Brooklyn College’s Finest Literary Magazine

STUCK IN THE LIBRARY SEPTEMBER 22, 2014

Prompt 1: Zombie Rave

Prompt 2: Keep going.

PAGE 9

CONTRIBUTING WRITERS: Adam D. Fender Chavie Fleisher Court Takats Irina Manasherova

Jacob Woodbourne Jessica Woodson Lena Ferraj Rodshel Ustayev

Shifra Shine Tanzina Nawrin

PAGE 4

Prompt 3: Anonymous

Letters

PAGE 20

 

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STUCK IN THE LIBRARY SEPTEMBER 22, 2014

Our Staff: Yaakov Bressler President Chavie Fleisher Vice President Akiva Fleisher Editor in Chief Chana Gehkt Chief of Publications Yoni Akerman Treasurer Dovie Eisner Senior Editor Merav Kraitenberger Associate Editor Rebecca Najjar Associate Editor Moshe Bressler Associate Editor Elkie Lanter Assistant Editor Ariella Lanter Assistant Editor Karen Shaefer Assistant Editor Kami Salman Assistant Editor Lauren Esses Assistant Editor Caroolyn Aboudi Assistant Editor Nechama Jaffe Assistant Editor Yoni Stern Associate Member of Event Committee Gitty Davidson Associate Member of Event Committee Ari Ziegler Associate Member of Event Committee Courtney Takats Associate Member of Event Committee Effie Klestzick Associate Member of Event Committee Nora Schreiber Associate Member of Event Committee Yocheved Strum Associate Member of Event Committee Lena Ferraj Chairperson of Awards Committee Lauren Fink Associate Member of Awards Committee Rechan Meshulam Associate Member of Awards Committee Ariella Nagel Associate Member of Awards Committee Moshe Berman Associate Member of Awards Committee Constantine Onishchenko Chairperson of Installation Committee Annusha Salman Associate Member of Installation Committee Sharanika Akter Associate Member of Installation Committee Mark Bandoylo Associate Member of Installation Committee Shreya Jane Associate Member of Installation Committee

Stuck in the Library aims to facilitate a space where creativity can flourish by creating a magazine which publishes often and encourages its enthusiasts to meet its contribu-tors, resulting in a thriving literary sphere in Brooklyn College.

A main focus of the magazine is to get those whose careers don’t point in the direction of literature involved in the world of writing and creativity.

Dear Reader, Welcome to the glossy pages of Stuck in the Library magazine. As you read, try to identify and empathize with the motives of the composers whose stories and works are contained in this publication. The works herein are created by your colleagues from their crea-tive imaginations, unsettled emotions, and hardened experiences – something I’m sure you have too. Read through their words and find encouragement, laughter, suspense, and perhaps even a tear; for it is in our very nature to share and appreciate insights about the human psyche. After all, creativity is deeply root-ed in what it means to be human. Experience, yes! This is the meaning of drinking a coffee at midnight in hopes of stirring up a creative thought upon which to expand. Read and experience something that is more than words on a page. Experi-ence the words of those taking the same classes, walk-ing the same hallways, and studying the same books as you. Try to identify and empathize with these au-thors’ motives for it will grant you an experience. With that said, welcome to Brooklyn College’s finest literary magazine.

Constantine Onishchenko

Merav Kraitenberger

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Rechan Meshulam

Sanjida Bintekamal

YAAKOV BRESSLER

Pres ident

CHAVIE FLEISHER

Vice Pres ident

AKIVA FLEISHER

Editor in Chief

CHANA GHEKTS

Chief of Publ icat ions

CONSTANTINE ONISHCHENKO

Chairperson of Insta l la t ion Committee (Stuck in the Cafeteria)

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STUCK IN THE LIBRARY SEPTEMBER 22, 2014

YAAKOV BRESSLER President of Stuck in the Library

CONTRIBUTING VISUAL ARTISTS:

Prompt 1:

You’re by the Electric Zombie Zoo (the most undead Rave of them all!) and nobody (haha!) knows you’re human.

FOREWORD: In recent years, New York City’s music festival the Electric Zoo has been scrutinized for its possibly unsafe conditions and precedents. The gathering en masse on a questionably safe island within a bustling metropolitan center in pursuit of music calls to mind the group dynamic of the modern day zombie. Further, the casual use and explicit appreciation of recreational drugs, accompanied by electronic dance music (EDM) culture at the Electric Zoo, brings up the topic of sobriety and capacity. A cynically sarcastic draw can be made contrasting zombiism and sobriety. Do we turn into zombies when the music pumps and the lights blaze?

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Lucas Brown, Zombie Hunter By: Chavie Fleisher

G’day mates! Lucas Brown, your favorite Aussie strange creature hunter here. Today, we are going to enter the world of the undead. That’s right mates, the undead. Deep within the mountains of Kanakaknak you’ll find a rare, mysterious, feared and magnificent species. It is the largest and most certainly dangerous undead on Earth — the legendary Zombie Rave.

Right now I’m in the heart of the zombie territory. It looks like the raving zombies are having a ripper party over there. All them blokes are just going off! This looks like a right-o good time! They seem to be the undead of a fraternity! Yes! Look at them blokes holding beer cans, and on that tall one over there, you can see Greek letters on his ripped bloody shirt! I wonder how these creatures ever came to be. I fear that that will remain a mystery.

Oh, oh! Just hold there a second, laddie. One of the ugly bogans over there is starting to snack on that sorry zombie’s arm. Blimey, that doesn’t look pleasant. He doesn’t have a buckeye’s chance! Blimey! He ripped the bloody arm clear off! Ladies and gentlemen, your brave and handsome host Lucas Brown has just witnessed two

undead creatures brawling! But what’s this here? The now armless zombie is just walking, or rather trudging around as if a creature of his own kind had not just made brunch out of his limb! Hmm…these certainly are dodgy sort of creatures. But not too dodgy for Lucas Brown! Let me get a little closer. Oomph! All right laddies. I am now with in 50 yards of these barbaric creatures! Have a look at the size of these! Ain’t they a beauty? They seem to have scars all over themselves from territorial disputes. It looks as if they bite each other on the limbs and faces. I’ll tell ya what, this is real intimidating.

Blimey, they are fascinating creatures. Dealing with these dangerous creatures is something I wanted to do all my life! And here I am! But I’m being very careful because I would like to keep all of me limbs. Wait, what are they doing now? They’re standing still and sniffing the air. They’re smelling for prey laddies. They know that somethin’s around. They seem to be communicating, but they don’t seem to be regular articulated words, rather one word said over and over again. The word seems to be…brains? Yes! That’s all they bloody say! Brains! Brains, brains, brains! That’s amazing! They are just sniffing away, chanting ‘brains’ and shuffling towards…uh oh. Well laddies it seems they noticed me! I better skedaddle before I become lunch. Until next week mates, I am Lucas Brown, zombie hunter. Ta ta!

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Dyren scanned the dancefloor. He knew she loved to dance, so where else would she be? He used injection three. As a last effort, he walked up to the nearby bar and climbed atop for a bird’s eye view.

“Zenia!!” he screamed, as he spotted her purple-highlighted blond hair. He jumped down and ran towards her, scram-bling for injection four. She turned around. Missing ear, jawline exposed, decayed nose, zero skin on her neck, wed-ding ring still on her finger. Her glowing red eyes matched his. Deryn took her by the shoulders and she took his. They swung back and forth, side to side. She put her arms around his neck and he kissed her forehead. “You’re my zen,” he said, as she looked into his fading eyes, now green.

2 MINUTES By: Lena Ferraj

Dyren walked into the room with only four injections in his pocket. He knew his time was limited here, as well as on Earth itself. Blasting music, flashing lights, and a wave of people dancing until the end of time. What a shame, Dyren thought. He used to know some of these people, now only about a quarter conscious. The rest of them had melted away within the virus. Figuratively and literally, they’d melted away.

He walked onto the dance floor, surrounded by hundreds of decaying bodies throwing themselves around, waltzing, jumping, twerking, shuffling. He lifted one needle from his pocket and injected it into his jugular vein. His eyes turned a glowing deep red, just like all the other zombies. The injection let him blend in. He could go undetected for 30 seconds with each dose.

He sidestepped through the dance floor, stopped to dance a bit (the zombies are indeed 25% conscious so he still needed to pretend to fit in), but steadily continued through the rave. He gave himself another injection, looking around for her. It was a suicide mission. If the zombies were to discover him, he would have two options: run or be devoured. The only way to become one of the undead was to either be scratched or partially bitten, as long as the wound healed. The majority of people died from infection as their antibodies broke down, even from the smallest scratch. Those who survived turned into what Dyren faced here: decaying human beings. Dyren scanned the dancefloor. He knew she loved to dance, so where else would she be? He used injection

three. As a last effort, he walked up to the nearby bar and climbed atop for a bird’s eye view.

“Zenia!!” he screamed, as he spotted her purple-highlighted blond hair. He jumped down and ran towards her, scrambling for injection four. She turned around. Missing ear, jawline exposed, decayed nose, zero skin on her neck, wedding ring still on her finger. Her glowing red eyes matched his. Deryn took her by the shoulders and she took his. They swung back and forth, side to side. She put her arms around his neck and he kissed her forehead. “You’re my zen,” he said, as she looked into his fading eyes, now green.

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REVIVAL By: Jacob Woodbourne

With tired, gouged-out eyes, her grimace was one fixed on eternal pain. A muffled groan emanated from her pockmarked throat as her grey zombie eyelids fluttered. I nodded and groaned, a little routine I had picked up from the case studies featured in old medical journals. She began rotating her shoulders in a zombie shuffle towards me. I was flattered.

THUMP THUMP!

A blast of a beat rocked my ears. BOOM! KA! KA! KRAKABOOM! The Zombie rave, the latest musical taste held by adolescent teenagers, took music to an extreme. With mortar-like explosions and a constant RAT-TaT-TaT of gunfire-like noises, the Z-rave scene felt like a war zone.

I glanced at the Z-chick in front of me. Her undead eyes lolled in their sockets – I imagined their previous color before their now Zombie-grey. I grew up learning that black was the color of absence. But I’ve since re-learnt that – if something’s black, it is nothing. If it is grey, it once was something, and now has that something absent. Absence is relative, no? Black is like zero where grey is negative one, therefore grey is more absent than black. But mathematics aren’t necessary to explain that I felt the grey was… dead.

BOOM! KRAKA! KABOOM! Thunderous beats sounded from the main stage.

I tried holding a wink to give a twitch feature to my face and let out a deep guttural snicker. She responded with a choke-like gasp and extended her emaciated tendon-bulging hand. I enlaced her fingers into mine and spun her trembling, delicate, and weightless body into my arms. Cold – the zombie is always cold; her icy figure seemed as if her heart hadn’t beat in years.

The booming had paused for a few moments, as thunderstorms do before their turbulence increases.

I pressed the Z-chick against me, her spine sharp on the

bones of my chest and pelvis. She placed a delicate hand on my fleshy cheek and moved to my neck – an endearing gesture. But I wasn’t moved. Sadly, the Z’s are incapable of feeling. No, they have it worse than sad. They have it grey – a void; a big grey nothing in place of the heart’s feelings. This is the deadest part of a Zombie, figuratively speaking.

I place my thumbs on her hatchet-like hips; little hidden weapons of the body. He back arched the way one does when you hold them right. “Trying to feel?” I whispered into her ear in my human voice as I held her against me.

Her body heaved as one would do while they cry. A nod.

“You could try all you want,” I whispered while tilting my head. I caught a glimpse of her face bearing an expression of pain. “I know how much it hurts to know it doesn’t hurt.”

Her body stiffened. I spun her around so I could look at her as I spoke. Grey hair slinked over her bony shoulders and a soft coarse groan scratched through her throat.

I smoothed my fingers along her unfleshed skin and whispered that I could make her feel, but she won’t feel good. That she’ll only feel the pain she hasn’t felt.

She tapped her heart and gave me a pitiful Zombie smile.

I nodded and told her that all she needed was a heart again.

Her crying-heaving resumed and her pallid skin seemed to grow whiter.

I told her it was okay. That pain is a choice to feel. That she could choose to feel again. I proceeded to place two small sticky-pads from my portable defibrillator. I began carrying it with me when I started reviving Zombies.

I asked her if she was ready and she nodded, then groaned and threw her head back. A small quiet buzz. The beat of a heart. The resumption of pain – of horribleness. Sadness and sorrow. A rupture of a disconnect. Silence. A death. A revival.

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Alien in Me 

By: Irina Manasherova  

I feel lost in myself. There's an alien in me. Who are you? Who am I?  

I look around, we share a common love. These lights. These beats. This feeling. People of all places. Doing things that normally wouldn't happen.  

This body, my body, so tired, yet it still beats with the music.  

Feeling distant, like I'm not here. Head in the clouds, I don't want to come down. When we leave this party land reality will hit me hard.  

The vibration, through my body. It makes me feel alive. A common love, with others around. The heart, our hearts, beat with the same rhythm.  

We are so different. We are strangers. But we are so alike. Can we be friends? Let's take this feeling and carry it, spread it, this moment of getting lost in yourself and feeling free. 

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Prompt 2:

“If you’re going through hell, keep going.” –Winston Churchill.

FOREWORD:

Shaped from Never Give In!, Winston Churchill’s inspirational speech during WWII, the above quote serves as a marker for British perseverance during the war. The speech was delivered soon after France came under German control, leaving Europe almost entirely in the hands of the Nazis. For 19 months (this is before America joined the war) the British fought, largely outnumbered and outclassed by the technologically and militarily superior Germans, keeping a brave heart despite the hell they experienced. As history knows, this perseverance won out, and thus when faced with a time of tribulations, worries, and fear – keep going as did Great Britain, until the hard times have subsided.

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For the Best? By: Adam D. Fender

Love

But what for? When only doubt and fear stay when you’re away

Now sadness, overwhelming, despair, tears, I want to scream

but dare not reveal to the world the pain I feel

With you I could reveal all, although it often caused you pain,

still you listened and loved

Your wisdom and awareness belying your young face

What is religion to this? What is emotion?

Yet I left, out of fear of a future I could not see, the greatest fear

the one of hurting you

Leave now, I thought, and the pain will be the lesser later

Never in all my life did I want to be the cause of your pain

I want to call you, see you, comfort you, give to you, shower

you with the love you deserve

Yet I dare not, for fear of the future

 For such love I would climb, give, sacrifice, pray 

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 Knowing now that I am hurts more than words could ever possibly express 

 There are some things that even walks in forests of love cannot resolve

Caught in a Storm By: Tanzina Nawrin

This is it!

She thought excitedly as she began her journey toward the other side.

Massive grey clouds started darkening the sky.

The afternoon’s sun disappeared too rapidly for her eyes to adjust,

almost as if the sky was angry at her.

Oh no. Not this again, she prayed.

The sky started to roar its great bass as the girl realized her deepest

fear.

She quickened her steps toward the barely visible street lamps, but it

wasn’t fast enough.

Bright lights filled the sky as it continued to roar its monologue.

Brown eyes scanned the scene in front of her. No shelters to be found.

Winter rain started pouring down like continuous buckets of water on

her head.

Her hair and clothes were drenched in water, but she kept walking.

She had somewhere she wanted to be.

Strong winds blew her wet hair and clothes. Their intensity felt like a

dagger piercing through her body.

Wind continued to howl as tree branches fell on earth’s chest.

She bravely glanced behind her.

Only halfway there!

Rain drops started falling harder than the tears in her eyes.

What if this storm never ends?

There was darkness all around her.

The only thing that kept her going was the promise of sunshine and its

warm delight on the other side of town.

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ROLLER COASTER CALLED LIFE

By: Irina Manasherova Life has its ups and downs. After every hurricane comes a rainbow. When things get tough, it's hard to stay positive. On the way of your journey, you made a few stops. One step forward, five steps back. When we are the closest, we want to give up. Instead of calculating how far we still have to go, we need to look back, that's the only time we have to look back, to realize how far we have come. Set an example, finish what you started. Make it to the finish line, the best feeling ever. Pat yourself on the back, and with your head held high, say, “I've been through it all, I made it, and in the end it was all worth it!”

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Moving On

By: Shifra Shine

One day I'm almost sure I'll forgive and move on, Stick up my nose in the air and say I was wrong. Or not, but I'll put on a big floppy hat, And pretend no person can hurt me like that. I'll walk a little straighter and speak nice of myself, I'll stroke the band aids and say these will heal with help. I'm sure one day I'll purge my mind, Of every thought that kept me behind. I'll see the sun more brightly, I may sing a song, Yes, one day, I am sure I'll forgive and move on.

13

Just Breathe

By: Rodshel Ustayev Hell can come in all forms, and has the ability to creep up at the most inopportune times. Hell can come in all kinds of forms: someone close dying, failing a class, not getting the job, breakups. How-ever, time seems to be the only thing which can heal wounds and drag us back from our personal hell. Life is all about moving on and pushing for-ward. So, taking life one step at a time is the wisest thing anyone can do. Fighting forward and press-ing the action helps the bad memories be locked up so they don't hurt your future. Just like the great Rocky Balboa said, “The world ain't all sunshine and rainbows. It is a very mean and nasty place It will beat you to your knees and keep you there per-manently if you let it. You, me, or nobody is going to hit as hard as life. But it ain't about how hard you're hit, it is about how hard you can get hit and keep moving forward, how much can you take and keep moving forward. That's how winning is done!” Hell is just a state of mind which corrupts our pure ability to move forward with time. Condi-tioning yourself to take all the punches life has to give and still get up the next morning is, perhaps, the only real way to live. So, if you are going through hell, keep going.

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WAITING ON A DREAM By Court Takats

Every night I dream I die. This started when I was young and invincible, and so I’d wake afraid, in shock, unable to comprehend that I – and everyone I know – will die one day. Lately, though, I find the dreams bring me solace. Now it’s the moments before the Sandman claims me that are frightening – the moments I’m lying alone in bed and the daggers of the dark threaten me from behind shadows. Every few months I’ll give the whole self-actualization thing a shot – usually at 4am, drunk off cheap wine and sobering with slices of bread I’m too wasted to toast. It’s like my very own religious ceremony. Mid-chew, I’ll catch a glimpse of myself in that cracked mirror on the wall – the one I’ve been meaning to throw out for a year. The circumstances regarding the crack are long-forgotten; perhaps something was thrown during a heated fight, or someone fell into it after a party, or any number of possibilities had occurred. That goes to show – even after the wound has healed, the scar remains, a stubborn and eternal reminder. So I’ll see myself in this stupid mirror and scowl at the monster I’ve become. I remember being a bright-eyed hopeful stepping into the world; I remember holding hope for the sunrise. Now all that stare back are empty eyes and a bitter smile. Or a grimace. At this point, it’s so hard to tell the difference. I’ll shake my head, pour the rest of my wine down the sink, mutter that I’m going to change tomorrow. And when tomorrow comes, I’ll light up a cigarette and make myself a Bloody Mary, like I do every morning. It’s been a while since I turned yet another new leaf, so I suppose I’m due. I sit at the table, crack open a new bottle of vodka, drink it straight. I’ve found that if I get drunk enough I’ll forego the crippling fear of the dark that follows me. Though I’m not so much afraid of the dark as I am of what I see there: the looming future mapped out before me, memories that haunt me like ghosts of yesterday, dealing daily with who I am. In the dark, façades are futile – you’re laid out bare. What are you to do if you hate what you find?

Me – I prefer to drink too much and pass out where I sit. Me – I prefer to wait for the dreams, wait for the numbness to fade, wait (with bated breath) for death.

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LIVING FOR TOMORROW

By: Jessica Woodson

She had a bad day

Their yelling made it worse

Always fighting about something

So she went into her purse

She took one to numb the pain

Then for fun she took two more

Then two turned into three

Three turned into four

She took so many that she stopped keeping score

She woke up in a daze

Unsure of the last few hours

A smashed vase lie on the kitchen floor

She never was a fan of flowers

The yelling had not stopped

So she went up to her room

And as she was trying to fall asleep

She was woken by a boom

She didn’t care to check to see

If everything was okay

Since she already knew the answer

She thought, “Well, tomorrow is another day.”

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A RAWER KIND By: Jacob Woodbourne

Inspired by Rebecca Brown a.k.a. Beckie0 The makeup artist didn’t realize how nervous I got when she adhered those beautiful extensions to my eyes. “Hang on honey.” I shuffled in my seat like a fly in a spider’s web. “Don’t blink.” My eyes teared. “Okay, now you can blink.” Blink. Blink. My eyes felt like butterfly’s wings. “You look stunning.” I looked like a Disney princess. “How do you feel?” I looked across to the mirror. My dull green eyes seared with color. I felt animated – my eyes supersaturated with a color that didn’t truly belong. Like a bad photoshop. “I feel like I look stunning.” The makeup artist smiled. “I’m so happy to hear that.” She brushed her hands together and smoothed her palms over her hips. “Now, try not to spend too much time outdoors until the photoshoot is over. The wind and humidity can mess with your hair, and makeup. You don’t want to ruin anything on an important day like today.” “I never want to ruin anything.” She smiled. I frowned to the side. “Hey, try not to be so serious,” she said as she sorted her makeup kit. “It’s just high school graduation photos.” I fake-smiled at her. “I’ll try.” And I really would. “Okay. You can wait here or out in the lobby until your mom picks you up. You called your mom, right?” “Dad. I called my dad.” “Okay, excellent.” She smiled. I cleared my throat. “I think I’ll wait in the lobby, okay?” “Okay dear. Have a great time. You’re going to be fantastic.”

I smiled again and followed the hallway to the stone-floored lobby. I do a lot of fake smiling these days – my mom says it’s a high school girl thing. I sat my butt on the ledge on the side of the lobby by the window. It was made from grimy raw looking stone, the kind that looks gritty but is actually really clean. It contrasted with the neat marble floor sharply – tough and raw versus flat and smooth – like the stubble of a shaved scalp next to the smooth of a neck. I pulled out my cell phone and looked through my contacts because I wanted to look busy – like I had people who were texting me. Click. Clack. Marble sounds loud when people walk on it. “Hey Arlene! You look gorgeous!” I shoved my phone into my handbag and looked up. “Oh, hey Bria. Nice to see you.” “Yeah, oh wow. Arlene! Ms. Ziegler did a great job on your eyes.” “Thanks. Thank you.” My cell phone buzzed. “Do you have next appointment?” She nodded excitedly as she studied my face. I shifted my feet and took out my phone. Be there in 3 min – dad. “That’s cool. Yeah, I got an early appointment.” “That’s such a sensible thing to do.” She fluttered her eyes. “I don’t know why I push everything off to the last second.”

17

 

“It’s okay. Some people can manage with doing things like that.”  

She smiled. “You’re right.” She leaned forward, hovering her cheek an inch away from mine for a grandma kiss. “Love you Arlene. See you soon by the photos!” 

She turned her heel towards the dressing room and pulled out her phone. She slowed her walk and chuckled as she typed out a message on her Nokia’s keypad.  

I looked down at my phone. I opened my contact list, waiting a second between each name so it would take longer. I got up to “G” when my phone buzzed. Outside – dad.  

I stood up and fixed my skirt. The stone probably left some red mark on my upper thighs. I liked it.  

Click. Clack.  

There he was, in his grey Cherokee. I pulled open the door and climbed in. “Hey pops, how do I look?”  

He smiled in the way dads do when they see their daughters growing up. “You look great, kiddo.”  

“Thanks.”  

He pulled the car out of park into drive. “Feeling nervous?” We sped through an intersection onto the main road.  

I nodded.  

“Don’t be nervous. What ya’ nervous about?” The road went over a small bump. I readjusted myself in my seat.  

“I’m just nervous.”  

He looked ahead, focusing on the road in the way men do when they think. “You nervous about the boys?”  

“No.”  

“You nervous about not looking pretty?”  

“I look pretty.”  

He sucked his teeth. “You nervous about what your friends will think of you? That girl, what’s her name–”  

“Not really. Well, a little. But that’s not what I’m nervous about.” “Then what the hell are you nervous about?”  

“I dunno Dad! Everything! Okay? Everything! I’m nervous about the whole damn thing.”  

He was quiet with his words.  

I sighed. “I’m just really–”  

“Sorry, sorry. I don’t mean to put pressure on you.”  

I blinked my butterfly eyes tightly.  

We were quiet for a good few minutes. Early summer greenery flashed by the windows of the car as we passed through.  

“You know what’s funny,” spoke my dad as he cleared his throat. “I was passing by that pool place, you know that pool depot? And on the ou–”  

“You know dad, you don’t need to sign all of your text messages as DAD.”  

He chuckled.  

“No, I’m serious. Like my phone knows it’s you that’s sending the message. It’s like being redundant.”  

“Sure. But how does your phone know it’s me?” “It has caller ID or something.”  

“You’re silly. I’m sending a message, not making a call.”  

“That’s not the point. My phone still knows it’s you. So you don’t need to sign your messages.”  

He shook his head. “Technology is strange.”  

“Dad. Please?” 

18

 

“Sure, kiddo. I’ll just send the message without signing. Ah. And look, here we are. Your mom is excited to see you.”  

“Thanks.”  

Loose gravel pattered as the Cherokee slid into the driveway. I pulled myself from the jeep and up the stairs to where my mother was sipping an iced coffee on the porch.  

“Hey mom.”  

“Arlene! She put her coffee down and stood up. “You look precious!”  

“Thanks mom.” I leaned in for another hovering grandma kiss.  

“She’s nervous,” said my dad from behind. 

“Don’t be nervous, sweetie,” said my mom. “I don’t get to choose when I’m nervous!” My eyes blinked heavily. “OKAY!? IT’S NOT LIKE THAT!”  

“Arle–”  

“No! It’s not fair! I don’t get to choose when I get like that! You think I would be like this if I could… just not!?”  

“ALL RIGHT. Honey – Arlene, darling. Relax, come inside. Come into the kitchen.” My mom pulled me inside. “Have a seat.” I sat. I wanted a grimy raw stone that would leave marks on my butt but instead all I got was a cushioned wooden chair.  

My dad whispered something to my mom. I couldn’t hear his words. She shook her head at him and said something that made him upset. He furrowed his eyebrows and said something serious.  

My dad turned around. “She shouldn’t go,” he said aloud. “It’s not worth it for her to get how she sometimes gets because of some photos.” 

“She should,” argued my mom. “These photos are important to her.”  

He frowned and furrowed his forehead in thought. “Whatever. Look, I just don’t want anything bad to happen to her.”  

“Don’t worry,” my mom assured him. I took a deep breath of air.  

“I gotta head back to work, I love you.” He came up to me to kiss my forehead.  

I jerked back with heavy eyes. “Makeup dad.”  

He smiled and kissed my fingers instead. “Love you.”  

“Love you too.”  

He kissed my mom before whispering something to her and headed out.  

My mother stepped to me and put her hand on my shoulder. “Honey, you look beautiful,” she said. “There’s nothing to be nervous about.”  

“But I don’t feel beautiful. I feel mangled.”  

“Arlene. Darling,” she sighed heavily. “You’re beautiful. Your life is beautiful. The challenges you overcome everyday are beautiful.”  

“That’s not beautiful. My issues are ugly. They make me a freak.”  

“Freak is just different. You’re different.”  

“I DON’T WANT TO BE DIFFERENT!”  

“I’m sorry, honey. We don’t get to choose if we’re different.”  

I slinked my hand onto my head. My fingers grasped my lovely curls, tightly. “I hate it. I hate not choosing to be a certain way.” My fingers relaxed.  

“But you’re here. You’ve made it this far. So the way you are isn’t so bad.” She smiled a concerned-smile. “Sometimes when we’re going through troublesome times, we have to keep going.”  

“Just keep going? What if I can’t?”  

“You can. You have and therefore I believe you can.”  

Awkward silence. I bit my lip as if to chew on the quiet.  

19

 

Prompt 3:

Write an anonymous letter. It can be addressed to someone but it should be signed by no one.

FOREWORD: WORLD ENGLISH DICTIONARY:

Anonymous (əˈnɒnɪməs) anony - mous (əˈnɒnɪməs)

— adj — adj

1.

from or by a person, author etc, whose name is un known or withheld.

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Photograph by: Constantine Onishchenko Photograph by: Constantine Onishchenko

IN MY OWN TIME To a loved one, I want to tell you how I really feel, When you insist on dictating how I live my life. I struggle enough talking to others and having friends, to then worry about how you want grandchildren. It’s not easy for me to find love, but it’s even harder to have set conditions on who you would accept . I want to love someone I care about, not solely someone who shares similar beliefs. Love is not something that can be controlled, it’s spontaneous and free. I want you to be happy, but I can’t be happy not being able to do what I want. I can’t commit to love till I find it in someone, whether they be a woman or a man. I hope you accept my choices in love and also the job I want to pursue in life. Just remember destiny can’t be predetermined, and everything in life, I feel, happens for a reason.

Artwork by: Merav Krai tenberger

DEAR 3:00 AM, My pajama top clinging to my sweat-stained back.

My eyes flushed with tiredness, but refusing to close. The digital clock illuminating ghosts of my pasts at this hour when the only souls who are up are lonely ones, especially loved ones

or ones who walk in the rain at night or ones who watch the rain at night like me.

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DEAR 9/11 FRIENDS AND FAMILY, Thirteen years ago, we experienced one of the most tragic days of our history. Families were broken, innocent people perished and tears dropped loosely as never before. The events of that day left a gaping hole in the hearts of many. It left people divided in opinions about others and hate continues to grow and expand. President Obama said that the attacks will forever influence the lives of the generations which were either born during or after the attacks. I agree, but we as countrymen should let go of the hate which surrounds our lives—the hate which seems to raise our children. For myself, it doesn't matter where you come from or what religion you follow. You are a human and a senseless loss of life is a horrible experience to live through. May all the 9/11 victims rest in peace as well as everyone who continues to suffer from the fallout. May time heal their families wounds and ease our tears. God bless them all.

“He who learns must suffer. And even in our sleep pain that cannot forget falls drop by drop upon the heart, and in our own despair, against our will, comes wisdom to us by the awful grace of God.” —Aeschylus

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DEAR LIFE,

It’s Me again... Yea, Me, the one you enjoy messing with and have been screwing over (for the past 21 years). Nice curve-ball you threw me the other day, by the way; too bad you missed and I knocked it out the park and hit a home run! In celebration, I made lemonade with the lemons you gave me and it tasted great… Ya know, after a heck of a lotta sugar.

Anyway, I just wanted to thank you for all the wonderful people you’ve allowed me to meet and the wonderful places you’ve enabled me to go. For instance, just this past month (as I’m sure you already know), I joined this cool magazine club at this awesome college I started going to; even now as I write you this letter, Life, I should be working on an assignment for a deadline! Haha, but nonetheless… I’m warning you, you better not screw this up for me and mess up the wonderful things I now have going. I beg you. Please, just give me a break and let me be the pilot of my own destiny, not wherever you take me. Got it? Good!

Oh, and one more thing… As Einstein once said “You (Life) are like riding a bicycle. To keep your balance, you must keep moving.” Sooo, with that said, I guess all I wanted to convey is that no matter what happens in this crazy world of yours, I’m gonna keep moving, gonna keep striving, and gonna make the best of what you may throw my way. My generation says YOLO (You Only Live Once), but as Mae West said, if I live life right, once is enough. So I’m tired of just merely existing; I’m going to start LIVING! See ya on the other side, Life… wherever that may be. So you do you, and I’ll do me. Peace!

Sincerely, Nobody

MY HEART, MY GRANDMOTHER,

It hurts to see you hurt.

It hurts even more knowing I can't do anything to help.

I'm scared. So scared.

I have never been so scared to lose you.

You are like my second mother.

You molded me into the person I am today.

There are so many things I want to say but I can't find

the words.

How much you do for us all.

How much dedication and love you have for us all.

You always make us laugh.

You always find the right words to keep us calm.

I'm scared to death that one day you won't be there.

I'm scared that you will leave without knowing how

much you mean to me.

I feel selfish. I know how much you struggle.

I wish I could take it all on me, so you would feel noth-

ing but the happiness that the world has to offer.

I wish I could enhance each day of your’s as if it was

your last.

Dear Grandma, please hold on.

I pray every day, with love in my heart and tears held

back from my eyes.

Stay strong. You always have been.

Push through! The medical field is so advanced now.

F#$% cancer!

I pray that they will help you get back on your feet,

healthy as a horse.

I love you Grandma. Love, your granddaughter.

Irishka, Mishka, And Marishka love you from the

moon and back.

Always know, no words have been truer than true as

the words I have said to you.

Photograph by: Constantine Onishchenko 23

TO MY UNREQUITED LOVE,

I have always admired you from both near and far. I sit next to you, in the corner of your eyes, never making eye contact. The imagination of us being together gives me feelings of bliss every day. You’re always on my mind, every second of every minute of every hour of every day. Every time I was brave enough to talk with you, you leave to the library. The never ending excuses to be stuck in the library to do your homework and studies. You would never let me join you. It would be a dream come true to be stuck in the library with you, letting time fly by me. So here I am writing to you as a graduating senior. I shall never forget the times I have spent with you, never shall I forget your smile, your looks, your excuses, for that is what makes you, you. One in a million, one of a kind, my one and only, my unrequited love, stuck in the library every day.

TO A LOVED ONE, I want to tell you how I really feel, When you insist on dictating how I live my life. I struggle enough talking to others and having friends, to then worry about how you want grandchildren. It’s not easy for me to find love, but it’s even harder to have set conditions on who you would accept . I want to love someone I care about, not solely someone who shares similar beliefs. Love is not something that can be controlled, it’s spontaneous and free. I want you to be happy, but I can’t be happy not being able to do what I want. I can’t commit to love till I find it in someone, whether they be a woman or a man. I hope you accept my choices in love and also the job I want to pursue in life. Just remember destiny can’t be predetermined, and everything in life, I feel, happens for a reason.

Yours truly, —Anonymous ABC

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We are proud to announce the commencement of Stuck in the Cafeteria, a photography installation in the Boylan Hall cafeteria. The installation intends to provide photographers of the Brooklyn College student body an opportunity to exhibit their work amongst a wide audience in the Boylan Hall cafeteria.

The current exhibition cycle’s theme is “Food.” The cycle will run until October 24th.

Interested in submitting your work for the next cycle? Submission guidelines are available on our website.

Brought to you by STL and directed by Constantine Onishchenko.

We are proud to announce the commencement of Stuck in the Cafeteria, a photography installation in the Boylan Hall cafeteria. The installation intends to provide photographers of the Brooklyn College student body an opportunity to exhibit their work amongst a wide audience in the Boylan Hall cafeteria.

The current exhibition cycle’s theme is “Food.” The cycle will run until October 24th.

Interested in submitting your work for the next cycle? Submission guidelines are available on our website.

Brought to you by STL and directed by Constantine Onishchenko.

STUCK IN THE CAFETERIA

ADVERTISMENTS:

THE PRE-HEALTH PEER MENTORING PROGRAM (PHPMP)

PHPMP is designed to connect the student body with Dr. Silbering's office, the pre-health advisor.

Workshops covering both the regular Pre-Health curriculum and the new

MCAT 2015 are offered every Tuesday from 12:30pm—1:30pm.

Office hours are offered on Thursdays, from 12:30 - 2:00pm at Dr. Sil-

bering’s office (2231 Boylan Hall).

Interested in attending a workshop? Joining staff? Hearing advice? Sign-

ing up for our newsletter? Contact Phpmp.BC@Gmail.com

 

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You're invited to come exercise your creative muscles in a freewriting work-shop with other Stuck in the Library writers, readers, and editors.

Brought to you by STL and hosted by Algonquin Jones & Courtney Takats

NEXT EVENTS:

TUESDAYS, 9/23*, 10/7,10/21. 12—1:15PM

WEDNESDAY, 10/1. 8:50—10PM.

GROG ROOM (5TH FLOOR SUBO)

RSVP ON FACEBOOK * Cosmic room, not Grog

Photograph by: Constantine Onishchenko

  SMARTCOPY’S WRITER’S SPECIAL  

WRITE THE NIGHT

ADVERTISMENT:

Bring your manuscript to its next level with this printing special, exclusive to STL readers. The combination of prints included will allow you to share and work with your editor(s) & reader(s). 

5  paperback‐sized  books  (5.5  x  8.5) for readers (spiral bound). 

2  full  sized  manuscripts  (8.5  x  11)    for editors (spiral bound). 

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Awards Commit tee

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Treasurer

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Associate Member of Insta l la t ion Committee

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STUCK IN THE LIBRARY SEPTEMBER 22, 2014

ARI ZIEGLER

Associate Member of Events Committee

OUR UPCOMING EVENTS:

Write the Night (Night):

Wed 10/1 8:50—10:00pm Grog Room

Write the Night (Daytime):

Tues 9/23 12:00—1:15pm Cosmic Room

Tues 10/7 12:00—1:15pm Grog Room

Tues 10/21 12:00—1:15pm Grog Room

Publication Event:

Tues. 10/21 4:00—6:00pm State Room

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Brooklyn, NY 11210. www.StuckintheLibrary.com

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Permission to publish the content in this publication was granted to

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discharged Brooklyn College and Stuck in the Library from any and all

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  STUCK IN THE LIBRARY SEPTEMBER 22, 2014

 

A CALL FOR SUBMISSIONS!

Stuck in the Library, Brooklyn College’s finest literary magazine is now accepting submissions for their upcoming publication! Our next publication date is October 20th, a Monday. The deadline for submissions is Thursday night, 11:59pm the 16th. You can receive our magazine by attending our publication events or find one floating around campus. An online copy is available on our website (see below).

Guidelines for submissions: Just follow the prompt and have fun, let’s see what you can come up with. There are ZERO rules! (although we kindly ask you keep your piece PG-13). Send us all your poems, fiction, play-writes, illustrations and photos: as long as it falls into domain of one of the prompts. Keep in mind that STL is a Brooklyn College magazine and can refuse work that doesn’t agree with the mission of the university. Send your work to:

SUBMISSIONS@STUCKINTHELIBRARY.COM

Prompt 1: A boy post apocalypse who goes on a journey to find an orthodontist to remove his braces.

Prompt 2: Food.

Prompt 3: Write an anonymous letter. It can be addressed to someone but it should be signed by no one.

Visit us on the web at:

www.StuckintheLibrary.com

A CALL FOR SUBMISSIONS!

Stuck in the Library, Brooklyn College’s finest literary magazine is now accepting submissions for their upcoming publication! Our next publication date is October 20th, a Monday. The deadline for submissions is Thursday night, 11:59pm the 16th. You can receive our magazine by attending our publication events or find one floating around campus. An online copy is available on our website (see below).

Guidelines for submissions: Just follow the prompt and have fun, let’s see what you can come up with. There are ZERO rules! (although we kindly ask you keep your piece PG-13). Send us all your poems, fiction, play-writes, illustrations and photos: as long as it falls into domain of one of the prompts. Keep in mind that STL is a Brooklyn College magazine and can refuse work that doesn’t agree with the mission of the university. Send your work to:

SUBMISSIONS@STUCKINTHELIBRARY.COM

Prompt 1: A boy post apocalypse who goes on a journey to find an orthodontist to remove his braces.

Prompt 2: Food.

Prompt 3: Write an anonymous letter. It can be addressed to someone but it should be signed by no one.

Visit us on the web at:

www.StuckintheLibrary.com