antonym
ambiguous & absolute
february 2021
letter from the editors Emma Maras, Johanna Monson Geerts, & Michael Ferry Mundane Erin Laine Baysea Road Amanda Cino The Yolk Mary Poth Large Snowflakes Alexandra Neckopulos CRIMSON. RUST. AMBER. Sérgio-Andreo Bettencourt Urbina We both know what we’re here for, after all Erin Laine How to Become a Linguist D.Z. Roshal Overbearing Openness Velma Marclyn Dillon contributors
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Cover “Rose" | Alexandra Neckopulos antonym logo | Micaela Levesque Digital design software | Lucidpress February Editors | Johanna Monson Geerts, Michael Ferry, & Emma Maras
letter from the editors Dear Friends, February is drawing to a close, and many of us have already witnessed the freezing temperatures of winter give way to brighter and warmer days.. However, others have had their lives dramatically uprooted by unprecedented winter weather. During a time of year classically associated with warmth and relief, people we love are experiencing cold, hunger, and neglect. At antonym, our hearts go out to the people of Texas and others experiencing hard times at the beginning of this spring season. Our mission continues to be to create a space to share creativity, connect with one another, and respond to the chaos in the world. The submissions for this month represented a wide variety of themes and experiences from our creative contributors, and we were privileged to read poetry and short stories that reflected many emotions and thoughts familiar to the human experience. In considering the commonalities between these wonderful submissions, we stumbled upon themes of impermanence, ambivalence, and change in lives, homes, language, and gender as well as nods to the persistence of aspects of human existence such as love and weariness. Thus, we decided on the theme for this issue—ambiguous and absolute. Up next for antonym you can expect a social media re-brand as well as a continuation of our monthly writing workshops! We thank you all for your continued support and hope that, as you read this issue, you will feel inspired to create and consider sharing your writing and visual art with us. Sincerely, Emma Maras, Johanna Monson Geerts, & Michael Ferry February Editors | antonym
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Erin Laine
the bleachy grit of Comet! scruffs away at the blood-red chili stain in my father’s kitchen sink; the washcloth is oozing and I can’t breathe through my nose—I think I’m allergic to bleach—my skin turns splotchy red and tingles every time I move and no matter how hard I scrub the stain won’t come out.
Mundane
Baysea Road
Amanda Cino
Baysea Road was always a dirt road until two days ago when the majority of the residents who lived on it got their wish, and the township paved it. Those residents went to every council meeting to complain of the dust and the rocks and the way it rutted when spring came. They wrote letters to their state representatives, and after a year, it finally happened. Macy Sanders lived on the road her entire life. When she graduated from college and married, she and her husband, Henry, moved into a house a quarter mile down the road from her childhood home and had their first son, Nevin. Four years later, their second son, Miles, was born, and three years after, the township paved the road. “I just hate the idea,” Macy complained to her mother one morning over coffee. “It’s happened,” her mother sighed. “Nothing we can do about it now.” “No one came down this road before. Now, there’ll be tons of traffic on it. I’ll have to put Maverick on a leash, or he’ll get run over, I’m sure.” “There’s a leash law in this county any way.” Her mother stirred her coffee. “If I had known this was going to happen, I wouldn’t have gotten a house so close to the road,” Macy continued. “Well, you can always move.” “This doesn’t bother you?” Macy asked, putting her coffee down. “I went to the meetings. I voiced my opinions. We lost. There’s nothing we can do, hon.” Macy sat back in her chair and sucked in a breath. She pulled her auburn hair back and exhaled. When she opened her eyes, she fished for a hair tie in her purse, wrapped it around her hair, gulped the rest of her coffee, then grabbed the boys to head home. “Mommy,” Nevin called. “Can I drive home?” “Sure!” She smiled. “Let me just get Miles in.” She hooked her younger son into his seat and picked up Nevin. She sat him on her lap and turned on the car. “Just let me back out,” she said as she looked into the rearview mirror. She glanced back at the door and saw her mother standing there. When their eyes met, her mother put up her hand to wave and offered a smile. Macy noticed how tired her mother looked for a moment, but then in an instant, her face changed to fear as she slammed her hand to the glass window. “Jesus!” Macy yelled, slamming on the brake at the noise. A truck was barreling down the road, and Macy almost backed right out into it. Nevin looked around and saw the car heading right at them. “Sorry, buddy,” she said as she shifted her car into drive and pulled her rear out of the road. “I’m just not used to any traffic being on this road.” When the car passed, she backed out and let Nevin steer the quarter mile home. # Later that afternoon, they were in the driveway playing basketball. Nevin would be old enough to play Wee-Ball at school this winter, and his father took him out to practice every Saturday afternoon. “I miss Dad,” Nevin groaned after his mom shot her fifth air ball. “He’ll be back from his trip soon. Another week.” As she was about to shoot, a blue Chevy whizzed by so fast, they could feel wind come off it. “This is insane.” Macy shook her head. “Come on.” “Where are we going?” Nevin asked. “To the police station.” They drove the two miles into town where there was a general store, a post office, two restaurants, a small bakery, and the police and fire stations. She let the boys out and held Miles as they entered. At the front desk was a man with sandy blonde hair and bright blue eyes whom she had gone to high school with. “Drew,” she called and set Miles down. “Macy,” he greeted her warmly. “What can I do for you?” “My road!” She put her hands on her hips. “These cars are ridiculous. They’re flying up and down now that it’s paved.” “Big changes to Baysea Road,” he said with a smirk as he tapped his pen against the desk. “We can set up a temporary radar to verify your complaint. If people are going over, what’s that road? Twenty-five miles per hour?” “It was. Now it’s thirty-five.” Her head hurt as she spoke. “Well, we’ll set up a speed trap. That should send a message.” “It wouldn’t be too much to ask?” She felt Miles pull at her hand. “Not at all,” he said. “It’s our job.” # The radar was only up for two days before Drew and another officer started patrolling the road. Macy passed them pulling over the same blue Chevy that whipped past them only a few days ago. She smiled to herself as she drove by. “Can we play basketball when we get home?” Nevin asked. “Sure.” Nevin and Macy stood in the driveway playing ball while Miles dug in his sandbox. Maverick lay on the ground beside him, securely tied to his new leash that hooked to the front porch. “Watch this!” Nevin squealed as he dribbled around his mom and threw up a shot. “I’ll have to play better defense on you, huh?” When it was her turn, Macy whipped the ball up purposely to miss, but it collided right against the rim and bounced back toward the road. “I’ll get it!” Nevin shouted as he darted to the road. “No, Nevin!” she called to him, but he was already halfway down the driveway. She heard a rumble coming up the road. Her stomach tightened as her legs burned for her to go faster. “Nevin!” she screamed. Coming down the road was the same blue Chevy that Drew had just pulled over only an hour ago. “Are you kidding me?” she whispered and yanked her son backward. He fell, scraping his arm as he tried to catch himself. She picked up the basketball from the edge of the road and gripped it in her hands. Behind her, Miles and Maverick had no clue what had almost just happened, or what was about to happen. Nevin was on the ground wailing now, his whole left arm scraped from their coarse driveway. “Mommy!” he yelped. Then, the blue Chevy was barreling down the road, now no more than twenty feet away. Her head pounded as her lip trembled, thinking of what could have just happened. For a moment, she felt as if she were out of her body as the basketball lunged from her hands into the side of the truck. The man slammed on his brakes, making the truck emit a squeal of slaughtered pigs. The sound crippled her, and she was frozen in place, until the thunder of a slammed door woke her. It was then that she saw the size of him, and she stepped back, feeling a tinge of regret tugging in her chest. She took another step back and looked toward Nevin, wishing he was closer to the house. “Are you nuts, lady?” he bellowed, striding toward her from the road. “Back up!” she ordered. “You’re gonna pay for this!” he growled, turning back toward his truck, the engine still running. He rubbed his hand against the dent. “You’re the one who’s going to pay! You coulda ran over my kid!” The redness of fear dissipated from her face and was replaced with a raging purple. She could tell he was gritting his teeth. “I just saw you get pulled over, and you’re still driving like an idiot!” He looked at Nevin, now just whimpering on the ground, and Miles in the sandbox. “Why don’t you play with them in the back, next time? Huh? Jesus,” he grumbled before climbing back into his truck. The man looked at the boys again and shook his head then shifted and took off down the road. “Mom!” Nevin cried when he was sure it was safe. “I’m so sorry!” she almost wept as she spoke. “I didn’t mean to knock you over. I just wanted you to stop! To not be on the road. Are you okay?” “I’m okay.” he nodded and let her pick him up. “Come on, let’s get your brother and get you cleaned up.” Inside, Nevin braced himself for the peroxide. “You know it doesn’t hurt that much. It’s not alcohol.” “It doesn’t feel good,” he argued. She dumped it on his cuts and watched them fizz to life. When she was rubbing Neosporin on the cut, he looked up. “Mom?” “Hmm?” “Why did you do that?” She kept her head down, watching her work. “Because,” she sighed. “I was trying to teach him a lesson.” “To slow down?” “Mhmm.” “But what you did was bad too,” Nevin said. “It was, but sometimes doing something bad is actually the right thing to do.” “So throwing that ball at him was a good thing?” He squinted at her. “No,” she sighed and put the tube down. “No, it wasn’t good. I was just as bad, but he deserved it. I bet he’ll think twice now before flying down this road again.” “So, it was okay because he did something bad too?” The boy tried to understand. “It’s complicated. But, I think I was right because when he realized what he did, that what he was doing was wrong, he felt bad. He didn’t even care about his truck when he saw you on the ground. Baysea’s a quiet road. There’s no need to drive that fast, and I think he realized that. I guess sometimes your body just makes a choice in a situation like that. Mine chose to throw that basketball,” she shrugged. “To keep my babies safe. Can you understand that?” “You left a big dent!” Nevin grinned. “Ehh.” She lifted him from the bathroom counter. “I bet it’ll pop right out.” # The next night, they sat on their front steps and watched the cars pass. Miles was bouncing up and down on his mother’s lap as Maverick chewed on a bone. “Seven-Six Baysea Road,” Nevin said in a baby voice to his brother. “Can you say that?” “Seben-Sik Baysea Woad,” Miles smiled. “That’s where you live,” Nevin said. “In case you get lost.” “Lost?” Miles looked at his mom. “Nevin,” she scolded. For a while, the three of them sat in silence except for the occasional slurp of Miles’ thumb sucking. “I’m bored,” Nevin groaned. “Let’s play the car game,” Macy offered. “I never played that before.” “Because we’ve never had enough cars going by to play it,” she said, shaking her head. “How do you play?” “We both guess a color. If the next car goes by and is your color, you get a point.” “Sounds easy.” “Go ahead, pick a color,” she said. “White.” “How about you?” Macy turned Miles around. “What color do you like?” “Boo,” the little boy said and smiled. “Okay, I’ll pick black.” They sat on the porch, waiting. There was a light breeze in the air and birds chirping a summer song. In that time, three cars went by: red, green, and silver before a white car passed. “One point for me!” Nevin cheered. “Okay, now we have to pick a new color.” “Black,” Nevin grinned. “Picking my color, huh?” Macy smiled at him. “Boo!” Miles picked again. “I’ll go with silver.” About two minutes passed before they heard a car coming. Macy could tell through the trees that it was the blue Chevy. “I think Miles is going to win,” she tickled him. The Chevy went by, chugging along under the speed limit. His window was rolled down, and he slowly lifted his hand and waved at them. “Boo!” Miles squealed. “I win!” “Hey! It’s that guy!” Nevin said, eyes wide as he watched the Chevy disappear. “Your trick worked! He’s going so slow!” She couldn’t contain the smile from cracking on her lips. Nevin was a daddy’s boy, and his mother never impressed him. “So, it’s fixed?” “I’m not going to make you call me a superhero name or anything,” Macy said as she stood up to go in to start dinner, “but I do think Super Mom has a nice ring to it.” # The next day, Henry pulled into the driveway. “Daddy!” they both squealed and ran out the front door. He hugged them both and then kissed Macy. “How was your trip?” Macy and Henry sat in the living room and watched Nevin out the window. He had Maverick with him as he practiced his dribbling. “We go ousside too?” Miles asked. “You can play in your sandbox, but you can’t go any farther down the yard, okay?” Macy said. The little boy nodded, and Macy watched him from the front steps. “Nevin!” she called. “Watch your brother!” “Okay, Mom!” Macy filled Henry in on the past two weeks’ events from inside the house. Outside, Nevin took interest in his little brother. “Hey Miles!” Nevin dribbled toward his brother. “You wanna try dribbling?” “Uh huh!” He swatted at the ball. “Not like that.” Nevin shook his head and then tried to show him. He placed his brother’s small hand on the ball and then his own over top. Together, they pushed the ball down and watched it come back up. A white car whizzing by disrupted his lesson. “That car’s goin’ too fast!” Nevin shook his finger in the car’s direction. “Too fast!” Miles repeated. “Here, wanna try to shoot it?” “Nevin!” his mother called out. “Not too close to the road!” “Aw, he’s just trying to shoot!” “He’s too little!” Macy warned. “Aw, Mom!” “Listen to your mother!” Henry yelled from inside. Nevin dribbled back toward his brother who was near the garage and continued to let his brother swat the ball. After about three minutes, he became bored. “I have to practice. Go back in your sandbox.” “Awight.” Maverick was hooked, waiting by the sandbox, and Miles patted the dog’s head. “There’s that car again!” Nevin said as the white car zipped back by the house. He ran down the driveway and looked down the road, but the car was too far away for him to notice which kind of car it was. He went back toward the hoop and practiced his shooting. In the time that it took for the white car to pass again, his father had come out and played with him for thirty minutes. Miles had been in and out and in and out and in and back out, and his mother had made them both go inside to eat dinner. It was not dark yet, so when he asked his parents to go back outside, they obliged. Miles stayed in the house and played blocks with his father. Nevin dribbled down the sidewalk to the driveway as Maverick trailed him as far as the leash would allow. Then, Nevin heard the sound. He looked up and held his dribble. It was the rumble of a vehicle. He looked through the trees and saw a white blur coming his way. He raced down the driveway and could hear his parents heading toward the front steps from inside. He heard the door creaking open as he was halfway down the driveway and his mother’s voice, “…playing every night! …getting pretty good!” The words wrapped around his head, but when he looked back, he nearly tripped and decided to keep his head forward. “Nevin!” his father shouted, but he pretended not to hear. The wind blew against him as his feet pounded into the driveway. The car was close enough now for him to make out that it had an H on the front of it. He raised the basketball over his head and launched it toward the car too early. The driver saw it and spiked the brakes. Macy’s hand went to her mouth as the tires streaked the pavement. The squealing made Nevin freeze—as it had made his mother not too long ago—and the driver swerved so sharply that the car began to tip. In an instant, it was on its side, and in one more, it was completely turned over and spun back around towards them. “Nevin!” his father screamed. Macy was stuck, as if her shoes had melted into the porch steps. She looked from her son to the overturned car and back. She saw her husband sprinting toward them, but she couldn’t make herself move, couldn’t make herself breathe. Then, she saw it. The black hair and the glass and the blood. “Go to your mother,” she heard her husband’s voice. If she hadn’t felt her son trying to climb up her, she wouldn’t have known time had passed. Without realizing, she picked up Nevin and held him in her arms. “Is she dead?” the boy’s voice shook. Macy’s eyes couldn’t escape the girl. “Is she dead?” he repeated. “Call nine-one-one!” Henry’s voice broke her trance. “Nevin!” she snapped back to life. “Go in the house. Take Miles with you. Go downstairs in the basement and call nine-one-one. Tell them our address and tell them there was a car accident. Can you do that?” she asked. His face was white, but he nodded. When he left, Macy felt as if her body was walking without her to the scene. Her eyes could not move away from the black mop of hair. Her steps were staggered, as if she were intoxicated, and it was that shuffling sound that got her husband’s attention. “She’s dead,” his words were quiet, and his eyes were red and wet. “She’s dead.” The girl’s head had slammed into the window and shattered it. Glass sprinkled across the black pavement, shimmering in the sinking, orange sun. The blood was still seeping from her, and Macy hunched over, projecting her dinner. “Go back to the house,” her husband said. “No,” Macy whispered, feeling the remaining color drain from her face. She kneeled near her vomit and watched the girl, expecting her to wake up. “Just go in,” Henry whispered. Macy couldn’t move though. She was stuck once again as the world fell silent. “Can’t we help her?” she asked as her eyes refused to blink. “She’s dead, Macy.” The sirens blared and horns honked. She could see the lights of the firetruck and the ambulance coming down the road. Henry looked back at her, shaking his head. “Just go inside!” “No!” As the first responders stepped out, one sprinted to the car, pushing the black mop of hair to the side to check her vitals. It wasn’t long before the responder shook his head at the others, who saw and pushed the stretcher back into the ambulance. The girl’s body was removed in the ambulance. The state police finished their investigation and the car was towed away. After the glass and blood had been cleaned up, a fireman emerged from the woods across the street with a basketball in his hands. “This your ball, ma’am?” he asked, extending it out to her. She looked at the ball then to the spot in the road where hours ago, an innocent girl had died. “Ma’am?” “Yes,” she whispered, closing her eyes. She nodded, and when she opened her eyes, they flooded once more. She reached for it, fingers shaking, and took the ball in her hands. “Tell your son to be more careful next time,” the fireman said. Macy stood there, clutching the ball to her chest. Before he turned, he shook his head, “Things like this just ain’t supposed to happen in places like Baysea Road.”
Mary Poth
The Yolk
The sunlight casts a red glow through Martin’s eyelids, suctioned shut from a deep sleep. He doesn’t feel like putting in the effort to open them just yet. Rolling away from the light onto his side, he slinks his hand across the sheets, but only finds the empty spot Faye left behind. He curls his legs up to his chest and holds himself. If he lies here long enough, he could fall back into some sweet dream. But quiet moments remind him of chaos, so he pries his eyes open and forces his body out of bed. The water crashes onto the shower floor and seems louder than usual. Martin sticks his hand through the curtain, tests for warmth with his fingertips. He recoils from the cold and waits outside the shower. Goosebumps rise on his naked body. He loathes this routine for its lack of distractions, anxious to hurry through the ritual of washing away yesterday’s dirt. Once he’s clean, he towels his body haphazardly. Droplets rolling down his spine are soaked up by his dress shirt, fitting it on before his skin is fully dry. His hands struggle to fix the shirt buttons through their mated holes. There is a weight in his fingers, his body, that wasn’t there before. The hair on his jaw, awkwardly between stubble and beard, scrapes against his shirt collar. He shuffles down the freshly vacuumed steps. In the kitchen, Faye’s face hovers close to the counter, wiping at a single spot, muscles tense. She glances up at Martin and drops the rag on the counter. Moving to the sink, she plucks a dish from the drying rack and begins washing. “I thought you washed those last night,” Martin says, watching her from the bottom of the steps. “I missed a spot.” Faye scrapes at the ceramic with her nail. Martin shivers at the sound. His briefcase is a jumble of paper scraps, folders, wrappers, and broken pens. He tosses in a protein bar, snaps the locks shut. Faye, still scratching at the plate, avoids his eyes as he kisses her on the cheek. Instinctively, he puts his hand on her belly. She freezes. He pulls away. The scent of bleach lingers in his nose as he leaves. On his front step, he pauses at the sight of the morning dew that has collected on spider webs in the grass like apparitions. Lacework of shimmering droplets cling to bristling green blades, exposing the hiding places of venomous creatures. He never gave thought to how many spiders nested in his own yard, infesting it, until now. With slumped shoulders, Martin drags himself through the open office, no cubicles, nowhere to hide. Redundant lines of metal desks are broken up by sparks of personality here and there: green succulents, artwork from children, personalized coffee mugs. On his desk is a picture of Faye with his parents and grandparents. Next to it, an old Valentine’s card, 4 months old, from before. He flops into his gray chair with the squeaky, loose back and scans the mess of papers in front of him. Martin fantasizes about running away. He could walk out into the fresh morning and drive west until he runs out of gas. There, he could meet new people, work as a bartender, buy an old cabin, start over. The phone rings. Another unhappy customer. They only ever call to complain. Monotone, he pretends to care that her shipment was late and offers 20% off her next order. He opens his drawer with a screech of metal that reminds him he needs new brakes for his car. Probing through all the old grievances in his desk, he searches for a new customer complaint form, but instead finds a picture resembling a black and white cone with a cave inside. “Hello, are you listening to me?” The voice on the other end of the phone demands satisfaction. “Yes. Sorry. Technical problems.” “Men are never good with customer service,” the voice says with a sigh. “I’m sorry?” He slams the drawer shut. “Oh, did I say that out loud? Well, you know what I mean. You’re not sensitive enough.” “How can I change that for you?” “It’s not your fault. It’s your boss’s fault for hiring you.” “I have your coupon code if you’d like it now, ma’am.” When the customer is placated, Martin hangs up, finishes the form, and slides it into a file. The edge of the paper catches in a groove of his finger and slices deep into his skin. Blood gathers at the cut and drips on the paper, staining through several sheets. Don’t be a baby, he thinks. He wipes his finger on his black pants and puts a piece of tape over the wound. He writes up fresh forms to replace those tainted by blood, like nothing ever happened. When the day is done, Martin pulls into his spot in the driveway, having resisted the urge to follow the interstate to its end. He kills the engine to revel in the silence, but there is a ringing in his ears. Walking to the front door, he looks for the ghosts of the webs in his yard. They’ve vanished back into hiding. Faye has dinner on the table and the house looks raw from too much cleaning. He sets his briefcase on an empty chair and sits down in front of his meal: pancakes, bacon, and eggs. “I had a craving for breakfast,” she says, taking a swig of red wine. He pierces the egg with his fork. The yolk runs out onto his plate, mixing in with the bacon and pancakes, tainting their flavor with its own. Inseparable now.
Alexandra Neckopulos
Sérgio-Andreo Bettencourt Urbina
Large Snowflakes
It’s late September and the forest is aflame in gorgeous crimson, rust, and amber hues, though my favorite sign of Autumn has always been the dead pine needles that cover the forest floor in a chocolatey orange. They remind me of the liqueur my grandmother drinks as a digestif. I’m twelve, short for my age, the shortest in my class, and I like to wear overgrown clothing, like the black and white checkered hoodie and oversized skateboarding jeans I’m wearing today. It feels good to disappear into clothes when you don’t feel right in your own skin. My black hair is overgrown into a kind of shag cut, and as the days get shorter, my olive skin fades into a warm jaundice with green undertones. I sit on a rock in the middle of the woods behind my house waiting for what I’m hoping will be my first kiss. I pretend to be listening to whatever Joey, my companion, is saying, but I can’t hear him due to the incessant thumping of my heart. I lick my lips to keep them soft, but my nerves have my mouth all dried out. I check my pockets for the strawberry Lip Smacker I stole from CVS last week, but I only come up with silver lint and washed Trident wrappers. I am my mother's son -- I'm never prepared. Why hasn’t he kissed me yet? What is he going on about? Joey is new to the neighborhood. He is taller than me, with ivory skin, a black buzz cut, freckles, and glasses. He’s a little chubby, but I like it. He is one of these guys that dresses like his dad. I think his dad is what you call “blue-collar." One of these guys that wears roughed-up, fitted jeans, with a nondescript t-shirt, baseball hat, and a tool belt. His hand touches my knee. Was that on purpose? I first met Joey in the parking lot of our slate grey apartment complex. Per usual, I was busy practicing a balance beam routine I’d made up on the curb of the walkway just in front of the apartment complex’s silver mailbox unit. The curb was of a different cement from the charcoal-colored walkway, a light grey marshmallow color, and approximated the 4-inch width of a balance beam. Intrigued by my Olympic level cartwheels, round-offs, and jumps, Joey came out of his apartment to kick and smooth dirt while sneaking glances at my acrobatics. Recognizing the end of one of my routines, Joey approached me. “Hey,” Joey said. “Hi,” I said staring at the ground and nervously putting my hair behind my ears. “What’s your name?,” he asked. My father taught me to be suspicious of people who ask for information before offering up a piece of their own, and so I responded “What’s yours?” “Joey,” he said smiling in a way that made me uncomfortable because it was clear he was interested in interacting longer than this introduction. “Sam,” I said in a way that I hoped did not invite further questioning. “Sam?,” he asked again. “Yea, Sam,” I said. “What’s Sam short for?” he asked. I’ve always hated this question. It’s the sort of question that leads to conversation if you let it. I studied him for a second. My mother would call him half-dressed with his white undershirt, blue-jeans, and work boots. “Where’s the proper shirt? You can’t go out into the world like this!” she’d say. My mother is someone you might describe as melodramatic. There are noises in the forest. Every so often I hear a crunch behind us, or a branch falling in the distance and I startle and check back. There is a brook that bubbles in the background that makes it difficult to tell how far back the noise is. Joey laughs. He thinks it’s funny that I’m on high alert, but I can’t help it. I don’t want any of the raggedy kids from the neighborhood ruining this for me, or even worse, my parents finding out. My dad is not exactly above putting his hands on his kids. Joey stayed back a grade, so he is older than I am. Two years older because I started a year early. He is so foreign to me. His parents are married, and he has one brother and one sister, both older than him. He tells me his family are Jehovah’s Witnesses, which I find interesting because I thought they weren’t allowed to have friends outside their religion. I ask him about it, and he says that it isn’t that they’re not allowed, but that it’s difficult to be friends with people that don’t believe the same things. He asks me what I believe in, and I tell him, “Science.” He laughs. I bite my bottom lip. I pull my knees to my chest and look at the sky. It’s that deep matte blue with the hint of brightness that lets you know that the sunset is coming. I breathe in the musky scents of earth and dead leaves and branches around me. There is a breeze and I hold my knees a little tighter and look down at my Airwalk sneakers I had to beg my mom to buy me because I hadn’t worn through my other pair yet. They’re scuffed and dirty but I like them that way. It’s difficult to settle into something brand spanking new. “Sam… are you a girl?” Joey asks me, and I’m not sure what to say. I know what I want to say, which is whatever will get him to kiss me, and so I just laugh, bat my lashes and say, “What a strange question to ask.” It’s not a strange question at all though, as it’s a question I’m frequently asked. The real answer is “No” or “I don’t know,” but it feels good to be seen, so I keep my mouth shut. I’m nervous, but he seems satisfied and he puts his arm around me. I don’t know how he’s kept so warm in that thin blue t-shirt he has on, but it is comforting, and so I lean into him. I nuzzle him. So this is what it’s like to play with fire. The sun continues to set, and Joey mentions something about a place where Jehovah’s Witnesses go to study called Kingdom Hall. I like the name, and he mentions maybe we’ll get to go some time. I hear another noise, and I can’t help but look back. It’s nothing, but as I turn back Joey puts his mouth on mine to kiss me. His mouth is as warm as laundry out of the dryer, his lips are soft as freshly ironed sheets, and his tart breath mingles with mine as we kiss until the last bit of sun leaves the sky and Joey’s mom calls him for dinner. Joey, being a “momma’s boy” has to go, but wants me to promise to meet him here again tomorrow. I want to say yes, but I say maybe. “Maybe?” he asks. “Maybe,” I respond. “Okay,” he sort of mumbles while looking disappointed enough to cause me heartache. “Joey! Dinner!” his mom yells, and Joey runs off toward the light of his apartment. I touch my tingling lips as I make my way back to my apartment before my own mother begins to call for me. “Maybe tomorrow,” I try to convince myself. “Maybe tomorrow.”
CRIMSON. RUST. AMBER.
We both know what we’re here for, after all
He will come back when he wants to like they always do. He leaves again and forgets I exist until he watches porn. At midnight he will send me a text saying how much he misses my cool hands. I will invite him back inside my apartment and pretend he loves me while he runs his thumb on my lower lip. It’s okay. I like the small glowing world we create on my bed. It’s sweaty and effervescent and I do not love him. When he is gone I think about the Instagram post I would make in a universe in which we are more than what we are. My hand would caress his cheek while his crinkling eyes smile at me. I would caption it something inane like “I’m so glad I found you.” Everyone would fawn over our beautiful relationship. In a way I am glad I found him. Another body to hold in this weird world where everyone is dying. He ebbs and flows with the seasons but I always know he will be back, sometime. I want to be in love. But over and over I find him in my bed. Variations of the same scene. Our sticky chests pressed together, he says he thinks my rosy cheeks are cute and kisses them. There is an intimacy to knowing better what someone looks like naked than clothed. We don’t talk until we fuck. We both know what we’re here for, after all. He holds the pipe to my mouth, lights the bowl, tells me when to inhale. I try to count his eyelashes until he tells me he has to go.
D.Z. Roshal
First, learn a few phrases in German in preparation for a family hiking trip to the Austrian Alps. Become overconfident in your accent but be sure to panic when asked to translate simple phrases for your parents, who regularly get German and Spanish confused. Push through the panic and keep learning anyway. You’ve always been bilingual, having grown up speaking both Russian and English, but learning a third language actually sounds kinda fun. Keep up your German skills even after returning from your hiking trip, sweaty and tired. Start reading Eichendorff’s poetry. You won’t understand much, but you’ll be able to pronounce most of the words, and you’ll like the way they sound. And soon enough, armed with a dictionary and determination, you’ll start understanding more and more. You’ll think everything finally makes sense. And now, you’ll have an excuse not to read Pushkin’s poetry in Russian anymore because you’ve found an alternative that your parents consider almost as academically valuable. Beg your parents to sign you up for actual German lessons (so you can stop spending hours on Duolingo every day and actually talk to real people). They’ll find a private school that offers extracurricular German classes. You’ll be excited. You haven’t been taught not to trust yourself yet, so you’ll think you can do this. You’re going to try to make friends with a girl named Olivia who, unlike most people in class, tolerates your grammar mistakes and your obnoxious pigtails. You’ll also meet a boy named Hans. He’ll seem nice, even though he’s definitely the class clown. He’ll make fun of you because you’re short. You’re in sixth grade, but you could pass for an elementary schooler. You’re small, and your body isn’t as developed as the other girls. Olivia will tell you he only teases you because he likes you. He’s a year older than you, and you start thinking he’s good-looking. Wear dresses to school to try and look older. He still won’t pay much attention to you until he finally notices that you’re trying to impress him. Then the teasing will become bullying, and the bullying will become sexual harassment, even though at the time you won’t have the vocabulary in any language to explain what’s happening to you. He will frequently comment on how flat your chest is and make fun of you when you don’t understand some lewd joke he or his friend Malcolm makes. Malcolm will regularly call you a faggot, which is something that will be important later on. At the time, you won’t understand what that means, either. After a while, the harassment they put you through will become physical. At the end of seventh grade, drop the class. Learn to forget what happened. Repressing memories will become second nature to you. Take a break from German lessons for a while. Try to learn French instead. Get bored and quit French after two weeks. Gradually, you’ll get bored of everything. You’ll even get bored of yourself, of living the way you’ve lived. Decide to make a change. Start blaming yourself for what Hans did to you. Become very familiar with the feeling of shame. Cut all your hair off. Quit ballet and take up rock climbing. Swear off wearing dresses; you never liked wearing them in the first place. Fall in love with a girl named Lizzie. Falling in love with girls will be new to you, but it will feel right - and you’ll realize you’re bisexual. Lizzie speaks Italian and will be in the same youth Shakespeare group as you. Learn a few basic phrases in Italian. Write sonnets for Lizzie and never build up the courage to ever actually show them to her. Eventually, muster up whatever courage you have left and come out to your mom. It won’t go the way you planned. So you’ll rip up most of the sonnets and hide the remnants in your sock drawer. Leave one sonnet unscathed and fold it into your diary. Find the scraps of paper in your sock drawer a few years later, fail to piece them together, and throw them away. Stay friends with Lizzie. Regret will soon become intertwined with shame and repression. You’ll ignore all of that. Start anew. Sign up for online German lessons. Your teacher will be perfectly normal. She will always get to the point. Classes will be stiff and boring, but at least you’ll be learning. Fall into the rabbit hole of studying grammar. Memorize the conjugations of irregular verbs and learn how to order your sentences. Stumble across a video where a blindfolded linguistics professor tries to guess what language someone is speaking to her. Notice how much passion the professor has for languages and for linguistics. Buy the professor’s textbook and never finish reading it because you don’t understand most of the terminology she uses. Even so, your passion for linguistics will finally become kindled. You’ll want to learn about how languages work and why they work that way. You’ll want to understand every language. Instead, you’ll begin to understand yourself. Begin to question your gender. You won’t know that you’re beginning a journey you’re still going to be on years down the road. Experiment with pronouns and names and marvel at how intertwined language and gender are. In secret, practice referring to yourself with male pronouns in Russian. “I wrote” will become “Я писал” instead of “Я писала.” It’ll feel right. You’ll begin to feel more comfortable in your own skin, and you’ll write even more than you used to. Start going by a different name when you’re around your closest friends. Every time they say your new name, you will feel a little more alive. Things will finally start looking up. And then you’ll meet Nikolai. There will seem to be something different about him, and it will draw you in. You’ll get used to him. He’ll feel like home. And then you will fall in love with him. You won’t mean to. It will be an accident that you try very hard to avoid because you know he won’t feel the same way. What you won’t know is that this will almost crush you. He’s a few years older than you. Three, to be exact. Ignore the number. You’ll have so much in common with Nikolai. He wants to be a linguist, too. You’ll be able to talk to him in English or German, and after a while, he’ll learn a bit of Russian, and you’ll learn a bit of Czech, and then you can speak to each other in Russian and Czech, too. Depending on your moods, the two of you will fluidly switch between languages. Talking to him will be so easy. You’ll spend hours transcribing the chords for “Linguistics Love Song” by Christine Collins for him. You’ll even start making your own conlang, a secret language only you and he know how to speak. He names the language Retch, a strange blend of the Russian word for language and the English word for vomit. And you won’t realize he’s hurting you. You’ll truly believe everyone who means to hurt you will be exactly like Hans was. And Nikolai will seem like Hans’ polar opposite. His smile is so shy and gentle, and he’s nerdy in the best way possible. You’ll love the way he laughs. You’ll feel butterflies in your stomach when he holds your hand. Don’t admit to yourself it’s a problem when he drinks. Learn not to question the dents in his bedroom walls. Pretend you didn’t start starving yourself around the time you fell in love with him. You’ll think it’s endearing, rather than disgusting, when he talks about how badly he would want to kiss you if you were just a little bit older. Let it slide when he makes a rape joke. He will take so much from you, your time, your happiness, your safety. But you will forgive him and forgive him and forgive him, and you will lay the blame on yourself every time. You’ll become fluent in the language of self-hatred. But eventually, things will fall apart with Nikolai, as you always knew they would. He’ll cancel plans with you to go drink with his friends and then beg to come see you at midnight, offering to drive (despite being drunk) to meet you. Say no. That will be the beginning of the end. You’ll go to therapy. You’ll start eating again, and as you slowly and painfully begin to recover from anorexia, it will become clearer to you that he doesn’t care about your well-being or your happiness and that you will destroy yourself if things go on the way they have been between the two of you. Send him a goodbye letter. In this letter, you’ll tell him you love him, which he already knows. You’ll also tell him that he hurt you, which you won’t want to admit to yourself he already knows. Ask him if he kept the crochet snail that you made for him when you first met him. Sending this letter will be one of the most difficult things you’ll ever do, but it’s one you won’t come to regret. He will respond a month later to say he’s sorry he wasn’t who you wanted him to be but that he knows he isn’t capable of changing. He will also tell you that all this time, he’s kept that snail on his windowsill, next to his potted plants. Stop talking to him after that last letter, mostly. Later, he will share a google document with you. It will be an almost identical copy of the file where the two of you had kept the full lexicon for Retch, your conlang. Except just one thing will be different in this new version he’s made. The title that had once been “Retch: By Us, Because Why Not” will now read “Retch: By Me, Because Why Not.” This will be his language now, not yours. He has taken that away from you, too. Realize Nikolai and Hans had had something in common after all, and stop speaking German for a while. Delete the playlists you and Nikolai made together. Wake yourself up every time you catch yourself dreaming about him. Burn the diary entries where you wrote about how much you loved him. Come across the sonnet you wrote for Lizzie years ago. Realize love wasn’t supposed to hurt the way it did when you were with Nikolai. You won’t fall back in love with Lizzie. Instead, you will take a deep breath and do your best to move on. It will not be easy. But you’ll do it anyway. Your friend Bird has stuck with you through all of this. You will be beyond grateful for all of their help. Start spending more time with them. Drag them with you to see the campus of G* College, where you want to apply to study linguistics someday. They will stay by your side when you have a panic attack because this is the geographically closest you’ve been to Nikolai for six months. He will be in college now, just a fifteen-minute car ride away at the neighboring D* University. But Bird won’t laugh at you or call you a burden when you freak out. They won’t always know what to say or even understand what you’re saying, but they’ll still be there for you, and that will mean everything. And for the first time in a while, you will truly understand that you are not and have never been alone. And the campus of G* College is pretty. You will feel like you could see yourself calling this place home in the future. But you’re only a junior in high school, so you will have to take a few standardized tests before you start filling out your college applications. You’ll have time. Slowly, start speaking German again. Re-learn the irregular verbs and start building your vocabulary up from scratch. Listen to rock music in German, even though you associate some of these songs so strongly with the memories you and Nikolai had created together. Make new memories to go with these songs. Show some of them to Bird. Bird doesn’t speak German, but they’ll still think these songs are pretty. You’ll discover songs like “Maenner Sind Schweine” by Die Aerzte that put a comical twist on something that seems nearly impossible to laugh at and that makes you feel just a little less alone in what you went through with Nikolai. Your sister will send you a pdf of an introductory linguistics textbook she’s been assigned for a class at her college. Read it almost overnight. Learn about The Wug Test and start thinking about some of the subconscious thought processes behind how English speakers form sentences. You’ll be excited, and you’ll barely think about Nikolai. You’ll remember liking linguistics before you met him. He will not take away your passion for this. You will be able to do this without him. Write poetry in German. Your grammar won’t be perfect, and, of course, your vocabulary will still be limited, but you’ll love it anyway. You’ll understand that you’re still learning. You have a lot of learning left to do, still, about linguistics and languages and love. But you’re slowly becoming more and more familiar with the language of self-confidence, day by day. You’ll recover. You’ll learn to trust yourself. You’ll become a linguist if you want to. If not, that’s okay, too. You will morph and grow and learn anyway. Everything will somehow turn out okay in the end.
How to Become a Linguist
Overbearing Openness
That is enough I speak these words To myself Knowing More than Anyone That I am tired I am Weary Barely able to bear This weight that Is so heavy This weight of Knowing I cannot Sing I cannot Make music I cannot Write words But I can love And sometimes That is enough
Velma Marclyn Dillon
Sérgio-Andreo Bettencourt Urbina (a.k.a. s.a.b.u.) is a non-binary, mixed-race, first generation Luso-Peruvian American playwright, poet, actor, and performance artist. A 2017 Lambda Literary Fellow in Playwriting, their works have explored themes including sex, addiction, race, gender issues, sexual identity, feminism, reproductive rights, ageism, classism, and abuse. Their writing credits include Hungry, Hungry, Demon (The Attic & Co.), Modern Love (Ruddy Productions), and Started from the Convent Now We’re Here (Lambda Literary). Amanda Cino earned her MFA in Creative Writing from Wilkes University. She is a middle school English teacher who loves to inspire her own students to become avid readers and writers. Amanda founded The Start Literary Journal, a journal dedicated to publishing new and young voices. Velma Marclyn Dillon is a self-taught artist who specializes in landscape watercolour painting, envelope verse, and nature photography. They have been interested in art for most of their life, but only recently, have been allotted the time to dedicate themself to their craft. They are currently on an educational hiatus, but plan to earn their degree in linguistic studies and art education. Erin Laine is a law student, lifelong writer, dedicated pet mom, and caffeine enthusiast. Alexandra Neckopulos is a transplant from the Chicago Suburbs who spends her time drawing the architecture, objects, and small spaces that catch her attention. Searching to expand her black ink drawings and add color, Alex joined the Visual Arts Center of Richmond as a studio monitor for the Printmaking Studio. Now she is working on creating a series of hand drawn silkscreen prints. Mary Poth’s work has been published in Tiny Seed Literary Journal, Shoofly Literary Magazine, The Ridley Press, and Yeadon Times. She is currently pursuing her MFA in Creative Writing from Wilkes University and is at work on her first novel. Mary lives in Northern Virginia with her husband, Matt, and her rescue mutt, Tully. D.Z. Roshal is a junior in high school. They believe written language is one of the most powerful forms of self-expression, and try to push their own boundaries in their work. Their writing has been recognized nationally and regionally in the Scholastic Art And Writing Awards, and they won first prize in Greenburgh Library's 2019 Teen Poetry Contest. They spend most of their free time listening to music, practicing violin, or drawing, and they’re enthusiastic about their studies of Taekwondo.
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