January 2022 Featured Pieces
anatomy of a pomegranate by Vivian Dong
Trigger Warning: Abusive Relationship Some days, all I can do is stare out the window, watching the people pass by. I break apart a pomegranate while I sit, digging my nails into the hard, unforgiving rind until the pressure peels apart my nails from the skin underneath. The juice spills over my lap, dyeing my white pillows and cushions, staining my fingertips. My hands are dripping in red, leaving bloody marks wherever they go. Your hand still strikes me. Your words still sting. You’re not here anymore, but somehow, you’ll always be in the next room. I remember everything about you, what you did, who you were. I remember the angle of your wrist and the color of the sting; the twist of your lips and the wine drink; the shade of my lipstick, sharp and red, smeared across your knuckles. I left it behind when I fled. I don’t wear lipstick anymore. I pluck out the pomegranate seeds one by one, the tips of my fingers growing slick with juice. The fleshy layer outside the seed is called the aril; you told me that. I watch it catch the light of the sun in its clear pink skin, reflecting a rosy flush in my palm. We used to eat pomegranates together in the spring, sitting on the fire escape, drinking beer. You loved everything about them: breaking them apart, digging for the seed, and staining your hands. You said the reward was in the pain and how those jewels were that much sweeter when you had plucked them so bitterly from their shell. I sat there with you, pretending I understood what you were saying, trying to figure out the greater metaphor that lay beneath. I never did, you’ve always been older than me, always been wiser too. I chewed pomegranate seeds and popped open the aril and burst the juice out, mirroring you. The flesh was soft and sweet, but when I bit down on the seed hidden inside, it was hard and bitter. My tongue curled around the acrid taste that coated my teeth and throat, and I squirmed, trying to untwist the frown on my lips. But then you break open another, and I’m reaching for more. It's the same every time; it never gets better. But something about the way the flesh glittered and glistened that tempted me to keep eating. Something about the way you laughed and smiled kept me staying. Sometimes when I’m alone at night I still wish I had. It's wrong, I know it is. But I loved you, is it wrong to miss someone you love? I lie curled on my crimson stained pillows, burning in the sun that splays into my windows. I lie there and picture that I’m with you, my body softly nestled into yours, molding until we fit into one. I imagine that we’re sitting on the fire escape, warmth dancing on my fingers as I watch you, fiddling with your grandfather’s old army knife, running your calloused fingers across the wrong edge of the blade, drawing a red line on your pale skin. I scold, why would you do that? You smile. The reward is in the pain. You use the knife to cut a hole in the top of the pomegranate, crimson spilling in my lap like blood, staining my white dress. You broke the fruit with my hands and dug through the bloody rind, peeling back the broken membranes, and shook out a few seeds to give to me. The red juice ran all down your arms and wrists until your fingers were stuck together and your lips, arms, and skin were stained. I joke that you’ve stepped out of a crime scene. You laugh and say that you’re my partner in crime. I dropped a few pomegranate seeds into your outstretched palms like precious jewels falling from a collapsed mine. My hands were streaked like yours. I took the fallen few from my lap and popped them into my mouth. They were sweet enough to forget the bitterness. I keep on reaching for more. "Everything Is Amplified at Night", Casey Kovarick
"Paranoia", Iris Zhang
cheerleader in a slasher film by Emily Zou
Trigger Warning: Gore, Violence, Sexual Assault A menacing series of footsteps behind you; an unexpected dead end to your left; a fruitless glance to your right; a crude gloved hand on your shoulder; a cold hunting knife raised to your jugular; a sadistic chuckle under a grimy Fun World mask; and the unforgiving realization that you are not the final girl. You knew you should’ve booked out the back door when you had the chance instead of running upstairs into the killer’s predictable death trap. And you sure as hell thought you weren’t intoxicated enough to trip over the beer bottle rolling on the kitchen floor, costing you a few seconds to get back up, which was a few seconds more for the killer to catch up to you. At least you had more survival instinct than Hunter Lawrence, the jock-turned-bully who was the first to be killed immediately after the electricity went out, and hey, you were still in the process of deducing who the killer was while Britney Mares, local teen stoner, was being brutally shredded to bone and tendon like paper mache and of course, you outlasted Trevor Jones who was destined to meet an early death because he happened to be black so there was just you, Frank Clemmons (who was the killer), and new-girl Delilah Jackson left. Obviously, you would’ve preferred having fewer dead meat-shields before figuring out who the murderer was, but if everything boiled down to a last-man standing kind of thing, you had pretty good odds of making it out alive—that is, if you weren’t a slutty, sleazy, good-for-nothing teenage whorebag. So as you await your last breath—your heart palpitating as fast as that of a bunny rabbit’s in the jaws of a wolf and your saliva clotting into sanguine metal—you couldn’t help but question what had led you to this fate. Just what had made you such an unforgivable whore? Was it because you had sex in the backseat of Ron Murray’s car? Or was it because you lost your virginity—dubiously too—at the age of fourteen to your next-door neighbor who was five years older than you? No, it must’ve begun way earlier when your mother submitted you to those pre-pubescent beauty pageants as a trophy to be won, with you dressed in those ruffled bikini bottoms in the pattern of the American flag and caked in four pounds of sparkly makeup because your eyelashes weren’t “long enough” and your smiles lines were “ugly.” And those subsequent years when you finally brought a boy home for the first time and your father called you a “slut”, and you listened to him, letting yourself be degraded by the various men in your life for the rest of your short-lived childhood. Even now, as your blood splatters like a macabre fountain, you’re wearing that disgustingly short skirt and skin-tight top masquerading as a cheerleader in your “cheerleading uniform”—the one specifically designed by the male principal. There really was no one else to blame for your own death except for you: the epitome of a whore that deserved no humanity. Yet, that conclusion doesn’t leave you satisfied. You can’t die yet, not without knowing the reason that sweet, innocent Delilah Jackson was to be spared instead of you. No one’s completely good or bad, you reason, unable to grasp her alleged moral superiority. After all, Delilah had her moments, even if she never intended to be mean: unknowingly perpetuating the rumor that Scarlett Walker had an abortion when she was a freshman, sabotaging Molly Reinhardt’s chances of getting with her long-term crush by telling him that she smoked in her free time, or rejecting Frank’s confession with a simple, yet cruel “you know, you’re like a brother to me.” And who could prove that she really was a “good girl” after all? Sure, she prided herself on avoiding casual hook-ups, which led her to earn the name “Maple Grove’s Holy Virgin,” but didn’t you also see her passionately making out with Trevor the other day? And she was far more vocal than you too, delving head-first into conflict rather than backing away. Yet, it was you that drama constantly wagged its tail around, and it was you who was pegged as the antithesis of Delilah’s very own existence: “Maple Grove’s Ultimate Whore.” And that made you angrier than anything else. Even as you shielded yourself from your attacker who wanted nothing more but to gut you like a fish, you proceeded to reason that you were better than her and thus, deserved to live. It wasn’t Delilah’s fault anyway that Frank was a crazy fucker, and to be fair, you were the one who invited her to this party that she reluctantly agreed to, but why the hell did you have to be sacrificed so that she could live? She was probably hiding in some closet with a spare pistol she oh-so “conveniently” found in the garage while you were being stabbed in the lungs, unable to do much more than drown in your own blood. Delilah Jackson didn’t have to experience the agony of broken, bruised ribs that forced you to decide when to breathe and fight for another chance at life. Delilah Jackson didn’t have to experience the atonement of your hypersexuality, which you used as a coping mechanism after getting raped. Delilah Jackson didn’t have to experience the devastating betrayal of a lifetime from your childhood best friend, as he finally found an opening to your heart within your pathetic attempts to defend yourself . Your field of vision receding; your chest being carved inside-out; your face melting off of your skull; and somehow, you still aren’t dead. You plead to be mercifully slaughtered; it’s the least that you deserve. But you forget one key component: the horny, teenage boys in the audience aren’t going to watch your demise if there isn’t any sex appeal. So, you put on a show. One last dreadfully slow panorama of your exposed, underage ass, and you’re finally left for dead. |
"Gentlemen's Choice", Peyton Harrill
thoughts on some white boy by Audrey Nguyen
one day you’ll find yourself absent-mindedly staring at that boy from french class and notice how his eyes aren’t really green but a mixture of olive and gold. you’ll realize that you have a novel’s worth of coincidental happenings, moments that fell into place like sand settling at the bottom of a glass. like that stifling june day you got lost on the school field trip and went on every roller coaster together. like that one sunday you decided to join marching band, where it just so happened that you would have spots next to each other. like the fact that he got your number just to help you win over drummer boy’s heart and every single text chain was finished off with a oui, oui madame in horribly butchered french. and you have to wonder, after what feels like a lifetime of chasing lovers to no avail, is there a reason? or does suburbia just expect love to be the next step? he doesn’t give you butterflies nor require a sappy playlist for car ride pondering. but after so many boys dressed in those damn violet wings and vacant eyes, should he have to tug for that to be love? he’s wool-lined sweatshirts and sandcastles and stupid ramblings about parking lots and he makes you smile in a way few people can. but is there a spark, if such a thing exists? why would you risk losing him as a friend for feelings you might not have? is chemistry a learned collision, or is it strung in your blood like gasoline, bound to ignite the second you lay eyes on them? so many questions and certain uncertainties for someone who’s never been in a relationship. and while you’re aware that your quote unquote “first love” doesn’t have to be a perfect kiss on a starlit evening, the unknown pulses to a throbbing headache. it’s hard for you to accept that young love may be nothing more than a label-less in-between of platonic and romantic. maybe it’s simply appreciating each other’s existence. and whether moon eyes collide or fade to friendly smiles or burn to ashes, right now you’re just two fragile humans who need someone to hold onto. "Valley Forge Park", Casey Kovarick
(posters sold in room 2013 for $5.00!) Seni Sevmek // Loving You by Leyla Yilmaz
after Nazım Hikmet
Seni sevmek bir görev,
Tanrı tarafından verilen Güneşle birlikte doğmak Ve ellerin için su ısıtmak, ve de bir ak kuş, gökyüzünün beyazlarında yükselen Loving you is a duty, delight
given to me by God. It is rising with the sun, and heating water so you can wash before prayer, it is purity, written in the white of the skies. Seni sevmek bir hediye, bir ibadet
Seni beslediği için toprağı öpeceğim. ve altında seni hissettikleri için ellerimi. Gözlerini öpen güneş ışığını kıskanmaktır seni sevmek. O ki, onu gördüğün için, burada olduğun için, sana teşekkür eder. Loving you is a gift, a worship.
I’ll kiss the earth for feeding you. and my hand for feeling you under it. It is being jealous of the sunlight who kisses your eyes, thanks you for seeing her, for being here. Seni sevmek sabahın erken saatleri,
yanaklarının gülüne adanmış kanarya şarkıları, ortadan ikiye bölünmüş ekmek, tuza batırılmış sarımsak, fırında pişirilen aş, bir sıcaklık. Tanıdığım tek vatan. Loving you is early mornings,
canary songs dedicated to the rose of your cheeks, bread broken in half, garlic dipped in salt, an oven baking. It is warmth. It is the only home I’ve ever known. Seni sevmek kadere bir özür.
Onun sana sahip olduğunu bilmeden, boynundaki benin üzerinde kaderin ve kutsallığın izi olduğunu bilmeden, ona zalim dediğimden. Bir özür. Çünkü seni yazan her kalem kutsal, her sayfa da kutsanmıştır. Loving you is an apology to fate
for cursing it before knowing it had written you, given you a seal of divinity, right on the mole on the side of your neck. For any pen that has written your name is holy. Any page is blessed. Seni sevmek–
sonsuza dek saklanacak kadar kutsal bir amaç. Ölümsüz olmak ve sonsuzluk sadece Tanrıya mahsustur ve belki de denizlere Ama adını mezarımın başında söyle*, Denizim. Yükselişimi, toprağın beni sınırlarından kaldırmasını izle. Loving you is a purpose that is reserved for eternity.
Being deathless, endless is only reserved for God, and perhaps the sea But speak your name on top of my grave, My Sea and watch the soil lift me off of its bounds. Seni sevmek sonsuzluktur, ve
sonsuzluğu arzularım. I will
be praying for eternity if it means I will be Loving you *from Mahmoud Darwish
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