Stuck in the Library: April 28

STUCK IN THE LIBRARY APRLL 28, 2014

Brooklyn College’s Slickest Literary Magazine Brooklyn College’s Slickest Literary Magazine Brooklyn College’s Slickest Literary Magazine

STUCK IN THE LIBRARY APRLL 28, 2014 STUCK IN THE LIBRARY APRLL 28, 2014

STUCK IN THE LIBRARY APRIL 28, 2014

YAAKOV BRESSLER President of Stuck in the Library

Dear Reader,

I find it troubling that the weather is getting nicer. It means spring is here, and that means the semester is al-most over. Where did it all go? Wasn’t it just yesterday that classes were canceled at 4pm because of a snow-storm? To this I am fortunate enough to answer with merely a pointed index finger. Look, I am pointing to my book-shelf. Since you can’t see my bookshelf, I will tell you that I am pointing to a series of Stuck in the Library magazines, the very ones that were printed this semester. I can walk over to them and pull them off their shelf. I can feel their weight. I can brush off the crumbs of bis-cotti that sit on their covers from the Publication Events where I had received them. I can reread them. I can re-member them. And I can put them back on my shelf. This is where the semester has gone. This, where my in-dex finger is pointed. This bookshelf. This growth. The semester, I say, has allowed your passion, your feelings about the world, your interests, and your knowledge to grow. You’ll get the urge every once in a while to revisit that bookshelf, and, absolutely, you should. Because where my finger points are the wonderful things that you’ve found time for. The talking fish, mysterious shad-ows, anonymous letters, midnight coffees, and beautiful feelings that you and your colleagues have written about. Don’t feel troubled that the semester is nearing its end. Feel like you’ve contributed to yourself.

Prompt 1: Live then Move

Quickly

Prompt 2: Redundancy.

PAGE 10

CONTRIBUTING WRITERS: Algonquin Jones Ann Heinemann Chavie Fleisher Irina Manasherova Jacob Woodbourne

Kristin Vazoulas Kyle Williams Moshe Bressler Nora Schreiber

CONTRIBUTING EDITORS: Akiva Fleisher Annusha Salman* Carolyn Aboudi Chana Gekht⋆ Daniel Salomon

Dayana Manashirova Dovie Eisner⋆ Elkie (Amanda) Lanter Nechama Jaffe Renee Esses

PAGE 4

Prompt 3: Anonymous

Letters PAGE 18

⋆ Honorary Editor

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CONTRIBUTING PHOTOGRAPHERS:

Dear reader, Welcome to this semester's final edition of Stuck in the Library. Yes, the air is balmy and the water pouring from the sky is not frozen, which means that the spring semester is drawing to a close. This past semester – my first as Editor in Chief – has been one of tremendous growth for STL; we have more staff, writers, and fans than ever be-fore. This success has been in no small part due to our editors, who have made sure that every is-sue we publish is of the highest quality. I have been bragging to anyone who will listen that some of our more critical readers have been unable to find a single error in this semester’s publications. I would therefore like to thank our editors, the veterans and the rookies, the frequent and the oc-casional, each and every single one, for bringing Stuck in the Library to where it is today. I hope this semester sets a standard for our future in both quality and teamwork. I am proud of what we have done.

AKIVA FLEISHER Vice President, Editor in Chief

Constantine Onishchenko Merav Kreitenberger ⋆ Moshe Berman Mohammad Nasrullah Sanjida Bintekamal Sean Bowen

YAAKOV BRESSLER

Pres ident

AKIVA FLEISHER

Editor in Chief

DANIEL SALOMON

Chief of Publ icat ions

CONSTANTINE ONISHCHENKO

Photographer

CHAVIE FLEISHER

Event Coordinator

3 ⋆ Contributing Artist

Prompt 1:

There is a city where the people don’t live in their houses for more than a few weeks at a time. What is/are the reason(s) for this? How does such a city function? Delve into this city’s history, future, or sewers, and excavate a fantastic piece of work!



FOREWORD: FOREWORD: This is your neighborhood.

This is your neighborhood with no one in it.

A haunting secret is behind this great mystery. Unex-plainable to even the greatest scientists, our brave au-thors have attempted to explain this deep and dark puz-zle. Entire neighborhoods vanishing overnight. Blocks of mansions emptying out overnight.

Where have they all gone?

Prompt 1:

4

DON’T SMOKE IN AN ESKIMO’S HOUSE By: Chavie Fleisher

Way way up north, Past the Bering Strait Lies a small village, A very chilly place.

The village’s population Consists of very few. It sits on top of a glacier of ice; It is called the Village of Ankijunu.

The residents of Ankijunu Consist of a family of six; Parents, three daughters, and a son; They are the family Yup’ik.

Life in Ankijunu for the Yup’iks is actually quite hard. You see, they have to live in igloos With an icy landscape for a backyard.

However, they don’t stay In their igloos for very long, Because with the territory comes problems And things go very wrong.

Let me give you an example. The eldest daughter Siku Liked to blow her hair dry, Which would always cause issues.

By the time she finished Her hair was dry and soft as a fawn. I’m sure you can guess by now That the Yup’ik’s home was gone.

Or the time when the son, Koda, Overcooked his caught fish, Which resulted in a fire That made the igloo go ‘KAPISH!’

Now Mr. Yup’ik likes to have his cigars. It makes him calm and all. He would smoke ‘em in his living room, Creating a hole in the wall.

Daughter #2 Iqniq Got her parka eaten by a seal She was cold and said “Just a little heat is no big deal”

So she made a small fire in her bedroom It glowed a beautiful red But by the time she had warmed up She had a puddle for a bed

The poor Yup’iks had to build a new igloo At least 300 times a year. It was made especially difficult When they got attacked by polar bears.

So if you decide to travel And you stop by Ankijunu, You will surely see the Yup’iks Putting up their next igloo.

You may scratch your head in confusion And then you may inquire, ‘Why don’t the Yupiks move south, To where no igloo is required?’

So you ask that of the Yup’iks And they will always state, ‘It’s great living here up north For the cheaper real estate!’

5

Artwork by: Merav Kraitenberger

MIND YOUR CITY By: Ann Heinemann

I am a rather old city. Actually, I’ve been here since the dawn of time. Great people have lived within my borders, including Shakespeare, Galileo, Darwin, Nietzsche. In fact, everyone that has ever existed has lived within me for most of their lives. For some strange reason though, my inhabitants have been re-turning to their homes far less often than they used to. For the past few years, my residents have been leaving for long periods of time. They hardly ever come back to me. Most of the time, they come here with an apprehensive disposition, look inside their houses, rearrange a few of their belongings and leave as quickly as they can. They seem uncomfortable here.

I used to be a beautiful city, growing bigger and more glorious as the human population increased in size. Unfortunately, there has been a major attitude change in my society. Hundreds of years ago, people of all ages would live within my walls happily. They would leave once in a while but they always came back feeling relieved to return. But people these days no longer stay here, and I am starting to feel lonely. My gates are crumbling. My rose gardens are drying out. No one ever builds libraries or museums here anymore.

When my people come home, I hear them speak of “smartphones” and “the Internet.” I am not sure what these things are, but I think that they have kidnapped my people. Perhaps “the Internet” is my newest rival. Perhaps it is a new city where everyone would rather reside. Yes, people do return to me a few times a year, but they don’t really have a choice. It is in the human’s nature to belong here, but I fear that these new places are more compelling than I am. Or per-haps they are easier to live in. I have heard some of my previous residents mention that I am a difficult place to live.

I ramble, but again, I feel lonely.

I hope my people return to me soon.

I am the eternal city: the mind.

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Artwork by: Merav Kraitenberger

All We Are Isn't Free

By: Nora Schreiber

All we are isn’t free. It’s tides of war dragging at the sea.

Hold up your faith in your hands, And quicken the wind to blow away the strands.

Name yourself the Champion, Or you shall suffer as all of Man. Forget steps taken in the past, They served for the moment and weren't meant to last.

I came, turned away, and hid; I was still there, I saw things and I know what was did. The beating red tapestry needs mending, It tore watching those people carry on pretending.

That they stand for more good. That they are chopping life to make wood. To feed a flame that isn't alive, Insatiable, obsessive, hateful it will thrive.

Every creed, color, and place that we bear, It tethers so tightly, makes us worry and care, But if you and me gave out our little gifts, We could show that joy can be had by all, and our wings it never clips.

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Prompt 1

By: Irina Manasherova

There's a place people call home, A home that's not physically there.

They see a new sight, something new, Learn a thing or two.

Some people just see it in photos, or on TV. Some see it all, breathe that air and become a part of the adventure.

See it all, a step at a time. It's not a physical home, but a feeling known well.

Technology is the only thing that takes people back, attaches us to a place. Where we feel comfort is where our home is. It can be a person too.

It's the feeling of being welcomed, The comfort that only love can bring.

NOONE INC.

By: Moshe Bressler

Rokko surfs the world wide web. He knows it’s su-per slow and outmoded, but he uses it anyway be-cause of the slight possibility of finding a long lost dirty website or a forbidden sale. The new Interweb has none of these awesome features. All consumer sales are standardized and web content is monitored.

One day Rokko comes across a super-cool hip site. It offers vintage style penny loafers for a mere $80! Half the price of a soda can! With free shipping and positive reviews, this seemed like an offer too good to resist.

Bam! Congratulations on your purchase. Your item will arrive in 3-5 business days!

A few days later Rokko comes home and sees a weird looking package on his porch. “Man, Tuesdays are always weird” he thinks to himself as he picks up the package and brings it inside his house. “Wow! I love the vibe of this place! Vintage dead-tree pack-ing! That is so retro,” thinks Rokko. The loafers have a musty smell but when he tries them on, they fit comfortably. “Pretty good deal if you ask me,” he thinks once more. He then calls to order Chinese food from the place down the block that only charges $1,800 (it’s quite a deal).

The next Tuesday Rokko decides to order Pizza. At fifteen hundred dollars for a two slices and fries, it’s also a pretty good deal. And the wait isn’t long ei-ther. As he skips home he notices ANOTHER box

on his porch. “That’s weird, I didn’t order anything,” he thinks. “But then again, it’s Weird Tuesday…”

As he picks up the box he notices the same vintage dead-tree box. He tears open the tape and unwraps the paper sheets. It’s another identical pair of penny loafers! “Hmm, guess this ‘mistake’ by the company just got me another pair of shoes!” he chuckles to himself. “For $80 a pair, they sure can’t afford to give things out for free!”

Its Tuesday again. But when Rokko sees another box he gets angry. He shouts to thin air “Who’s playing this joke on me?!” He rips open the box. A third pair of penny loafers! He liked them the first time, but this is just overkill. Was this some creepy stalker girl who keeps sending him these shoes over and over again? Rokko turns on his Microsoft computer. You can’t buy these anymore, they were bought out years ago by bigger company giants. Of course, thanks to the world wide web, Rokko was able to find one for a steal (it was probably stolen). He finds the vintage website. As he surfs through the content he mutters to himself “Hmmmm… Outlets Online… Customer Service… Yes, I would like to speak to a representative…. Call this number with your cus-tomer ID ready….”

Rrrring Rrrring.

A voice that is neither male or female answers. “Thank you for calling Outlets Online. For purchases press 1. For Customer service press 2. For- BEEP!

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Photograph by: Constantine Onishchenko

Please hold while I transfer you. Thank you. You have reached Customer Service. Please leave a voicemail and a representative will get back to you.” Rokko clears his throat “Hey Outlets Online. I keep on getting packages from you that I didn’t even pay for. If you keep up with this shenanigans I won’t bother returning them. You send me a pair of shoes every Tuesday. If you’re too busy to get back to me then I’m too busy to return them!” He feels oddly relieved as he slams down his phone.

Rokko never receives a response. He walks home. Its Tuesday again. He slowly bends down to pick up his weekly pair of shoes and stacks the box in a room full of them in his basement. Every Tuesday, for 4 continuous months he has been receiving such shoes. Suddenly he has a great idea. He grips the box, nearly tearing it as he studies the return ad-dress. Stamped in an old fashioned ink-printer reads “South Newfoundland, PA.” Rokko hits up the search engine and within moments, has a vacation booked in just under two weeks time with a rental car to be automated to his door. He is going on a road trip to South Newfoundland.

The day arrives and Rokko sets out. As he nears his destination, the scenery slowly changes from a dense urban jungle to a real forest. The city’s build-ings thin out and the trees creep up slowly. The roads change from compu-glide to dirty and then to dangerous asphalt. “Wow” thinks Rokko “I am in dangerously underdeveloped territory.”

His final destination appears as a large rusty steel shed. It is only the size of several barns lined up back to back. A fierce looking fence surrounds the building. Warning Keep Out! scream signs of vary-ing dimensions. They confuse Rokko because of their ancient metal and lack of demonstrative anima-tions. Weird. Rokko walks along the fence until he finds a tiny gap. Pushing his skinny body through, he wrestles through the barrier and into the com-pound. He jogs up to the side door and it opens with a loud creeeeeak.

Looking around there are no people present, only rusty machinery.“Anybody here?” He calls out. All he hears is a metallic echo. He hears motion in the corner of the building. Suddenly a bell rings and all the machines spring to life. Gears turn, whistles blow, and cogs spin. As fast as they started, they stop followed by a thunk. The thunk is a box. Rokko

approaches the box. Its labeled to him. At his home address. “Of Course!” he exclaims, “tomorrow is Tuesday. I am supposed to get my Penny Loafers. From…” He looks around. There is not a soul in sight.

He tucks the box under his arm and strolls around the warehouse. He notices the machinery is all auto-mated and ready to roll. There is a massive base-ment that goes countless levels down, all loaded with carts of shoes, clothes, and other vintage items of the old past. As he passes the main entrance, he notices a huge padlock on the door. Directly across the room there is a huge switch pointed up stating “Completely Automated Mode Activated.”

EPILOGUE:

NoOne Inc. was run originally by Rokko the Mag-nificent, and amassed Rokko a great fortune. His great grandchildren and great great grandchildren continuously receive mysterious z-checks via the interweb. To this day, nobody has ever understood the source of these funds or how Rokko was ever able to build such a dynasty without the help of auto-robots or even human aid. Analysts predict that NoOne Inc. is one of the most successful corpora-tions worldwide with the lowest employee com-plaints (zero) and the most productive work year known (730 working day equivalents in on year).

9 Photograph by: Constantine Onishchenko

This prompt is the redundancy prompt.


Redundancy is the act of using language or action in a fashion that repeats something al-ready said making it unnecessary. But not all unnecessary things are as unnecessary as we necessarily think. A repetitive word or phrase can highlight a point in many important ways. Things that were thought to be things can be thought of as other things or not things at all. Like nothing. Except it can be everything.



Foreword:Foreword: Foreword:Foreword:

Prompt 2 Prompt 2:Prompt 2:


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DEEP BREATHS By: Kristin Vazoulas and Jacob Woodbourne

Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale. It’s okay, you can do this. Deep breaths; in and out. It’s not like it's your first time. It’s strange fearing something you love most. It’s been practiced a thousand times. The art has been perfected by many before me. It's simple now. Steps are retraced. A ladder is climbed, all the way to the top. Courage and confidence surge through. Step by step. I am closer to the top. I place one foot in front of the other. I remind myself to breathe along the way. One breath in, one breath out. Here I am at the edge, looking at what is down below. It’s crystal clear. Once I let go, the adrenaline will kick in, that rush longed for is just ahead. Inhale, exhale. It’s almost time. The crowd roaring in the background, but the mind is a blur. This is something wanted more than anything and now the time has come to face the music. One breath in and one breath out...

It’s a frightening thing to climb atop a dream and face the bottom from where you started. It is even more terri-fying to stare below it at the faded blue tiles at the bot-tom. Less than zero – below zero: somewhere you wish you never have to journey. Dreams are like that; their ends often consist of beginnings. I take a step back. The crowd grows tense. The inhale. Concentrating eyes don't look up. The crowd holds bated breath. The exhale. Then, the most horrific exciting feeling of trepidation sweeps through and the metal of the springboard extends.

Breathe, breathe. Just breathe.

The springboard compresses tightly.

Knees bend. My hands wrap around them. My body curls. I am ready. The high has kicked in. I am in mid-air

but just for a moment, a longer moment than most. It all flashes before my eyes. I can imagine for how long I’ve wanted this. What it took for me to get here. The hours spent dedicated. It all hits me for a split second. I can feel every limb in my body. Exhale. As I am released into this clear liquid that has consumed my life. Refreshment. As the impact of my body hits. A splash that soaks every pore. I am liberated.

Sound. It travels faster through water than through air. A voice is slurred by the chlorinated water I have opened my eyes to. I let out the air from my lungs to stay below for a bit longer. There's no scoring here. No reflected mishaps or unparalleled body limbs. There is only the burn of chlorine and slurred noises from the sound in the air that is too slow for the water. I don't inhale and my lungs tighten from it.

Back to the beginning. I need to rise. Past the zero mark, barely. To inhale.

I come back up to the surface. I gasp for breath, and in-hale. I let the unknown go. The unknown of being under water. I am unaware of everything that is going on around me. For that moment I am allowed a moment of peace, to let go of the nerves, to not worry about my per-formance. Now that I am above again the adrenaline has come back, but this is a different kind of rush. It's the fear of what everyone is thinking. I want to go back to being in mid-air. My outer body life, but I can't. Those moments are rare. I cherish them, for they are my sanctu-ary. I cannot find solace any longer. For the end is here. I must face the consequences.

I hoist my upper body onto the blue tiled deck. My breath grows heavy, as if I’m underwater. My nerves grow taut, as if I’m in the air. I want to close my eyes and not have the three dreaded numbers to my left count, as if they don't count.

But I am on the deck, neither above or below the water. I am at my starting point. Equilibrium. The zero mark.

I look over at the judge’s table. And inhale.

11

By: Kyle Williams

Glory be unto God,

like the preacher said;

I can sees him,

just there—

over the house

and the pasture—

he’s comin’ and so

I’m goin’ to Him,

and it’ll be beautiful,

like the preacher said;

and like Momma said,

if we’re good then we’ll reap our eternal rewards,

and we’ll go up with Him and not down

because ain’t no one wanna go down,

and so we’ll go up, I tell Marie, pullin’ her,

we’ll go up, I says;

and Glory be unto Him like the preacher said,

He who shows us the way up and not down

with those mighty clouds that beautifully fly

over the pasture and over the house like Momma always said they did,

so I’m runnin’ to Him with Marie because I wanna go up not down,

but Momma’s tryin’ to get us back in the house and she picks up Marie,

but not me I tell her I’m gonna go up because I don’t wanna go down,

I’m gonna go up because I don’t wanna go down because

I wanna go up to where He is like the preacher said and where he is like you said because I can sees I can I can I’m runnin’ and I’m goin’ to Him and I can see the house and it’s small and faraway and I’m goin’ up be-cause I don’t wanna go down I don’t wanna go.

12 Artwork by: Merav Kraitenberger

TORN ADIEU

GUM DROP BRAIN By: Jacob Woodbourne

A gum drop brain is much the same as a drippy drain on a non-rainy day.

It is fictitious and delicious and contains unnecessary goodness.

It is squishy and mushy, like a mean principal’s tushy.

Except it’s different than the mean principal’s bum.

For one, it smells like bubble gum.

It has a bright color and a lot of otherly others, most of which are fun.

Gum drops, AH AH-AH-AH, in my head all day.

This is what the gummy-droppy-heads say.

Because their heads are filled with the gummy mush.

The one that’s the same but different from the princi-pal’s tush.

I crave their brain’s chewiness, their sweet yummy gooeyness,

And the way it squishes when I bite.

I have the hunger of a zombie and the ferociousness of a tsunami,

When I get the cravings for those brains.

13

KACHUG KACHUG KACHUG By: Algonquin Jones Sometimes I’m standin’ at the platform, all impatient-like, and the train starts streamin’ by, and for just a second I get the urge to stick out my hand and brush them knuckles against the metal. You know, just skin ’em right off against the whooshing train doors and shit. Throw some excitement into the mix.

I don’t, though.

I hold my hand out, like some kinda failin’ Jedi knight who can’t muster the force to just stop the train. But I don’t pass the threshold. My hand is brown and fine. Once the train stops, I just grab my boombox and follow Stoop and Ounce through those indecisive doors that can’t figure if they wanna close or not.

“Wooo!” Stoop’s screamin’ into cupped hands. “It’s showtime errybody!”

You see, Ounce can dance wit’ the best of ’em in the New York subway system. The MTA Ballet’s how he calls it. Stoop is the showman, you know. Straight OG. Nigga once blinded a dude, popped a paintball right into his eye socket. It was by accident and the kid shoulda had his goggles on, you know, but that shit’s still straight up legit. How many dudes can say they blinded someone? Or at least half-blinded? Of every guy on the block I only know one. So Ounce is the feet, Stoop is the voice, and me, I’m the face, ya dig? I’m the innocent-looking dude who’s along for the ride. The one whose hat you’ll be more pressed to throw a dollar into. So Ounce and Stoop call me Face. Every now and then I might swing from one of those silvery bars but that’s not why I’m here.

When Stoop announces us, heavy scarlet curtain type of announcing, you know what I’m sayin’, that’s when the looks start. You know what I’m talkin’ about. The businessmen check their watches and pre-tend we ain’t even there. Like there are voices and three dudes jumping up and down and hollerin’, but they’re invisible. Then there’re women who know you’re there. They’re not too good to see you like the dude in the seven-hundred dollar overcoat in 60 de-grees. One looks up with them judgmental eyes, you know, the ones capped by them eyelashes you can buy for 99 cents. I see those looks in every train car. On the Q, the J, the 4 and 5. Those same faces are rushin’ to work. Every performance. Every encore. Shit, we never really get an encore, but we give it anyway.

The speakers on the boombox are busted but mom don’t let me get a new one. We got more pressin’ matters. Rent and shit. Landlord ain’t playin’ no more. And dad’s shifts ain’t getting any longer that we can get me a new stereo.

“Look at him go!” Stoop says. “Ain’t nobody twirl like that!”

Ounce has got some of that formal dance trainin’. Control, you know? He’s on his toes. Pulling his fit self up those poles like he’s getting Franklins in his waistband. Like there’s a conductor and a 60-piece orchestra in his ears not busted ass speakers and a 5-foot-4 nigga who hangs out on his front steps all day howlin’ and cat-callin’. Ounce moves like he’s air. When I spin it’s because of the force of my run and I go round and round. When Ounce spins it’s because he’s Superman, ya dig?

14

Ounce takes a breath and lands like a bed sheet fall-ing perfectly onto a mattress. Slowly. That’s control.

“What a performance, right ladies and gentlemen?” Stoop asks not expectin’ an answer. “The good lord says be generous,” he adds, “and whatever you can spare is much appreciated by us and the big man up-stairs.”

I’m at bat now. I pull off my cap and start moving around, lugging the boombox behind me like a ball and chain. I look defeated. Like the janitor sweeping up after a show, head down, just here to prepare for the next circus to come through. “Aight, you’ve been great!” says Stoop again once I’m done. He turns to me and Ounce. “Let’s book.” He pushes through the car doors, hops the gap and leads us into the next car. Another audience. Another ballroom.

The wheels of the train are going kachug kachug ka-chug. Over and over. Day after day. The redundant sound of allegedly forward progress.

You know who’s waiting in the next car? Nah, not $700 overcoat. There’s $900 overcoat and $200 atta-ché case. Trader probably. Just another hustler in the game I suppose. He’s going to work just like us, he’s taking the train just the same. We all the same. Every day of every one of our lives. We tryin’ to stay awake, you know? Sometimes you wanna skin them knuckles against the metal.

It usually takes about five train cars before Ounce gets tired. He’s fit, he used to do this shit 6-hours a day when he had classes. Go to the studio, prance in front of a mirror. The only dude in the whole place with tattoos all up his neck. $900 overcoat probably had mezzanine seats at one of his old troop’s recitals or something. Not anymore. Now, Ounce’s a crimi-nal. Police say it’s a crime to be going between the train cars. So he’s an outlaw. Dancin’ to the sounds of a busted-ass boombox, the indifference of his au-dience, and the kachug of metal wheels.

“How much we get?” Stoop asks, hopping along next to us. Ounce grabs the quarters and I uncrumple the singles in my cap. 5 trains cars and we got $27.50. Split three ways, that’s $9.00 a pop. Extra 50 cent going into the new stereo fund.

“Not too shabby,” says Stoop. “You up for one more car Ounce?”

“One more, sure,” Ounce says.

Stoop leaps into the next car, like he pays taxes and shit, and starts his shtick. “Ladies and gentlemen!” He introduces Ounce. I swing in and land near the door. Same faces. Same repeating ads. Same dancin’.

Just before Ounce starts, Stoop lets out a “Hell no!” There’s a man with crutches on the other end of the car. His hat says VETERAN on it. He’s only got one shoe because he’s only got one leg. Pulling himself along swinging step after swinging step.

“Leave it,” says Ounce. He doesn’t dance. He let’s the man pass.

“That dude ain’t even cripple, he’s got his leg folded up behind him. I seen him at the pier contortin’ him-self like a ragdoll. It’s folded back all the way, taped up inside his pants.”

“You don’t know that,” I say.

“I do! That nigga’s hustling them all. Preyin’ on the pity of good folks.”

15

“You’re just upset that a legless man gonna get this car’s money over we who God’s seen fit to let walk, and then some.” Ounce taps Stoop on the shoulder as the train comes to a stop and Stoop shrugs out of the car. I follow. Ounce drops 50 cents into the veteran’s hat.

“Where we at now?” I ask. Stoop’s up ahead. Still pissed that we got stood up by a dude with one leg. Still hootin’ and swearin’ that the dude’s a lyin’ cheat and about how he hopes his crutch gets caught between the platform and the train when he gets out.

“We at Barclay’s,” says Ounce. He’s got his hands in his pockets as we catch up to Stoop.

“My uncle’s two blocks from here,” Stoop says. “I’ma drop by and meet you guys back in fifteen, cool?”

Ounce leans against the wall by the turnstiles. I sit on the floor next to him and fold up the money before slidin’ it into my pockets. I got a money clip full of creased singles. “Look at you with that money clip,” Ounce says as Stoop disappears up into the sun. “You think you’re a high roller huh?”

“Nah man,” I say. “Just something I found.”

“You should iron them ones,” he says. “Get that nice straight crisp feel.”

“You trying to get me booked for money launder-in’?”

“Money launderin’ ain’t got nothin to do with ironin’ your bills.”

“Ounce, lemme ask you somethin’.”

“Shoot.”

“You ever stand at the platform, like on the yellow strip, and hold your hand out there, you know, just to see how close you can get without touchin’ the train?”

“Can’t say I have,” says Ounce. He paces up and down, does a little bored twirl and sits next to me. People don’t like to sit on the floor in the subway. It ain’t so bad really. You touch the pole, you’ve got the same germs as the floor.

“What’re you gonna do after this?” Ounce asks.

I shrug. “McDonald’s maybe.”

“I don’t mean for dinner. I mean like after we’re not runnin’ these trains for dough anymore. What’re you gonna do for work?”

16

“I dunno if my answer changes dude.”

“You could do a lot,” he says. I trust Ounce. Dude knows what’s up. He don’t talk much. He moves like a fish in water, like them schools that stick together in the aquarium at the dentist’s.

“What’re you gonna do?”

“I don’t know,” he says. “But I don’t think I’ll be around much longer.”

“And Stoop?”

“He’ll go back, probably. He’s got a namesake to sit on. His uncle sits on the front porch all day too. It’s in that boy’s genes to keep on watching the world go by, commentatin’ as the cars drive on.”

“One day he slept on the porch, you know? Just did-n’t wanna go inside. Was tired and shit.”

“Tired.” Ounce laughs. “He don’t know tired. He treats each car like it’s our first performance. How excited he get. I don’t got that. Life gets redundant, you know? You gotta find the reason you repeating yesterday over. Why you gettin’ up every morning.”

“Maybe something good gonna happen today,” I say. “I play the lotto. Maybe I got them megamillions in my pocket.”

“And what you gonna do then?” he asks. “What you gonna do with them megamillions?”

I shrug. “Mcdonald’s maybe.”

“Ain’t that the life, Face.” We chill there for a few more minutes until Stoop comes boundin’ down those long stairs and jumps the turnstile. $2.75 from our profits he just saved himself. We’re just three people trying to keep going. Clean knuckles and tight grips. Our lives repeatin’ themselves, y’know? Our days the same.

“Ready to go? We’ll hit the 3 next?”

“I’m gonna head home,” says Ounce. “My ankle’s tweaked, don’t wanna strain it too much.”

Stoop turns to me. “Face?”

“I think I’ma turn in too,” I said. “Mom’s got me watching lil’ Campbell.”

Stoop’s pissed because legless got the best of us and that means $2.50 that he won’t be getting, but he just had us sittin’ on a subway floor for 15 minutes so he can’t say nothin. And he’s gotta get home to his mom too.

Ounce’s takin’ the 2. Stoop’s going back up to his uncle since we ain’t workin anymore today. I’m holding my hand out at the platform. One day, I’ma skin these knuckles on it. Throw some excitement into the mix. Today I’m just taking that B train to the end of the line.

Stoop. Ounce. $900 overcoat. 99 cent eyelashes. One-leg. Me. The same people in different clothes and we’re all just kachuggin’ along.

17

Prompt 3:

Write an anonymous let-ter. 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.

18

19

OLD ENOUGH Hey, I’ve changed, I’ve grown — All grown up now And you can’t smother me, Smother me with your overprotective parenting any-more. I’m old enough — Old enough to make my own choices in life. Respect it. Respect me.

AY YOU,

We’re all broken people. Chipping at the edges.

Cracking through the middles.

Trying to keep everything from falling apart, Quite successfully, too. But sometimes letting go all of a sudden, coming down. Crashing…

When nothing feels right. It never was...

Maybe I’m in a pessimistic state of mind today…

Maybe I just need a dose of happy; a dose of you.

Photograph by: Sanjida Bintekamal

20

DEAR FUTURE ME,

Dream with your eyes open, Wish with your mind, And do with your body. Shoot for the sky and land on cloud nine.

There are footsteps on the moon, so you know you aren't limited. Have your head in the sky and your feet rooted to the ground. Best of both worlds, That's how it goes down.

Nothing is impossible, Irina.

Only thing keeping you away are the thoughts of failure. If it's important enough for you, There's a way that leads you to your dreams. The road may get foggy, But believing you'll reach the end is the best you can do for yourself and for your loved ones. Without trying, you are set up to fail. It's better to live a life with lessons learned and stories to tell, Than with questions of how life would be differ-ent if you took a chance to do something out of your comfort zone.

4

Laugh and the world laughs with you; cry and you cry alone. — Horace (65-8 BC)

Eat to live, not live to eat. — Socrates (469-399 BC) No legacy is as rich as honesty. — unknown

A father's a treasure; a brother's a comfort; a friend is both. -- Ben Franklin (1706-1790)

Sincerely, Acronyms Are Awesome

21

Photograph by: Sean Bowen

PROMPT 3,

I know sometimes there isn’t time to kiss the

ends of your hair.

I know there isn't time to feel your lashes on

my cheek.

I know sometimes you are just too busy.

And you can’t see me.

I understand I know sometimes that you are

just too proud to touch me in front of all your

friends, I know sometimes you have to be so

brave to carry me in your heart.

I know I am wild, but you are too.

I know I am not an easy soul, and I hope you

see that I try to be good

For you I would behave.

For you I would stand still.

For you I would walk till you I found.

I know sometimes there’s doubt.

And I know sometimes it seems unstable.

But I will be yours if only the words would be

said.

22 Photograph by: Constantine Onishchenko

TO THAT NO ONE, The thing that gives me strength always is knowing that losing something good is because god, whatever s/he is, has some-thing better prepackaged and waiting to be unwrapped. Sometimes I wonder about you and why you were brought into my world. Still not completely sure. On your end, perhaps I was brought into yours to guide you in the direction of the person you're meant to end up with. So the runner-ups don't sell you short. I don’t miss you because I’m not allow-ing myself to. But I want to miss you. — That No one.

YO JUSTIN, All the leaves are brown and the sky is gray. I've been for a walk on a winter's day. I'd be safe and warm if I was in L.A.; California dreamin' on such a winter's day. Stopped in to a church I passed along the way. Well I got down on my knees and I pretend to pray. You know the preacher liked the cold; He knows I'm gonna stay. California dreamin' on such a winter's day. All the leaves are brown and the sky is gray. I've been for a walk on a winter's day. If I didn't tell her I could leave today; California dreamin' on such a winter's day. California dreamin' on such a winter's day. California dreamin' on such a winter's day. —New York is still freezing. It’ll get warm soon. So get your ass back here because I miss you.

DEAR ME,

You wrote this same letter to yourself just a few months ago. Yet here you are again...confessing again...to the same mistakes you have done then,

and now again. “Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.”

The beneficial irony of making mistakes is that you learn from them more than if you wouldn't have made them. A friends ad-vice, history lesson, or textbook won't prepare you the same way. Falling is an eye opener to what you would have otherwise not realized. “A man's errors are his portals of discovery.” But dear me, YOU HAVE DONE THIS AGAIN! Bury yourself under your pillow and cry, slap, punish, and clobber yourself. You deserve to feel the pain - It's your fault. So, will this be your final lesson, or will you be writing the same in a few months…? —Me

23

Photograph by: Sanjida Bintekamal

HEY JULIE, I’m very bored of this pitter patter PMS you shoot at me. If you want to be an exclusive person in someone’s life, go get a boyfriend. I have an eclectic group of friends and I hang out whoever whenever. So I’m sorry you think that I don’t care about you, but I do. And there is much I tried to explain to you that I do. But you don’t seem to hear nor care, and remain stuck on the matter. I am hereby done as I do not have the patience to explain to you again what my deal is. —Your Dave P.S. It’s totally okay if you post this message as your status, show it whoever, because it’ll makes you feel better about being ignorant.

DEAR PROFESSOR,

It's maddening that someone who ob-viously is very intelligent cannot properly communicate. I under-stand you may have hundreds of math problems constantly drawing your attention away from reality, but you actually need to give direct answers to my questions, be precise when you do give your an-swers, and please, speak Eng-lish CLEARLY! Quit mum-bling and actually concede to what I am saying!

You are a terrible profes-sor and your lack of even the most basic of skills is com-pletely infuriating.

– Your Favorite Student

P.S. The majority (actually every single person in that class) agrees with me. Teach me something useful.

24

DEAR STL SUBMITTERS,

Can you please stop submit-ting your love letters? It’s

getting old.

Thanks

DEAR STUCK IN THE LIBRARY, Your pictures on Face-book are the coolest around, like for real. That’s why everyone knows who you are.

Because of your kick ass Face-

book photos.

—Photo Lover

Photograph by: Mohammad Nasrullah

25

LOVE TROUBLES

Dear Guy Hitting On Me,

Hey there.

Here are some tips from me that might help you for the next time.

Don’t stare at me for no reason. Stereotyping is not a good idea. Trying to establish a “friendship” fast isn’t the best idea. This should occur naturally over a peri-od of time, which leads me to my next point…

You can’t force a gal into a relationship. When a gal says no, she means it.

Sincerely, Gal Not Interested

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.

Photograph by: Constantine Onishchenko Photograph by: Constantine Onishchenko

26

WRITE THE NIGHT EVENTS

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

Brought to you by STUCK IN THE LIBRARY and hosted by Algonquin Jones.

WRITE THE NIGHT EVENTS

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

Brought to you by STUCK IN THE LIBRARY and hosted by Algonquin Jones.

NEXT (AND FINAL)EVENT IS ON TUESDAY, 5/6

9PM

COSMIC ROOM (5TH FLOOR SUBO)

RSVP ON FACEBOOK

NEXT (AND FINAL)EVENT IS ON TUESDAY, 5/6

9PM

COSMIC ROOM (5TH FLOOR SUBO)

RSVP ON FACEBOOK

Photograph by: Constantine Onishchenko Photograph by: Constantine Onishchenko Photograph by: Constantine Onishchenko

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27

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Stuck in the Library: April 28