POEM
Lame
Flora Adamian
Flora Adamian
Where do I put my heart?
Under the waves of
Arctic winds
Or do I
Couple it with the seeds of future harvests
and hope for cherry blossoms
Should I burrow it
In an autumn laborer's nest
Or should I
Gamble with the unstable crops
of Sinaloa's cartels
Are monks decent mercenaries?
Should I bury my heart with renowned saints
and hope they'd never sinned
Where do I put my heart?
Under the waves of
Arctic winds
Or do I
Couple it with the seeds of future harvests
and hope for cherry blossoms
Should I burrow it
In an autumn laborer's nest
Or should I
Gamble with the unstable crops
of Sinaloa's cartels
Are monks decent mercenaries?
Should I bury my heart with renowned saints
and hope they'd never sinned
Where do I put my heart?
PROSE
Snow
Jiesung Park
Jiesung Park
Franny was never fond of the snow. It was either powdery or slushy and ruined her boots whenever she was on an errand. The cold was one thing, but the thick gray layer that accumulated on her soles was an atrocity. Seriously.
So when she saw tiny white flakes drifting down from above, she cursed herself for not bringing an umbrella.
(“An umbrella in the snow? Come on. Umbrellas are for wimps.”)
She waited under the benevolent glow of a streetlight and peered around anxiously for a sign of movement in the dark. She noted the time on a post clock a few feet away and rummaged through her coat pockets for a scrap of paper and a pencil.
(“As meticulous as always, Francine. The doctor would be so mad.”)
When she saw a figure emerging from the shadows, she quickly put the paper and pencil away and straightened her clothes anxiously. Her hands felt bulky so she clasped them around her back; her stance felt awkward so she rocked on the balls of her feet. Up and down, up and down.
“Were you waiting for a while?”
Franny shook her head furiously.
“Liar. I’ve been watching you for at least ten minutes.”
Franny didn’t know what to say.
“You don’t have to feel uncomfortable around me, Franny. We’re friends.”
Friends. Franny wanted to laugh, but she held her tongue and diverted her gaze to her shoes. Powdered shoes. Disgusting shoes.
(“Don’t blame what you can’t control. It’s pointless.”)
“Shall we go then?”
Franny gave a bob of her head and took the proffered arm without hesitation. Her cheek tingled when a pair of cold scaly lips pressed against it. She fixed her facial muscles into a smile.
(“Why are you so bitter? Lighten up.”)
They entered a bakery and bought fresh steaming rolls. The baker looked horrified at her companion, but he was mercifully silent.
Then, they exited the shop and took winding dark streets out of town and into a clearing. The remnants of rusted train tracks littered the bare patch of soil. The snow continued to fall.
“You are probably my only friend, Franny.”
It wasn’t hard to see why.
(“Franny, Franny, cold and crazy.”)
“Let’s elope, Franny.”
(“Came to cry but could not—”)
“No.”
It was the first word she had spoken all evening. Her frozen fingers fluttered to her mouth. She knew what was going to come next.
“No? No?” Incensed.
She probably deserved it.
“You owe it to me. After everything you’ve done, you owe everything to me.”
She felt the snow begin to seep into her clothes.
“You need to pay your debts. You killed me.”
Franny felt the illusion begin to fade away as her heart throbbed with intense regret. She squeezed her eyes tightly, and when she opened them again, she was alone in the clearing. For once, the snow was kind to her; it blanketed the corroding rail tracks.
She searched for a mirror in her pockets with trembling fingers.
Sunken eyes. Sallow skin. Scaly lips. She looked like death itself had come to haunt her. Maybe that was why the baker gave her--
(“Us.”)
—that weird look.
She snapped the mirror close and hurried back home. She wanted to leave the scene as quickly as possible before the nightmare came back.
Her house was empty. The living room smelled of smoke and perfume. She slipped into her room quietly and ignored the figure waiting for her at her desk. Even when she heard it talking, she closed her eyes and resisted every temptation to speak to it.
(“To the person who made my life Hell every day for four years--
I know that you were suffering too, and I tried to help you but you wouldn’t do the same for me. I tried to escape, but you wouldn’t let me do that either. There is no other way than this.
Don’t feel too bad. You may have destroyed my life, but the train out of town will deliver the final blow. It’s sort of funny because I thought you were an angel the first time I met you, but it turns out that it was just a façade – kind of like when you see snow on something old and ugly and it could be bright and new for all you know.”)
It wasn’t her fault, she once told herself. But deep inside, she knew it was, and the guilt ate at her like a flint eyed crocodile gnawing on the bones of its prey. She saw its face everywhere – behind her favorite coat in her closet, crouched in the kitchen cupboards, waiting for her outside the window in her second-story bedroom.
(“You need to get help, Franny.”)
For what? Her irrational hatred for snow? The figures of distorted corpses that hung around everywhere? The parents who neglected her to commit adultery behind each other’s backs?
(“Just give up. You’re already dead.”)
“No.”
(“No? No?”)
Before she could once again hear its outraged screech, she fled out into the swirling white, down the streets, skidding around the corners, back to the point where she started. She hadn’t worn a proper coat and some part of her trembled violently, but another part, the crazier part, couldn’t care less.
She gazed at the streetlamp, at the post clock, at the bakery’s neon signs. A few passerby shoppers gave her strange looks. She marched up to the nearest couple.
“I can’t help the way I am. But I’m not going to give up. I’m not going to listen to it anymore because it keeps telling me to do what I don’t want to do but I don’t answer to its orders!”
The couple shared an uneasy look and scurried away.
She stared stonily at the snow that slowly accumulated in the abandoned footprints.
For once, why couldn’t everything freeze? If the snow could stay suspended in the air; if the retreating couple would stop to listen to her; if her mind could be rooted in only one place? If a frigid diamond silence would encase the world for just a moment, just enough time to let her catch her breath.
(“Franny, Franny, cold and crazy.”)
Franny had many regrets, but her biggest one had to be why she couldn’t find one damn umbrella.
So when she saw tiny white flakes drifting down from above, she cursed herself for not bringing an umbrella.
(“An umbrella in the snow? Come on. Umbrellas are for wimps.”)
She waited under the benevolent glow of a streetlight and peered around anxiously for a sign of movement in the dark. She noted the time on a post clock a few feet away and rummaged through her coat pockets for a scrap of paper and a pencil.
(“As meticulous as always, Francine. The doctor would be so mad.”)
When she saw a figure emerging from the shadows, she quickly put the paper and pencil away and straightened her clothes anxiously. Her hands felt bulky so she clasped them around her back; her stance felt awkward so she rocked on the balls of her feet. Up and down, up and down.
“Were you waiting for a while?”
Franny shook her head furiously.
“Liar. I’ve been watching you for at least ten minutes.”
Franny didn’t know what to say.
“You don’t have to feel uncomfortable around me, Franny. We’re friends.”
Friends. Franny wanted to laugh, but she held her tongue and diverted her gaze to her shoes. Powdered shoes. Disgusting shoes.
(“Don’t blame what you can’t control. It’s pointless.”)
“Shall we go then?”
Franny gave a bob of her head and took the proffered arm without hesitation. Her cheek tingled when a pair of cold scaly lips pressed against it. She fixed her facial muscles into a smile.
(“Why are you so bitter? Lighten up.”)
They entered a bakery and bought fresh steaming rolls. The baker looked horrified at her companion, but he was mercifully silent.
Then, they exited the shop and took winding dark streets out of town and into a clearing. The remnants of rusted train tracks littered the bare patch of soil. The snow continued to fall.
“You are probably my only friend, Franny.”
It wasn’t hard to see why.
(“Franny, Franny, cold and crazy.”)
“Let’s elope, Franny.”
(“Came to cry but could not—”)
“No.”
It was the first word she had spoken all evening. Her frozen fingers fluttered to her mouth. She knew what was going to come next.
“No? No?” Incensed.
She probably deserved it.
“You owe it to me. After everything you’ve done, you owe everything to me.”
She felt the snow begin to seep into her clothes.
“You need to pay your debts. You killed me.”
Franny felt the illusion begin to fade away as her heart throbbed with intense regret. She squeezed her eyes tightly, and when she opened them again, she was alone in the clearing. For once, the snow was kind to her; it blanketed the corroding rail tracks.
She searched for a mirror in her pockets with trembling fingers.
Sunken eyes. Sallow skin. Scaly lips. She looked like death itself had come to haunt her. Maybe that was why the baker gave her--
(“Us.”)
—that weird look.
She snapped the mirror close and hurried back home. She wanted to leave the scene as quickly as possible before the nightmare came back.
Her house was empty. The living room smelled of smoke and perfume. She slipped into her room quietly and ignored the figure waiting for her at her desk. Even when she heard it talking, she closed her eyes and resisted every temptation to speak to it.
(“To the person who made my life Hell every day for four years--
I know that you were suffering too, and I tried to help you but you wouldn’t do the same for me. I tried to escape, but you wouldn’t let me do that either. There is no other way than this.
Don’t feel too bad. You may have destroyed my life, but the train out of town will deliver the final blow. It’s sort of funny because I thought you were an angel the first time I met you, but it turns out that it was just a façade – kind of like when you see snow on something old and ugly and it could be bright and new for all you know.”)
It wasn’t her fault, she once told herself. But deep inside, she knew it was, and the guilt ate at her like a flint eyed crocodile gnawing on the bones of its prey. She saw its face everywhere – behind her favorite coat in her closet, crouched in the kitchen cupboards, waiting for her outside the window in her second-story bedroom.
(“You need to get help, Franny.”)
For what? Her irrational hatred for snow? The figures of distorted corpses that hung around everywhere? The parents who neglected her to commit adultery behind each other’s backs?
(“Just give up. You’re already dead.”)
“No.”
(“No? No?”)
Before she could once again hear its outraged screech, she fled out into the swirling white, down the streets, skidding around the corners, back to the point where she started. She hadn’t worn a proper coat and some part of her trembled violently, but another part, the crazier part, couldn’t care less.
She gazed at the streetlamp, at the post clock, at the bakery’s neon signs. A few passerby shoppers gave her strange looks. She marched up to the nearest couple.
“I can’t help the way I am. But I’m not going to give up. I’m not going to listen to it anymore because it keeps telling me to do what I don’t want to do but I don’t answer to its orders!”
The couple shared an uneasy look and scurried away.
She stared stonily at the snow that slowly accumulated in the abandoned footprints.
For once, why couldn’t everything freeze? If the snow could stay suspended in the air; if the retreating couple would stop to listen to her; if her mind could be rooted in only one place? If a frigid diamond silence would encase the world for just a moment, just enough time to let her catch her breath.
(“Franny, Franny, cold and crazy.”)
Franny had many regrets, but her biggest one had to be why she couldn’t find one damn umbrella.
ARTWORK
Falling Apart
Grace Poole
Grace Poole
PHOTOGRPAHY
99% Feelings
Mia Edminster
Mia Edminster