the rain dances into my soul, and while the sun singes my fleshAnd while the Earth ravishes my being… I want to smile I want to laugh, I want to shriek, I want to be loud enough for my people to hear me And follow me And in this scared hell, and in this tainted heaven I want to be awakenAwaken by the bestial patterns and animalistic havoc that was created by design Shaking me with dread and fear until— at once— this encompassing force dissolvesAnd is blended with, and gradually replaced by, exuberanceExuberance and the reassurance that my mind and body are in the Earth’s handsUntil I reach a treaty between contentment and adrenaline Because I know that I am truly and completely alive.

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What IfCandace Brown

In between is a hard place to be

Not necessarily between a rock and a hard place

But between what you’ve done and what you’ve yet to face

What is done and what is yet to be

Who you are now and whom the future will see

In between the build-up and the legacy

Leaving the familiar for the unknown

The immature for the full-grown

Dependency for life on your own

For the most part anyway, and that’s enough to me

To taunt and tease with ‘what ifs’ and ‘we’ll sees’

What if I don’t make it?

What if I don’t succeed?

What if I haven’t learned everything I’ll need?

We’ll see how you do.

We’ll see what happens next.

We’ll see how quickly this world leaves you vexed.

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Confused by how fast everything around me moves

Wondering when the hell did I step into these ‘big girl shoes’

Am I really in charge of my life from here on?

It’s that thought that I tend to dwell upon.

I decide whom I’ll turn out to be.

What if I don’t make it?

I guess, we’ll see.

Photo by Lauren Webb

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BirthrightGillie Houston

I, being born a woman and distressedwas born with fire in me, my birthright

flickering through the others, too, born pink,not blue, born with hips and milk and thunder,

born to live red: blind, bold, real reckless redbehind my eyelids, born a marriage offirefly wing and dusk, born exploding

into that deepest, spilt-ink, star-borne sky.I was born to grow, to find, to need, to

live as sea foam—temporary. I was bornfor this, paper in my fists, born to write

this down. Harbor these words I was born withno more. I will shout them. Born with freshly found

vocal chords, born an accordion’s sound.

Photo byJenn Smulo

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Above the SoilDevon Preston

Her body bends into mine,Whisper-thin limbs folded up against the wall,Shivers trickle, water down the panes of a windshield.‘Are you cold?’ The answer is never acknowledged.Looking into her eyes,I no longer feel the sun on my back,Our laughter echoing off the walls,Fingers intertwined as we run blindly through the street.I can feel the cold emanating through a crack in the window,Her bones no longer fit against me, they stab into my side.‘What happened to you?’ I want to ask.Why is it that now,When ever I touch you,I’m afraid you’ll break away, clumps of dry sand in my fist.When ever I tell you I love you,I know those eight letters will fade and disperse in the air.“What happened to us?’ The thought froths over the brim.You were my sweet inhale in the morning,Now a heaving exhale.As I drag your carcass,Across the remnants of life together,Smearing our blood on the pale white walls, Of the life we built as one.The shovel is heavier than you now.As I sink its metal mouth into the ravenous earth,The ground eats up your body,Dirt washing over purple fingers and blue lips.The girl I loved and would have died for,Someone who can’t speak above the soil.

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Zombies: A True StoryJulie Pate

Zombies in the horror movies don’t scare me, not any-more. Peeling flesh, snarling growl, lips painted bright red with human blood? Too fake to believe. I’ve seen the real thing. I have seen both my brothers, tak-en from me violently, turned into a nightmare. Jeremy was gone first, and because of him, Brendan too. I’m talking genuine, hon-est-to-goodness zombies. Empty bodies with blank eyes. They went in different ways, one scarier than the next. Neither was in front of me when it happened. That’s how it works in the movies though, isn’t it? The audience sees the virus get loose, or the first infectious bite, but the characters are unsuspect-ing. They have no idea that life as they know it is about to end, that the world is about to be taken from them. There they are, on a Wednes-day morning, just checking their phone or watching the news, when the first indication that something is bizarrely, horribly, irreparably wrong comes to them. I got the news about Jeremy in the form of sixteen missed calls and one four word text. It compelled me home, shocked and disbelieving

and broken at the news. Then at the train station, an-other horrifying surprise. Waiting for me in the car, dressed in my brother Brendan’s clothing, was a zombie. For both, I had absolutely no warn-ing. For both, I had absolutely no idea how to react, or what to do. I think I reacted like most big sis-ters would. Then again, who really knows until it happens to them. I cried. I cried to the point of physi-cal exhaustion. On the ride home from the train station, I saw the change in Brendan before my own eyes. Not the actual transformation, which had occurred hours before, but that was when I began to notice the dif-ferences in him from the boy I used to know. My wired, goofy, active lit-tle brother was now a statue of si-lence and shrugs. “Who are you,” I wanted to whisper. “I’m so scared.” We drove home, down the streets I could once walk through safely with closed eyes. I saw the grief in my parents and my little sis-ter as I walked into the living room, pain etched in their faces. Brendan was wordless as he staggered away. I didn’t see Jeremy’s lifeless body un-til a few days later. We were all together, the hu-

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mans and the zombie in the same space. Even with everyone dressed in black, it was still so obvious that we were alive and he was now the walking dead—his heart, his hu-manity, his soul ripped out from his body. He stood with us, even though I knew with certainty that he would give anything to simply no longer exist. What he would give to oblit-erate this disease, cursed to joylessly wander through a half-life until the day he dropped, his broken body finally joining his long-ago broken heart. As we slowly shuffled our way inside, I felt the fear growing inside me at the thought of seeing Jeremy for what I knew would be the last time. I saw Brendan, further up in line, and I still could not, still cannot, believe such a fate would be-fall not one but two of my brothers. That my family, my town, my com-munity, was devastated by this trage-dy. Now I am in the room. Now I am twenty feet away. Now I am ten. Now I am embracing his bi-ological family, choking out whispers of condolences and shared grief. Now I am meeting his “real” mother for the very first time, anger burning within me, wondering why it couldn’t have been her and not him. She, who so carelessly disregarded life, who rejected love, rejected him,

she deserved a fate this awful. How is it fair that this deadbeat woman is still alive while my brothers are not? How dare she stand here, so close, but eighteen years too late? I turn away from her. Now I am five feet away.Now I am staring into his open cof-fin, looking at a frozen face that is no longer his. If I turn around, I would see it reflected, so identical it was as if he were Brendan’s mirror. How could it come to this? My little brothers. The two insepa-rable boys. As a big sister, you give and you give. You make brownies and buttery grilled cheese, cut di-agonally. You tuck them in at night and wrap the blankets tight before you kiss them, so they can squirm and groan but can’t wipe it off. You watch them dig a hole to China in the backyard and attempt to be skateboarding gods. You tease them about their first kiss and their first hangover. Who would believe these now wordless, motionless boys once lived so fully? Up at six in the morn-ing, watching Saturday cartoons in their onesies, then out all day, long after sunset, playing football and skating and tying the shoelaces of their tattered shoes and throwing them to dangle in the sky. But for everything you give, you get something back. You learn how to be patient, how to love un-

conditionally. How to put a band-aid on and how to take it off without ripping out half their baby body hair. You get in screaming fights until your throat burns over whose turn it is to empty the dishwasher. For them, you listen to hours of rap and hip-hop, you write essays on books you haven’t read in years, you do math problems without a calcula-tor. I know it sounds like a life-time of memories, but it was only a childhood. Looking at these lifeless bodies now is a cruel, painful re-minder of all the moments we will never have together, moments that have been stolen from my family’s future. Instead of walking proudly across stage, there will be a gap in the names read at high school grad-uation. Instead of pounding down

the stairs and bringing in the mashed potatoes from the kitchen, there will be an empty place at the dinner ta-ble. The far-off plans to be each other’s best man on wedding days, godfathers to each other’s children, are now dreams that will go unreal-ized. I step away from the coffin. I go back to my brother who still breathes. He can’t speak or make eye contact or touch me, but he still breathes. But what is breath without life? In the movies, some scien-tist has a cure, or the government bombs the world apart trying to save it. Looking down at him, sitting so, so still, I know there is no cure. There is no miraculous drug that can change this. I know that my brothers are gone.

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Photo byJulie Pate

Photo byJulie Pate

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AlvidaJaipreet Ghuman

Punjabi Bagh was damp with countless tearsand the sky turned a murderous grayas the doctor confirmed the mother’s worst fears.The crematory mob had nothing to say. She plummeted to the bitter land, not knowing the gods could be so heartless. Across the body lay a solitary hand.Frozen, she grieved to a heaven so godless.No respite was the unwed woman to find. The scarlet letter, brighter than ever did shine.Never would it have happened in her right mind.The town square clock meekly wailed the time. The crowd cleared out till no one was left behind, save the mourning woman and her only child.

Keyla by Kay Hopkins

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The Bell CurveNora Kiridly

1(Begin)Awkward hands, swollen tongues, built up fearsLearning the landscape of anotherEyes trailing,Ears imagine,the song of guilty pleasure your birds whisper in the rise of morningYour smell- cinnamon, sweetI’m hit and won’t exhaleYour voice like water, waves pulling downYour terrain clean of my mark,Guessing the intricate patterns of your footprintsin my freshly fallen snow.

2(Enamor)Winter streamed through memories in and out of youWrapping our limbs to lock out coldIt felt like simplicity.Time, we spent looking at each otherTime, felt like no time, to lose, to gain.

Life paused often and carelessly,satisfying our need for movement through each others wordsAt night; we memorized the lines on skin, In morning; we slept through drape distorted sunrises, woke up dreaming.

Learned the other like the backs of our hands.

We merged the days.

3(Slip)Unrecognizable. Logic lost where thoughts and sounds, twist and combine to form tornadosI wanted to evoke your body-bound soul, sip it out, drink down your barriers

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With a heavy brain your sanity pounded at your skull,something begged to be heard

I watched it swimming to your fingertips, crawling onto your tongueNeck aching with burdenEyes slipping in and out, opening to scramble the clocks on the wallsYour years began to feel like minutes, days like monthsYou rewound your life, over, over, overI watched youreel out film, light scalding what it heldleft to compromised chemicals.

4(Deny)Jog.Pick up the pace.Feet in tune with mind, hitting the pavementstep-by-stepA hint of a dress, a familiar scentYou know what you’re chasing,Crave it, following the chanceYouThe fleeting dress.Farther, step-by-step.

Climbing ladders, jumping gates, unfamiliar tracksSunset failing to light the way.

Sprint. Hit a wall. All turns dark.

5(End)Icarus, flying too close to the sun,to feel the strongest fire, before completely melting.

How we yearned for it All,fighting against flame singed wingsHow we burned,How we fell.

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Two by two they pass the trees

Alongside lover’s lane;

Without the fear of an empty chase

Their hands do easily share.

Passing kisses with different grins

Their joy aglow both out and in

Forgotten of this pain,

Black and white they rightly embrace

With warmth of skin and fairness of hair.

These fingers find their partner too

They lock and greet and gaily pursue

This love they think they always knew

They mold it quite the same;

But while to truth they hide their face,

To lies they eagerly stare.

The others see naiveté here

And though they scare, they easily fear

That madness spreads with each fresh tear

That both these eyes give this fresh year

In light of my foolish claim;

They laugh in a blinding race

Without the slightest of care.

A Mournful PairA.M. Graham

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But just as now and as before

My fingers black but white of core

They seek the like and nothing more—

They seek the waters of the shore—

This hate my hands have worked to store

That took my will and left me for

The closing of that mournful door

Put at my back with naught in fore

Has crushed my heart with white I wore—

Has gored my sense of common lore—

And forced my turn from man to boor

And left me pensive deep in your

Extensive web while I abhor

That look that shows that you adore

His everything, that shows that you’re

His everything.

Finally the truth they see;

My fingers curl with shame.

Chagrined, yet doleful, for in my case

Between them lies the air.

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MelancholyVictoria Lauren Cocolaras

If hearts were composed of plexiglass fibers, rather than the uncertain notes of a pianist’s mind,then the night would serenade us.But the harvest moon awakens shadows that mock the unspoken desires of our dreams, and so, we suffer on in the silence.

Photo by Nora Kiridly

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I look at that picture and shut my eyes like prison gates. I imagine how good it must feel to be engrossed, enraptured in your arms.

I feel your heart beat on my back. I taste “saccharine” and you aren’t even on my lips; it’s the pheromones in the air, the lust of life on your sleeves,

the rim of your fitted cap turned backwards as not to hit my doughy fore-head when you lean into my face.

If you want my kiss you take it. On my cheeks, eyelids, chin, and ears lie invisibly inked notes. Each one reads your name. I’m not accustomed to

rounded doe eyes asking for my pucker. Please do, steal it.

Your pecks on my neckline are lethal unless you remember to turn you hat; reasons why I never wear mine, you’ve always got yours on.

I’m remembering that I don’t have the real thing, just this picture. I’m looking at the digital amalgamation of pixels, colors, rivulets of light and

shade. I’m staring into media and my mind is turning tricks, my heart catching each one quicker than fire on the end of a match.

Saccharine Pt. 15

Breshay Wigglesworth

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Creation of the CynicZach Johnson

A silent bluffTo kill the moodTo stop the billow-hiss and teary-crowAn ode of quiet stills and bloody spillsOf frothing poison overflowThe stake that makes it to the heartAnd cuts the lover’s beating dreamOf streams of beams of vibrant sunsWe close our mouthWe sew it shutThese lips won’t move to tell this taleOur stories now are all dried upAnd silence reigns in soft regimesWhile no one sees and no one hearsThe quiet death of plotted wordsLong written schemes to catch the eyeOh, the ways that lovers die!Forceful flights to quick-locked doorsAnd sorrow systems shutting downThe knife that bleeds the bargain heartsThat live inside of fantasiesTo withdraw ourself from wistful wordsWe close our mouthWe sew it shutWe clamp our heartWe call its bluffThe final death of longing looksAnd mapped-out moves to catch the eyeOh, the ways that lovers die!

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Money Shot [MAC Cosmetics] by Alvia Urdaneta

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GoneElly Weinstock

“Some people, most people actually, they die before they die. And the death of the mind and soul is so much grander than the death of the body,” my Religion professor says as he stands at the chalkboard. I think about death a lot in this class.

My father has been gone long before he will be gone: you can list the things that are wrong with someone, that you can put as symptoms on a solution called Zoloft or Xanax but you can’t put a prescription on a pill bottle for the heaviness of existence, i.e. sadness of never having been in love, sadness of your only daughter moving 3,000 miles away from you for college, sad-ness of insomnia, sadness of never staying in one place, sadness of being stuck in the mind.

He has known so many kinds of irreversible solace, an isolation of the soul that keeps him at an arm’s distance from everyone even if they hold him. And I know my father died the day he turned 18 and they drafted him for the navy, I know he grew depressed as he saw friends shipped off to leave this life daily, I know he has spent his whole life with every person he never said goodbye to crushing his chest and occupying his mind. I know his spirit is constantly being ground as if he is already cremated, I know there is nothing left for him here.

In some ways, how my father’s body collapses and finally gives into death doesn’t even matter but it scares me more than anything else I can think of, including my own demise from this world, and I can’t bear to see the rest of him go the way he first started fading when I turned five—suddenly, without warning, like an avalanche of snowflakes during a winter storm, it all starts out beautifully but ends up messy and hard to shovel through, and parts of him flicker in and out of existence, but when his arms give and his eyes close, the remainder of him is—

well, there’s no good synonym for what the word “gone” means, there’s nothing good about gone at all.

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Photo by Ricky Michiels

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ColorblindVictoria Snak

Fall: those pillarsare sentenced to deathby envious forces whoselimbs can’t hold the sky.In one last storm,the condemned rebelin honorable strife-shields shed their life, scarletswords drop great heights.Skeletons bare, groundcommanded by decay.And we are only taught after ruinthat trees are red;colorblind eyes can’t distinguishblood from leafso we never notice Autumn leaves.

Photo by Emily Davidson

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No Such Thing As One True LoveG.A. Demarest

The front door of the well-aged brownstone home opened re-leasing a bright glow into the night. Sarah stepped out into the bitter Massachusetts winter and away from the warm, bustling party. Her long shadow cast over the dark steps was sharpened by the yellow light com-ing from the doorway. She stepped across the porch and down the steps to the sidewalk as two other figures filled the door jam with their silhou-ettes. Maggie stood on her toes and kissed James lightly, falling back on to her heels with a smile, their in-terlocked fingers resting in between them. “I love you,” Maggie locked eyes with him. “I love you, too,” he said, leaning in for another kiss. “I’ll see you tomorrow?” She couldn’t wipe the smile from her face. “Of course. Good night.” He looked down to the girl on the sidewalk with her back to them. “‘Night Sarah.” “‘Night.” Sarah turned, al-most surprised she had been no-ticed. Maggie sprang to her toes again and wrapped her arms around his neck planting one final, hard kiss

on his lips before falling away. “You sure you two will be fine walking home tonight?” “Yeah. Go back to your par-ty.” He did. The yellow glow from the interior lights broke through the windows of adjacent houses and cast eerie shadows along their path. The two women walked down the lane pulling their coats up to their chins, beginning their short journey along the streets of Cambridge. It was chilly now, as Novem-ber faded into winter and wisped clouds blocked out all but the moon’s silver lining. All was still and hushed in a peaceful winter silence, as the women remained in their own separate worlds. Sarah shivered and popped up the collar of her pea coat. The cold made her feel stiff but her steps were still graceful and light. Her time as a dancer was far behind her but the education had not gone amiss. She glanced down at Maggie’s hand and then back to her own feet. The illumination of the street lamps lit up her hazel-green eyes. She pulled a hand, clad in a fingerless glove, from her pocket and slid a lock her long earthy brown hair behind her ear. Sarah couldn’t help but notice that

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Maggie seemed unaffected by the cold. Maggie had a skip in her step, the traces of that smile still ev-ident on her flushed face. She kept playing with her hand. Glancing down, smiling, and still imagining his arms around her. The thought of him was the only thing keeping her warm that night. Out of the dark their beauti-ful faces were met with a new light, a rainbow of light. Reds and blues and greens. Sarah and Maggie looked up to see the house across the street from them to be fully adorned with dazzling and gaudy Christmas dec-orations. It was that one house that was already covered with holiday cheer within a week after Thanks-giving. A winter wonderland of lit up snowmen, candy canes, and the usual cheap, department store an-imatronics were spread about in front of the house. It all lead up to an overly blushed Santa on the roof cracking a whip over his sleigh drawing reindeer. Maggie was drawn in by the whole display, while Sar-ah on the other hand preferred the simple handmade wreath garnishing the front door. Someone had obvi-ously put a lot of time into that little wreath. “Hmm. Pretty,” Sarah’s only comment. “Yeah,” Maggie’s only re-ply; the broad smile returning to

her face, her hands starting to fidget once again. The gold band and mod-est diamond that now dressed the ring finger on her left hand brought her back to thoughts of the party. Her mind went back to James. To the party. It was kind of strange; he was never really a peo-ple person, so throwing a party for no reason was slightly out of char-acter. But, all of their friends were there. There was food, there was music, and it was all relaxed and en-joyable. Then he stood and asked everyone to be quiet. He got down on one knee, looked Maggie in the eye, and pulled the shiny piece from his pocket. No velvet box, or satin bag: just the ring. Probably from the old family jeweler Sarah knew he still visited on occasion to have his watch looked at. Not an elaborate ring on his teacher’s salary but it was more than enough. Maggie had gasped as he asked. And she nodded making a sound of agreement that was just short of a squeal, admiring the new beauty sliding on to her finger. Peo-ple threw up their hands and toasted the happy couple. Even Sarah held up her drink in approval and winked at Maggie. Later she came up to the couple with a mandatory but appar-ently unforced congratulations and admiration of the ring. Everything said with a smile but she wouldn’t meet his eye. She only addressed

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Maggie. Of course, Maggie hadn’t really noticed that until now as the cold began to bite into her. The per-manent half smile fell away slightly as she turned to look at Sarah. Maggie had always been en-vious of Sarah’s defined features, but now her whole face had a slightly sullen appearance. Her hands deep in her pockets. Shoulders raised to her ears. Eyes unmoving from her ever progressing feet. Not sad, just glazed over and intent. Sarah felt Maggie’s gaze. “I’m happy for you. I really am. He deserves someone like you. Someone…stable and loyal. Some-one who really loves him, who he re-ally loves.” Sarah looked up, straight into Maggie’s eyes. “You’re a really lucky girl.” Her eyes fell back down to her own feet. “Thank you. And…yes.” The compliment didn’t feel the way Maggie expected. These things weren’t being said as an obligatory best friend post proposal script. Sarah shivered again and rolled her shoulder in place trying to stretch it out. The wound was a year and a half old but the cold brought back the aching soreness; along with the memories, more painful than the injury itself. The simple mistake in judgment of character. Frank had seemed so sweet when they had started out. Complimented her looks, mentioned her dancing,

always paid, and then in a drunken stupor threw her against a wall like a rag doll.Sarah had been strong enough to handle the initial aftermath but, of course, James had come to the res-cue for the rest. He had always been there, since they met the first day of college. He was always there no mat-ter what she needed. He knew and was there. But she always put some-thing or someone in between them.They had kissed once, her and James. He had driven her home from the hospital that night, after the mistake. It was right after he had met Mag-gie. He drove Sarah home, put her in bed and sat there with her. He nev-er asked for the Frank’s address or mentioned him in the slightest even though she knew he wanted to. He just sat with her and then kissed her. It was the only thing he could do to stop her shaking sobs and get her to sleep. But he meant it. It turned out the old cliché was right. One bad decision lead to another. After she healed physically, Sarah met a guy. And then another guy. And it continued on like this. And she began to hate being around him and Maggie and their happiness; even despised Maggie for no real reason except that she made him so happy. Yet all Sarah had was a trail of shallow and bigoted men. Eventually she grew out of it. She settled down to a single life.

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She even became good friends with Maggie. But on cold nights like this one, the soreness returned, bringing back all the memories. She massaged her shoulder and looked over at Maggie. She was still playing with the ring; her eyes and fingers glued to the shiny metal. But the smile was gone. The perky young expression had been replaced by a pair of pensive eyes. Maggie fiddled with the band as if it were some puzzle lock to a great answer. Both women looked up and suddenly realized they were at the end of the walk together. Sarah’s house was down the street to the right but Maggie’s was straight ahead four or five blocks. They stopped at the corner; still not looking one another in the eye. The silence was freezing and unbear-able. “You know he’s in love with you.” Maggie looked up at Sarah. “I know,” Sarah whispered under her breath. They continued to stand at the street corner. The silence filled the winter night as they stood there for a long time. Maggie turned and walked down the street towards her home. Sarah stood still for a few moments more, then went her own way.

Deep Seaby Kay Hopkins

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Changeling LullabyLucia Palazzo

Hum-ho, little imp, sink into your quilt—The mean, freckled girl is tallow and bone,like each feral creature you’ve ever known,and with time she will wither and wilt.Hum-hey, weensy elf, snuggle out of the chill—The cruel, gangly boy is bruised and alone,like each wounded cur you’ve ever known,that gimps with a limp and a lilt.Here no one has swords or fancier clothesto slice you to slivers and tear you to tatters,or point out your snub, crooked nose. Hum-hee, gentle moppet—here none of it matters—so turn off the lights and dream the next chapterof Fairyland’s days while you doze.Fairyland’s dazed while you doze, my nymph.They need you to rule as their sovereign queen,while the satyrs dance and the banshees keen,you can hold court and rest in repose.Not a princess with dewy bow-lips, my witch,but a warrior spellstress draped in furs—you’ll whisk over thatch roofs in silver spurson a dun horse you goad with a whip.Here you have swords with runes on the hilt,to pierce them to pieces and mash them to batter,then watch them erode into silt.Hum-ha, my dear dolly—here none of it matters,so fall into fancy and find what you’re after;little imp, sink into your quilt.

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remember when

you were a child and the sun was somethingmysterious, and

and the world was notheavy like this, spinning so quicklywithout relief,

the light bendingthrough your windowin the morning waspure magic,

the leaves in the parkfelt crunchier beneath your feet, the concrete was sacred for chalkand hopscotch,

your smile expandedto the continent farthestaway from you,

like the sprites in Neverland,all you needed to keep living was to hear the laughter ofothers, to knowsomeone near herewas happy too.

Elly Weinstock

Photo by Nora Kiridly

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He keeps my breath between his fingers crossed

My mouth agape as wonders wake within,

And in his winter web I find I lost

The purity beyond the taint of sin.

His secret whispers hunt my virgin ears;

They stir the dormant hunger wide awake.

While underneath the carnal cloak of fears,

My promises to her can’t help but break.

The scent of crimson cinnamon does fall

And births a maelstrom made from lakes of flame;

Those forms of light above do work to stall

This turn toward a path of fated shame.

Yet while I know I lunge away from grace,

A guiltless smile does stretch across my face.

The Virgin PromiseA.M. Graham

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When I’m Twenty-SevenAnonymous

I will not tell my mother for ten years since,Not about that time,Not about that night,Not for a long time.

I cannot tell my mother for ten years since,As her feelings of guilt,Her pangs of hurt,Eat her away.

There’s no way I’m telling my mother,For the simple fact,She was molested as a child.

How could I possibly begin to tell my mother?When she trusted me to make good choices,With my bodyAnd who I trusted.

Where do I even begin to tell my mother?About that night I was seventeen,In room which used to feel familiar,Seemed darker and more menacing.

Who could I tell besides my mother?When I walk around with this pain,And can’t tell my true best friend.

How can she know?If all she would thinkWas that she couldn’t protect meFor once in my life.

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Why would I tell my mother?About that dark June night,When I ran for solace,But he followed anyway.

How could I tell my mother?If all she knows is grief?If she would be depressed again?If it would break her heart?

I can handle this lie,Just not to my mother,Dear God not to my mother.

I lie everyday about that one night in June,So she doesn’t have to knowSorrowGuiltSleepless NightsRegressionAnd Flash Backs.

I lie everyday so rape jokes won’t offend her,So she can live on,So she can live a healthy day-to-day life.

I lie everydayBecause Eight More YearsDoesn’t seem too shabbyAfter the two I’ve gone without saying“Mom, I was raped.”

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The Washington Crossing TavernAlison Allen

The smell of Marlboro smokeOn a cold, windy nightBlowing in through the doorsAnd lingering above the cement floorJust outside the library.It stays there like it’s trapped,Pressing against the window panes.The scent of my childhood,Rushing back for a split second,As I run between class and dorm room.A place in my memory fills my eyes.A tall stool with a red plastic seat,Made of dark wood. It has a back on it,So I can lean. The climb up from the floorIs a hard one, since there’s a stepThat raises the stools to the bar.I refuse help. I’m four years old,Didn’t they know? Group laughterFrom old men with vicesHeld firmly in each hand.Glasses and bottles of bitter smellsAll along the waxed top. While ISip the only reasonable beverage.The sugar will rot my teeth, but at leastMy drink tasted good. Medicine,Bad medicine filled their cups.A sad truth I now know.But could I have two quarters,For chips? Daddy said no,Uncle Jake said don’t tell.And from down the bar,Did I want a scratch-off ticket?Could I please? Sure. I wonFive dollars. I was rich.Bartender, another of the good stuff

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With no ice. Coming right upWith a straw in the glass.The games in the corner, the bellOn top of the door, the dimYellow light bulbs in tacky colored glassWith fruit patterns, hanging from the ceiling.Two sets of red double doors. Stale cigarettesIn ash trays. The gravel for a parking lot,On the side of the building, with small logs For markers. The river, a stone’s throw away.And in the summer, fireflies filling the airAt every footstep. A beautiful time,Gone now. It lives in my heart andAt the back of my mind. Nine years.It’s been nine long and empty yearsSince then. Since they closed her down,The bar, The Washington Crossing Tavern,A piece of my past. I was raised around that,Cheap beer and cheap cigarettes in every hand.The hands of men who worked hard to liveDecently with good hearts. Men who knewThey had flaws and laughed at them.Men who knew that one day, I wouldn’t needTo climb up that stool. Who knew,That when that day came, I would begin to lookFor a man. And they hoped I would lookFor men like them. Men who use their heartsAnd hands for good. And should one everIll-use his hands against me, they would show himHow hard good hearts hit. It was a place whereGood men could gather. I cherished that bar,Those stools, those games, those lights,Those doors, and that bell. But it is those menThat I miss. I was raised to be strong minded,Smart mouthed, assertive, compassionate,And a hard worker. My mother taught meHow to be a lady. My father and his friends,They taught me how to be a woman.

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AloneAnthony Shore

A dark crevice in a frozen momentShivering, staring, searchingSurrounded by nothingnessAnd trying to see the lightA never-ending sea of peopleSailing, sinking, drowningSubmerged in emptinessAnd failing to find the surface

Photo by Lauren Webb

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For every what’s-her-name I’ve ever known.Every facet of your phenotype fascinates;I let my mind make up the rest.The context clues make a story,bland and boring,like every other lovely nobody.

You are something to you and to your company,as am I to me and mine – myself –but to each other, nothing much.

That’s how it shall remain.You’ll wake each day in a worldentirely apart from mine,save for the rare occasionthat my face comes to mind,a mere construct of memory,without want, without reason,and all we’ll be are beautiful strangers.

Beautiful StrangersMichael Riscica

Photo by Ricky Michiels

Nelly NickersonNora KiridlyVictoria Lauren CocolarasBatson X. LiErica GeneceLouis St. PierreAlice GuntherEbube EzehVictoria SnakBreshay WigglesworthJenn SmuloJulia McGuireMike CicchettiLauren WebbMariel VazquezG.A. Demarest

A Production of theHofstra English Society

209 Mason HallHofstra UniversityHempstead, NY 11549

Brian StieglitzCandace Brown

Gillie HoustonDevon Preston

Julie PateJaipreet Ghuman

Kay HopkinsA.M. Graham

Zach JohnsonAlvia UrdanetaElly Weinstock Emily DavidsonLucia PalazzoAlison AllenAnthony Shore

Michael Riscica

Featuring