A Letter from the Editors: Dear readers, Welcome to our new literary section! To say we’re excited is a bit of an understatement; we’ve been looking forward to this for quite some time. We live in a city of immense creative energy—a fact that undoubtedly has led all of us to this university, this campus. It is at once humbling and thrilling to think of how much talent is concentrated in these boroughs, and then to think of how much of that talent is in and born from this school. This richness of possibilities is heartening to be sure, but sometimes overwhelming, even intimidating. But where do you turn to on this campus to express yourself? If we were to poll everyone, we doubt we’d get the same answer twice. The array of choices is wide-ranging, and often deeply personal, even private, rather than public and collective. Our ability to utilize platforms uniquely and specifically for our particular interests in this city campus is a privilege we are grateful for daily, but it also has the effect of stratifying us, separating us. There are relatively few creative spaces for us to come together as a unified body of diversely talented student-artists. This is where we enter the picture. We are offering up a new, revitalized space for as many of us to come together and share our work as possible. We are reaching out to gather our community because we are excited about the possibilities, and judging from the volume of submissions we’ve received in the past few weeks, you’re as excited as we are. Jacqueline Battaglia & Emily Tudisco Literary Co-Editors
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February 21, 2013 THE OBSERVER
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Poem beginning with a line by Clifton By MARIO CORSARO
into a pin of light we must shake off former sorrows and defiantly uproot towards the aspiration of today’s tomorrow that vigor unharnessed beyond that minimal pin we were once surrounded by darkness confounded by the torments of nights that rendered us sleepless for centuries, millennia but throughout the course of chronologies the beginner’s voice always begins to flex with a recycling blink like an eye seeing for the first time the contours of the unimaginable therefore arise from the incarceration of paralysis incarnated and full of animation stir from the stillness and persist through the door of the pin and no longer cling to the surface of dead things and no purpose
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THE OBSERVER February 21, 2013
Bones By KRIS ULER
Influences I suppose it all started when your hands became too hot and my body screamed for air, cold and refreshing. You continued holding me until my veins burst and I spilled all over you, rapidly coloring you a burnt copper shade of wasted youth and hard-lived years. Instead of grimacing with understanding you grimaced with terrible triumph and the rest of me vanished before your zinc snarl in a quick and timid flourish that left smoke in the air. You probably tried to inhale it all in, to consume me further. I hope I tasted like a lotus flower that had risen from the muck to bloom in a stranger’s mouth. I hope my petals enveloped every corner of your mouth so that there wouldn’t be any more room for breath. These petals would probably scrape along the ridges of your canines making you shiver with regret, making your vertebrae ring against one another like a dilapidated wind chime. Gnome The right side of my head throbs and the left side of my body convulses to the rhythm of the sporadic beats my atrophied heart is still, surprisingly, producing. Maybe it’s the flavor lacking coffee or lux aeterna in my ears, or that my body has yet to adapt to my 3 p.m. mornings. It’s the lack of sleep, most likely. The nightly performances of turning and switching positions in bed to try to relax body and mind into hopeful, possible sleep. Maybe it’s the ever present cigarette hanging from the side of my mouth, my teeth biting hard on the tip to hold it in place, providing my disfigured lungs with consistent, slow moving fumes of smoke. It’s deteriorating, this body, this skeletal representation of self. The damage has always been present in the internal corridors of discolored marrow and the peculiar angles of rusty ligaments. Now it has seeped past all of these barriers and is pouring forth through stiff skin. Pouring jaundice into porcelain, blood into iris, gray into brown locks, blue into now non-moving crimson lips. It cannot truly be a lack of sleep and a throbbing ache found in the tunnels of ones brain that would disintegrate an entire being. It cannot just be those fundamentals; it has to also be you. Your erroneous aura, always present, always making itself known in needy hellos and drawn out goodbyes, has driven my body into retreat. An isolated cabin in the midst of fresh oak and spruce, of a corner in the world that has no view of the blue of your eyes, or the lopsided mountainous shapes your back makes when you’re huddled on the floor crying into your knees. I only see easily flowing life and smell only the scent of bark when I look through the window of this cabin my mind has constructed in its desperate haste to rid itself of your presence, of your clawing, destitute hands. Hands that almost succeeded in cracking my ribs open and scrounging my heart. There is no road that will lead you to this cabin, you’re far too counterfeit to recognize and appreciate the smell of a natural habitat, it’s far too foreign for a mind like yours, a mind that is only responsive to falsely derived feelings, of forced sex, and a love that will always remain unrequited.
Rising from the Ashes By HANNA TADEVICH
White cake never tasted this good before; usually I’m not into anything that’s not chocolate. But the frosting is really what makes it, and this one is smoother than my suede boots. That’s what I need right now: anything that slides down easy, since swallowing has required conscious effort for the last week. After wandering around the circle of easels covered in fragments of her life enough times to make us dizzy and uncomfortable, we migrate to a grey Sunday school classroom. At least I think it’s grey; everything is. Leaning against a table because I feel wobbly (even though I went against the high heels); I feel exposed in clothes that aren’t mine. This tight black dress makes me feel like I’m trying to be twenty and the itchy black hose make me feel like my mother. But I’m fifteen, 366 days younger than her. Last week my angst was over the issue of never having a love interest on Valentine’s Day, and my turmoil was A Farewell to Arms. I was wearing my purple pants with an orange t-shirt, a faux-pas for which I take complete blame, considering I could still see colors at that point. On Friday, sweating profusely as I always do after a good workout at my dad’s office gym, I plopped down on his couch and grunted as I freed my feet of constricting Nikes. Between gulps of water, I interrupted his work with quips about balancing chemical equations and sleepover plans for the weekend. Finishing my thought even as Dad picked up the phone, I took no notice of which customer or salesguy was calling to jabber on in IT jargon. Instead, I wandered to the fridge to see if it was stocked with anything but leftover sweet and sour sauce. I didn’t even notice the office was especially silent but for the receiver clicking back in place. Probably complaining about my lack of nourishment, I moved to stand under the doorframe of the office when my dad asked me to sit down for a second. As suddenly as I could see the orange glow of the setting sun on Dad’s Free Willy poster, the sky turned to grey and she was cold and so was I. I forgot what hunger was and didn’t remember for a while; it was replaced with a tornado that churned constantly, destructive to my gut. Frustration filled my throat – why couldn’t I curl up any tighter? – and I roared in a voice I didn’t recognize. In the Sunday school classroom, my best friend assures me my legs look great in my mom’s hose and my Nutcracker partner jokes about performance mishaps from last month. Relief feels like melting ice in my stomach as I realize we don’t need words to acknowledge this casualness is appropriate. The starkness of the chapel and the quiet drone of the priest seemed to scream: Sara’s life is dead and gone. Her limbs like willow branches swaying in the summer breeze are now stiller than the fallen boughs lying in snow. Her swiveling hips and bare feet and too-much eyeliner have been tamed once and for all by the mortician who dressed her in too much lacey white. Except not in our memories; there is an unspoken understanding that Sara is still running around the lake house in a bikini and giving sass to our pretentious choreographer. Her mischievous eyes and close-lipped smile will continue to burst into laughter and her fearlessly direct nature will forever be questioning my superficialities. Some of the mourning people clad in black and waterproof mascara will blame themselves for not being able to prevent tragedy. Others who didn’t know Sara’s beauty will never realize that in trying to tame a wild fire girl, they poured gasoline on someone who exploded. But universally Sara is immortalized as a sixteen-year-old with Rapunzel hair and the ferocity of Mike Tyson. I can consistently conjure the image of her dancing with intensity, proving worthy of various roles in every ballet; flirting with lifeguards at neighborhood waterparks; sneaking to the kitchen for cold pizza at parties when the birthday girl fell asleep. But the reel stops running there. In this way, the stark chapel and droning priest are more right than our memories are capable of being. Sara’s movement is a recollection, beautiful but becoming less expansive, more frozen in time as years pass since the last time I saw her dance. Four years have passed and colors are vivid in New York City. I am hungry for more than white cake and I rarely find occasion for hose, although I do wear more black now. Many days go by when I do not think about the tragedy of Sara’s death, until the shimmer of especially golden hair catches my eye or Nutcracker music comes on in the grocery store. The earth keeps spinning and I keep moving, but Sara is no longer 366 days older than I am. Irreconcilable with time, she has somehow surpassed the limitations she could not withstand as an ephemeral being. She is every sunset, letting streaks of her beauty fall back to earth between the fingers of God’s protective grasp. She enlightens the eyes that were blind to her struggle, freeing us to grow and change, even as she remains a picture, branded forever in our memories.
Creation By JOHN KATSANAKIS
Sure, your eyes are pretty, but behind them lies deceit more horribly intoxicating than the fruit of mankind’s tree. So say that I was Adam, and say that you were Eve. Let’s say the snake was him. The fruit? Your treachery. He offered you the fruit and damn you bit right in, never once contemplating your colossal sin. And so you brought into my world: betrayal and mistrust. You cast away your promises in your indulgences of lust. I turned my back to you and from that Garden walked away. I breathed new life into these lungs and promised I would stay far away from the thought of you, your memory’d be a ghost; a dream of a yesterday where love had mattered most. I walked ‘til I could walk no more, but still you found me there so I picked myself right back up and walked beyond what I could bear. But now my walking’s over and I’ve found a truer Eve so you manifest yourself as the snake, and it’s Adam you try to deceive. Well your fruit has no appeal to me, it looks as bitter as your soul. Quit being the actress—forgiveness never was your role. Go on, slither out of here, you snake with pretty eyes. Take your damn fruit with you; I’ve no need to eat your lies. I’m not going anywhere, I’ll stand by my Eve’s side. Why don’t you eat your own fruit and choke on what’s inside?
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February 21, 2013 THE OBSERVER
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Headline Couplets, February 14th 2012 By BRIAN MANGAN
“What becomes of a garden gnome hurled in fury at a windscreen during a stormy breakup?”-Darko Bandic, AP Stem cells used to ‘heal’ heart attack scars You can die of ‘broken heart syndrome’ The money has gone, so make love our alternative currency VIDEO: Do consumers feel a difference? Official: No one fall explains Loves wounds 400 lipsticks contain lead, FDA says AUDIO: 2,000 years of love letters Language ‘losing 3,000 per year’ Hate crime prosecutions reach record high VIDEO: Do consumers feel a difference? America’s homeless resort to tent cities A Cathedral of trees Vera Wang: Going to the chapel Marc Jacobs puts a twist on fall
BBC News The Guardian The Guardian BBC News Washington Post Washington Post BBC News BBC News BBC News BBC News BBC News The Guardian The New York Times The New York Times
X Marks CHAPTER ONE By KATE COYNE
Xavier and Pete were in the midst of a riveting trade of baseball cards when Penelope came bounding into the living room with her princess hairbrush. Fresh out of the bathtub and in her matching princess nightgown, she required the aid of her big brother in untangling her hair. This was part of their nightly ritual during the week, since their mom started working later and later at her interior design firm and their dad was nowhere to be seen, since it was announced two months ago that they were going through a “trial separation.” She plopped down in Xavier’s lap, as Pete climbed up onto the big leather sofa and flipped the hockey game on. Xavier took a deep breath, reminiscing on a road trip he’d taken with his dad to Ottawa – it was supposed to be a “bonding” trip – and the entire car ride up, neither Xavier or his father spoke words past “Want to stop for food?” or “I need the bathroom.” Xavier had never liked hockey, but his dad did, and he thought maybe, just maybe they could get along and find something to talk about on their eight-hour car ride from their home in Massachusetts. “Ow, X! Be careful!” Penelope’s harsh announcement snapped Xavier right out of his daydream. He shook his head, flicking his bangs out of his face. “Pete can you check Discovery Channel? The MythBusters season premiere is on tonight,” Xavier was already flinching, waiting for a witty and slightly hurtful “Dude, you’re such a loser. My grandpa watches MythBusters!” Xavier felt his face get hot. He was sensitive about being called a loser, ever since Max, the senior on the basketball team had started chanting “X marks the loser” in gym class last week, starting his first year of high school just the way he’d anticipated – at the bottom of the food chain. Better yet, it was right in front of Sarah Kelly, the pretty sophomore Xavier had been harboring a crush on since… well, since the beginning of that same gym period. “X! Seriously! My hair is going to fall out!” Xavier struggled to contain his giggles as he finished his work on his sister’s pretty blonde hair. He put the princess brush down on the coffee table and clapped his hands on his thighs. “Alright, bed time Princess Penelope!” She pouted for a second but stood up and held her arms up to her big brother. He scooped her into his arms and carried her out of the living room, but not before he heard Pete change the channel back to ESPN. He rolled his eyes as he rounded the corner to her powdery pink bedroom. While he tucked her under her covers, he smiled, thinking back to when his mom and dad brought her home from the hospital. He was certain then, as he was today, that she was the most beautiful baby on the planet. “Do we have school tomorrow?” Penelope looked hopeful as she semi-whined her words. Xavier had noticed the developing whine in her voice, which he was determined to fix before it got out of hand. He blamed the other kindergarteners at the school; the kids who had their moms waiting for them all day at home, unlike their mom who shipped Penelope off to a carpool everyday and made him take the bus. Xavier smiled pitifully at his sister. She still, three months into her first year at school, didn’t really grasp the “every day” aspect of it. “Yeah, Pen, but then the day after we don’t, so that’s good, right?” She shrugged from her cocoon under her butterfly comforter, sighing with a hint of indifference as her eyes were already drifting shut. She’d had a long day, after all, with ballet lessons right after school, which Xavier’s mom had forgotten to pick her up from. Xavier could relate to that exhausting anxiety waiting for his mom to come. “Goodnight Miss Penelope,” he kissed her forehead, noting, like a true mother “Nighty night, X,” she rolled over, away from the light of the hallway, which was seeping in through the open doorway. On his way out, Xavier made sure to pull the door closed until just about an inch was left to allow this light in her room. She’d broken her night-light and their mother had refused to replace it. It wasn’t as if they didn’t have the money, Xavier knew, but it was more of his mother’s idea to teach Penelope a lesson about treating things with greater care. Xavier walked back into the living room. Pete was now watching “Toddlers in Tiaras” and Xavier burst out laughing when he realized this. This was a show they could both agree on, both laugh at the stupidity of. For awhile, the two boys were quiet, sometimes letting out guffaws at the insanity of the contestants’ parents for feeding their children energy drinks or spraying them with fake tanner and caking on “We could make millions with Penelope on this show, dude!” Pete laughed at his own lucrative idea while simultaneously nudging Xavier. “Right after I drop dead!” Pete rolled his eyes good-naturedly and continued to watch the show. Xavier wished other friends of his were allowed to have school night sleepovers. Xavier was only allowed to have his friends over because his mom got home late, and she didn’t like the idea of him being alone with Penelope. Apparently, two fifteen-year-old boys can provide superior protection than one. He yawned, feeling bored. He took an instinctual glance at the clock – 8:37 – and pondered his approach to the science lab the next morning. He stared up at the ceiling and felt his eyelids Xavier woke with a start. He must’ve dozed off, and there was Pete beside him, also asleep. He felt disoriented for some reason, and wondered why he startled awake. He looked around, and everything seemed to be in its correct place, lights still on, and no sign his mother had come in, as the house was pretty much silent. He stood up and stretched, and that’s when he noticed – he was being watched.
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THE OBSERVER February 21, 2013
Online Dating is for Psychos By CAMILLE HAIMET
You’ve always been a fool. You act all smart, but loneliness knows where it tickles. And once you start to giggle, Your belly wiggles in meaty glory. The hungry can see for miles. It’s disgusting. They lick their lips at your fleshy desperation. And you blame them? Time and again, you weep about your bite marks. Why does pathetic taste so good to the vicious? Why do you have to be so damn delicious? Someone wise that never existed once said that “it isn’t the predator’s fault that the prey is stupid.”
Strange Fantasies
If that seems cruel, It’s because you’re a fool. A lonely fool…
By KYLE DAVIS
I’ve built my life around Strange fantasies That no longer seem possible That’s what they tell me But if I hold on longer And dream harder
There Was Once A Boy By MARK LEE
There once was a boy, chubby for his age, rather shy and awkward. He was told to write a story for his class, but could think of no topic to explore, as the only exploration that interested him was in the backyard or the fridge. The assignment was to write about an adventure you would like to go on. The boy considered the task for many long minutes, and finally he chose to write about an adventure with his grandmother. The boy loved his grandmother with all of his fast-beating heart. More than his mom. More than his dad. More than the whistle he begged for all of the year before he turned six. More than any of these, he loved his grandmother. And so he wrote about an adventure they would go on together if her strength of body and mind were still equal to her strength of heart. They would go to the museum. Although the boy hated the quiet structure of museums, he saw how his grandmother sat staring at the framed paintings that could not fill the too-white blankness of her home’s walls. He saw her wish to jump through the gloss of those paintings into those landscapes. The desire to reach out and grab the fruit of the still life, bring it to her lips, grinning up at him, pear juice running from her lips. He saw it in her glazed eyes. They would sit in the park and compliment the knit of strangers’ scarves. His mom had told him once that his grandmother had been in love with scarves as a young woman, and would wear them well into the spring, wrapped around her head, her neck, her shoulders. He remembered this when he was given a scarf for Christmas two years ago and was told it was from his grandmother. The boy found scarves itchy and constricting. He wore the scarf well into the spring. They would tell jokes all evening. He had told his grandmother a joke once years before. He saw the way she laughed. She laughed like the sun laughs after rain, triumphant and irrepressible. He watched the lines around her eyes—lines like creek beds. He wanted to swim in those lines for years, burning under the sun of her laughter. He wrote the story of their adventure. He poured his love for his grandmother into the two-page minimum. But the story of the boy and his grandmother couldn’t be held in two pages. Four. Six. Twelve. His grandmother sprang from the paper. She giggled and she sang. The boy watched her dance in circles that made him dizzy and then dizzier, until he had to sit down. She ran and gathered the boy in her arms, scooping up all of his love for her too. They played in the rain and baked cranberry oatmeal cookies when the lightning came. She played the piano with strong, graceful hands, unchanged by arthritis. They built a fort in the living room, and she whispered that he could sleep under the sky of sheets instead of in his bedroom. They flew kites that caught in apple trees. His grandmother put the boy on her shoulders so that he could untangle the twine from the leaves. They walked two miles to the store, where she taught him how to choose the best cantaloupe. She held his hand when they crossed the road, and squeezed it gently to remind him she was there. In the pages of the boy’s story, his grandmother was alive. The more he wrote, the higher she jumped and the taller she stood. The more he loved her with his written words, the realer she was. I think the boy is there, writing still.
And wish stronger Then maybe Just maybe The dreams I dream are not so dreary And although it may be a lonely journey A long journey An inconsistent journey And although they tell me to stop And to settle down, settle for less I don’t want second prize Because I know that if I hold on longer And dream harder And wish stronger Then I might just find the grand prize
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February 21, 2013 THE OBSERVER
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N 15th By JONATHAN JOHNSON
Observations from Manhattan Streets By STEFANIE COCOZZELLI
1. “Native New Yorker” Admittedly sounds kinda pretentious but I can’t stop saying it 2. Little boy at the subway station Watches wide-eyed as the 1 train going downtown leaves him and dad behind, and he waves as it goes. Holding a hand, climbing up the stairs, he glances back over and over to make sure it didn’t forget anything and come back to retrieve it. 3. There are categories to New Yorkers. Starbucks or Dunkin Donuts Business people and artists The ones who go to take-out places on their lunch breaks and the ones who go to street carts. Apartment or commuter. You’re welcome to mix it up a little. 4. You think about the big questions in life when you live here like “How did someone even grafitti the subway tunnels” or “Did that guy have a cat on his head?” 5. Homeless people hold signs telling little stories “Need tix 2 Califoria” “Homeless veteran—please help” “Hungry and cold” Trying to show that living on a sidewalk does not mean you’re not living. 6. Small dogs. Big dogs. Dogs in sweaters. Fluffy dogs. Shaved dogs. Dogs that walk together. Rich dogs. Poor dogs. Walking the streets like fuzzy models. 7. Pavement by the central park band shell Pounded by excited feet who listened to heavy bass lines or gentle guitar strums matching up with now inaudible drum beats that hang in the midday air and mingle, waiting for new bands, new memories to join their ranks. 8. The fire in a man’s eyes as he crosses the street with the light still green making cars stop with his presence because he’s gonna miss his bus 9. I feel a bit funny when I whip out my phone to snap a picture of a particularly pretty building. Because I know who does that the most: tourists. (dramatic music goes here) 10. A little child on the shoulders of a man dressed as spider man at night in times square staring up at the bright lights.
What happens to smoke in the wind? Does it dance on air, floating down the street, carrying a moment past houses and cars, wisping and wandering? Does it look for heaven? Did you breathe my smoke today? I thought of you when I inhaled black tar, and whispered your name as I exhaled white clouds towards your house, blowing with it memories I wished to be rid of. I hope you caught them, cloaked in smoke. I blew them down 15th for safe keeping. I left it all there for you, wondering if smoke carries voices, too.
Nostalgia By ZOHAR SHLUSH-REYNA
Forgetting the nostalgia of past memories is the sin that killed the beloved fairies. To remember is to believe of all things passed, like a ship on the ocean with sails at full-mast. Our thoughts take us on a vast expedition and we’re led by only our sense and intuition. We are all gypsies left alone to wander and while doing so, we are free to ponder. Reflecting on present, future, and past gives beings a meaning that will forever last.
Color Blind By CHRISSY PUSZ
When I entered Fordham a few months ago, I was very nervous about the prospect of making friends. I had just graduated from an all-girls high school that was very tightknit if a little catty, and I truly did not know what to expect from college. As it turned out, on the first day of Summer Orientation, I met my first Fordham friend. He was a funny guy with an easy smile who came from a similar high school, and it was obvious from that first day that we were meant to be great friends. As we settled into college life, the chemistry that he and I shared blossomed and we grew to truly care for each other. There was only one problem: we were both born the wrong color. Tall and tan and young and handsome, my beau is a pure-bred island prince while I am the product of generations of European incest. He learned his colors in Spanish while I counted on my fingers in English. He feasted on his grandma’s arroz con pollo while I slurped my spaghetti and meatballs. He doesn’t tan while I wear Clinique’s fairest shade of foundation. Yet somehow, despite these differences, we are able to accept each other as people and not just opposing races. It shocks me that in 2013, not everybody is as color blind as we are. Since my boyfriend and I began dating, we have received nothing but unconditional support from our mutual friends, but those are the only people who have shown us such acceptance. From friends and family alike, he and I have endured quite a few comments about our love life. Of course, many of our friends have quipped humorously (“You get that brown sugar, girl,” “Ooh, a white girl.”), but it has been the less-than-humorous quips that have resonated with me the most. After one date, he and I were accused of breeding imperfect offspring (“Don’t you want your children to speak Spanish?,” “You’re supposed to give me beautiful blueeyed grandchildren.”) and after one week, certain members of my family conspired to break us up. Not a day goes by that I am not questioned about my ability to cook rice and beans and he is questioned about his intentions with ‘that’ girl. When my friends come home from college, I am not allowed to speak of my romance in their presence. I have been accused of betrayal and disloyalty, and was once even told that my relationship is the reason why my grandmother is dead. Out in the real world, my boyfriend and I have also been subject to scrutiny. It is an unspoken rule that I cannot venture into his neighborhood and it was only after some time together that he dared to venture into mine. We thankfully have never received any nasty anonymous comments, but we have doubtlessly attracted attention. My boyfriend has caught people glaring at us on the street and just coos that people are jealous of the “sexy interracial couple.” It is this resilience that has strengthened not only our relationship but also our sense of humor. When he and I are not ranting to each other about Pokémon or our morning commute, we playfully tease each other. Not a Daddy Yankee song plays without me emphatically exclaiming “look, it’s your culture!” and not a webcam date is complete without him cheekily commenting on my “blonde” hair. I give him Nutella snack packs to “assimilate” him and he teaches me my “Spanish Word of the Day.” I wear my “Russian Hat” as he attempts to teach me how to dance, and every vanilla or caramel treat that the other enjoys earns a knowing wink. Every day we find a new reason to laugh together, and every day we become just a little bit closer.
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THE OBSERVER February 21, 2013
Life Game EXCERPT By JOSEPHINE TROTT
“You’re useless, you know that?” Katie’s mom greeted Rob like she usually did with her smoker’s rasp. Mary took another drag on her cigarette as she leaned over her kitchen sink, flicking the ashes into it so that she could just wash them away. “Yup, thanks Mary,” he said cheerfully as he wiped his shoes on the little mat in front of the door. “What’s for dinner?” “Just get a divorce already,” she grumbled under her breath. “Leave my baby alone.” “I’ll just set the table then, shall I?” Rob pointed at the unset table with his thumb. “You’re going to get my baby hurt,” she continued, sounding sad, but she stopped as usual when Katie walked through the door. She always stopped saying stuff like she did to Rob when Katie had threatened to never visit again. Rob was still hoping Katie would overhear her one day and they’d never have to come back again. Rob had heard it all, though. Personally, he thought she was a superstitious nut. She was always going on about some mysterious presence and how Rob was cursed. Apparently, it was going to lead to his and Katie’s deaths or something. Rob had never been able to get a straight explanation out of her and Katie always refused to comment whenever they were alone. So, Rob coped with having a mother-in-law that hated him like every other husband that ever existed. For Katie, he could endure. However, it wasn’t until Rob had mentioned a couple of things going missing around the house in a poor attempt to make dinner conversation that Mary had really started up again. It was unlike anything Rob had seen since their first meeting. “What.” Rob looked up at Mary. He’d only been mentioning how the fire alarm had mysteriously disappeared from the kitchen and how he could have sworn that they’d had a few more lights out in the backyard. “Well, I’m sure it’s not a big deal. Probably some high school kids came through the woods in the back and thought it would be a great joke to snatch a few—” “Has there been anything else?” Mary interrupted. Her voice was shrill and her wide, milky blue eyes stared straight at her daughter as she said this. “No, mom,” Katie said, looking away. “You heard Rob. Probably just some kids—” “Are. You. Sure?” Mary ground out and each puff of breath lifted up a strand of frazzled salt and pepper hair off of her forehead. “You heard her,” Rob said, putting down his fork and scowling at his mother-in-law. “There’s no reason to—” “I wasn’t talking to you, you plague,” Mary said, holding up her pointer finger in his direction, but she still didn’t move her gaze away from her daughter. “Katie—” “No, mom,” Katie repeated herself, this time cutting her mother off instead. “I told you no, and I meant no. And don’t talk to Rob like that!” “Katie, don’t you lie to me!” Mary shouted and Rob didn’t interrupt this time. Rob would be the last to say he had any kind of fondness for the woman, but in that moment she just looked so scared, and Rob remembered that the woman clearly had untreated mental issues. “I’m not, mom!” Katie started yelling as well. She slammed her fork down and grabbed her purse from the floor. “C’mon Rob. I don’t need this right now.” “Um,” Rob said. His head swiveled back and forth between the two of them and for once he wasn’t sure if it would be a wise idea to leave the house. “Katie, I want you to listen to me.” Mary got up and pointed her finger at her daughter instead. “I told you. I told you a thousand times. You’ve damned yourself. I told you not to marry this man. I’ve told you what would happen.” “Stop it, Mom!” Katie screamed, her voice breaking and Rob flinched. He’d never heard his wife like this. Not in all the time he’d known her. “We’re leaving. Rob.” Rob got up too quickly at his name and he banged the top of his knees on the underside of the table. On the second try he managed to maneuver his way out and rubbed on his denim-clad legs. “Mary,” he said as he walked past her, but it seemed that ignoring him was going to be a thing tonight and she said nothing to him, not even an insult, as followed behind Katie to the door. “Oh, and I’m not coming back, Mom!” Katie turned around suddenly and Rob had to jump to get out of her way as she marched back up to her mother to yell in her face. “That’s it! I told you! Now you’ll never see me in this house again.” Rob sucked in a breath when Mary’s hand flew out and struck Katie’s cheek. Mary immediately retracted her hand and pressed it against her lips. Her wide eyes seemed focused in a way Rob had never seen before and for a moment Rob was scared she might actually cry. Katie said nothing, but it seemed as if all the fight had drained from her body. She simply turned, grabbed Rob by the sleeve of his shirt and walked them out through the door. Unfortunately, a few weeks after the fight, Rob discovered his mother-in-law wasn’t as crazy as he had originally thought. Rob cursed as he stubbed his toe on the last step of the staircase. Because of this, he didn’t notice right away when the staircase vanished behind him. Rob huffed a little, pissed off at the sudden and unwelcome pain he had just experienced, but when he went to step back a little onto the top step, he had to jerk out an arm in order to catch the wall and stop himself from falling. “What the—” Rob said to himself as he pulled his foot back up and he turned around to look behind him. Saliva caught in Rob’s throat and he felt himself begin to choke as he breathed in and it fell down the wrong pipe. The only thing he saw in front of him was a hole in the floor where the staircase was supposed to be. “What the hell is this?” Rob said incredulously. His face scrunched up, looking like Rob was either going to start yelling again or begin crying. Rob whipped out his cell and dialed his wife. “Katie,” he said as soon as he heard her pick up the phone. “Rob? Honey, what is it? You sound upset,” Katie said and Rob could here the sound of running water, indistinct voicing barking out orders, and the click and crash of plates in the background. “Katie, the fucking stairs just disappeared,” Rob told her, trying not to raise his voice too much. “What?” “The stairs—” Rob cut himself off when he heard his voice raise in pitch. “The stairs...they’re gone.” “Gone.” “Yes. Gone. There’s a fucking hole in the floor. Upstairs. Where I am. Without a fucking staircase.” Rob could feel himself beginning to hyperventilate. The air was moving so fast in and out of his nose that he could feel his throat and the back of his nose start to ache with the sudden dryness. “What am I supposed to do?” Rob begged. “I’ll be there soon,” was all Katie said before she hung up on him. Rob stared blankly at the phone in his hand, absentmindedly listening to the dial tone, before hanging up as well. “What the fuck is going on, Kate?” Rob said as he stared at his wife. His hand loosely clasped around a steaming cup of coffee. He barely felt the warmth in his hand. “Rob...” Katie started with a sigh. When she failed to say anything after a minute or two, Rob could feel his anger begin to bubble up in his chest again. “No, Katie,” Rob said. “I just had to wait 3 hours for you to get home so I could get down the stairs on a fucking ladder. You know something. Tell me what is going on.” “Oh, Rob, it’s just something that happens sometimes,” Katie said. “What—” “Like I said, this just happens sometimes,” Katie said. “It’s something about the town. Some say we’re cursed. Some say were blessed, but the truth is, is that something comes into our lives every few years or so and messes everything up. I...was hoping we’d be skipped.” “Is that what your mother’s been on about all this time?” Rob questioned before he could remember she’d asked him not to talk. Katie glared at him for a moment, but she relaxed again when she saw his properly contrite expression. “Yeah, she’s a little more into it than most people,” Katie explained as she looked down into her own mug. “Always has been. I knew she’d never be happy if I married you, but—” Katie looked up at Rob and gave him a watery smile and Rob couldn’t help but feel something loosen in his chest at the sight. He rubbed at his beard before he sighed and urged her to continue. “Why was she so against us getting married and living together? Does this make it worse?” “It seems to punish outsiders,” Katie said. “Almost every time it’s someone from the outside and their family that are targeted. To be honest, I thought most of the stories were just exaggerations. I mean, I think I’ve only seen one or two families get hit by it myself. That’s why I started dating you. I wanted to prove Mom wrong.” “Right,” Rob said. “So this was all, what, some way to stick it to your mother?” “Rob, no,” Katie said, she sniffled a bit as she reached out the grab Rob’s hands. She pried his fingers away from the mug and held them. “No. It may have started out that way, but I wouldn’t have agreed to meet you if I hadn’t thought there was anything between us. And I definitely wouldn’t have agreed to marry you.” Rob nodded, the movement short and jerky, but when Katie squeezed his hands he looked up into her eyes, his brown and hers blue, and he managed to give her a smile. “I love you, you know?” Katie said. “Yeah, I know,” Rob replied and he rubbed her knuckles with his thumb. “So what do we do? What can we expect?” “Well, more stuff like the stairs,” Katie said with a sniff and she stopped looking in Rob’s direction. “Lots of accidents, memory loss, maybe. Usually, it only ends in death.” “Death?” Rob repeated. “Okay, so what do we do?” Katie only shrugged. “What? C’mon!” Rob shouted when Katie still refused to look up at him. “No one’s ever beat this thing? There’s nothing we can do? Can’t we move? Let’s go to my parent’s place. Quit our jobs. Sell the house. Start fresh!” Katie sighed and looked back up at Rob. Rob squeezed her hands, probably a little too hard, when he only saw defeat in her eyes, but he released his tight grip when she nodded. “Okay,” she said. “Let’s try.”
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