Cognitive Dissonance

by Lucas Jackson Peterka

This will be about white supremacy. I initially tried to trick myself into thinking I was writing about race, but my internalization of white power is so severe I have no choice except to call it what it is. White power. White oppression. White destruction.

I just got off the phone with my mother, who told me, “You sound tired or out of it.”

All I said was, “Hello.”

Can she hear the whiteness in my voice? Has my mask of ironic indifference finally given way beneath the avalanche of hatred?

I hate you. Not the reader, no. You specifically.

Don’t play dumb with me—you know exactly who you are. You’re the only one reading this who knows where I am going with it. I’ve chosen to confuse everyone else, but you know exactly what I am going to say.

And you don’t get to hear me say it right away. No, we have to sit here and suffer the snowstorm. I am not even close to getting to what I want to talk about and I can sense an inner urge to infinitely digress. I want to write nonsense until this piece is done. I want to blink and be looking at the end. I have literally no desire to be fascinated. It’s not that I don’t want to obsess, it’s that I cannot.

Yet, obsession is what I need to demand of myself. It’s not enough to simply exist—to write one sentence at a time. There needs to be a goal. Something I am building towards. Something I am doing otherwise I will just be here forever. Constantly, endlessly easing myself into the pool one inch at a time.

I don’t know how to swim. I used to, very briefly. Then they cut off my foot and I never got around to re-learning how to. Everyone else gets to only learn it once, why should I have to do it twice? It’s simply not fair. I would rather drown. I would rather find myself spluttering and sinking after my plane crashes somewhere in the Atlantic than in a swim class.

It’s not like they would know how to teach me anyway. I am so spectacularly crippled that the old tricks wouldn’t work on me and we both know that everyone else is too stupid to come up with anything new anyways. I am rebelling against survival.

I am re-learning to drown.

Right now, I am drowning in the impossibility of this endeavor. I sometimes like to pretend I am a writer. That lie doesn’t make it any easier for the words to come out. Each letter I hammer on the keyboard is supposed to get me in rhythm but each period stalls my thoughts in their tracks.

Every paragraph is a train derailment in East Palestine. The illusion of consciousness is undermined with every bomb dropped on Gaza. I am not real. My thoughts are not real. My racism is not real. My hatred is not real.

It doesn’t ever matter though. It all destroys me as completely as the real thing. The onslaught of external. Emotion way empty and probably conquerable but I am still lost beneath it.

Have I even made any sense? I made a typo some time ago, except I’ve read it back, and I think I’ll keep it that way. I feel it makes a statement. I want every inch of this thing to be dripping in irony. I want every mistake to seem like it’s on purpose and for every purposeful act I take to fall on deaf ears and blind men.

I want the racists to think I’m woke. I want the libtards to think I am a fascist.

I can’t stand anyone knowing I’m just a scared kid. They can’t be right. I can’t allow that. I didn’t let anyone in, I swear. Everything was fucked from the moment I got here.

I have a friend who I never talk to anymore.

That just made me real sad. I guess. I don’t know. I don’t really feel like writing anymore, I can tell you that, at least. It feels kind of pointless.

Like, I’ll have a lot of ideas and then sit down to write them all out and then nothing happens. I don’t say anything of value. I spit out something so convoluted, there is no possible way you could know what I was talking about. It is audacious of me to even write. Entitled of me to think I could be understood.

And always, I am writing about fucking writing. I can’t just write a story. I can’t just describe something. I’m all the racist and internalized homophobia of Edgar Allen Poe without any of the literary prowess. I am an ending—and just the ending—of a Twain novel.

Sorry, I’m stalling. I am stopping myself from actually addressing the problem. I am white and black. That’s the problem.

I have a white father and a black mother. That’s the thing I’m trying to talk about. But it’s stupid. I don’t even have a black mother. I have a half-black mother.

See? I can’t even be honest to begin with. It’s easier for me to say, “I have a black mother,” because it invalidates my imposter syndrome more effectively than, “I have a half-black mother.”  But it’s not even true. I doubt myself because I am so obviously white. So, I say, “my mom is black,” so I can say the n-word.

Technically, I’m black too. Though, for most black people, there is no need to qualify it with a technicality. My mother is technically both white and black.

Functionally, I am white. Functionally, she is black.

I guess that’s why I cheat with what I say. Even when I’m being lazy, it all ends up meaning the same thing in the end anyway.

This piece is a worse version of another I am working on. If I sound disjointed, it is because I am taking a break between each clause to smoke a cigarette and think about this piece’s sister.

I know I told you I am supposed to be writing about race, but actually I have just been writing about writing about something.

Is 2500 words really enough to tell the story I need to? Is one essay all it takes to span the divide? I feel I could write whole novels on the last few paragraphs. I don’t have the energy, though. I call this being more efficient.

Why do all the work when I can make you do it for me? How many things have I tricked you into thinking? How many times have you had to reassess what kind of person wrote this shit?

Am I ok? Am I alive? Am I sane? Am I really white? Am I a dirty, dirty liar?

Are the dog whistles bleeding through or am I failing even in that? I’ve set out to be the worst and the worst I can manage is nothing. The lowest I can go is zero. And I don’t think that’s enough.

They need me to be everything and nothing all at the same time. They need to see “impossible”; they need to hear “unmanageable.”

And I can’t do it. I can’t talk to you. I’m not strong enough to say what you need.

I don’t know how to bring it up. Whenever I try, I sound like a fucking idiot. You can’t just tell someone you love them and expect things to stay the same. You can’t expect things to stay the same, though. Ever. So why wait around for things to change?

Why not just do it?

Maybe it’s because my most profound conclusions are stolen from sneaker companies. It’s probably because even my desire to act is not my own idea.

It’s that damned phone, that’s what it is. I can’t write more than half a page before I have to spend an hour scrolling through Reddit. I went and smoked two cigarettes this time. All I can think about is how this is going to end, but I have no idea how I am going to get there.

I am writing about writing about writing about something now. We’re making progress, aren’t we?

Because I need to be making progress. You can’t sit there and tell me I’m back where I started. It’s just not fair.

Other people seem to be able to do things. Older people got to know what it’s like to not be nothing all the time. People generations before mine knew what it was like to feel.

I haven’t spoken to her because I am ashamed. I am in too much pain all the time to be the person I want to be, so I feel shame.

I isolate myself as penance for not reaching out. It’s endless. The torture, it’s endless. And the worst part—I now suspect it’s me doing the torturing.

Sometimes, I prefer the pain of hunger over satisfying it. I feel most alive when I have slept for three hours the night before.

Let me think something greater is on the horizon. If it’s this bad now, then how can what comes next be any worse?

I can’t write about Azra because this isn’t really about her. I would probably like it better if this was, but it’s not.

The truth is, I haven’t talked to anyone I know in years. It started out as a break from being social and that break has stretched into a full-time career. “Never do what you’re good at for free, kid,” that’s what I’ve always been told.

So, you see this particular friend isn’t that special. I abandon everyone. I ghosted her because I ghost everybody else.

I get paid in the habit of it. It’s the comforting sort of self-mutilation that my addictive personality craves. It’s the fear that I’ll fuck everything up in the end anyways.

They don’t deserve me. Nobody gets to see me at my worst, I didn’t sign up for that.

And I want to blame other people. This should be someone else’s fault. I wish they were all as terrible as you say, so my pain could feel like justice. If they hated me, I could tell myself that I am just taking my time.

“Soon,” I’d say. “You’ll be ready to face them.”

But there’s no one to face. The final boss is manic depression. The side quests are insomnia fueled rants in covid-induced isolations.

I try to talk to you and it is just me.

Everything moves so much easier in my head. I step away from the computer, and I can see this whole piece. I think about tomorrow and everything I need to say is obvious. Can see them handing me the Pulitzer.

I am, so far, right now, Pulitzer-less. Nothing I thought of saying comes up when I’m actually there in the moment. I can imagine the whole conversation—comma splice every sentence before it gets too racy—and still I always end up winging it. I’m winging it now. This is the grand showdown. A title fight I’ve been working my whole life towards and I’m fucking winging it.

Why didn’t I have a strategy going into this? How are you supposed to discuss the mental sickness induced by a digitally empowered patriarchy in a concise manner? I am not qualified to do this. I am not the man for the job.

I write nonsense, that’s what I know how to do. I know how to be alone, so why don’t you just leave me alone?

I wish I had my own white power. A down jacket echo chamber to serve as insulation from your assault. I might lose myself, sure, but is there even any personality left? It’s all fake anyway, what does a technicality matter? It’s the Internet, can’t we all just get along?

It never felt like a technicality around Azra. She could listen to me tell a story and say, “That sucks, your dad sucks.”

You call me soft.

Why would she care if I was soft? Is my toxic masculinity suffering from some sort of erectile dysfunction? Will my self-esteem’s micro-penis even respond to your knockoff Viagra?

Is this video sponsored by Roman? When does Andrew Tate walk through my door to let me know I’ve been white enough all along?

How come that never used to bother me? I was black enough around Azra, I can tell you that. And now, I can’t tell when I mean to write “white” or “black.” They sound the same in my head. I say, “white” and it sounds like, “black.” I say, “you” and it sounds the same as, “I.”

On the page, though? On the page, I pick the wrong word every time and always end up saying the opposite of what I meant to. Is it white or black power? Are you the patriarchy, or am I?

I can’t tell. I can never tell. I use these people like props.

I write to those I never talk to.

And it’s all for nothing. I still can’t tell.

But neither can you. You’re not her. We don’t know shit.

I know it’s different wishing I belonged.

Hours waste away on a Jersey summer afternoon. Doomed panic fills a page. We find ourselves with nothing to say. And I know it’s all over. I know this is goodbye.

You don’t get to hear me say it, though.

I don’t deserve to.

It Was Meant to Be

by Logan Gray Darkholme

To my son without a name,

Forged from the clay of Prometheus.

Maybe it was meant to be,

That you are no longer here.

Are you in The House of Hades now?

Or perhaps in Elysium.

I hope you are in Elysium because while

You are not here; you are my hero.

You would be twelve this June 12th.

I hoped you would be strong, mischievous.

My little warrior,

My little fox.

And since you are no longer here,

To laugh amongst the trees,

To love with a wild passion,

I will have to do it for you.

Testosterone

by Led Klosky

“I want a motorcycle”

I said, fear at the forefront of my mask.

This macho masochism meant to fool myself,

As if I were anybody’s fool, let alone my own.

And yet

While I might not confuse

A projected aesthetic,

It still appeals.

I hunger ad infinitum

For the hero’s feast.

Head of Grendel making doubters grumble

While I reap respect and conquer my incomplete

I dip my toe

Into an inky void.

The inkwell is

When I risk my life

on the open road.

Abecedarian For A Broken Country

by Sarah Curry

all her calls go to voicemail

because she can't be bothered with any

crisis whatsoever. she chooses to be oblivious to climate change.

does she look away in disdain when the

entirety of california is up in

flames?

global warming is the least of her concerns while

hate crimes trample her city turfs.

income inequality might sustain the class gap, but no

justification is enough to explain why derek chauvin

kneeled on george floyd’s neck long enough to kill him.

last drops of clean water are served to

mississippi, mirroring the crisis in flint, michigan.

no man, woman, or law is safe as

ovaries are outraged at the overturned roe vs wade.

people protest political division and police brutality while the government

quietly eats their buttered popcorn.

rescue is not coming. she is blindly unforgiving, as there is no relief.

student debt is suffocating the charts at one point seven

trillion dollars, yet a degree still doesn’t guarantee you won’t end up

unemployed.

violated America, she is not the least bit

worried. her voicemail echoes “leave your crisis at the tone,

xoxo.”

you’d think she would have solved these problems by now but nothing is done, just

zilch.

No Face

by Adetiloro Ibitoye

“What’s wrong with your Face,” she asked. Before us is a mirror, a vanity set for little girls with lipstick and a play brush, we shared the bench. 

“What Face?” I asked distractedly. I held out a Barbie with a GI Joe figurine I pressed their faces together mindlessly as I mimed “I do” : Kiss. Kiss. Kiss. We learned a new word today: Wedding.  

“Everyone has a face dummy.” 

Weddings were special with happy endings for pretty princesses, and for prettier heroines. I would be married one day I supposed, such is the fate of being a girl my mother told me. But was I pretty like a princess or a heroine? I turned towards the mirror and looked at my face to find out. 

On top of green overalls top of my face was a fabric of oblivion surrounding my face like a veil, moving with my deeper frown. I folded heightening despair folded inside and turned to for confirmation or denial. But she had already forgotten about me, leaning in to look at her own reflection. Her lips were dry and split in the middle with a small chocolate stain on the center of her cheek like the leftovers of a kiss, and bright blue eyes. Where were my eyes, my lips, and teeth? I began to choke and sputtered. Unbothered she turned me and blinked. 

“My mama says I’m pretty.” and then smiled revealing a broad mouth and gap teeth as she waited for me to agree. 

“You see yours?” I asked slowly. 

With a strange eloquence, she turned to me and raised her chin preciously with a cruel and long smile. 

“And you don't?” 

That day, I ran to my mother in a hysteria of flailing arms. 

“Stop crying! What is wrong with you?” As she hustled me inside with an embarrassing quickness. 

I gazed at her face for what felt like the first time. Her face was round with dark and shiny dark eyes with soft and brown skin, the color of the deer costume I wore in Rudolph the Red Nose Deer when I played the Vixen. I reached up to touch it. 

A phrase of my condition appeared within the darkness. Something more without than within, a knowledge but from whom? 

“I am No Face.” I confessed. 

She looked around and then at me. She pointed at the vase. 

“What color is that vase ?” 

“White,” I said robotically. 

“And the couch ? “She asked excitedly. 

“Blue.” 

“Oh, oh.” she said and then began to pace around the living room and then suddenly changing her mind picked me up into a cloying embrace.  

“Oh, heavenly father…God has heard me!” She sighed loudly. 

“I asked God” and she paused for great effect “give me a daughter who cannot know vanity. And look at what He gave you, this gift.” 

I looked at her and She frowned deeply and repeated herself. But I said nothing. 

“Thank him. And stop making that Face!” she then commanded, sick of my silence. 

I gazed at the dull ceiling as though some entity was indeed waiting for me. Waiting for my answer. 

“Thank you,” I said, my fate sealed. 

I stood in front of the table mirror at the Sephora as I squeezed a small drop of foundation on my wrist and rubbed. 

For most of my life, I assumed I looked like my mother. That I had her Face. So I sixteen with a forty year old’s face. But when I was sixteen my mother revealed I looked like my father during an argument. And when I asked if it was true, she refused to answer. It was hard to consider ta bit of my face resembled a stranger that I could only recall in half sighs, in needles, and fear. This was before my mother became born again. Later, I found him on Facebook. He had three daughters: Rose, Grace, and Hannah. They all lived in Colorado where he worked as a manager at a local Fresno’s. He too was born again but I supposed when men are born again, they get new families too. 

And he was ugly too. There was no way around it either, balding and wrinkled even in his youth he was haggard and scraggly, destined for ill aging.. And it was a time when beauty was mattering as well. During proposals for proms and weddings and dances at house parties with grinding and open mouths. I hated my mother for introducing that awful uncertainty. And when no one asked to dance or to marry me, I became very afraid that something hideous lay underneath this veil with neither confirmation or denial that I could trust. 

“Excuse me, “I called to an employee with cropped blonde hair and a bronze nose piercing, and freckles that fell from under her eyes to under her lip. She turned and smiled. 

“How may I help you?” 

“How…Does this look?” I asked. 

She stopped and put her hand on her cheek, her eyes roving over what I can only assume to be my lips then my eyes and nose. 

“I think you might need a bit of a lighter shade.” She left and returned with a C8 shade and dabbed some on my face.  

“Yeah, what do you think?” She turned a handheld mirror to that circular oblivion above my neck. 

“Thank you,” 

“No problem. That lipstick is totally your shade by the way. My name is Teo by the way. There is no H.” 

At the register, I told them Teo helped me. I am a C8 shade on the face and more of an N8 on the wrist, D for Danger Matte lipstick is totally my color. I have been told I look angry when I sleep. And my Face is very frightening. 

I had a date. No, a get-together with a woman I met on the Bumble friends app. We agreed to drink. My therapist suggested seeking friendships with women. It had not occurred to me other women had friendships. I had roommates and then coworkers who spoke about boys then men and then marriage to men and then children for men. The unspoken rule that this woman-to-woman commiseration was a distraction from the missing male element. Naturally, after marriage and then children, our bond would dissolve into impersonal annual brunches where we would soon scatter to our new living arrangements and die very quietly at home. 

But none of that mattered if I could have the Wedding. A ceremony of love and bondage that was surely strong enough to move the veil under the veil. How I have sought out that magic like a witch or a monster. But I am still alone, even in bed with some Guy, I am still alone; I am still masked, gazing into some vanity and hoping for a different Face. 

My first successful love was Jack from college. We were at the dining hall for our anniversary. He asked to wear mini dress with no underwear. His face was soft and mushy like steadily stirred potatoes. But his eyes were hazel and bright and he had great hair.  

“Dave,” I asked, looking over at him. “What do I look like to you?” 

He looked up briefly and back down “Sexy, babe.” 

“Describe me.” 

“You have a great body.” He playfully squeezed my thigh. 

“My face.”  

“What about it?” He asked irritably. 

“How does it look? And don't just say beautiful, tell me in detail.” 

“Okay. I don't know. Your eyes are brown, and you’ve got lips for sure.” And he smiled and licked his lips before leaning in. 

We broke up three days later without much fuss. 

When I graduated college I met Nicholas, the sculptor. I became interested in him with his gentle brown eyes and soft demeanor. 

 We went on two dates. On the second during dinner, awkwardly I blundered into the subject. 

“Can you describe me?” I asked directly. 

I expected honest and clinical: A deviated septum, a heavy bottom lip, a mole 12 degrees right to the cheek. 

“You're okay.” A slight smirk on his lips. 

That was our conversation, our intimacy: Cruel ambiguity. 

How is my hair? 

 Alright 

 Is there lipstick on my teeth?  

Who knows?  

Do you even love me?  

If you say so, then I do.  

The more I wanted to be seen the more blind he became, his hands over his eyes with a smirk. I think more than any man he saw my Face and like most men used it inflict maximum pain for the greatest amount of single sided pleasure. And even when he held me in the dark, he faced the wall. I was unsurprised when he blocked me eventually, bored of my need. 

My coat was a gorgeous lavender, expensive. I even curled my hair and then put it in a ponytail. A sane and normal woman coming from a shift at her productive job, a woman that could be liked by other women, cherished even. 

The lounge had circular booths the color of movie theater seats that smelled warm plush and velvet. I was led to the back to a lone woman on her phone with sable eyes framed by a fringe of brown curly hair. She wore a white dress shirt and wide pants with Hermes flats.  

I walked up to her slowly. 

“Mary?” 

She looked up quickly. 

“Nadia, right?’ 

I smiled and sat down.  

“How are you?” I asked. 

“Just got back from work.” 

“Same… And sorry, what do you do again?” I asked.  

“Digital marketing. What about you?” 

“Just corporate. HR.” 

“How’s that?” 

“Good. Lots of emails. The marketing sounds interesting.” 

“I do mostly corporate promotional materials. Think of those stock photos of offices.” 

“That sounds interesting.” I lied. 

A server came around. Her face chiseled and pale as alabaster with dark eyes. 

“A Blood Mary, please” she begged. I ordered the same. 

It was spicy and acidic. It took two for the red richness to migrate from my stomach to my jaw and then my eyes. An exchange of words that became something impossible to remember. 

“We’re drunk,” I announced very quietly. 

She laughed, “Do you want to see my wedding ring?” 

She slowly unearthed a gold chain hidden under her shirt and held it up in the golden light. Attached to it was a ring, small and slim, and in the center, a sapphire that shimmered. 

“Beautiful. Let me touch it.” I reached for it and held it in my hands, pressing my index finger on the stone wanting it to break very badly. “Congratulations. When’s the wedding?” I asked. 

She laughed” No wedding. I bought my own wedding ring and then he broke up with me!” 

“Oh, my god. What?”  

“Yeah.” She hiccupped. “Whoops!” 

“I'm sorry.” 

“It's okay.” 

“What an asshole,” my drink dripped on the floor as I raised my hands in the air. “Was he an artist?” 

She downed her fourth drink “Yeah, a painter.” 

“I knew it. I knew it!” Never. Date. An. Artist. They’re crazy. All of them!” 

She sighed and gazed at the ceiling "He couldn't stand it when I made that Face. He would look at me with this disgust…” She swirled her drink and leaned a little to the side, her hair gorgeous in the gold light “I just wanted to be married. Anything to just have something of my own. “Mary continued. 

“What Face? You’re gorgeous!” 

She smiled sheepishly. “You’re gorgeous too. Really.” 

“Thanks. And have you ever looked in a mirror? You need more confidence!” I announced. 

Her face dropped “I can't.” 

“Oh.” 

The night was chilly and breezy with a city skyline bold and loose as a dream. We struggled not to sway when we walked but felt a strength in being two enough to be fearless. 

“The station is right around here. Sorry for the walk but sometimes it's faster than an Uber. The trains around this time suck too. Shit, it might've stopped running.” She stared at her phone, the battery red. 

“I’ll wait for you.” I said to console her. 

We stood side by side. The night suddenly became incredibly quiet. 

“This night was good,” she mused. 

“Say, don’t you think we look alike?” I asked as if intuition alone could transcend my own blindness, in the dark that I surely could see my face in her face. And it would be perfect. 

But when I turned to smile, I was met with a terrible oblong void framed by curly hair. We both screamed.  

“Your face. “She wrapped her coat tightly around herself.  

“You are a No Face. “I shuddered. 

“You’re like me.”  

“No. You're not supposed to say it.” I said angrily. It was like someone had reached for my breast or groped the inside of my mouth with their tongue.  A closeness without permission, the kind that was meant for my wedding day. Where I was supposed to be unveiled by a one and only like in my dreams. 

“You ruined everything.” I screamed. 

“Before it disappeared your Face was…“She reaches for me with both hands. 

The night proceeded like a dream. I was certain I was alone when I began to cry yet a disconnected hand reached towards me with a handkerchief. I took it with my left hand and covered my face tightly. I had been unveiled, I held that magic at that train station and then left it. 

I imagine she is still waiting at the train station. I will apologize without tears and then again with tears. We could go to bars or meet at cafes. Whatever grown women do when they are together and fond of each other. Or we could go to Sephora. I will ask if there is anything in my teeth, if D for danger is really my color, and then she could say yes or no. And I will know she is being honest. 

I woke up in my bathroom with a great amount of glass around me. I thought of calling her. But somewhere in the night, I deleted her number and all traces of her features were extinguished from memory. There was only the veil. That hole. 

And what of mine? I touched the base of my cheek, moving upward to seek the wound that had migrated like a wild animal, everywhere is swollen and wet. But is it at least beautiful or awful? Is it the appropriate level of scarred for a bride? No one has ever called me gorgeous. Only her. What was that Face in that muted darkness when we were too close. 

And right now, am I too, making that Face? 

Yet I have no answers, I am ignorant as I was the day I was born: The day I learned about the wedding.  

So, I remain veiled, always.  

Deep Twister Contest

by Hugh Talmage

“That house is an air pocket”

Breath labored deep south – Momma's callin

From the lounge chair – In the deep end

Laughing to the depths – It’s a contest

Because I can stay deep the longest –

True men stay deep and don’t laugh.

True men stay deep and don’t need Momma’s callin

“You need to visit soon! We miss you!”

That deep gut twister deep deep

Twisting “I miss you” – It’s a contest

Because I can stay deep the longest –

True men stay deep and don’t crack.

True men stay deep and don’t break

Stone face– Cold hands hold necks deep

Deep into that gut twister “I miss –

The King

by Victoria Pittore

I hear your purr at all times of the day,

like a king on his throne staring back.

You lay at my feet after you play.

If you would like food you make sure to say,

in a sweet little meow, that I want a snack.

I hear your purr at all times of the day.

I never again want to know what it’s like when you are away.

My heart ached and tears filled my eyes until I got you back.

You lay at my feet after you play.

You are my little shadow that will always stay

right by my side in your little shack.

I hear your purr at all times of the day.

You play with your toys every minute of the day,

never knowing when you will attack.

You lay at my feet after you play.

You are my little fur baby everyday,

you and your family are part of the pack.

I hear your purr at all times of the day.

You lay at my feet after you play.

Another Anxiety Story

by Ben Kuhn

We arrive, yet again,

into the chamber

of the incandescent

feelings of Peril,

Doubt, and

Shame.

I feel it returning.

The full body pins and needles

prickling their way

up to my stomach,

which flutters with pangs of

Pressure.

My lungs squeeze and

release

in the midst of my heartbeat,

punching against my chest,

sparring with my skin

and my Aorta.

I’m smart, right?

Right?

Why does this keep coming back?

I’m smart. I’ve been told

smart people wouldn’t do this.

Would they?

No matter the size,

no matter the impact,

Smart People would never

make a mistake.

How? They’re Smart.

They, not we, make

no mistakes.

They calculate,

they detail,

and they strive for

every detail of every thought to be

flawlessly executed and

revered.

But me?

I may be told,

but I’ll never believe,

not unless the fear perishes,

Forever.

Broken Pieces of Harlem

by Terrence Nolan

Trapped in a room that had spun all around me, all I could make sense of was my mother's heart-shaped pearl locket on the bookshelf.  

✥✥✥ 

She gave it to me the night before she passed. I was fourteen. Her wispy graying brunette hair wrapped around my palm as I dreaded the hot brook of tears rumbling down my cheeks. Her green eyes, like mine, seemed to reciprocate my pain. She finally closed those tired green eyes, and I could feel the weight in my hand become heavier. My heart was crushed underneath that weight. Ever since, I've either worn or kept the locket nearby.  

✥✥✥ 

I rushed to grasp it, and once in my iron grip, I darted for the apartment door. Heavy stomping followed me, which felt as if they were always a half-step away. He grabbed my hair and pulled me backward. I held onto my mother's locket in my right hand, while I grabbed for a recently used shot glass from the kitchen counter with my left. I turned and, in my mind, I had scrunched up my face and pushed the glass through his thick skull. The blood and brain matter would splatter all over the white living room duvet couch covers, but, in actuality, I had only dazed him. I managed to scurry towards the hallway and slammed the door behind me. I took off my heels and raced down the stairs toward the lobby. Luckily, our apartment was on the fifth floor. I bolted past the bellhops and the security guards, who were all shouting my name. I reached the street. In front of me was a black Ford. There was no driver, but the engine was still on. I stepped to the side of it off the curb and looked both ways. I waded across to the other side of the street, dodging other cars and buggies. I voluntarily became swallowed by a crowd of people, so I quickly slid back on my heels and made my way to the subway. I turned around to see if I was being followed.  

No sign of him.  

A sigh of relief escaped my dry mouth. I could hear my heartbeat in my ears. I went underground. 

✥✥✥ 

Clyde Oliver was a handsome man with a clean jaw and pomade in his slicked-back hair. His burly chest was a sight for sore eyes, and he had a stern yet gentlemanly demeanor. That is, of course, until he became drunk and thought of violence as his first resort. We started living together a few months ago. His throwing of glasses and the never-ending flow of scotch down his throat soon alarmed me. He was a bootlegger. A gangster. Not a big one, but he knew some people. Who? I had no idea. I didn't find out he was one until my boss, who had previously harassed me, wound up dead one morning in his office. When I came home that day, Clyde asked me how work was. A wide smile dawned on his face. He never admitted to it, but I knew he had something to do with the murder. The man was shot straight through the heart. The bullet had passed through his chest. It then drove into a picture frame he had of his wife in front of him. It had shattered into pieces all over the floor.  

✥✥✥ 

I put the locket around my neck so that it hung over my cleavage. The subway was dry and desolate. I found it very odd for a Friday. I ended up hopping off the rail at 125th Street. I was unfamiliar with Harlem, so I just walked with everyone else. Surely, he couldn't have followed me across and uptown. It was nearing dark anyway. The April sky became crisp, and so I looked for a nearby, public place. I saw a large canopy with the name, "Cotton Club" on it. I had heard about it being a nightclub. The only problem was I had forgotten my purse, so I had to sneak onto the subway. Now off, I remained penniless. I walked up gingerly to the man at the door. I played with my black, bobbed hair and matched his gaze.  

“Can I help you, miss?”  

“Yes, you can…or rather, we could…help each other,” I uttered in the most seductive voice I could muster. Here goes nothing, I thought to myself. He looked me up and down and cocked his eyebrow as if to say go on. “Well, sir, a bad man chasing me, and if you let me take shelter in your club, then maybe I can come…find you later.” I batted my eyelashes and turned my head outwards, displaying my neck and collarbone. Well, this is humiliating. My cheeks flushed, and a cold sweat started to drizzle across my forehead.  

“Hmm. Well, you certainly bring up an interesting…erhm…trade,” he stammered out. “Alright.” He unhooked the red rope in front of the door and motioned me inside. He grazed my shoulder with his hand and squeezed it. “I’ll see you later, miss.” And he chuckled to himself as I tried to walk away as quickly as I could.  

I should have been an actress, maybe then I wouldn’t be in this mess, I tried to comfort myself.  

Inside, I found the place to be lit by many glass chandeliers. Wood paneling lined the walls and red velvet seats dotted the common space. At the end were large twin doors. I slowly walked to them and put my ear to their wooden bodies. I could hear a hardy piano melody rise above the mumblings of a crowd from the other side. A low hum of bass and drum started, and people started to applaud. At that point, I decided to slip quietly through the doors. The larger room inside was dimmed due to the performance. A saxophone started to play catch with the piano. The man in front of the stage had a very light glow to his face. He had black skin and sported a fine mustache and wore a black-banned white fedora with a bow on its side. He was smiling as he played his piano. His whole body trembled every time his hands hit the keys. He seemed entranced. I looked around in the audience to see all white faces with done-up hair and formal attire. All the black lace party dresses and tailcoats. I looked back at the door.  

Whites Only. 

“These men are just show-ponies to these people, aren’t they?” I asked no one, under my breath. I shot a glance at a gentleman standing next to me. I whispered to him, “Who’s that man performing?” 

He turned and proclaimed with a very cold stare, “That gentleman there is Duke Ellington, and he is playing with his “posse.”’ The man seemed to sense that I didn’t belong there. He added, “Why, this must be your first time here, ‘cause Mr. Ellington and his band are the house performers. They play here quite often. Mr. Madden is quite fond of them.”  

“Who?” I furrowed my brow. Then my eyes caught a glimpse of a bar, and waiters all with trays of pink and cobalt cocktails. I gulped. As Mr. Ellington’s band was reaching the end of the song; as the piano, a trumpet, and a clarinet were intertwined into a death rattle, I raised my eyes to see the shape of a woman in the far corner of the room. Amid the crowd, she had luckily gone unnoticed and had slipped by all by herself. She was a black woman. I wanted to leave her be, but I found myself making my way over to her. I got close but waited until the start of a new song and a round of applause before I started talking to her. I didn’t want anyone to see us.  

“Hello, miss,” I stuttered. She looked up at me petrified. Her face was that of a woman in her mid-twenties, maybe a little older than I was. She had braided hair and large brown eyes. Her accented cheekbones flooded into her wide-open mouth.  

“Oh, please, miss. Don’t have them throw me out. I just wanted to watch the show.” 

I smiled. “I would never do that to you, miss. I wanted to enjoy the show as well.” She sighed in relief and asked me to sit down. I joined her and started talking to her in light whispers. “What’s your name?” 

“Cassandra,” she muttered. “Yours?” 

“My name is Margery. It’s nice to meet you, Cassandra,” I flashed a gentle smile. She looked away for a second. “You don’t have to be worried. I can tell we’re going to be fantastic friends.” She shot her glance over to me and answered with a shy quiver. 

“I’m sorry, miss, I just can’t help but be nervous around these folk. My parents told me not to come here, but I heard the Duke was playing, and I couldn’t help myself.” She quickly shut herself up, as if she had said too much of what was supposed to be a secret. 

“Well, I think you’re brave. I took the subway here because I ran away from my “man.”’  

“What happened? Did he hurt you?” 

“He would’ve. I just wanted to get as far away from him as I could. I had to seduce the bouncer outside to let me in, though.” I scoffed. “Oh, but he didn’t do anything.” I threw both of my hands up in front of me. 

“That’s good. And if you say I’m brave,” Cassandra spoke up, “then you must be, too. You did what you had to do to get yourself out of that situation. Although, I am sorry that you had to go through those things, Margery.”  

“Thank you, Cassandra.” 

We went on and talked for what seemed like an hour. Then, a final round of thunder erupted from the audience. I realized that the show was over. Upon the clinking and reverberation of glass and porcelain throughout the dining gallery, I then remembered the presence of alcohol. Bootleggers. Madden. I turned to Cassandra. 

“We need to go. Now.” 

“Why?” she asked. “We have some time left. See? They’re doing an encore.” 

“That’s why we must go. We can both sneak out the side now that everyone is distracted.” 

“Excuse me, what are you two doing?” A lady dressed in fur demanded. We both looked up at her despot. My mouth was agape but no sound could come out. I just grabbed Cassandra’s hand and darted for the twin doors. We shoved through countless people. The band even stopped playing. We ran out of the room and went to the fire exit. We made it to the alley. To our right was a parked car. I looked, and it felt as if the wind was knocked out of me. A black Ford. There was a driver this time. I could only see his silhouette. The muted patter of rain cascaded over the roof of the car, onto the cobblestone below. Cassandra screamed. I heard the same heavy footsteps I had heard many times before. The hair on the back of my neck stood up. It was Clyde, wearing a cocked fedora and a black pinstriped suit. He was wearing leather gloves and had his hand in the left side of his waistcoat. He pulled out a pistol and pointed it at me.  

“So, this is where you ran off to?” he shouted. “You think I wouldn’t have found ‘ya?” He was sober now. And yet he still had the same violent hatred in his eyes. “You sneak into my boss’s place, and you mingle with…her?” As he waved the gun towards Cassandra. He refocused on me. “I don’t like it when my toys get away from me.” He said with a cracked smile. At that, I turned and grabbed Cassandra’s hand. We both ran for it. Down the alley to the side, I saw the bouncer that had let me in and another man. He had a skinny build with large ears. He also wore a white fedora. He had a grim look on his face. As I made eye contact with this man, who I could only assume was the boss Mr. Madden, a gunshot rang throughout the alleyway. A vacuum fell upon us, save for the pitter-patter of brass dancing upon the cold street below. My body tensed up. I felt warm. I looked down and saw a hole coming out of the center of my chest. My mother’s locket, which I had saved all this time, had fallen. Everything somehow dragged on with time. The locket fell to the ground and shattered into a million shiny, white pieces. I dropped to the ground and grabbed onto my chest. My bloodied hand shook with adrenaline. The smell of gunpowder and dark blood stayed at home in my nose, as I became lightheaded and rolled onto my back. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Cassandra being dragged toward the car.  

She was kicking and screaming. “Please let me go! I just want to go home. Please, sir, I’ll never come back, I swear.” The men put a bag over her head and stuffed her into the backseat of the car. The muffled screams faded as the rain filled in the empty lot. The taillights drove away from my outstretched hand.  

My arm gave out, and I looked above. I saw Clyde’s face come into view, as he threw his jacket over me. He bent down to kiss my forehead and as he stood up, he lit a cigarette and walked away.  

✥✥✥ 

Now, as I lay here with visible breath, I’m experiencing my own death rattle. Mr. Ellington’s piano is still playing in my ears. My heartbeat has returned, only slower and more announced this time. My eyes grow tired. 

It’s very dark. 

The Comeback

by Taliyah Lowe

When I step outside, I know it’s the first thing that people see.

I so desperately want it not to be, but it is, and I know it.

So, I walk with my head down, constantly staring at the slowly fading colors of my shoelaces, my hands in my pockets.

I fear the world seeing my skin color because it invites judgement and assumptions.

Black people are this and that,

More often than not,

It is negative.

I am black and I am proud, but sometimes it hard to be confident in a world that constantly tries to silence you.

Not wanting you to be seen.

Or heard.

Just invisible.

I walk side by side with fear.

Will I make it home tonight?

When I drive; I drive with caution of following every single road regulation, so I have no reason to be stopped.

When I watch the news, I look at the headlines to see what it is happening within my community.

Whether another family will have to bury another one, or will it be me burying someone I know and love?

This year, I promised myself this would be my comeback.

The names of the folks who were gone too soon consistently rings in the back of my mind, and it inspires me to keep going.

To live; and not just survive day after day.

To make them proud in some kind of way.

To make a difference of some kind, so that no one else will never have to put their beautiful trembling black hands in the sky and mutter ‘please don’t shoot’.

Eric Garner (43).

Breonna Taylor (26).

Ahmaud Arbery (25).

George Floyd (46).

Stephon Clark (22).

I can’t begin to tell you how long the list of names is.

The conversations about race can be uncomfortable, but they are so vital.

Imagine all that can be done if all of us offered an ear to each other.

We all bleed the same color.

We all feel love.

We all feel pain.

We are all human.

Let us comeback to each other.

I deeply believe we can.

I absolutely know we can.

Gabriella the Sylph

by Jeanine Crook

Onyx feathers poured from her scalp.

With ludic eyes she transmuted

all the world's sorrow which

was her own.

Garments draped on her hips

like Spanish bluebells.

She collected quixotic trinkets

and held them in the safety of her pockets.

These charms fell between the spaces

of her fingers as she played with them

and like a cosmic portal

they took her to planet Venus

where she lay in

lackadaisical woolgathering.

Tomorrow she would build pretty villas in the air.

Smell

By Andrew Spoleti    

“Do you smell that?” I asked Riley, my roommate. We wandered around our tiny apartment searching for the source of this smell. It was faint but consistent. Hanging in the air like a ringing in your ears that only you hear. We checked our various smoke and carbon monoxide alarms and nothing came up. We would have loved to follow the thread of this elusive mysterious smell, but we were college students. We had things to do.

I continued with my daily routine by hopping in the shower only to find there was no hot water. Now, you need to understand, I thought that this was probably the worst discovery I could have made that day. I am a hot shower man. I love my hot showers. When the water is cold it feels like a million tiny needles, poking but not piercing my skin. I feel the water pulling me down and tightening my chest.

After my brave confrontation with the icy tundra, I opened the bathroom door to a haze. I was looking at my apartment with the glossy blurry haze of someone who had just woken up. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

Now this was novel. Using my powerful skills of deduction, I had determined that maybe something was wrong. “Hey Riley,” I called downstairs, while being interrupted, “Not sure if you-” BEEP. BEEP. “-hear that, but I think something-” BEEP. “-might be beeping.” BEEP.

I walked down the stairs to be washed in a wave of this familiar smell. It would appear that it was upset that Riley and I chose not to give it the attention it demanded earlier, so decided to act out and get much stronger and ruminate throughout the apartment even more. Real mature, smell. Real mature.

The air was thick and overwhelming. It felt like moving through molasses, breathing through a scarf. Something in the air is eating at me, not just the smell but I was overcome with some kind of opportunistic airborne swarm of thoughts that was normally kept away by the stink of booze or the hollow cocoon of disingenuous love.

*****

I remember waking up on Sunday morning in my childhood bedroom. I would get out of bed wearing two sweatshirts and two pairs of pajama bottoms. I would walk into the kitchen before my father woke up, after putting on my sneakers because the chill of the dirty white tiles could eat right through my socks biting my feet like a million tiny needles. My mother is standing at the counter wearing an orange and blue Mets winter jacket. Total silence except for the sounds of three pots of water boiling on the stove top and the hum coming from the oven with the door hanging open. The smell of the dirty oven radiated throughout the house.

My mother would be standing over two trays of cookies and one tray of brownies. She didn’t want any of them, she just wanted to use the oven. I couldn’t smell any of it through the noxious gaseous aroma. Thank God for that smell, it’s like a perfect bookmark. It transports me right back there.

I remember my mother’s fixed, tired look on the counter, not even realizing I was in the room with her. I remember rubbing my eyes over and over again to get the sleepy fog in my eyes to go away. I remember the trembling sensation on the back of my neck when I heard my father’s bedroom door open. I did what I would always do, retreat back into my bedroom where I could smother myself with blankets like armor from the cold.

I could stay in those blankets forever. My family would love that. They love me low maintenance. They love me quiet. They love nothing. I can be nothing.

She would come into my room and tell me she has to go to work. “You want any cookies?” She asked.

“That’s okay.” I said

“You got any plans today?” She asked.

“No.” I said, feeling like her question was some twisting of a knife, but maybe it was just her trying to care. She would complain about something my father had done, and then she would apologize. “I shouldn’t say that.” She would say, everytime. As if it would bother me that my divorced parents didn’t get along. As if they stopped getting along because they got divorced. What came first, the chicken or the egg? The egg. Obviously.

Why is he still here? It's been a year. Choking on the thought, I was unable to get it out, like ashes filling my mouth. Of course I couldn’t ask her. We couldn’t even ask each other ‘How was your day?’

She would go to one of her three jobs, and I would live in my bedroom. Hiding from the childish behemoth in the living room, whose job was watching fox news on the couch. The smell would trickle under my door and I wouldn’t feel as cold.

*****

BEEEEP. BEEEEP. BEEEEP. Riley was holding our carbon monoxide detector in her hands, which we bought a few days before because our landlord refused to supply us with it, or a smoke alarm, or a fire extinguisher. My theory is that our carbon monoxide detector was taking a break of some kind when we initially noticed the smell. Maybe it was just relaxing and didn’t notice the fumes in the air. Like a sleeping lifeguard on a beach with someone flailing in the water a hundred feet away.

We opened the door to our storage closet and saw our boiler shooting a consistent stream of black soot into the air. The walls and floor were covered with a black blanket. The boiler was an artist that only painted in black, and our home was its canvas. “Well, this is fun.” I said as I switched the emergency shut off switch on our wall.

Riley and I covered our mouths and ran to our bedrooms. She had to get her pet Gecko. I had to get my ex-girlfriend’s pet parakeets that have been living in my room for a year. Why are they still here? I look at their panic as I cover and pick up their cage. I feel bad for them. We put them in the backseat of Riley’s car and we sat in the front seat, facing our apartment's open front door.

“The number you are trying to reach has been disconnected.” Said the robotic voice when we tried to call the fire department. I laughed. We looked up the number for the second nearest fire department and after a few hollow rings it went to voicemail. We called again, maybe it was a fluke. Voicemail.

You can’t make this stuff up.

After a few more attempts and a few more phone numbers, we finally got a person to answer. My eyes were fixed on the dense yellow smoke spewing from our chimney into the air as he spoke. “Are you feeling any symptoms or effects from the fumes at all?” He asked. Riley and I both, lying for no reason, said “We don’t think so.” We didn’t realize we were lying. We just thought our heads hurt and we were nauseous because of stress. There was too much running around, too many different colors of smoke, too many things to take care of, to pay attention to how we were feeling.

The amount of carbon monoxide it takes to start affecting a person is around 70 ppm. At around 150 ppm is when people start getting disoriented and could possibly die. When the fire department arrived and tested the air quality in our apartment, we were told that there was 450+ ppm inside our apartment. Which I believe the technical term for those levels would be: a silly amount of carbon monoxide. The man who was testing the air laughed when he walked out of our door. When we called our landlord she told us that we must have just let the boiler run out of oil, “That’s what happens when you let it get that low,” she said through the phone, over the sounds of the industrial fans blowing the little heat left in our apartment out of the door with the fumes. “I'll have someone there in the morning to look at it.” She said. She lied.

We didn't have heat for a week and a half. After about ten days, someone came and told us it would be fine now. When we turned the boiler back on, it set on fire. “That happens when you let it run out of oil.” our landlord said again. “This is one of the most hazardous furnaces I’ve worked on in 24 years of doing this.” The repairman said.

So, we sat in the living room for another week without heat. I put on my winter jacket, my two layers of pants, and got under my armor of blankets, waiting for someone to come and give us our heat back.

Response to “Intimations on Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood” by William Wordsworth

by Shannon Corr

No one cares for Alice out of Wonderland.

Her House of Cards destitute, it becomes a brothel

and Alice plays the Madame.

A rival establishment just up the street

has the best muslin Alice has ever seen and

she wonders why the poor Hatter never ended it all.

“Happy unbirthday to me . . . ” she whispers as Peter Pan groans.

Alice only counts her coins and spreads her legs now.

She’s late – so very, very late – and there’s no escaping this Wonderland.

Coconut Milk

by Cole Solis Jativa

Tingles! For new beginnings. I

pick fresh flowers and perhaps,

I will prance naked, singing until

my esophagus is hoarse.

Bronze beetle, be kind and

hold my ash as these pearls linger

gracefully over cotton falls.

Guayasamín cradles ceramic

fruit while a sitting duck

hurdles over abusing blades

of iron. The eyes of an owl are

perched erect on butterfly wings

as we commemorate a fallen soldier

among plains of persisting pigments.

A moment of silence

And as the cauldron sizzles of

bittersweet reduction, there is an

ever consuming presence of

honey-love.

My grandma (we call her Coneja)

sips soup in shades doused

in ceramic sunflowers.

An obedient cow is the

honorable vessel of a grimey sponge.

Alas, will the dried flowers in my ocelot’s skull ever fade?

holy water

by Poroye

He spat in my face  

and called it holy water. 

He tarried long and hard over my soul  

until a spirit of fear  

flowed through me  

like an everlasting river. 

I held my breath with a  

silent shrill. Arms thrashing around  

for God knows how long 

desperate for an exhale 

and he called it a baptism.  

Oh how I wanted to tell him  

I was drowning.  

That I needed saving  

but not nearly in this kind of manner.