the comma,
The Comma
February 13, 2014 THE OBSERVER
Heads
By MARGARET FISHER
www.fordhamobserver.com
I came second, and you taught me how to follow. Through the jungle gym, the plastic dome walls and clumpy sand. Your brown bob was my lighthouse. I was your duckling. I forced you to be big too soon. I waddled after you with my little white sneakers and Pooh Bear sweater, smiling big because I knew. I was Tails, and there is nothing even about that. About two sides of a coin and which lands upward more often than not; about which side bears the weather and the flick of the fingernail most. Heads is hard to be. -I had sticky fingers and chubby palms. Sometimes you didn’t want me, but you held my hand anyway, and hugged me when you didn’t have to. I looked up from the folds of my hand-me-downs and smiled because you wore them first. I liked to sit still and watch while you chased everything. While everything chased you. We played and I always had to be the boy, except when you wanted to be the boy. We painted rocks gold together. At first you wanted both, then you wanted to trade yours for mine, then you wanted me to have both. And that’s how it went for us. You got me in trouble and I made you laugh. I got you in trouble and cried when you didn’t tell on me. I cried when you got yelled at. And the day you got too old too soon. -When I think about what happened to us, I try to remember: Sometimes, it’s no one’s fault. Our clothes were old. My backpack was small. My hair wasn’t pretty. I wasn’t pretty. I wasn’t, And, sometimes, kids are cruel. The corner of the pavement. The back of the class. The front seat of the car. I crumpled. Please don’t ask me to say a name. Really, it’s no one’s fault. But she was pretty. He said she was pretty. So did he. They all said she was pretty, All wanted to have something pretty. On the chain link fence. Behind the bathrooms. The back seat of the car. ‘Pretty’ didn’t feel like they’d promised. It felt thick. Like heavy foundation. Concealer. A nicely painted mask that doesn’t match your skin tone. This is the world. No, really, I’m fine. Sometimes, it’s no one’s fault But mine. -She came home sixteen one day with smeared make-up and a ruffled shirt. Her arms had bruises and she looked down at her hands. But all that night we didn’t talk about it out loud, we just watched our favorite movies while she put curlers in my hair. She seemed so strong then, so sure of how life was supposed to work. But she wasn’t, not anymore than I was. She had just learned to pretend.
TYLER MARTINS/THE OBSERVER
2
THE OBSERVER February 13, 2014
By DAVID BUCHANAN
Piggy Bank
www.fordhamobserver.com
The Comma
3
Glare with glazed eyes, protuberant snout, corkscrew tail. Perpetual smile. Once whole, now shattered; Ruined. Shards of avarice birth coinage. What shall she purchase? Her prize for destruction.
West Lake (西湖) By YUAN HONG WONG
The rain falls, like steps in a dance, drowning out summer tongues. The water flows, near the broken bridge, sinking into vacant heart. The cold air, snaking wisps of ice, into the lotus pond. Calm surface, your warm summer eyes, mirroring the moon.
MEREDITH SUMMERS/THE OBSERVER
The Mute’s Prayer By ROSS LAMPERT
Goggles down, hands gripping ax through tattered gloves, I slam the edge of the double-sided bastard of a blade into the bark again and again. The tree was dead and rotting too high above the canopy in front of the Mute’s house, and here I am dragging it down to earth with the rest of us. I had been chopping for a decade of minutes, running on black coffee and adrenaline. I caught him yesterday, talking to the mountain cur that sleeps under his truck when it rains. Or maybe just mouthing words. Couldn’t tell from the driver’sside window. But nevermind. Sound or silence, he was talking to somebody besides himself for once. Today, the cur lies still with his chin on the edge of the porch, watching me but I am not distracted. With one last swing I rip a notch out of the trunk and circle over to the other side where I will create the hinge. I yell in motivation and unleash a flurry of incisions. In the forest, no one hears you scream. But soon I hear the tree ache as it leans and I know. I run in the opposite direction as the great dead tree breaks through the canopy and smashes against the ground, shaking the whole mountainside as it sinks into the dirt. When all is still again I run onto the fallen trunk, sink my ax into it and shriek into the air in victory, panting in exhaustion. And it is then that I see him behind the window next to his front door, open palm on the glass. And the mountain cur, he has not moved except for his tail is wagging with a loyalty that will never die. I know it well. If God woke up with the rest of us and took His own ax and split this mountain open without anyone noticing, a few squirrels, chipmunks, deer, foxes and bears along with a couple thousand trees would go with it, and us. We would go and be missed but not for long. Nobody prays for us. And so we pray for each other. The Mute, he was smiling at me. That tree could have fallen any minute.
VICTORIA VON ANCKEN/THE OBSERVER
6
The Comma
February 13, 2014 THE OBSERVER
www.fordhamobserver.com
Masterpiece
By HANNA TADEVICH
There is nothing original to say about heartbreak. The frigid loneliness of long empty days we fill with replacement bodies and deceptively warm alcohol to burn down the esophagus and make us feel something. The burning hell of long empty nights we strip of one layer of clothing after another, so hot with rage at our own thoughts that refuse us a minute of sleep. Watch sad movies that we may cry for someone else’s tragedy and not feel selfish for consumption by our own. Wish for the stabbing in our hearts and the twisting in our guts to pause just long enough to remember we like living, yet simultaneously wish it continue forever because it’s better to feel pain than a body void of love. None of it is original. The original is him or her. We drew the very blood from our veins and dipped our fingers in it, painted it on their arms and let it seep into their skin so they became works of art, a synthesis of the two of us, too beautiful to be replicated. We wrapped the sinews of our hearts so that we each loved making love two times as much; we entwined the organs in our guts so that we only wanted to eat food together, savory and satiating it filled us both. We merged our stories and none of the words can be erased; tattooed behind my eyes they push tears forward with each blink. I wait for a new story to pen itself there but no story ever could; we are timelessly original; it’s why I can’t sew back together the half of me that is missing you, my work of art.
e g a s es M d e k r o C t x e N e For th By BOBINA VANDER LAAN
If I could have promised to stop smashing newly-bought wine bottles against ice black pavement, as if crowning unintended unmaiden ships with slick rubies, would you have stopped tempting me with gold? I jump between islands of rock salt, continue to find a route to track the tenses. I can’t say I would not have climbed the fire escape up three flights, though all I was clambering away from was another year tacked onto a fresh licensed introduction. Attempting to find something higher— somewhere more numb and less unending, or vice versa, who could tell what is cloudy comedy above or bright tragedy below? Over apartment silhouettes and ceaseless river currents, the George Washington Bridge makes for a pretty constellation. We could have mistaken the floating semi-truck lights for flitting meteorites or communication towers for a guiding point, even with an errant gaze at Venus we’re always looking a few minutes into the past. I look back on the dark wake in fading bitter bold fondness— what I didn’t remember about launching parties is that you should never expect those sails to break the horizon again. Over again, we practice exquisite oaths we don’t intend to keep— offer open hands through fog just to raise a line and touch our own faces. When the view is flush remember to say good, and only then bye.
BRIAN BRUEGGE/THE OBSERVER
www.fordhamobserver.com
THE OBSERVER February 13, 2014
The Comma
Larry By MARIETTE DOROBIS
We have all known the power of fleeting love. Whether it be a winter break romance, a summer camp friendship, that ice cream sandwich that you spent 3 dollars on only to finish in 2 minutes— There is no heartbreak quite like it. Because all you are left with when it’s over is regret. Sure, there are some memories. But, much more so, there are the questions: What could I have done better? What could have made it last longer? The answer is probably nothing, but nevertheless the wondering burns you to your core. I’ve had my share of fleeting love. Boy, have I. None, however, quite as fleeting (nor as passionate) as that with a certain dental hygienist: Larry. Now, my relationship with Larry began like any other. About four weeks ago, my upper left molar was causing me some irritation. I had just cause to believe that such discomfort was due to the abrupt arrival of those ne’er-do-well wisdom teeth. Like any sensible adult, I got my pediatric dentist on the phone right away. My mother had taken her appointment book with all of our important phone numbers in it with her to work, so I turned to the Internet. I googled “Children’s Dental Group of New Jersey.” There, as if by fate, was exactly what I longed for: the contact information for “Children’s Dental Group of New Jersey” – located on Highway 34! I wasted no time. I typed the number into my cell phone, and I called. It rang. And rang. And then it rang some more. No answer. I was at a loss, so sure that I would never be able to open my jaw fully ever again. But, just as I was about to google “best open-faced sandwich recipe,” I heard that fateful click. “Children’s Dental Group of New Jersey” came a voice, “This is Larry speaking. How may I help you?” I was so overcome with ecstasy that I almost forgot what to do in the heat of the moment. But, by some miracle, I managed to not completely lose my head. “Hi, my name is Mariette Dorobis. I think I need my wisdom teeth out.” This man—Larry was his name?—knew exactly what to do. He got my insurance information, and verified that I indeed was a viable client. We chatted some more, me giving him the whole scoop on my upper left molar, and him giving me a whole lot of laughs. Before we bid adieu, he said: “Well, Mariette, I’ll see you tomorrow. Dr. Daniels will be so excited to see you.” -Cue internal record scratch“I’m sorry…Dr. Daniels? But my dentist is Dr. Miller! Is this Children’s Dental Group of New Jersey, on Highway 34 South?” But even as the words left my lips, I knew the answer. “Oh, I see what might have happened, Miss. We are actually located on Highway 34 North.” I couldn’t breathe. I didn’t know what to do. Actually, I did. I knew exactly what I needed to do. “I’m so sorry for the inconvenience, sir,” I said sadly. “I’ll call Dr. Miller’s office.” And with a heavy heart, I hung up the phone. But, little did I know, that would not be the last I would be hearing of Larry. The next day, around 9:00 AM, the phone rang. “Whom might that be?” I asked myself. I let the voicemail get it. “Hello, this is Larry from the Children’s Dental Group of New Jersey, calling to confirm your appointment for today—“ I could hardly believe it! It was all I could do to not pick up the phone right then and there. I left the message finish, and then went back to sleep, with a warm feeling all over. Though I knew I should probably call the dental office right away, I just could not bring myself to do it. It was as if every time I thought about picking the phone up, one of Larry’s references to the MTV show Jersey Shore from the day prior would pop into my head, acting as an invisible shield between myself and that northern stretch of highway. Larry called again, about 5 hours later. Once more, I could not bring myself to answer. Then, about 2 hours later, my mother arrived home, and saw the messages. She chastised me, telling me to call the office back “before her insurance company kicked her a**.” So, with my soul drowning in distress, I phoned the Children’s Dental Group of New Jersey once more. “Larry speaking.” Oh, happy dagger! Those two words were enough to almost make me abandon the whole thing. But, in the back of my head remained the nagging voices of the workers at my mother’s insurance company. I explained the situation to Larry. He completely understood. I felt sad for the end of this era, but tried to comfort myself with the vision of a removed tooth. I should not have been so hasty. Once again, I did not realize that this would not be the last I would hear from Larry. The next morning, once again, I got a call at 9:00 AM. “Hello, this is Larry calling from the Children’s Group of New Jersey. We’re calling because you missed your appointment yesterday—“ Oh, Larry! I knew insurance could not keep a duo this dynamic apart for long! Unfortunately, my happiness did not last long. For my mother did not have work today. And she did not hesitate to spring to action in a way I never could. She picked up the phone. There was stern talking, but I could not bear to listen. Yet I knew, in my gut, that we would not be hearing from Larry again. THE END.
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the end.