Spring 2010 Mosaic Staff
Editors-in-Chief:
Amy Wheeler and Nick Sweeney
Mosaic Committee Members:
Marina Cella
David Cohen
Christopher Cho
Danielle Ferrara
Kelly Gallucci
Stephanie Grossman
Lauren Hall
Kellie Hayden
Sarah Holmes
Florencia Lauria
Kelly Mangerino
Amanda Mulvihill
Rachael Shockey
Julia Stamberger
Special Thanks:
To Dr. Lea Graham and Bob Lynch,
for their dedication and support of the Literary Arts Society.
Cover Art by Jaime Bonventre




Marist College
Literary Arts Society
Presents:
Tfie :Mosaic
Spring 2010 Edition












Table of Contents
Michael Cresci, Why We Write
Amanda Mulvihill, Petrichor
29
(A Work in Progress)
3
Nicholas Bolt, Words
29
Florencia Lauria, Don't Date Metaphors,
James Rizzi, Elegy for Ralph
30
They Break Like Mirrors
6
Amy Wheeler, Where She Lives Now
32
Rachael Shockey,
/'II
Tell You What's
Danielle Ferrara, patience
33
in a Name
7
Maxine Presto, A Cartographer's
Ariel Puccio, soap
10
Dream
34
Isabel Cajulis, Hudson River Dawning
11
Tahara Roberts, It's Your Fault:
Kelly
Gallucci, E Tutta Da Scaprire
12
I'm More Crazy
Olivia McMahon, Lightning Strike
15
than Sexy or Cool
35
Elyse Brendlen, Acqua Alta
15 Katie Warren,
"and
the final
secret
of
Christa Strobino, Imitation of Mother
16
Istanbul
-it
is
grey"
36
Rebecca Rotondo, Mourning Light
18
Isabel Cajulis, Natural Preservatives
38
Christopher Ceballos, (gas station-
Raven Baptiste Holder, The Gods That
quinnipiac avenue)
20
Make You Reach For
James Rizzi, Apology for Eve
20
Gods
40
Julia Stamberger, Algebra to Appletinis
*Molly
Mihalcik, As the Papaya Queen 41
to Algebra
21
**Nick
Sweeney, Attica, Heaven
46
Jennifer Sommer, NY to VA
22
*Gabrielle
Albino, That's All You Get
Florencia Lauria, I'm Sorry I Said I Was
Today
50
Going to Come Back and
**Michael Cresci, Delusions of Being
I Didn't
26
Decrepit
51
Shelley Doster, taedum vitae
27 *Michael Cresci, Ever Concerned with
C.
Earnshaw,
my skin just keeps my
Forever Ago
54
soul from falling out
**Molly Mihalcik, The Coming Out
[nervosa)
27
Waltz
65
Christa Strobino,
don't
talk
to
about your
wife
hold me
28
*Runner-up for
the
Fall 2009 Mosaic
Writing
Contest
**Winner of
the
Fall 2009
Mosaic Writing
Contest








Why We Write (A Work In Progress)
Inspired by Marist's writing community
by Michael Cresci
We do
i
t because our hearts break often.
Our hearts break often and with vigor.
We do it because when the world seems overwhelming
everything we feel melts
i
nto words which
swirl around us as if a tornado of language
will take us off to Oz.
We do it because if we don't
the chatter in our minds will drag us down like an anchor.
It will keep us stuck in one place.
We do it for the grandfather we watched succumb
to cancer for over a year.
The grandfather whose round stomach
always seemed like the perfect place to rest your head.
For the grandfather who made
us his "secret recipe popcorn" when we were young.
The grandfathe
.
r who told us stories from the foot of
a pull-out sofa. Stories which took us away to someplace new.
We do it for the sister who never got the
chance to make a mistake.
Never got a chance to watch a sunset
or be afraid of how easily people break.
We do it for the empty space
every missing person leaves
.
We do it with safety pins and knitting needles.
We do it with old newspapers and magazines.
We do it with the worn building faces of an old town.
We do it to raise the dead.
3



4
We do it to live forever.
We do it for Gatsby and Daisy.
For Stanley and Stella and Blanche.
We do it for poor Willy Loman.
We do it for our predecessors who came first
and showed us the world as they saw it.
The ones who we know we can never be
as good as. The ones who cast tremendous shadows.
We do it for Hemingway and Keats.
For Vonnegut and Bukowski and Dickens and Faulkner.
We do it for that bastard, Shakespeare.
We do it because we love all of mankind
and want to hold them in our breast
and whisper that everything will be okay.
We do it because we know that everything
can't be okay. It simply, and sadly, can't.
We do it because we hate all of mankind
and the way they make each other so miserable.
We do it because we contain multitudes.
We are bursting at the seams with contradiction and confusion.
We do it for the way a swinging pair of hips can draw
commas in the air.
We do it for the marijuana and the mistakes.
The cocaine and the condoms.
The cheap whiskey and the wine.
The bed sheets thick with sex and sweat.
We do it for the hangovers and the heart burn.
We do it because someone didn't love us
as much as we loved them
and we thought the right words could fix the unfixable.







We do it to create a
new
reality.
To
start
over and make it better.
We
do it
because
we believe that lies can tell
the
truth.
We do it to fill the Hudson
with
rhythm and
rhyme.
For the
unsayable Hudson
and
how
it swells.
We do
it
for the Atlantic Ocean
and
the
sands of
New Jersey.
For the childhood boardwalks, cotton
candy scented
and
not quite
as
innocent
as
we remembered.
We do it because everyone seems
to
stare
at
bodies of water.
We do it for the broad plains of the American Midwest.
For
the
skyscrapers of New York.
For the foggy streets and musty pubs of London.
For the brutal heat of the Australian outback.
We do it for Prague and for Paris.
For the grandeur of ancient Rome.
For the ironic ice of Greenland.
We do it in the hopes there are still places left to find.
We do it to be heard.
We do it because no matter how much
we talk, the words come out slightly wrong.
We do it mostly because we could never
imagine doing anything else.
But really we do it because
you don't need money or a nice house or anything at all.
Not to do it right.
You just need a pen.
And paper.
-
And some sort of silly idea that life can be captured in syllables and sounds.
You need only to think that the world can be made simple
and, for better or worse, true. Even if just for a second.
We do it because the world is too much to take silently.
And in the end, we do it because we must. Because we have to.
5





6
Don't Date Metaphors, They Break Like Mirrors
by Florencia Lauria
I was your headband,
your dangling earring;
I was your synecdoche-a poet's lie
and the Dreamcatcher's residue.
And you loved me like you love
an abstraction:
a fallen eyelash waiting to become
a wish.
Until I (humanly) ordered
a grilled cheese: American on wheat,
leave the pickle on the side-
and I saw your mouth pop
like a balloon with too much air.
You didn't stay for the literal-
you walked right out, leaving nothing
but a heap of broken images
and seven years of bad luck.







I'll Tell You What's in a Name
by Rachael Shockey
S-h-o-c-k-e-y. I try hard to be a minimalist when it comes to vanity, but oh,
how I adore my last name. It's so crisp, so unique, so- shocking!
"Shockey- it's so zappy! It makes me think of lightning!" friends tell me.
"Indeed," I indulge.
''Any relation
to
Jeremy?" new acquaintances ask.
"
Why, yes," I lie.
Shockey is beautiful, Shockey is strong, Shockey is mine. But really, what
right do I have taking pride in my last name? What's in a last
name
anymore?
They used
to
denote a
distinct
significance- they might have simply
indicated
one's job, status, or
lineage.
Last names today are
much
less
clear-cut: they're
multi-cultural;
they're
altered, hyphenated, traded and dropped.
In the midst
of all
the ambiguity
that
exists in the modern world of
last
names, I've
made
an effort
to
define
the significance of a last name for myself, and
I
believe
that my
last
name is
a reflection of my character.
Like most beautiful things, Shockey did not belong
to
me
when I was first
brought into the
world;
it was acquired
much later.
The
day I was born, my
par-
ents presented me
with my
father's last name:
Wilton. Wilton, like the thing
a
flower does
when it
prepares to shrivel and die
for a winter
season, just as my
parent's
love for one
another shriveled and died
after
just a few short years of
marriage.
And
when my dad moved
out
and drifted further and further away
from
his
role
as
my parent, I was left alone to
bear
that grey name. Just uttering
that name feels like
swallowing
a cold stone. People were
always
misspelling it or
saying it incorrectly; Wilson, Walton, and Wilkinson were common attempts, all of
which sound way too old for
an
elementary school-aged kid. Other kids didn't like
it, and they didn't even know that it denoted my attachment to someone who was
hardly
around
for me. Wilton is a hole in my stomach.
Back then, though, Wilton was also a lifeline- one of the only lasting links be-
tween
me and
my dad. I would only see him once a week for the rest of my child-
hood. He stopped involving himself in my life ( outside of child support checks),
but
I still
looked upon him as my parent, especially since he moved out of my
home
and
distanced himself so abruptly. Since our time with him was so limited,
when my siblings and I went over to his house on the weekends, he did everything
he could to keep the peace, and ensure that we were happy. He never disciplined
us, nor did he ever make us lift a finger while we were there. He fed us French
7







8
fries, and let us watch Xena the Warrior Princess. Hearing people call me Rachael
Wilton
made me feel abandoned
,
but the weekends reminded me that I was not
entirely abandoned. My father still wanted to be a part of my life ( a small part, but
still something); so I repressed my complaints and sported his name. I continued
wiltin'.
Meanwhile,
my
beautiful
mother was flitting around with her very own last
name,
the one
that she
has worn
and will continue to wear her whole life: Shock-
ey.
I love my mom
like I love her name- strong, impressionable, one-of-a-kind. She
is
full of life,
and is so deserving of her electric last name
.
She would change her-
self-
or
her
name-
for no man. Since dad was out of
the
picture, my mom
was
left
without anyone else's
assistance and hardly any
money
at all to care for four very
young children,
but
she somehow
managed to juggle all
of it
while still
making
our
house
payment every month.
I knew from an early
age
that
my
mom was the parent
after
whom
I
wanted
to
model my life, but oh, what
a royal
pain
in
the
ass it was
being
a
Shockey- that
was a name that had to be worked
for.
Being the oldest
child,
I inherited, by
default, many of the duties
of
the
second
parent. That bitch made me
change
diapers,
bathe babies, feed babies,
rock
babies to
sleep, and
babysit before I
even
knew
where babies came from. But I refused to throw
in
the
towel; whatever
tasks my mom had to take on,
I
would take on as
well.
I
would work until
the
Wilton part of me stood out less than a miniscule
clothing
stain.
But that damn name was not something that I
could
work off. It stuck with
me, and every time someone called on me, I felt detached
from
my momma. My
friends asked all the time whose last name mine was,
and
it felt as though my ef-
forts were in vain when I was forced to admit that it belonged to my dad instead
of my mom- that I belonged to my dad. My two half siblings, who were born after
my
parents' divorce, were given my mom's last name. They were just babies, and
yet
they
already
had what
I
was still waiting for: a material identification with
our mom.
I
had
been
around
longer than those brats; I'd paid my dues; I couldn't
decipher why I was getting the short end of the stick. It infuriated me.
When I was about ten, my mom was walking me to the bus stop, when she
said,
"I think you
and
Hannah
[
my sister] should really start thinking about chang-
ing your name to Shockey."
"You want
me to?" I asked, a bit taken aback. I real-
ized then that my mother was not opposed to switching my name to hers. Being
my sole caregiver, she felt it would only make sense for me to bear her name. My
heart raced at the prospect of
adopting
Shockey.
Despite being excited
about
my mom's idea, I did not answer her right away;






for the ne
x
t couple years, I prolonged agre
e
ing
t
o
t
h
e s
witch
,
because I knew
it would break my father's heart. That day at the bu
s
st
o
p
,
I semi-jokingly told
her that perhaps I could take on a hybrid of both name
s;
I remember suggesting
Shockton, or maybe Wiltey
.
We both laughed at these
,
but I was secretly hoping
that I could bring up the hybrid idea again, and my mom would miraculously have
a change of heart and tell me that it was brilliant. The only person who was truly
holding me back from becoming Rachael Shockey was me.
I had never been so terrified to make a decision as I was to cut my dad out of
my identity. I could tell by the way that he desperately tried to maintain a connec-
tion with me-- the way he interrogated me on the phone, the way he waited on me
hand and foot at his house-- that he was afraid of me choosing my mom over him
for good. Still, with the physical distance that existed between us, his name was
one of the few lasting impressions that he had left on me. I grew up modeling my-
self after my mom; I knew it would only make sense that if I must take the name
of one person in this world, that it be hers.
When I was twelve, at the e
x
pense of all that was left of my sense of belong-
ing to my dad, I finally mustered up the courage to let my mom claim me under
Shockey. Owning that livelier name, whose roots I deeply admired, was a fantastic
relief. I hardly cared about how baffled my nai:ve friends were when my name
suddenly changed on them; eventually, I didn't even care what my dad thought
about the choice. I dismissed my feelings of guilt, and replaced them with feelings
of respect and pride for myself and my mom.
To this day, I value deeply the journey that I underwent to achieve my
name; it taught me at an early age to be a free-thinking person. Not every twelve-
year-old girl gets to challenge naming norms, and define what works best for her.
Now, I can't imagine parting with Shockey, and I refuse to do so. Shockey is the
snappy, blithe name that saved me from wiltin
'
my whole life through, and I will
never shed my nomenclatural trophy of my earliest accomplishment.
9




10
soap
by Ariel Puccio
White foam on off-white tile
Teases the eyes,
Slips carelessly into distorted shapes -
Smiley faces, a heart drawn by a kindergartener.
Clouds, when cushioned grass
Awakens my body
To the uniqueness of a pale sky-pillow,
Gaining new perspective from
My flat back.
Lying still,
Feeling everything and nothing:
The post dew cool, the swinging breeze over
One hip,
Then the other.
Each hair yawns into sunlight.
Yet not-
Because I stand in chilled raindrops
Feeling claustrophobic.
Aiming eyes at the wall.
Each hair a cramp.
And the crayon drawn heart
(Diagonally down and to the right of the smiley face)
Begins to slip.
Crossing over soap-scum
,
Grazing black tar bacteria, germs,
Reflecting me in each bubble eye.
As it turns, still sliding
Silently exploding,
Until it is not itself.
And I am tortured,
Trying to understand
the soap.








Hudson River Dawning
After Michael Anania's
''A
Step At A Time"
by Isabel Cajulis
A colored flower,
the moon, I guess,
like a daffodil's center
and the sky, shimmers,
a hand familiar touches
mine
,
fingernails
bitten down, my hair sways
ebony black against
tan skin, lips like
fire, burning red
sunrise on the horizon.
This is the hour, isn't it,
subtle rumbles under
whispered breath, through
the simple sense of things,
the ordinary senses of sight,
sound
,
touch, and taste, like
heightened superhero senses.
11







12
E Tutta Da Scaprire
by Kelly Gallucci
You leaned back
I knew what was coming
Beat one
two
three
[He speaks!]
In your eloquent
ecld
thought-out scientific way
You tell me:
It's not
me
It never was me
It will never
be
me
Pause three
two
one
I speak
Slowly? Carefully? Cautiously?
Never
I say "I hate you"
Climbing out of your car
Three
a.m. on a street corner
in Jersey
Breathe
in
out
in
( I never say what I really think)
Far easier
to push
to hate
to ignore



Damn it.
We should've kissed.
You pushing me down into the passenger seat
Hiding beneath the early morning fog and the security of locked doors
The week would've been a whirlwind of us and your car
Climaxing with the cliche airport goodbye that you so wanted to avoid
It would've been worth it
We should've kissed
Instead,
I left
(before you could leave me)
(before I had to watch you go)
And we still talk
Why wouldn't we?
Swapping escapades like trading cards
You speak of the sun and your tan lines
Of salsas on the beach
Holding waists
And hands
And drinks
I talk of snowy hurricanes,
The dreariness of Poughkeepsie,
And men
(Who never make me laugh)
Breathe
in
out
in
13






1
4
Breathe
push
forget
push
You're the only one who ever dared me to
feel
something
Heart
beat
beat
beat
Some days I wish to forget you
Breathe
in
out
in
Today
I
wish
I
could see the sunset where you are
All orange
Breathe
and yellow
in
a
nd red
out
and alive
in
andyou
Breathe.





Lightning Strike
by
Olivia McMahon
Be the lightning in me that strikes relentless:
A brilliance that's merely observable,
And intangible.
It darts and dances
Like so many fireflies on an early June night,
Evading fingers grubby with grass stains
Escaping hands reaching with the earnestness
Of never having been told "You can't."
Be the lightning in me that leaves me whole.
Give to me a light that calls forth freshly unfurling leaves.
Resist in robbing life from this withering stump
Whose roots ache to pull a miracle from this saliferous soil,
Parched with the exertion of trying to overcome
And all the while not listening.
"You won't."
Be the lightning in me.
Just overwhelm me.
AcquaAlta
by Elyse Brendlen
I dreamed you were Venice, and I Italy;
and thought you were often threatened by
low-level floods and high tides
there was always enough of you there
to be considered a part of me.
But my efforts to keep you afloat
were too weak for the water beneath,
and I lost you to a wave and
the weight of everything your own.
When you sank, America offered me
New York with South Street and Times Square but
the cities of other countries will
never be mine in the way you
belonged to me.
15







16
Imitation of Mother
by Christa Strobino
"And I will always love you ... "
Ghost plays on the television set. This song
always
makes me think of your father, my mother says. She grips her wine glass
while I grip my pint of peanut butter ice cream. I know, I say. I've heard this tune
once or twice before.
They were at the altar in Vegas. "Wise men say only fools rush in ...
"
Another
time my father promised to always love her. He dressed as Elvis and she wore an
elastic dress with iridescent sequins. She was an elegant bride. Do you promise to
love and cherish her, through sickness and through health, for as long as you both
shall live?, the Justice of the Peace demanded. "Oh I do, give me a kiss my little
lady," my father said. And with that he dipped her into the artificial lights. They
took
no pictures
at
the
ceremony.
Nothing could capture the love that night, my
mother would
always
say.
We
spent
the night
at the Twilight
Motel
by
the
boardwalk in
Wildwood
Crest. My mother
went
every summer when she was
my
age and her jaw still
hurts from chewing on vanilla salt water taffy. I wanted a hermit crab, but my dad
told me no as he gripped my wrist a little too hard. As a treat, because he didn't
get any treats when he was my age, he bought my mom and I a funnel cake.
We
sat on the bench, the ferris wheel and its light exposed our faces in the shadows
and children flashed
us
smiles and
belly
buttons. "I love you girls," he kissed our
foreheads, "always,"
he
said.
"I will always
love
you," he sang.
And then he left
.
"Zippidee-Doo-DA"
my father sang to me
at
night to
fall
asleep. My mother
would
lean
against the door frame and look past me, past the window, into New
York City. She used to be famous, a Rockette. She'd kick her legs high and expose
her soft, pale
skin
while the metal jingles attached to her ankles would squeal.
Then she met my father at a pub she got into with her fake I.D and confidence
from too much tequila. They left the city and moved to the suburbs; he had two
left feet and they were in love.
They went line dancing at the Elks Club and they would eat bologna sand-
wiches for dinner. He lost his job because he had the same drinking problem his
father had and could not afford cruises or candle light dinners. They never went
to see the Rockettes because he thought it was tacky and she needed to pick up as
many waitressing shifts as she could.
I still sometimes catch her kicking her legs up while she makes dinner,








alone, in the kitchen.
I leaned in my doorway one night and stared
at
them dancing in the living
room. He dipped her low and let her head smash into the lamp, next to the empty
bottle of Pinot. She only laughed. The same way she laughed when she found out
her mother died or when my father calls her a flashy whore. They waltzed around
the living room, around the coffee tables. Around and around and around, her
straw hair always a few inches from his grip. Come out, come out wherever you
are, he said. She shrieked and laughed as they tumbled to the floor. We all stood,
staring in awe as the red fireworks erupted from the base of her head.
"He will come back one day", she said the day he left. While watching televi-
sion, or eating dinner, or playing Scrabble, I knew her mind was always preoc
-
cupied with him as she stared past the meatloaf and
Ghost,
past the word quizzi-
cal, past the window, as her eyes laid transfixed on a ghost of a man who's never
coming back.
1
7






18
Mourning Light
by Rebecca Rotondo
Dedicated to
my
dear friend, Lexi Rogers
12/24/90 - 9/11/09
Dreams fade
Eyelashes flutter
Pupils contract
As a focused stream of sunlight
Slips through a narrow crack
Between panels of faded yellow curtain
Translucent flakes of dust
Hang suspended in time
Clinging to morning's first light
As though life itself truly hangs
On rays of golden warmth
Oh how naive
To believe such a preposterous lie
Angered by their ignorance
I retreat beneath layers
Of false cotton comfort
Hoping that I can recapture
Just a split second of peace
Through illusive images of your smiling face
Images that seem to be fading from memory
As fast as that shooting star
Fell hurriedly over the horizon
The night your soul was set free
Stop thinking
Roll over
Sigh deeply
I pray that sleep will quickly swallow me





Into the depths of its unconsciousness
The only place that I can be blissfully unaware
Of your painstaking absence
But specks of light seep intrusively
Through
my not-so-protective barrier
To
the outside world
And
all its heart breaking mishaps
Sometimes I wonder if life'd be easier
If
I
were just completely numb all together
I'm
not ready
To
wake up and face mourning again
April Baton
19








20
(gas station-quinnipiac avenue)
by Christopher Ceballos
radio grayed he pulls
in the inside electric
lights are fluorescent
and dental
the
station
cliffed on some threshold
of streets draws moths
and other bugs that look
like devils sitting
in some solely car parked
crucified and outside he sits
been a while since the party
just ended
off Mill Road
and Spring
touches
radio it keeps
him
awake
now
music then
melted thaws
like an old 45 what
did
those
cats used to sing
about
just lighters
whiting
.
backdoor air and dying out
and
feeling dry?
fights
his eyes on the driver's
side, looks at 2.99 neon
like aftermath
like a 3 a.m.
end.
Apology for Eve
by
James Rizzi
Imagine how lonely Adam would be
If he fell prey to Satan by himself;
Fallen
sans partner, he remains unfree,
Wand'ring in
misery to the Earth's far shelf,
Over hill and
dale
and most dismal lea
Seeing partnered pairs in all animals,
Contemplative
of
what
it
is to see,
Alone on
rock stalk'd by
moon's orbitals,
None other like him with female beauty.
Day follows night and dark follows light,
And ebb follows flow in every grand sea,
Yet none come to pity Adam's poor plight
As he moves along weeping his sad plea.
Nor is there Hope where there is not an Eve -
Mother of Him who for us did flee
Human form, our dire sin to relieve,
And gain us the Pearly Gate's precious key.
So shun not Her first Original Sin,
It opened worlds of opportunity,
Stagnant land and cloying pleasures therein
Woman rid to correct us, men, happy







Algebra
to Appletinis to Algebra
by
Julia Stamberger
I'd
give anything to love the way I did in middle school
To
giggle, to blush, to stutter
To
be content just sitting next to you on the bus copying your math homework
To
have my mom drive us to the ice skating rink on Friday nights
To
neurotically apply chap-stick just in case today was finally the day
I
don't know when I decided to trade in the Vans for stilettos
The
glitter for pearls and pencil skirts
The
porn-porns for cocktails and countdown clocks
The
blue eye shadow for resumes and responsibilities
The
thrill of
truth
or dare for just truth
But here
I am insisting on roses
when
I used
to
swoon over carnations
Writing tuition
checks
instead
of love poems
Eating
salads
instead
of
ice-cream
sundaes
Playing hard-to-get instead
of
MASH
When did I grow up?
Was it a Tuesday?
Must have been around the same time I became
a
cynic
A heartbreaker
A teacher
I see them everyday
Sixth graders copying science homework
Seventh graders passing love notes
Eighth graders switching desks just to be closer to
"the
one"
I'll teach them algebra
The elements
The 13 colonies
As long as they can teach me how to love again
21








22
NY
to
VA
by Jennifer Sommer
2:30 a.m
"Not all who wander are lost."
- J.R.R.
Tolkien
Penn Station is empty at this time. What is usually a pulsating center of life
in a city full of people is now filled with a few hood-eyed individuals. I stand there
near the Madison Square Garden's entrance in awe. The emptiness is unnerving. I
used to think crowded rooms made me uncomfortable, but this absence of bodies
makes me shift from one foot to the next. The amount of personal space makes me
claustrophobic and jumpy. I can sense the irony.
I lick my lips and shoulder my green duffle bag as Danielle hands out our
train tickets and tells us not to lose them for the 27th time. That is why she has
been holding on to them, waiting until the last possible second to give them to
us; like a protective mother she worries we'll lose them. I stare down at mine as
Michael and Holly stuff theirs in safe places. I can feel Danielle cringe beside me as
Holly's ticket crumples. I wonder if she'll have an aneurism if it tears. I smile at the
thought and read my ticket; it has my name printed in bold type and the words
NY, NY to Williamsburg, VA. I have never been there before.
We all sit down next to each other in the same universal dark blue chairs
with silver metal frames that appear in waiting areas everywhere. I wonder why
they do appear so often, why this color blue. I'm sure someone spent a lot of time
comparing color swatches and materials, trying to figure out which color would
be the most soothing or which material would be comfortable but not to the ex-
tent where the user would fall asleep and miss some important junction. Perhaps
they keep them the same to add a sense of familiarity. That's important when
you're going someplace new; you always need something familiar to hold onto.
Someone once told me about an old tradition where a person takes a potted
plant with soil from his home when he travels. It's to keep him grounded, con-
nected to his roots; it gives him the strength to wander.
These thoughts are fleeting as I curl up in my chair in a futile attempt to
become comfortable and as Holly reads a fashion magazine, Danielle munches on
Teddy Grahams, and Michael listens to his iPod
.
It is hard for anything to catch at
this early hour. Everything dances around and none of us talk much. Instead we sit
in the comfortable silence that characterizes worn-in friendship. I'm grateful for




the silence. It gives me time to think, time to listen, time to wander.
Across the waiting room, a small man fidgets uncomfortably in his seat,
drumming his fingers. The woman sitting next to him frowns with displeasure
as she rubs the back of the small boy who is sleeping on the chair next to her. A
few rows over, a man in a business suit types furiously on his computer, working
towards some deadline no doubt. I notice one man in particular.
He is sleeping with his mouth hanging open and his straw hat askew.
His skin is a web of wrinkled creases from times oflaughter and sorrow. It is
stretched taut over his thin frame. I wonder where he is going at such a late hour
of night and if anyone will be there waiting for him when he gets off the train. I
worry what will happen if he misses it. He seems so alone until a young woman
walks over to him and sits down. She has two cups of coffee and a brown paper
bag in hand. She sits next to him. He is not alone; he belongs to someone.
2:55 a.m
The static of the PA system shatters the silence and announces that our train
is now boarding. In response, various passengers begin to move to the platform
like zombies -- they are unable to function at this late hour. Perhaps they have
forgotten to caffeinate, had a busy day at work
,
or are one of the rare individuals
who actually finds those universal blue seats comfortable and are displeased to be
jolted from sleep.
I shoulder my duffle bag once again as I follow the others to the platform.
We all move together like lost sheep, afraid to get left behind. The crowd shuffles
along with a hurried sluggishness that can only be accomplished at this time of
night. The four of us stick together. Danielle holds my hand in hers in an attempt
to stay anchored in the crowd to something familiar as Michael leads the way,
his tall head bobbing above the sea of people, and Holly lags behind, her stuffed
suitcase nosily rolling across the floor in complaint. Each of my senses stay in tune
with their actions: the weight of Danielle's hand in mine, the sound of Holly's suit-
case, and the sight of Michael's carefully gelled brown mass of curls
.
l keep track
of them
.
It is safer that way, as we wander to places unknown it is always best to
be connected to something familiar.
We move through the crowd like this, down the stairs, and onto the plat-
form. As the glass doors swing open, I am hit with a blast of July heat, balmy and
sticky. I shrug out of my sweatshirt in order to compensate for the increase in
temperature as we board the already crowded train. We desperately search for
seats together but are forced to settle for two on one side and two on the other.
23






24
Danielle and I shuffle into one set of seats while Michael and Holly take those op-
posite of us. The anxiety this separation causes us is palpable.
I think back to the times we spent apart back home. No one panics when
Danielle's little cousins sit between us while we watch a movie in her living room.
It is never a problem if we have to take separate cars to go to the mall. I suppose it
is the unknown that scares us. We're afraid of becoming lost in the shuffle so we
hang on to what is familiar. It's similar to when you panic when you're lost and
your phone is dead. You're scared because you're disconnected from everything.
You can be in the same situation but have someone else with you or actually have
remembered to charge your phone for once and because of those tiny details you
feel free to wander until you find a familiar path.
3:00 a.m
Exactly on schedule, the train begins to move forward, dragging itself along
the train tracks in an attempt to move away from the city. I try to stare out the
window but all I can perceive is blackness. I
turn
my attention to the man sitting
directly in front of me. He is facing Danielle and me and thus I am forced to exam-
ine him with my peripheral vision.
He is a bald man with deep brown skin who is munching on a box breakfast
of sorts. The grease from his meal fills my nostrils as I catch sight of another man
sitting across the aisle, directly
in
front of Michael and Holly. He is eerily similar to
the man in front
of
me.
In
fact,
the
two
men
could
be
doppelgangers
except
for one
difference:
where
the
former
lacks
hair,
the
latter has
long dreadlocks.
It looks as
though they
are traveling
together
and
yet they
choose
seats opposite
from
one
another.
Why one would willingly sit apart
from his
traveling companion
is
beyond
me.
The possibilities for this strange phenomenon roll around in my head. Were
they originally sitting together or did they choose to
sit apart?
Did they have a
fight?
Were they related? Did they even know each other? Were they pretending
not to know each other?
These questions plague me as Danielle covers us both with her Go Diego
Go blanket,
a
piece of memorabilia she stole from her younger cousin. The man
smirks at us. I suppose the scene would seem peculiar to most people: three teen-
age
girls traveling with one teenage boy in the middle of the night, two of whom
are covered by a children's cartoon blanket. If I was not part of the situation my-
self, I would find it a bit peculiar, ( especially when Danielle pulls out her knitting).
I can still see his Cheshire like grin as I drift off to sleep.




4:00 a.m
My uneasy slumber is broken by Danielle's voice. My eyes flutter open
enough for me to notice her nervously biting her lip as she begins to speak to the
bald man in front of us, "Excuse me, is this the train to Williamsburg?"
"I don't know."
She frowns, "Well, where are you going?"
He shrugs and lets out a small laugh, "I don't know."
I furrow my brow in confusion. Once again my mind is plagued with ques-
tions. Does the other man know where they are going if they are in fact traveling
together? Why does he seem so content that he has no idea of his destination?
My mind begins to wander, catching on random thoughts as we fly forward.
I know my destination. I always know where I am headed. My life has always been
planned out. There is no time for rest stops or getting lost. For as long as I can
remember I have been on a clear path from point A to point B: high school then
college then grad school, a family. For all my life I have been on a non-stop train
like this one. There has never been room for aimless wandering. For a moment,
for the first time in my life, I envy a man I have never met.
That is until I realize something - being lost and wandering are two very dif-
ferent things. When you're lost, you have no anchor. It is almost as though you're
free falling into oblivion, but when you wander, that sense of panic is gone be-
cause you're somehow connected to something or someone. You don't have to fear
straying from the main road because if you have an anchor to something familiar
then you'll always be able to find your way home. I stare into the man's face and
then out of the corner of my eye I notice a small potted plant sitting next to him. I
can't help but smile.
25






26
I'm Sorry I said I Was Going to Come Back and I Didn't
by Florencia Lauria
I got distracted with high school musicals,
with starred flags and infinitive tenses.
I got used to leaving Spanish underneath my pillow.
I'm sorry that after a while I started saying "godblessyou,"
and asking for doctor's appointments
three months in advance.
I got used to the handshakes and the high fives-
to the Fahrenheit cold
and the tireless
techno beat of a remix.
I got caught up in the oiled productivity:
The outlining and the figuring out
of a five-year-plan and a Staples calendar.
But sometimes I remember that before
Hasgate Drive there was Los Platanos and Almirate Brown.
I was your Nena that ate empanadas and Crema Americana-
and Buenos Aires was the center of a parallel universe
with a parallel ending that got lost somewhere in between
The New York Times and the Starbucks coffee.



taedium vitae
by Shelley Doster
the sky has been this
dull, misty gray blanket for weeks
as the clouds seem to have settled:
fat, content and heavy
as far as the eye can see
until the view is obscured
by the clawing gray fingers of barren trees
scraping at the stillness of the blanket.
the tranquility is disconcerting
the silence is pleading for a sound
other than my own ragged breath
and the hiss of winter winds
so I draw my hand upwards
and stir the frothy grayness with a trailing fingertip,
clockwise then counterclockwise,
hoping the movement will create some minor disturbance,
a ripple across the sky,
signaling something dangerously attractive to approach.
(I hope lightning doesn't strike)
My skin just keeps my soul from falling out.
(nervosa)
by C. Earnshaw
You can suck 'til my breasts grow into me
like the rest of my woman's body,
flaking my
skin
and loosing my soul
to dance in the sun.
It's dark under these
pregnant folds.
27








28
don't talk about your wife hold me
by Christa Strobino
Anyway
If
the skin around my eyes a t
a
ut red balloon ready to burst and concave.
If
your hair metal it would lock me to the bedpost: white leather jacket scar on my
wrist.
Take the whorls of my fingertips against the ridges of your silence while you ra-
dial from your fridge full of Hellman's and Heinz.
If
I were a book, I'd be Oh! The Places You'll Go during the Blizzard
'
96
If
my taste beer, hint of nutmeg, all hopped-up, your
Indian Pale Ale sometime
'
s a sweet Bavarian Ale not really.
If
my finger's diner straws, they'd penetrate your iris and poke your optic nerve.
If
my ears enormous pomegranate seeds spitting out Monte Carlo and Capri while
you traced the vains on your forearm.
If underneath my fingernails a cool, dark cave I'd be Echo: Come, Come.
If underneath my fingernails a reason because it's 5:00 somewhere and mold
grows when bread is old.
If
underneath my fingernails the Hudson Valley Line, you'd get off at New Ham-
burg and only turn back to tie your Reeboks.
And if my skin were ripe fruit I'd break all of over your hands, while I cleaned up
the matter.
Don't talk about your Wife.
I am not a church in need of candles lit, but a stanza in need of words.
And you are a flower narcissus, that gives me hyperkeratosis
Once children fell
ill
in Suffolk, England they thought your bulb was a red onion
Full of vitamin
C.
I am remarkably like them
.
I am half naked on the kitchen table because She would know ifwe slept in Her
bed.
Kiss me on the lips, but you pass the salt.
And it burns.








Petrichor
by Amanda Mulvihill
On days like this,
where the milky grey sky is
perfectly reiterated by the water,
and the sounds of the passing trains are
amplified by
the
low-hanging clouds,
where the dim light doesn't provoke waking,
but is appropriate for Imogen Heap listening,
and precipitation is a constant threat -
the kind of precipitation that
disrupts the water's grey stillness
with thousands of dimples,
fills the sidewalks until they resemble estuaries themselves,
replaces the early-morning mist with
puddles shushing the vehicles driving through them,
and fools the unaware observer into believing that
they
are inhabitants of Seattle like Derek and Meredith
instead of the Hudson River Valley-
on days like this,
I
want to stick an empty jar out the window and
capture
the very essence of the atmosphere,
because
the air smells so pure and new
and
I'm afraid no one will believe me.
Words
by
Nicholas Bolt
I want to write down words,
That
together
sound sincere,
These words
need
not
to
rhyme,
But their sounds must please my ears.
Old
consonants and
vowels,
Birth new realities and
dreams,
A
stream of constant imagery,
Like the movies
on
the
screen.
29




30
Elegy for Ralph
by James Rizzi
To have seen the lowest tip of the largest world,
And to have come back to dwell with us men,
And now to have gone away from us again,
To distant world fled
By Fate, Fortune, Chance, or Luck, we no more shall see
Our friend, whose
life
held such promise, such hope,
How then my friends are we ever to cope,
With that thing we dread
Can all this be but some horrible dream, brought on
To fit the horrid rain and dreary skies
Too right for when a loving mother cries
As
some caress his head
Flowers now will not mask our pain nor cover love
Taken away. Ne'er shall we see
life
Played out for him, daughter, son, loving wife,
As
others have led
To have begun his journey and begun so well,
Met so many, seen so much, spread such good,
Who could have e'er imagined that it would
Be cut short-
"Weep not for Robert,"
Says the man in black, Charon, allayed
To take our friend, his long dark coat unfrayed
By little sister's tears or pallman's rigid hand
He has gone gentle,
The genius of the shore, across the sea.
Or, 'haps in Heaven, where else should he be?
Let us seek him there, yet not before our sand





For he is happy
And happier should we then be for him
Who no longer is
subject
to this whim
And the
cruel
world he witnessed and on which we stand
'Tis only
a
shame
That
good
men do pass before they have had
A chance to right the wrong, correct the bad,
To leave
a
light for those struggling to understand
Or
perhaps this is
His vital lesson
taught through our
sorrow,
That
happiness might follow on
the
morrow
Let then a dirge be played by this sad mournful band
Until we may s
We all will still
After all is sai
After
we all ar
31










32
Wbere She Lives Now
by Amy
Wheeler
We used to sing show tunes
while dealing out playing cards
on chocolate-milkshake-flavored sick days
at the wooden kitchen table,
knitted placemats moved to the side
.
Now, the rules of Canasta
have crept into some dark corner of her mind
hiding with her apple pie and potato salad recipes,
crowded out by obsessive calculations of
Ballston Spa National Bank account statements
-
You know,
I
pay $3,000 a month to live here,you know, where I live now -
an extraordinary sum,
considering this place will never be her home.
There are no toy soldiers on display
or organs
with
sheet
music
from Great-Grandma Julia,
no patio
with
an
umbrella
from Thailand,
and
the bathroom is
missing the Civil
War-themed
wallpaper
I
used
to study
when feigning
stomachaches.
Instead,
they bring her 2:00 juice in
a
Dixie
cup,
take
away
her fridge and white wine,
ration
out her money in $5 bills
and
track her every move with
a
sign-in sheet
-
destination predetermined.
But when I close my eyes
I can hear the whir of the blender
over my seven-year-old voice singing -
The sun'll come out, tomorrow,
and I wonder if she can hear it too.




patience
by Danielle Ferrara
below-where souls lope-
you're resting letting lay your teeth
i hum, follow fins and rays
of light, to drip ink from the
inkpot into water from
the well.
your fantasy is fallen birds,
no matter whether drift or drop,
stark white against a copper sky.
i imagine dragons,
curls of fire chasing stars,
tasting embers and bowing
tongues that flip like little demons.





A Cartographer's Dream
by Maxine Presto
Everything is: nonsensical,
we are natural - heretical
creatures
are you
not?
You are me
I am you
We are brown boots, spirits
adventurous:
a cartographer's dream.
- : . - - - •
You are a mild breeze, ukulele
plick pluck, a tongue limited
by language, skin sticky and
ephemeral,
a silent chamber, a bed
unmade
you are






It's Your Fault: I'm More Crazy than Sexy or Cool
by
Tahara Roberts
in some kinda,
crazy sexy cool, caught
up in the moment
would punch a wall if my fists weren't so small
just wanna let my hair out or better yet
cut that shit right off
&
get a fade.
stain my nails with black nail polish
M!!
A
E
R
C
s
at the top of my lungs 'til the bottom give out.
hand you a rose, take it back,
like an indian giver,
pull off the petals
and leave you with the thorns,
mood.





36
"and the final secret of Istanbul - it is grey,"
by Katie Warren
whispered Firat into my ear
as he held me close in the Middle Eastern wildness of Taksim Square.
Traffic streamed and life pulsed within our young hearts in an old city.
The old city lived a thousand lives
under conquerors, sultans, and kings.
Byzantium, Constantinople, Istanbul,
nicknames and dresses for the lady
who lays with her head in Europe and her heart in Asia.
Her layers of petticoats and burkas
knot
against
one another,
a bright Western garter now hidden
in the age-old tangle of garb.
Christian gold mosaics appear from beneath
mosque plaster in the Hagia Sophia.
There is Viking graffiti there;
run your fingers along the marble railing.
Even burly Norse men felt compelled
to leave their mark on the ancient city.
The city covered Constantinople's glittering,
content in her minarets and deep carpets.






In the modern lights north of the Golden Horn,
bright Beyoglu
and Karakoy throb
from the rooftops as crowds swell to frenzy.
Raki fuels terrace-top dancing,
sex thick in the air.
Opposite sexes must never touch,
but they'll do anything but.
In this, the old city lies quiet and grey
behind the ruins of her old walls.
Days
when the world's greatest armies and riches
were marched through her streets are long gone.
Glittering remains lie in the Topkap1 Palace
For
outsiders to file through the harem to see.
Below,
the same grey old men have sat with those
fishing
rods on the
Bosphorus
for all of time,
sighing
with
the
sea.
"Listen to
the
sound
of the Bosphorus
and
you
will
understand,
my little friend,
kiii;:iik
arkada$1m,"
Firat murmured
as
he gently placed me in
a
cab
to return to the ancient, sleeping side of the city for the last time.
"This is not a city for lovers,
for you
are
forever with the pain of having leave.
Trust me in this, no one
in
love is happy
in
Istanbul."
A
boat bore me at dawn across
the eternally grey Bosphorus.
I closed my eyes to hear the melancholy of ancient Istanbul.
The old soul of this place will never rise again.
37








38
Natural Preservatives
by Isabel Cajulis
I.
My family is
centered
on rice. These white grains are part of every
meal,
even
breakfast.
During the holidays,
we
visit my aunt and her family. At break-
fast
she makes the best tasting
longanisa
(Filipino
pork
sausage)
and the fluffi-
est
scrambled
eggs. I wake up early just to learn her
cooking
secrets. I sit
at
the
kitchen counter
and hear uncooked meat
crackling
in hot oil. The
steam
rises from
the large rice cooker
as
the smell particles of simmering jasmine
rice
and sausage
combine.
My mouth starts to water and I
admire
my aunt's fearlessness in front
of spitting
hot oil. I'm the first
to
fill my plate with the steaming rice, followed by
several
longanisa
links
and
scrambled
eggs.
I devour everything on my plate
like
I haven't eaten in a year.
I scrape the last
rice grain
and my
stomach
ache's
satis-
fied. The appetizing smell seeps
through the
kitchen doors, overtakes the house
and my cousins come running. The smell lingers in
the
coordinating
den
furniture,
the heavy cotton curtains, and the faded carpet, becoming a permanent part of the
house.
On Christmas day, my aunt and I spend the whole day in the kitchen prepar-
ing for dinner. I watch her prepare ingredients and effortlessly go through each
recipe without a cookbook. She guides me through preparing sweet honey ham
glaze and chicken macaroni salad, all family recipes and each made from scratch.
Individual ingredients line her pantry shelves waiting to combine. She pays atten-
tion to each pot on the stove and keeps time for each dish. Her chubby fingers take
a taste every now and then. She adjusts each dish accordingly. While I pull apart
boiled chicken breast, she tells me
that
I'm growing up so fast. She laughs and
jokes that I am getting too skinny. She asks me about what
I
eat at school. I answer
her with anecdotes of skipped breakfasts,
Easymac
dinners, and
the
rice I make
but rarely finish. I tell her
that
I long for some
sinigang
(tamarind soup) or
adobo
so my rice doesn't go
to
waste. I long for satisfying meals at school. She promises
to teach me her recipes and her tasting techniques. I
long
for her taste buds, and
the ability to perfect any dish without exact measuring. Our relationship is or-
ganic and raw like the ingredients in her dishes, and held together because we are
a family based on food.
A
different smell rises from each pot on the stove. Each
smell adds to this morning's breakfast smells and reminds me how satisfying
home can be
.






II.
At school I live on microwave meals. I live deprived of the fresh vegetables
in my
sinigang
and the crackling sound of meat hitting hot oil. My cupboard
contains cans of Campbell's soup and boxes of Kraft Easymac
.
The choices in my
freezer are limited to Tyson's pre-cooked chicken breast, Steamfresh vegetables,
and boxes of Lean Cuisines. Sometimes, I use my small rice cooker to make a cup
or two of rice to eat with microwaveable chicken breast-my pathetic attempt at
a real meal. I see the translucent steam rise from the simmering jasmine rice, and
it reminds me of home. I know this dinner won't satisfy me, and I'll resort to junk
food later tonight. The smell is never strong enough to wake the house. It remains
in the microwave and doesn't last, especially not in the hard wooden chairs, the
linoleum floors, or the polyester curtains.
One night my housemate asks me to share dinner. She tells me she has rice
that we can share; the thought of a real rice meal excites me. As I walk into the
kitchen she brings out a packet of chicken flavored Knorr Rice Sides. She pours
the packet into plastic Tupperware and just adds water. I watch the powdered
flavoring clump on the water's surface and my mouth turns dry. I'm reluctant to
believe that seven microwave minutes can produce anything worthwhile. While
the rice spins and cooks under invisible rays, my housemate asks how my day
went and I tell her about the weird conversations I overheard on my way to class.
l ask her how her boyfriend is and when he is coming to visit. The microwave's
tone sounds and she pulls out the artificially yellowed rice. We split the rice
evenly and I share my microwavable chicken breast. While we eat, we make plans
for Friday night. We talk about how difficult thi
s
semester is turning out to be, and
our apprehensions about senior year. At this dinner
,
we share secrets and plans.
We share crazy dreams and help each other solve problems. Here, we become an
instant family. Seven minutes opens conversations and instigates laughter. We
make fun of our attempt at a real meal. The smell that rises from my plastic bowl
is nowhere near organic, but it preserves our friendship. It quickly turns us into
family.
39





40
The Gods That Make You Reach For Gods
by Raven Baptiste Holder
I
have a
spiral staircase that's
slippery
with all the spit shining on a bottle lip,
and dusty with all the old skin from knees
bent against the stair, raw in clumsy prayer.
God
listens even when you're lying,
asleep
in the pew, or on the floor
of the bathroom.
And when I reach as far as I can
and poke my fingers through the night
that is thinnest near the earth,
darkest under all the feet
carrying the dizzy into deeper vertigo,
I can touch the edge of his gaze.
I can hear the soft descent of angels
woven like tinsel into the roar of a toilet flush,
their fingers cool against the blush
of my cheek, sweeping into my hair
to hold it back.
Tomorrow, I'll try to forget the god I saw,
bright on the fragrant wings of vodka.
That god was white and shining,
in pieces of the stars, lining
these dark winding streets
like too many broken bottles,
sparkling and cast down
like angels who swagger in beauty
and reach only for crowns.







Fiction Contest Runner-Up:
As the Papaya Queen
by
Molly Mihalcik
Clancey Boyle makes me sweat. I become anxiously aware of this as I stare
hard into my also perspiring hotdog. Above my knee, I am tensing the heavy of
my flesh to the beat of unintelligible Spanish music scratching in the background.
There is a sty developing on my right eyelid and I can feel its lumpy heat digging
into my eyeball. My hair has not recovered from the night's events, as it is matted in
unattractive thatches at the nape of my neck Kneading my fingers into the cush of
my palms, an uneasy clamminess becomes evident. I hyperextend my legs ner-
vously as I grapple for a napkin. My chest is knocked into the rim of the standing
table accommodations along the window. Something gummy yet fluid in my throat
rattles as I release a surrendering, white flag of a breath.
Before me in a Styrofoam container sits a hot dog with ketchup and another
dressed with sauerkraut. I am unable to commit to a singular style of hot dog. Top-
pings offered at the Papaya King include zesty chili, cheddar cheese, sauteed on-
ions, sauerkraut, New York onions, tropical relish, coleslaw, sweet pickles, peppers,
and raw onions. I can barely keep loyalty with a beverage.
I
often
teeter between
a
familiar papaya juice and the newer Tropical Breeze, a mango-strawberry drink
This
hotdog
is
patented
as "tastier than Filet Mignon." Zagat's
lauds it
as the
"crown jewels of
hot doggery." For
me, I say it is
pretty
tasty.
Outwardly meager
in
size, the
Papaya King hot dog is not boastful
in appearance.
Char marks humble
its
reddish
skin.
The actual product is
a
far cry from the lush frankfurters displayed
on
the
picture menus
above
the counter. This hot dog supersedes
all
others wholly
in taste. Its innards cannot be duplicated. Composed of oregano and spiced beef,
the Papaya King hot dog is contained by German sausage casings which are said to
give
a
brilliant snap at first bite. I can attest. An unlikely pairing, the stand's papaya
juice perfectly complements this hot treat. More of a pulpy slush than a juice, Pa-
paya King extends a tropical selection unrivaled by competitors-coconut, mango,
banana, grapefruit, apple, cherry, pineapple, papaya.
Clancey Boyle's mouth is heaving and ridiculous. Upper lip extends awkward-
ly over the lower one. What was once an acceptable haircut has slowly regressed
into a defunct pompadour. Hanging at the sides in sloth-like strips, his arms are
capped by unusually slender fingers. The drum of his stomach is thick and enor-
mous. As straightforward friends, we thrived off of impromptu mischief, traipsing
the streets with our loud antics. Together, we knew how to ruin the sleep of others
using youth and hard feet. It was at
a
first-time momentary calm: after the evening
wailing had stopped, once our cohorts had found their own beds-would we find
41





42
ourselves unslept, tussled on a crude bean bag chair. Sex did its usual job: Clancey
Boyle and I no longer enjoyed simple rapport. Our frequent interactions slipped
into sick tradition. Each morning we would rise from our mistakes and process
towards Papaya King.
The corner of 86th and 3rd-this was Gus Puolo's dream. He stepped onto
the docks, still stinking of Greece, with a taste for tropical drinks thick in his spit.
While rising through the ranks in the deli business, the immigrant kept berries,
oranges, and papayas, prominently within mind
.
Supported by a single blender and
two waitresses dawning Hawaiian skirts, who is now the Papaya King was weak
at its beginnings
.
Gus did not relent! He took the rough and the waning-he stuck
around, sought out resolve. Soon enough, New Yorkers were lining up to lap down
the King's nectarous concoctions. Unknowing then, the young Greek's dream was
only at its crest.
After a roller skating accident, a bed ridden Gus was quick to find pure love
with his attractive German nurse. Apt to the neighborhood in that age, his nurse
would bring German delicacies to the injured entrepreneur. It was during these im-
mobile hours that affection struck Gus twice: the frankfurter. In 1934, the hot dog
was added to Papaya King's menu and a New York City dynasty took flight. FDR's
sips here are said to have influenced ideas for the New Deal. The Beatles made
Papaya King a primary pit stop before the bulk of their American television appear-
ances. Seinfeld's Kramer won't swear allegiance to any other hot dog. Papaya King
went on to satisfy not only Gus Puolo's ambitions but a smorgasbord of New York-
ers hungry for yummy juices and hot dogs.
Disrupting a pickup line that curves around a corner of the shop, a man
kneels over a baby carriage. His fingernails are noticeably dirty and his hands
are tan with filth. Engulfed by ink, finger to shirt sleeve, the man gently opens his
purchase and dissects the links, bird-like, precise. In slow approach, he places a
sliver of lukewarm meat on the baby's equally pink tongue. This process continues
gingerly-the man's gray bicep retracts to-and-fro in loving frequency. Tight fisted,
the baby simultaneously coos at each tender hot dog tear.
Earlier in the line, a short woman with gristly, teased hair pounded on the
counter, palm flexed. She demanded to know why the price of the Home Run Com-
bo has risen to a staggering $5.18. The betrayal startles her. She demands explana-
tion yet succumbs to the King's ransom.
"Who the hell!" Her mutter came as a petit shout while she rustled through
her worn handbag. Her elbows were pointy and jabbed up violently at pending
search.
"Own that, Girlfriend!" another woman who also preceded me in line does a








strange hip twist. The magenta beads that end her hair click alongside her encour-
aging pitch.
I am not Clancey Boyle's girlfriend. Her name is Katherine
.
She is about my
same height, has little hands, and wears fashionable glasses. I do not think Clancey
Boyle brings her to the Papaya King.
Outside, the corner of 86th and 3rd is dimly illuminated by the indoor hot
dog stand's fluorescent lamps. At night, this light crosses the faces of its entering
clientele in guilty, burnt orange strips
.
A
crowned melon grins and wields a hot dog
alongside the purring tube lights. Customers surrender to his gaze entranced as
they foray into the stand. Inside, everything is tinted gray by an inexplicable layer
of city murk. Fire engine red, dark green, and gleaming yellow-all seem a little
less majestic and a lot more muted under their cape of soot. The wall tiles remind
me of multicolored piano keys. Along the shelves of cups and extinct blenders are
tropical fruits that have also fallen victim to the store's dusty cast. The central
counter is divided by a window full of hot dogs twirling in their own drippings.
Pineapples everywhere. Music is kept low
'
in here to oblige the bustling orders and
the insufferable, screaming signs that hang at all angles. My favorite leers from the
left wall and bluntly asks, "HAVE YOU EVER TRIED CELERY JUICE?" These posters
are insistent; I never thought I'd find myself slugging down celery juice. Just so, I
never saw myself living through more than several hot dog dates with an already
girlfriended Clancey Boyle.
The aroma here is smarmy and acidic. It seethes through the nasal passages
into the eyes, attempting to twitch the optic nerve by sick delight. It sinks into the
pores causing one to lower the eyelids in ecstasy a little bit. I can feel it on top of
my skin, wiggling through the fibers of my clothing and tangling in even the finest
of hairs along my neck. Other sharp smells can be made out--grapefruit, seasonal
Carrot juice, searing chili, however; boiling pig product is most foreboding. This is
not a smell that one becomes adjusted or accustomed to; however, it is not a scent
that one can easily expel from the smell catalog. Papaya King Smell sits as a yellow
fog profound in my lungs, clawing up my throat. Months ago, when I met Katherine
for the first time, I spluttered a little of this smog on her face as I introduced myself.
Right in front of me in line is a cab driver, small indentations from his beaded
seat covering spot hist-shirt and pants.
As
he quietly orders and goes to pay, first
flicking over his cab accreditation, he warmly pauses at a photograph of a woman.
The photo is from the shoulders up, she is wearing a yellow sari and her eyes are
sunken, ghoulish, str
i
king.
A
purple flower hangs nonchalantly where her ear
meets long hair. Withdrawing some money from the leather pouch, he thumbs
through bills with one hand and clutches the wallet in the other. With the grasping
43





44
hand, his thumb circles the pictured face, lingering fondly at the purple flower, and
then
continuing
clockwise, routinely until he closes the wallet.
The midday pilgrimage to Papaya King is unspoken. Today, on our
succinct
lag down 1st Avenue and up 86th Street, Clancey Boyle stops before a man selling
toys on the street. Wooden snakes, teddy bears, a wind-up dog that chirps, wax
eggs
full of confetti, small mancala sets, whirligigs. There is a mechanical baby laid
on its stomach, feet propped in the air quaintly, it can kick and giggle. It wears a
pink nightgown; its cheeks are glowing red. Clancey Boyle shoves this toy in my
face.
His expression widens beneath his unkempt eyebrows and light knotted hair
mingles in his eyelashes. He guffaws with an idiotic grin. I have never loved any-
body more in my entire life.
Sometime last May, the Health Department came through Papaya King in
dreadful torrents: accusation, distrust, inspection. After flooding the place with 88
supposed
health violations, Papaya King's fluorescent lights went black.
"Rats!" Clancey Boyle chirped and waved his hands in alarm.
"Mice are a city-wide problem," I responded dryly, staring at the deserted hot
dog giant.
Two days later, stuffed mouthed children dawdled on the corner of 86th and
3rd again. The hazy glare of the smiling melon reflected off the sidewalk in tri-
umph. Lines disrupted the general street traffic. The deep stink of steaming pork
lapped the faces of Upper East Siders once more. Papaya King prevailed as if noth-
ing had ever dared to question its legitimacy.
Looking from the inside out of the Papaya King, a business man is propped
against the window so that I can see the rumpling of his stern jacket against the
glass. He is sipping a large sized drink and staring intently at a girl whom dances
wildly by a phone booth. On top of the payphone there is a small, shabby boom
box. He is close enough so that I can see the professional gnaw the thin plastic of
his straw, slurping up pulpy liquid in sync with the bass. He is gripping the drink
tightly. The paper of the cup is slowly denting, submitting where his wedding ring
sits among his curling fingers. Although this business man is still, his face twists up
simultaneously in tune to the girl's stomping legs. Her arms begin to move hypnoti-
cally, chopping the air, hewing the business man's tidy logic. His eyes are faithful to
her rhythm.
Behind my eating head, there is a steady chorus of orders. King's Combo
with chili and cheese. Banana Daquiri. Knish and Coconut Champagne. For your
smoothie you can request non-fat yogurt, honey, wheat germ, or soy protein. Two
franks with New York onions. Most regulars stick to what they know no matter
how worn and scratched their taste buds may be to the tang. Clancey Boyle always






gets two hot dogs with tropical relish, a side of Cajun curly fries, and a mango juice.
His order curls off his lipoid tongue, as if he too has forgotten how to choose.
I want to hear reciprocation. I know it well: Clancey Boyle's oafish fingers
run the slope of my lower back, lovingly rubbing each digit down my hard spine.
Dragged at clasped arm to the counter area, I lace my own fingers over the strong,
balmy webs of Clancey Boyle's hands. This still, my ears do not believe what my
body has come to know. With spoken words would come solidarity, an air of
explanation. My validity as a loving being lingers between oily wafts, the starving
demands of strangers. Aloud, I become real. Instead, Clancey Boyle and I resign to
the dull hiss of churning juice, poor radio reception
.
In the righter line, a girl who appears to be about my age waits to order.
Brassy haired and awkwardly shaped. Her hair is loosely braided-little wisps
peek out of the patterned knot defiantly. Pulses of door breeze cause one of these
stray hairs to fishhook her mouth into a slight smile
.
I notice our similarly tiny
hands-hers dutifully trace the pocket seam in a pair of jean shorts. Her eyes dart
around the shop frenetically as if she is waiting for a bit more than a hot dog and a
juice. I knew this girl once as myself on a night that has since stretched my moral
fiber to mere threads
.
All too easily, I transpose her back to the evening Clancey
Boyle first slept with me
.
I can see Clancey Boyle's firm hands weaving through
her hair as he lowers
h
is
fac
e overhead, the girl's scalp stinking of nig
htt
ime
.
He
r
nubile, un
t
o
uc
he
d b
o
d
y m
elts
i
nt
o
th
e bean bag cha
i
r.
Th
eir we
i
g
h
t, compo
u
nded,
shif
t
s o
n
t
h
e
lo
usy
st
a
b
ility of co
n
taine
d
polyure
th
a
n
e
b
ea
ds. I
wa
nt
to pa
r
t
th
e air,
m
u
d
dl
ed wi
th
pa
n
t
ing gu
s
ts and t
e
ll he
r
-St
op!
You
a
r
e g
oi
ng
t
o d
o things
you'd
never
im
ag
ine y
o
u
'
d do
.
You
'
ll hurt
t
iny h
a
nd
e
d
g
i
rls
not
unli
k
e yo
u
rs
elf. You
'
ll
s
u
ff
er. Instead
,
I breathe in the t
a
rt wind that
s
ur
ro
u
n
d
s; I
h
a
ve always been fier
c
e
fo
r
my
s
elf and I w
a
nt this to live. I let them
d
o what they
a
r
e
going to do again and
ag
a
in.
A
s
houting man divides the throng of Papaya King Goers to deliver a cas
e
of m
a
ngoes. The crowd
'
s constant chatter lulls for a moment. I reach diagonally
across the Styrofoam boxes div
i
ding us and wipe the remnants of Clancey Boyle
'
s
tropical relish from the crook of his mouth
.
The gestur
e
is habitual and unnoticed.
C
l
ancey B
o
yle's clean lips purse forward first, and then turn upward at the sides.
Head cocked at a slant, he blinks knowingly towards me and raises the hot dog to
his face once more. I cannot see beyond this-I cannot
s
ee.
45








46
Fiction Contest Winner:
Attica, Heaven
by Nick Sweeney
The angels are at it again. I look out the window at the raging thunderstorm
outside and wonder if the angels know better than to fight each other. I was sup-
posed to be sweeping the floors of the house, to keep the tenants in check, but
I'd rather watch a war unfold. Momma told me that every time there's a thunder-
storm it's because of the angels fighting up in heaven. The clouds become dark,
the lightning and thunder comes in and shakes the earth to its core. These storms
were merely clashes of good and evil. An inconvenience for us all, it goes back as
far as the Good Book itself. And that's just how the world works. Attica was always
known for the holy fights, but they were also known for other things. That's what
Century Long tells me anyway. The old man who's been a tenant in this house for
at least a century tells me
that
our little town of Attica was war-torn by the North-
ern Invasion. He teaches me history every Wednesday, when Momma goes out to
the market for a few hours. It's a secret. Momma, or Momma McCall as some call
her, keeps a sharp eye on me. I don't go to the Attica Grammar School because she
doesn't believe in it.
"Nate McCall, if there's anything worth learning, I'll tell you." She says time
and time again.
So I learn the basics around the house. I do all sorts of things: I learn how to
write and read by rewriting sections of the Bible, I learn how to do math by count-
ing up the rent from all the tenants, and I even learn about nature by taking care
of the garden
.
Mostly, I water when they need it, cut down the common weeds
that find their way in, and I take care of the snakes. Momma says no snakes in
the garden. That last one's almost a job though. History is a secret lesson and she
doesn't know about it
.
She doesn't even trust the old man, says he's an old artifact
who loves to fill young boys' minds with useless trash, but he keeps paying the
rent on time. The man doesn't work anymore, so the source of it is a mystery to us
all
.
Momma thinks he gets his rent from the Lord himself.
But today, on a rainy Wednesday
,
Century Long is telling me about how
Attica was made. In the beginning, he says, it was just an outpost, a place to stay
for travelers in the old times, but eventually the people decide to stick around. So
they made a town and called it Attica. And soon they started to make streets and
give them names. Street. Avenue. Road. And then they called the small creek con-
nected to the Ohio River
,
Catfish Creek. And then everything started to get names.
The stores. The houses
.
The people. I suspect this was the beginning of our Eden
.





This is how the McCall boarding house came to be
.
It was a place for travelers
with no place to go. It was passed down family by family, from the original owner
Reverend McCall who was a priest, to the hothead cavalry officer Amos McCall
who died valiantly in a charge against the Union Invaders nearly a hundred years
ago and down the line to Momma McCall. I've come to believe that Century Long
has lived here since the dawn of Attica, since the time things were named.
Momma takes pride in everything she does. Century Long tells me that she
runs a tight ship, whatever that means, and that she keeps everyone in check. And
she also lets everyone and anyone stay in, as long as they pay of course. When
she's not busy running the boarding house, she prays to the Lord himself nearly
every day since I can remember. At least twice a day. That's when the garden
started.
She told me about the thunderstorms one day when we were tending to
the garden.
"So why do the angels fight?" I say to the old man. He's in his old reading
chair surrounded by dusty books showing me pictures of the old times. There are
pictures of the boarding house over the years as it grew and I see pictures of some
of the old tenants and I swear I can see a younger Century Long in one of the older
pictures.
"Because they have to I suppose."
"Do they fight like the South did?"
He mumbles under his breath and then coughs and it smells like caramel
candy. I look out the window and see the winds push back the tree out in the
backyard. I look around to see how the garden's doing, and see that it's in one
piece. I know I'll have to beat a snake or two when the storm lets up. I wonder
why angels fight so close to a place like this. But I figure that Attica's a battlefield,
and
there's no questioning it. Attica will always be Attica. I
ask
him again but now
he's
sleeping.
Century Long teaches me a lot of things, but I know it's time to go
when
he goes to sleep. That means Momma is coming home soon. I go downstairs,
past some of the other tenants and go into my room to grab my notebook and the
Bible so I can start copying Second Thessalonians. The storm outside continues
on and I wait for Momma to come back. And that's when
I
hear the crash. I look
outside and
there's a man lying outside near the garden. I'm the only one who
hears it and I run downstairs. Momma will kill me if anything happens to the
garden
and then it hits me. I go back to Century Long's room and wake him up. I
show him the man outside on the ground in the soaking rain.
"Century, what is that?"
"Beats
me."
47






48
"Could
it
be an angel?" I ask as we stand
there
looking out the window and
the storm outside.
"Maybe
he fell out of
the
sky," he says and goes back
to
his reading chair.
It makes sense.
The
battles in the sky, the angel falling. There can't be an-
other reason.
This
is Eden
after
all and maybe he came here
to
help guard against
the
snakes.
I
look around and Century Long
is
again asleep. I decide to invite
the
man who fell from
the
sky into
the
house, figuring that Momma would want me
to be polite
to a
guest like
the holy
messenger.
The
storm starts to let up for a few
moments and
I
run outside. I always wanted
to
meet an angel and now this
is my
shot.
So
many
questions, so
many
things
to talk
about. I
wanted to
ask
him what it
was like
to fight
his
own brothers, and if he believed in fighting.
I
slowly
made my way to the garden,
arming
myself with my wooden stick
used against
the snakes. These days you can
never
be
safe enough.
Never know
where
a
snake
will come
from.
The man
on the ground is on
his
stomach
and
he
looks tired.
His wings are gone, probably destroyed
in falling from
earth. Wings
are
the reasons I love
angels,
and I
wonder
how they
fight
in the sky, with the
thunder,
the lightning and the darkness.
If
there can
be any light at all. The man
finally
moves
after a
long and wet
moment. He
looks like every other
man,
yet
I know
he's more. He hides his wings because he is among us now. Wings are a
dead giveaway to see an
angel.
I hold
my snake
fighting stick firmly as I stand my
ground.
Momma will be coming home soon and she can't see me all dirty and wet.
The man looks at me and I'm not sure what to do.
"What's
your name?" I
say.
"Michael.
Who's asking?" He groggily says as he stands up, completely
soaked
and dirty. I thank the Lord for letting him fall just a few feet away from
Momma's garden. And it hits
me.
I'm talking to Michael, the archangel. I don't
know who else it could possibly be. I remember Century Long telling me that
there was a warrior angel called Michael was the general of the angels and he's a
tough son of a bitch, but I can't say that to anyone. Momma will kill me if I ever say
that to her face. But Michael, this angel, leads the good angels against their rebel-
lious brothers. I stumble over my words now that I realize I'm in the presence of a
warrior of the Lord.
"I am. My name is Nate. Want to go somewhere dry?"
He merely nods his head. The storm now vanishes. The man who fell from
the sky looks dead, a sign of a long battle overhead. All soldiers must look like this,
so tired, so worn down from battle. No wonder he fell, he's been fighting for the
longest of us all. Even longer then Amos McCall from the Northern Invasion.







"Of course." I say. We walk back into the house and
into
the kitchen. He sits
down and I give him a plate of
crackers
and a glass of milk. We're running low on
food and I can't wait for Momma to get home. Although I'm
sure
she will love to
help an angel, I don't think she'd like the dirt we brought in. We sit there
silently
eating and I just watch him. Losing his wings must be hard; he looks like he's tak
-
ing the pain well. But Michael is the archangel of the Lord; I imagine he lives up to
the son of a bitch status he's received down here. Maybe he's seen Amos McCall
around up there, and my thoughts lead me to think that the crazy cavalry
officer
is
bringing all kind of hell up there. I look outside and the storm starts up again, as
quickly as it stopped.
"Well Nate, I have to go now." He puts the plate down in the middle of the
table in our kitchen.
"Why?" I say. I want to ask him to help me with the snakes in the garden. I
want Momma to see that I brought an angel home. Momma prays enough
to
the
man upstairs, I might as well be polite to his most faithful soldier.
Just
like
the
Mc-
Calls were to their renegade Confederate relative Amos.
"Because
I have
to
go back now. It's getting late."
He
says.
"Are you going back to
the
clouds?" I ask him, wondering where
his wings
are. Back must be the
heavenly
battle overhead. Michael doesn't respond, and
simply smiles at me. He fights the
rebel
angels- his brothers- and smiles.
I want
to ask him about
the
rebellion,
about his brothers,
about the Lord himself.
While
I wonder of
heavenly things, he leaves without
a trace. He
must fly back to
battle,
I
suppose.
And while I
look
out the back window at the garden, thinking of hav-
ing
another
guard for the garden when Momma comes
in
with two bags from the
market.
"Nate McCall, why are you so wet and dirty?" Momma
says.
I know she's
mad and I look back with nothing to say. Century Long is probably taking his nap
still, and I can't wait to tell him the good news. I can't wait to tell him about the
archangel Michael. But she's still yelling at me about being a dirty mess and I can't
stop but to smile.
I wonder if Momma knows how close our Attica is to Heaven.
49






50
Poetry Contest Runner-Up:
That's All You Get Today
by Gabrielle Albino
There's a dead man who won't leave me alone
.
I wouldn't mind him coming around if he was alive.
When he visits he's impossible
to get rid of, so I welcome him unwillingly.
Sometimes we have fun.
Four nights ago we got drunk
a
nd laughed about how amusing we think we are.
Dancing at red lights on Genesee Street.
Driving golf carts to gas stations.
Who do we think we are?
Last night he saved me from a sinking ship.
But the baby blankets, no! They were lost.
Why come around when you know you can't stay?
Sometimes we're just in line at the grocery store.
Tonight I'll go to bed afraid he'll crash
the party I wish I was having.
Tomorrow I'll wake up
feeling like I killed someone.







Poetry Contest Winner; Delusions of Being Decrepit
by
Michael Cresci
I.
There's more hair than ever
and even less desire to remove it.
Eventually it will render me an
Adam's Family character and I'll
suffocate in maturity: The suit I'll wear in
my coffin. And my tie
will be made of responsibility and gas bills.
Motherfucking fuel economy.
II.
Is it that we get wiser or
that we grow to accept that
wisdom is unattainable?
Perhaps we simply need a warm up?
Who wouldn't like that?
In junior high basketball, the warm up period
before each game was when I came closest
to playing, and subsequently,
when I felt the most alive.
III.
When staring at a diploma or
photo albums filled with accounts
of your college liver damage or
childhood vacations and teenage love
or the zealous inhalation of cleverly named drugs,
it can seem that time flies no matter what
the level of fun.
IV.
It seems I'm lingering between young and old.
Drunk and hung over.
Who knows?
51







52
That, I imagine, is
the
right
thing to
say in
most
situations.
But then again, who knows?
V.
Then comes
the
day you realize that
you've been
riding
an awful lot of trains lately;
while sitting next
to
a man wearing an unmatching
blue
suit.
The jackets and
pants
from two different
outfits.
Both
blue,
neither the
same.
He sees you as young even
though
you
feel ancient
.
Older
than
your
age since you love quoting Brando.
I could
have been a contender, you say. I could have
been somebody.
Then there's the day you realize there's enough
passion
in the world already.
Everything
trembles with it.
VI.
Trains are
for the
old, as are long distances.
For the young
there
are
only
suburban streets and
the distance
between basements.
Basements complete
with beat
up red
make out couches, old
exercise
equipment,
poorly
done horror films
and
an undeniable lack of context.
VII.
During
a
stroll by the water you wonder
if there is a more evocative word than "brackish."
Probably.
There is always a more "something" version
of everything.
VIII.
I remember how it feels to be young and
drunk in the summer;



I remember how every
autumn my head spins with nostalgia
until I shrivel like a leaf,
floating unnoticed to the ground.
I remember being old and hung over
in the winter.
I remember how things thaw come spring looking
like they always did yet altogether different.
IX.
Not old, not young, not anything really.
Craving the days of mandatory blood work
when I'd weep and my infatigable mother would whisper,
"It will all be over soon."
53









54
Non-Fiction Contest Runner-Up:
Ever Concerned With Forever Ago
by Michael Cresci
All
time
is
all
time. It
does
not change. It does not lend itself to warnings
or
explanations.
It simply
is.
Take it moment by moment, and
you
will find that we
are
all, as I've
said
before, bugs in amber.
-Kurt Vonnegut
Nothing ends. Nothing ever ends.
-Alan Moore
I'm full of shit. I can think of no other way to start this story. I don't know
where
to begin. I'm full of shit same as every other person. We all lie and say
things we don't mean and convince ourselves of things that aren't true but I'm es-
pecially full of shit because I'm trying to tell a story which clearly has a beginning
yet I'm unable to find a point at which to start. I
could
start in my kitchen with my
mother. She could say something like, "Time heals all wounds honey. She wasn't
good enough for my baby anyway." I can look at her with infinite disgust and say
with certainty, "There is NO ONE else." And I can believe it. I did believe it. And she
and
my friends can tell me that I'll get "over it" and I won't even have the slightest
idea
what those words mean. I'm still not sure what they mean or if they are even
real. And they were right. I'm as over it as I can be, but how much is that really?
What's "over it?" I could start like that. Or I could skip it all and start with a poem
I tried to write. I suppose I've never "gotten over" that poem.
It was titled
"Ever
Concerned With Forever Ago." It was an attempt to
reconcile my then current location, which was a hotel room in London, with my
inability to stop thinking about a past relationship from which I'd already moved
on. Sometimes it's impossible to not feel trapped with yourself and your past. I
was sharing the room with a friend but he was gone for the day so I sat completely
naked, listened to Elvis Costello "Greatest Hits" albums, and wrote all day. There
were 5 mirrors located throughout the tiny room and as a result I was every-
where. At the time I wrote, "I've got me cornered!"
The window had no screen
and
if one tripped one could easily find them-
selves dead on the street. The very idea dizzied me so I got up to pace. I walked
back and forth while my head spun and I thought about too much at once. I tried
doing pushups to distract myself. It was too bizarre to see five other versions of
myself doing the same thing. An eerie game of follow the leader. I began to realize






that the mirrors were reflecting other mirrors. It creates an endless loop of the
same thing. Everything existing at once and endlessly. It was too much so I turned
away.
The curtains were red and green with touches of yellow. I have the urge
to describe them as faux-Victorian but to be honest they were just ugly. A snot
covered Christmas, if you will. This information overload became too much so I
laid down. Each bed came with two pillows. Unfortunately they were the kind that
looked big and soft only to reveal that their appearance, of providing neck sup-
port and head elevation, is an elaborate illusion. The kind where you feel like your
head is stuck in between all of the softness rather than over it. This was not help-
ing at all so I spun my head to the foot of the bed. At the foot was a small brown
blanket that seemed to serve no purpose whatsoever
.
It was too thin and short to
provide substantial warmth. It was too plain to provide decoration. At the time
the room layout seemed oddly important as things can when you're naked and
surrounded by mirrors.
And then I looked into one of them and I could see myself on a street corner
with a girl in a blizzard and we're fighting and screaming until we go hoarse and
not really saying anything. The people who walk around have flushed cheeks from
the cold and from drunkenness. In another mirror I see me at my kitchen table
telling my mom, "There is no one else," and my younger brother rolls his eyes
and walks out the room. In another I see me meeting that girl in a dance club that
we both don't want to be at and discussing the upcoming presidential primaries.
She has a Long Island Iced Tea. I have a Jack and Coke. And I see us out in a ga-
zebo surrounded by music watching the boats float down the Hudson. And I see
the two of us in a McDonalds ordering a McFlurry from a comically overweight
cashier, giggling like idiots.
I sat and wrote and wrote and wrote. I tried to explain when all these mo-
ments took place and why they mattered. Tried to decide if they mattered. Then
I crumpled up the pages threw them against one of my reflected doppelgangers
and wrote all over again. I kept coming to the same idea and losing the ability to
continue. I wanted to write about the human tendency of acting like goldfish in
regards to love. We forget so quickly that we could destroy ourselves if not prop-
erly taken care of. I tried all my nifty college writing tricks and none seemed to
work. I went through half a notebook before I jotted down a final attempt. "We get
burned. We get over it. Then we reach back into the fire convinced we'll eventually
end up fireproof." And when the poem was finished it still wasn't any good
.
But I
didn't crumple up the page.
55






56
That night I had just seen a production of
Waiting For Godot.
It had been my
first experience with Samuel Beckett's brilliant mindfuck of a play and it made me
feel like I was thinking for the first time. For some reason this had started me on
a drawing kick so I sketched a self
portrait.
Now I say sketch as if drawing is one
of my skills, but it is not.
Regardless,
I
was
happy
with the
result.
The top
of
the
page was just below my eyes and
the bottom
was
the
end of my short beard. My
eyes and the
top
of my head
didn't
make
the cut.
I
decided to draw
some missing
teeth because it seemed appropriate.
In reality my
teeth are
pretty
nice by
tooth
standards.
At
this
point my
friend returned
to the room
saw
me
sitting
there naked
and said
what most
of us
would
say, "Um ...
dude?" He
grabbed
whatever
it
was he
had
forgotten --maybe his iPod --and left. But before leaving he
saw
my drawing
and asked
why there were teeth missing. "Because that's how
I
feel," I answered.
Thinking
back that was a really cryptic and unnecessary answer but it makes
more
sense
now than it did then. At the time I thought I was being deep because
sometimes
I'm just a pretentious bastard. But now I realize that in a way I
am
missing
teeth. Everyone is. I feel like me and life are having a fistfight and I keep
getting more and more bruised and getting more and more teeth knocked out. In
this
"fight"
I'm holding my own but in the end I'm gonna be worn down. Even Mo-
hammad Ali went down eventually. And I may float like a butterfly but bees scare
the shit out of me. The point is that even the happiest guy in the world has his fair
share of scars. And that brings us to the girl from the poem. Lauren.
I'll always associate Lauren with corny and romantic rambling. Sappy and
unrealistic pontifications which I'd provide to anyone who'd listen. Especially
her. It was a staple of our relationship and one that now embarrasses me greatly.
Still, I imagine those are the things that make love so great at the time. We all
have to have our heart torn out at some point and I suppose we should thank the
person that does but goddamn did I ever make a fool out of myself. She had long
brown hair that started near sandy blonde when I met her but ended up dark and
pushing red by the time we were dating. It would always end up in my mouth no
matter how hard I tried to avoid it. She was pale with green eyes and that combi-
nation used to make my knees weak. She complained that her nose looked "like a
snout" and wished she had been named Lorelai, like her parents had considered,
instead. We'd argue over whether or not Michael Buble sucks or not
-
he does- and
pretended to debate politics but in reality just agreed loudly. I'd make fun of her
being from Buffalo by insinuating she lived in an igloo plqgued Qy an angry Yeti.
She donned a "near Canadian" accent which was exemplified by her statements









ending with a question mark or as she put
it
"questioning myself." She didn't say
"eh?"
but
she
often made declarations and
then
said "yeah?" immediately after.
For some reason this accent drove me wild.
We spent
most nights attempting to do something we could classify as an
"ad
venture."
This usually consisted of
driving
around aimlessly arguing over what
music to listen to. Once
she
went online and found a list of things to wish upon.
Assorted
superstitions
that supposedly contained magic
powers,
so we set off to
do all of
them. We
wished when
the
clock struck 11:11.
We
picked green M&M's
out of a
McFlurry
and picked the seeds out of a watermelon we
bought
at a
24
hour supermarket a little past 4 a.m.
We
threw
pennies
into a drinking fountain
because it was too late
to
search for a real one and we fell asleep
holding
each
other, fully
dressed,
our
shoes
still on.
The funny
part is we
hardly
dated at
all but we acted
like
we
were
for a long
time and broke
up
for even
longer. In
a sense,
she was the culmination
of years of
sense
less
idealized
romance
and
foolish ideas
about
love. She
was
the transition
between the silly high school
puppy love of the past
and
real world
adult
love
that
I was just discovering. She
was both wrapped up
in
one.
A
lesson.
A
guidebook
on
how to fall in
love.
How To Fall in Love
2009:
Think
for the first time you might be
better
off, despite your best efforts
not to. It's been plenty of months since you last saw her. Tell everyone you
are
completely over it. Be pretty much over it unless someone mentions her name or
Cornell. Wholly despise Cornell and the word "transfer." Start hating her for vague
reasons. Look at old things you wrote about her and feel embarrassed of them.
Occasionally let a dizzy nostalgia sweep over you like a disease when you smell
that distinctive swirl of coconut and lime. Wish you had seen her naked more and
then feel like a pervert for thinking that way. Get over it for good but remain angry
you never got any real closure. Start pursuing someone new. Begin to suspect that
life will keep getting harder from here on out.
2008
Part
2:
Find that dating is even better than you expected it to be. Jokingly tell each
other that you are the best kissers of all time. Really mean it. Get frustrated and
wonder, more, what she looks like naked but take pride in not pressuring her.
When she asks
if
you still like her even though she's
"not
a whore" know she's
57








58
u
s
ing the joke to mask insecurity
.
Answer "I'd wait forever, babe." Really mean
it. When she blushes kiss her nose and fall in love. When she gets sick and can't
sl
eep get her Nyquil pills. When she can't swallow them search the whole dorm
fo
r
cough syrup until eventually someone provides it. Sit up with her stroking
her hair and face until five in the morning, when she can finally fall asleep. Hope
that she
'
s dreaming of you. Consider your cliche feelings original and previously
unknown to the rest of the world. Spend the next month incredibly happy and
consider all the long buildup to dating part of your relationship. Use this to justify
the intensity of your feelings. Be convinced that things will keep gett
i
ng easier
from here on out.
Out of nowhere find out she
'
s still transferring. Pretend you support the de-
cision and bury all the anger it causes. Lose the foolish delusion that she'd stay for
you; it will be like being the last kid in the class to find out the truth about Santa.
Get dumped a few weeks into the summer in order to be "spared of getting hurt."
Keep talking everyday and pretend nothing's different. Fight...a lot. Say things
like 'Tm sick of caring more than you do." Convince yourself she doesn't know
what she wants and that persistence will win out because this love is "too real."
Visit her and have the best weekend you could have ever imagined. Proclaim that
kissing her after a long separation is heaven. Realize the situation is a ticking time
bomb. Kiss her for the last time.
2008
Part
1:
Flirt furiously and often spend nights talking until four in the morning. Talk
about your hate of dance clubs ( say they're for "mindless idiots") and your love of
the word "whippersnapper." Begin sleeping through morning classes and spend-
ing the whole day plotting ways to see her earlier. Catch endless crap from your
friends about "not making a move" and get angry when they ask, "Have you fucked
her yet?" Start thinking of the ways she's perfect for you. Scold yourself for being
too sentimental. Be stern with yourself to secure your masculinity. Worry vaguely
when she says she has been thinking about transferring. Assume that once you
are finally together she will have a reason to stay. Lay a
w
ake thinking of cheesy
poems comparing her to a flower or calling her hair "a jungle."
Tell your friends from home that you've met the most amazing girl of all
time and it seems like she might be interested. When they say they are happy for
you say, "So am
I."
Begin to suspect life gets easier from here on out. Start increas-
ing your music inventory to include things she likes in an effort to pretend you've
liked them all along. Contemplate what she looks like naked. Invite her to your






room saying, "I need to tell you something." She'll reply coyly with, "What about?"
Decide you don't love her yet but know you will soon enough. Say, "You know I'm
crazy about you, right?" Kiss and let the room spin. Worry, for the first time in
your life, that you're not as good a kisser as you think. Giggle like idiots and say,
"I've been waiting a long time to do that." Believe that it can only get easier from
here on out.
2007:
Meet drunkenly in a dance club. Talk about Barack Obama and how much
you hate the club you're in. Slur your speech and decide you want to kiss this girl.
Part ways after five minutes assuming you've seen her for the last time. See her
a week later in your dorm and strike up a conversation. Begin going out of your
way to see her. Tell her you like her and get shot down because she "just got out
of a relationship." Tell her you respect that. Go on a few dates with another girl to
move on. Compare the new girl unfavorably to her and decide you don't want to
move on. Begin talking until early hours of the morning almost daring the sun to
rise and ruin the moment. Hide the overwhelming excitement you feel when you
overhear her friends teasing her for always flirting with you. Get excited for the
future.
2005:
Get your first "serious" girlfriend, Danielle, in high school at the age of 16
and marvel at the breathtaking coconut and lime scent she wears. Foolishly say I
love you within a week of dating. Think you really mean it
.
Start planning your fu-
ture together
.
Decide you're practically an adult. Know it can only get easier from
here on out.
But our story doesn't explain why I'm thinking of Lauren in London, 3,000
miles away, quite happy with my life. It doesn't explain why when I look in the
mirror I see Lauren and I in a McDonald's eating M&M's and trying to decide if
the old man at another table is sleeping. Or why I see us sitt
i
ng in dorm room on
a bed discussing past relationships and people who are terrible kissers. Our story
doesn't explain why the mirrors show me sitting in my kitchen depressed while
my mother gives me a sandwich that she took the crust off of because that's how I
ate them when I was a kid.
The story doesn't explain those things and it also leaves out one crucial part.
The end. It's the part I can't stop thinking about. Somewhere in between
"2008
59







60
Part 2" and
"2009"
I went to Cornell to visit her and see a performance she was
in.
She had
invited
me and
,
from my perspective, played up the fact that we'd get
to spend some time alone which was long overdue. I had convinced myself that
this was going to be the point when we got back on track. Long story short, it was
an agonizingly long day in which she rehearsed the whole time and I sat around
alone in her dorm room. After several more obstacles prevented us from spending
time together, I asked her if we'd ever get to. This, as it turns out, was a mistake.
What followed was the kind of fight that feels as if it will never end. The kind
where
you get dizzy and talk in circles. It took place on a street corner in Ithaca,
NY in the middle of a snow storm- it was intolerably cold because we'd been walk-
ing to a party and as a result didn't have jackets on. Drunken college kids were
walking around and occasionally stopped to watch the show we were putting on.
As the snow fall increased so did the volume of our voices. We screamed every
hurtful thing we could think of at each other. Our voices became hoarse and our
points remained pointless. Eventually I stormed off and tried to find my way back
only to get lost for over an hour in the snow storm. I walked with nothing but
questions and tears. Who was this person telling me that it had been over for a
long time? How could I believe something that now seemed to be such a monu-
mental lie? Why, oh why, did I not wear gloves?
When I finally got back to her room some of her friends were there drinking
and I had the pleasure of explaining that it was only me returning. Finally, some-
one broke the tension by offering me a beer. It was warm Miller High Life Light.
A very collegiate drink. Having eaten nothing that day I was substantially buzzed
after two and this is about the time Lauren returned also drunk. We proceeded
to engage in another heated, and now heavily slurred, battle in which I was told
a few choice phrases about why she could "never love me." Being able to take
no more I got up and began to walk away prepared to collapse and sleep it all
away. As I walked down the hall I said, "You can't blame me for loving you." She
answered, after a moment's pause,
''And
you can't blame me for not." When we
returned to her room, where I had to sleep next to her due to space limitations,
her friends stayed up talking until around 7 a.m. preventing any real sleep. The
next day I drove off, delirious from lack of sleep, into yet another snow storm and
I haven't spoken to her since. On the ride home I fell asleep at the wheel, twice. My
car drifted into the ridges on the side of the road jarring me awake. BUH! BUH!
BUH! BUM! It served as a jolt but soon enough my eyelids drooped because I'd
been tired for so goddamn long. No more emotions. No more delusions. Just damn
tired.







The failed poem I tried to write nude in London was about that night. The
title came from this line:
"If
I ever
see
her again and she asks if I remember that
night I'll answer,
'I
remember every detail. The Germans wore gray, you wore
blue.' I suppose I'm ever concerned with forever ago." Of course if I really did have
that conversation with her I doubt I'd quote
Casablanca.
I hope I would, though. I
really do.
Back in the room in London I looked at the mirrors and could see everything
at once. I saw Lauren and I sitting in a gazebo overlooking the Hudson; me sitting
up against an arch with her between my legs with the back of her head resting on
my chest. My arms are around her sides with my hands on her stomach. She slips
her fingers through mine and we take it all in. To the left a college choir is practic-
ing. They're singing gospel songs which I don't recognize but she does and she
critiques their lack of range. It serves as background music and it all seems a bit
surreal. To the right, rowing teams are gliding through the water as I find flaws in
their form. "It's like we're surrounded by our two worlds;' she says. Then we wan-
der down to a dock and get sun drunk talking for hours about our family secrets.
Our schizophrenic aunts and alcoholic uncles. Surrounded by our past hobbies
and past lives, not caring what comes next.
I tried to write about that too but I was too worn out. As my mother always
used to say,
'All
nude poetry sessions must come to an end." And just like that I
was clothed and outside with my friends scouring Bayswater for a bottle of wine.
These things come and go quickly when you think back on them. Why we had
chosen to look for wine after we knew everything was closed is still a mystery to
me. As Estragon says in
Waiting For Godot,
we always find something "to give us
the impression we exist."
We passed pub after pub and all were closed. Then in the distance we
spotted a shining light coming from a doorway so we followed it. The "pub" was
tightly packed and was undoubtedly violating multiple fire codes. The staff was
dressed in full lederhosen and Austrian trinkets lined the walls. The name on the
drink menu was incomprehensibly German and we all attempted to pronounce it
the entire night. The waiter promised to get us a card so we could return but he
never did. Right next to us was a tiny booth in which sat an old Italian gentleman.
He sang a mix of Frank Sinatra, Billy Joel and Rod Stewart songs while forgetting
at least a line or two in each. He also seemed to be playing piano but we couldn't
see the piano for the life of us. Three angry old men sat in the corner looking
displeased as they drank their beers and sat on the same side of their large table
as if waiting for guests. No one ever came to join them. We started with the bottle
61








62
of wine we
had been
seeking
but
after
that
we
took notice
of everyone else's drink
choices. Everyone was drinking one of
two
things.
Either
Austrian beer- mine was
a pale malty draft called Reininghaus- or the incredibly
Austrian
brand of tequila:
Jose Cuervo. You look for wine and
you
find
Tequila. That's
life for you. Either way,
though, you
still
drink it.
A
man of indeterminable age at the table next to us introduced himself
to
me as "Italian" and
then
turned away
never
speaking
to
me again. He sat at a
table
with a young
British
couple and a
middle
aged man. The middle aged man was
extraordinarily drunk. He asked my age and when
I
told
him
he got quite upset
and
ordered more tequila
and another pint.
As the night
when on I got drunk and
danced and sang and the man said very little to
me until
right around
last
call.
He turned and said, "I've
been
coming
to this
place
for
years and it hasn't
fucking
changed a bit.
That bloke still doesn't know the
same
words to the
same
goddamn
songs.
The pints are the same. Pints never
change.
But somehow the place
still
always seems
completely fucking different than it used to."
During
my trip we took
a
side expedition to Stratford-upon-Avon
and I
found
myself
at
Shakespeare's grave which, naturally, had
a gift
shop.
I asked
the
cashier,
a charming old Brit named Irene, if Austrian themed pubs were common.
What followed was a twenty minute conversation that at no time
even
came close
to being about
pubs. We discussed world politics ("all politicians
are
rubbish"),
American politics ("George
W.
Bush was rubbish"), the United States actually
being
more like several countries, New Hampshire's relative worth and right to
exist,
and a
rental
car she once used to cross America that had no
"petrol
gauge."
She
recommended
some sights to see and failed to remember the number of her
favorite Shakespearean sonnet. I promised
to
come back and recite it for her. Then
I left never to see her again because I'm full of shit. That false promise has stuck
with me, not because I feel guilty, but rather because I left someone. Completely
and
totally left her like I've done to so many others strangers. Same as so many
strangers
have done to me. I had taken the time to talk to her. And I only left be-
cause I had to. But I still left.
I try and think of when all these things happened in relation to each other.
When Lauren told me she could never love me and when I was sitting naked and
when I met Irene and when I wrote these words. They all seemed to have hap-
pened yesterday. Just out of reach but clearly detailed. Again Waiting For Godot
has the right words for my wondering. "Have you not done tormenting me with
your accursed time! It's abominable! When! When! One day, is that not enough
for you, one day he went dumb, one day I went blind, one day we'll go deaf, one





day we were born, one day we shall die, the same day, the same second, is that
not enough for you? They give birth astride of a grave, the light gleams an instant,
then it's night once more." And how true that is.
In fact traveling to London fully convinced me that time can't possibly exist.
I left from JFK for Heathrow at 6:00 p.m and eight hours later it was 7:00 a.m.
Now technically this makes perfect sense. But it is
really fucking confusing. I didn't
actually lose any time from my life yet changing some clocks around literally al-
tered time. Then on the return flight we took off at 8:00 a.m and, again eight hours
later, we arrived at 11:00 a
.
m. Somehow I gained five hours. Perhaps the fountain
of youth lies somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean floating unseen by us ground
dwellers.
Time doesn't exist the way we pretend it does. That's why I'm still think-
ing about a girl I'm completely over. Because I'm not completely over it. I'm not
completely over anything that has ever happened to me. Nothing ever really ends.
When I say my trip to Cornell was "the end" of the story, I'm full of shit. We saw
each other again briefly. No greetings were exchanged. Then another time we
smoked pot together on friend's boat after everyone had fallen asleep. We sat on
the dock and talked for hours. We talked about my Cornell trip. We talked about
good times. We talked about what went wrong. We talked about the moon looking
animated- this may have been the result of the marijuana. I told her that my mom
refers to her as "Voldemort." And I forgave her as best I could. In my head it was
an important and cathartic moment. Once again I decided it was the ending. But
life keeps teaching me that there are no endings, happy or sad.
Hence I can't stop thinking about being naked in London and therefore I
can't stop thinking about Lauren and therefore I can't stop thinking of Humphrey
Bogart-and how all my problems don't amount to a hill of beans in this crazy
world- and therefore I can't stop thinking about angry old Austrian men and so
on and so on. There's no difference between if it happened yesterday or five
years ago. We experience these events in order but when we look back on them
they're just a collection of experiences representing something. Or nothing. It's
all in the past and the things that stick remain in detail and the things that don't
simply don't. It's not always an issue of what's important. Just an issue of what
you remember. When I claim that I'm fist fighting life I really should be saying
I'm fighting the past. Whenever someone talks about life they're speaking in past
tense. "Life" isn't the present. The present doesn't feel right or wrong. It just is. It's
an amalgamation of the past events that are constantly replaying in your head. So
actually I'm fist fighting "forever ago." And "forever ago" isn't really any different
63




64
then yesterday. So I guess that means I lied again.
The point is that, in a way, I'm always going to be in that basement bar
drinking too much and laughing and dancing. Dancing away all the memories
that can't ever really be danced away. Dancing and singing and considering telling
everyone how full of shit I am and we all are. I want to tell them no matter how
much we dance through the flames that we'll never be fireproof. And I want to tell
them about all of it and everything because it's all still with me and I have so much
to say to them but I don't know where to begin. I've never known where to begin.








Non-Fiction Contest Winner
:
The Coming Out Waltz
by Molly Mihalcik
Once, I dreamt of a twin. Long legged, featherweight arms that fluttered at
heavenly frequency-she transcended my femininity in all natures
.
While recog-
nizable as a pair by our facial features, she ruled sight by beauty. Her reign was
wrought with belly-grazing shirts and skirts which exposed thighs that did not
stick together at the flesh. Where she careened airlessly, I preceded, heavy bodied,
in a topsy-turvy strut. My mass was incomparable to her twig physique, as if I had
remained too long in the egg.
Then, my younger sister was born. Her infant limbs would quickly develop
into milky branches. A soprano from conception, her well-tempered singing voice
would often compete in our hallways with my begrudged door slams. I turned
seventeen only to find my family gaggled, eager to hear my sister sing the time old
birthday tune. Fanning her lush hair out in preparation, poising her petit core, she
let out a melody that wrapped about my mother
in
adoring trance. The staunch
rivalry of my dreams had been realized
.
Now, I am taken to a musty office building in the ominous shadow of the
Empire State Building. The elevator rattles us up to the 8th floor. As the metallic
doors peel back, I become increasingly skeptical. A dust slathered beam reads "La
Crasia Gloves." My mother excitedly sashays past pillars of boxes, cutting the filthy
air with her erratic movements. Small humans are puttering away on sewing ma-
chines, unperturbed by our presence. I turn to find a man named Mr. Ruckel who
is lounged at his office desk of a throne. White gloves hang as bones in multiple
black cases along the walls. Rusty shears, opalescent buttons, and corroded pic-
ture frames are piled unceremoniously to the left of his desk top. He extends his
withering hand; my mother abruptly pushes me forward to share my hand with
his. Wiping the skin flecks and oil from a pair of glasses, he places them on his
gritty face to examine my fingers, palms, and so on. My forearm hair surrenders
to his sour, inspective huffs. Eyes rolling back briefly in prophecy, he declares my
glove size.
This is my first step towards becoming a debutante.
My mother grew up on Murray Hill as a redheaded child actress. Although
her print ad and commercial repertoire were glossed with luxury, her family
'
s
lifestyle was not. Brushing my hair down to the tiniest ends, her resentment
made itself known with each jutting brushstroke. I was raised through guilt laden
comparisons. Textures of sweaters, the proportional worth of foods-all were up
65






66
for juxtaposition versus those presented to my mother at childhood. She often
recalled the wintery debutante seasons she did not get to participate
in:
laughing
girls
flurrying
out of the
Waldorf
in satiny drifts,
tuxedoed
boys-a mastery of
refinement she
had not been privileged
enough
to
seize.
Brassy haired
and awkwardly shaped-I was not
the
gleaming
princess the
tradition called for.
Surprisingly, my private
school
pedigree
and father's profession
had
been
testimony
enough to
receive a
nomination
for
the 71st Annual
Infirmary
Ball.
This
news reached me,
by
way of raspy, anticlimactic phone call.
Colliding
in a lengthy
hug, my
mother
and sister chirruped with delight.
While I was
extended
no
af-
fection,
my
mother's
next
words radiate
through me still.
Each syllable seethed
through her teeth with
willful advisement and
an undertone of envy. She tensed
her
lip at
the
end of every full letter. You
will
be
the first.
This seemingly flouncy
extracurricular
of society, my pending
status
as a debutante, quickly became
a
tool
that
I kept close to me. To these two women, I may have been a vessel. Unknowing
then what I would gain other than the chagrin of my leggy
sister,
I submitted to
the frivolities.
You have to get the dress in advance-for the program photos. My gown was
an absolute
mutant. Spliced from three different gowns in order to accommodate
my gauche physique, the white silken Frankenstein arrived three days before I
was due in front of the camera. The bodice boning fused with my ribs, the taf-
feta underskirt gnawed at my waist. I strained my neck upwards as my uncle, the
photographer one, frowned behind his lens. He instructed me into several hokey
poses. Smell the bouquet! Purse your lower lip! I am unable to execute either with
any kind of composure.
The ballroom of the Waldorf Astoria is a masterful chamber flanked in red
velvet. Vast tables spot lush carpeting and the quaint dance floor is outlined by a
fence
of chairs. Rehearsal for the ball takes place on alternate weekends before
the event. Flocking to the center most part of the ballroom, old women heavied
by gold and silk scarves examine us. We rehearse dances that force aerial views of
snowflakes and evergreens. Our legs work automatically beneath us. We tweet out
carols and muffle laughter between verses.
Concluding our final rehearsal, tea and small cakes are served in a foyer
winged from the side of the ballroom. Assembling my cup, an elderly committee
member meets me at the refreshments. Reminiscing almost inaudibly, the crinkly
woman removes my hand from my teacup; she clenches my arm and ends her
story, "You will change. You will come to know beauty about yourself." Her rice-pa-





per skin rubbed against my palm as she drew away.
The
small lady shuffles to an
empty
table
and sits with a pleased grin. It is the afternoon of
the
Infirmary
Ball.
She closes her eyes for a moment as if to breathe in deeply, lapping up our electric
anxiety, inhaling our ready youth.
At the night of
the
Infirmary
Ball,
girls
dawning
hotel robes skulk in the
doorways of their suites. Other girls
heap
themselves on top of the stately fur-
niture, sucking down Pinot Grigio in
their
strapless bras. Retiring to my room, a
fellow debutante blows cigarette smoke into the toilet bowl, rises to her feet and
applies a final coat of mascara.
Before you are presented to society, you are made to wait in one of the Wal-
dorf's kitchens. The floor is slick and the air is similarly unaccommodating. Our
glossy skirt tips rubbed edges with half-bitten burger patties or hardened nap-
kins-the puffy lining peeked from beneath our dresses to fishnet soap sludge.
Slumped against
the
walls, our bare backs melded with
the
tile in the midst of
nervousness and dish heat. Among the pan clanks, we are
no
longer
divided
by
the prices of our dresses or prep school rivalries.
Our
cheek muscles and noses
scrunch in sync: we are
young,
we are beautiful, and we are
becoming
women-
all at once, in the same
muggy kitchen.
Our girlish chirps ease
us
through the
procession.
The
birth
canal for New
York's social elite is lined
with
room service
debris, plate shards,
and the
abandoned skins of
uneasy teenage
girls.
I wiggled
between two giant topiaries
and
the spot light blinded
me.
The
an-
nouncer
bellowed my name into the microphone. December 22nd of 2006
rushed
through
me in
a
vast gust. However, when I go back to that majestic night-it is
not
the regal dinner spread, tireless assembly line or Dionysian after parties that
pang my heart most. Lowering into my curtsey, parting my eye level with the
gleaming
lights, I saw my mother, rapt in the coo of the announcer's voice. My
sister
hastened her clap with adoration. What was once the meager of two sisters
stepped
forth transformed: a precedent, a gowned swan, an open door. I may have
come
in as a passage for my family name but, I had come out as a woman. This
was not my debut into society but, my foray into a sisterhood of stern, irrevocable
pride that I had not grasped until that glowing point.
As I reached the final velvet stair, the band capped "The Coming Out Waltz"
in musical fervor, "Tomorrow may be just another day, but tonight we are part
of a dream!" Finding my place in the ballroom, I wanted to find that girl-brassy
haired and awkwardly shaped-I want to tell her: yes, I never dreamt of happi-
ness such as this, when I was an ugly duckling.
67



---







The Spring 2010 Literary Arts Society E-Board
Top: Amy Wheeler, Amanda Mulvihill, Olivia McMahon, Florencia Lauria
Bottom: Nick Sweeney, Kelly Mangerino, Kelly Gallucci
Dear Readers and Writers,
You rock. Without you, this wouldn't be possible. Thank you for your
support, your dedication, and most importantly ... your writing! This
semester yielded the largest number of written submissions to date:
143. We've gone crazy narrowing it down to only 34, but we hope
you go crazy while reading it too. This of course, is all for you.
Love,
Your Editors-in-Chief,
Amy Wheeler and Nick Sweeney


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