Remus 49 The boy looked around at his new home and the front garden fi lled with daisies and lilies while his family began arguing. He glanced around at the trees that shook in the summer breeze and the bikes lying on sidewalks. Then, his eyes landed on June. — “That boy’s name is Tuck,” June’s mother said while they were eating dinner that night. “They call themselves the Monroe family and they come from the city, which means they’re no good.” Even though Mama said the family was “no good,” June believed Tuck to be good, maybe even bett er than good. Tuck said he was born in the city, but to June it seemed like he was born within the song of the birds. Those last two weeks of August, June would ring the Monroe’s doorbell and Tuck would always answer. They would walk for hours along the creek until their feet got tired, their shoes became muddy, or their ribs hurt too much from laughing. Then when the sun began to set they would run to June’s house and sit on her porch and stare at the streaks of pink and orange in the sky. Finally, when the stars appeared and the cold breeze blew through their summer clothes, Tuck knew it was time to go home. — It was the last weekend before school and June could already feel September waking from its slumber. She was trying to sleep, and recounting the story of East of Eden in her head, when she began to smell smoke. June’s mother had an uncanny smell for fi re and could sense it at the fi rst spark, so she was the one to call the fi re department to the Monroe house. Mama said the fi re started in the kitchen from a stove burner that was left on and it slowly crept to the bedrooms. Tuck’s bedroom was the one above the kitchen. — Next August, Mama and June moved to the city. They bought a small house that had an electric stove. The fi rst night, after they moved in, June awoke to the familiar sound of a hammer beating against a nail.
Remus 50 Every Morning I Spend at the Bar Josephine Dlugosz Every morning I spend at the bar, I am treated to a free ballet. I hear music in each shot of espresso that is pulled and in each puff of the milk steamer as it cleans itself. There is an orchestral cacophony of lively conversations and clinking ceramic dishes and pulling of paper-thin napkins. At the same time, baristas dance from place to place, taking change, collecting plates, and treating each interaction like a family reunion. I remember my fi rst visit: the cheap metal chair screeched against the sidewalk as I removed it from underneath its matching table. I clumsily sat down, feeling like I might fall out of the poorly-designed seat that was most defi nitely not built for comfort. I quickly glanced around and noticed how others were sitt ing in them: everyone looked relaxed, as if ready to take hourlong naps. Maybe I’ll get used to them, I thought to myself, as I picked up the small, single shot of espresso from its saucer. It was my fi rst time drinking espresso, or, at least, real espresso, in Italy. The barista gave me a tall glass of water alongside it, which I placed next to my coff ee. I quickly looked up the signifi cance of this: was I supposed to drink the water fi rst, then the coff ee? Or the other way around? Did I have to drink the water at all? According to the internet, the water was simply a palate cleanser. I guess I could have fi gured that out myself. I took a few sips of it, and then drank half of the coff ee. It must be an . Ever since, my time spent in Rome has been measured in trips to the bar. I don’t know the name of said bar, but I know it’s a bar, and so I call it just that: the bar. It sits right across the street from my apartment, and the sidewalk outside of it is lined with those obnoxious chairs. I visit it multiple times a week: mostly for coff ee, sometimes for alcohol, and always for a bombolone. Most Italians aren’t picky about what bar they frequent. They tend to stick to one: the one that’s closest to their place of residence. They go for coff ee in the morning and aperitivo in the evening, and it’s almost like an extension of their homes. They know every barista, and every barista knows them, their daily order, and, somehow, every detail about their lives. After my fi rst few trips there, I, too, found myself treating the bar as an extension to my apartment. The baristas slowly began recognizing me and making conversation, and, on days I couldn’t stop for breakfast, they’d wave to me as I rushed to class. I’d avoid other bars as much as possible, even when I
Remus 51 had a caff eine headache and wanted nothing more than a cappuccino: a visit to another bar would be a betrayal to mine. The bar also became my favorite place for people-watching, and it started on that very fi rst day. I’d gone after school with the intention of both caff einating myself at four in the afternoon and of gett ing some reading done for a literature class. I did not complete the latt er; instead, I watched an old Italian man who sat down at the table across the sidewalk from me. He held a cigarett e in one hand, and with the other hand, he itched the side of his face, which was sprinkled with snowy white stubble. He reached for his espresso cup, took a sip, and, sighing heavily, placed the cup on the table right next to two empty sugar packets. I eyed them and decided I’d be sweetening mine next time, since I couldn’t take a sip without instantly washing it down with water. I people-watched until the Roman sun was too hot to sit under. Outside, small children walked alongside their parents, carrying backpacks much too big for them. Old women walked their dachshunds and French bulldogs, looking straight ahead in dark glasses that concealed half their faces. The street smelled slightly of smoke, and slightly of coff ee: it was a fresh smell, and one I knew I could get used to.
Remus 52 Let Me Rest Awhile Ann Louise
Remus 53
Remus 54 Elianne Dewulf See Me Vanish
Remus 55 A Daisy on the Dashboard Victoria McAteer Characters TOM EVANS – Male, 30s ELLIE EVANS – Female, 30s SAM (“MR. SAM”) NICHOLSON – Male, 60s MARIE NICHOLSON – Female, 60s SCENE ONE Setting: The Hamptons, Long Island (NY, USA), 2018. (A black limousine, on a busy street. In the front is the driver, MR. SAM, and in the back sits a couple, ELLIE and TOM. They’re dressed classy, they look important. They’re staring out opposite windows, not touching each other, or looking at each other at all. The partition is down, as if they’re very comfortable with the driver.) TOM I wonder if they’ll serve the good salmon tonight. ELLIE Mhm. TOM Remember that salmon? From Ryan’s retirement party? ELLIE Yes. TOM It was good, wasn’t it? I’ll sure be upset if the venue hired diff erent chefs this time. ELLIE (Under her breath) Yeah, that’s what will ruin this night. A diff erent chef. (Silence. It’s unclear if TOM hears her or not. If he does, he ignores it. MR. SAM hears and makes eye contact with her in the rearview mirror.) TOM Does my suit look okay? ELLIE (Goes back to staring out the window, doesn’t look over at him) Mhm. TOM My nice blue one is at the cleaner’s still, so I had to settle for this one. I wasn’t sure about it. ELLIE Yes. It was a very important decision. TOM It was. I want to look my best tonight. (Silence.) It’s a big day for us. (He reaches over to hold ELLIE’S hand.) ELLIE (She pulls it away and turns to face TOM) Don’t say that. TOM Say what? It’s true. The company did Remus 55
Remus 56 well this year. This banquet is being thrown in our honor. So yes, big day. ELLIE Do you even know what day it is? TOM Thursday. ELLIE Not what day of the week. The date. TOM (Begins to grow uncomfortable) Can we not … talk about this right now? ELLIE It’s August 12th. TOM (Stern) Ellie, I don’t want to talk about it. ELLIE No, Tom, let’s talk about it. TOM (Visibly frustrated) Stop, Ellie – ELLIE (Interrupts him, her tone frantic, arms raised.) You insist this is a big day, so let’s talk about how big of a day it really is! Come on, let’s talk. TOM Stop. ELLIE Today is August 12th. Daisy’s birthday. (Silence) You know, our daughter. Our Daisy. (Silence) Remember her? The one who died two years ago? (Silence) Her birthday. Her fifth birthday. (Silence) Or does the hotshot CEO now have memory loss? TOM (Angry, shouting) For fuck’s sake, Ellie! Will you stop? MR. SAM Sir, would you like me to roll the partition up, give you two some privacy? ELLIE No, that’s quite alright, Mr. Sam. We’re done talking. TOM No, we’re not done. Clearly you have things you need to say to me. ELLIE (Yelling) How could you have agreed to go to this banquet? How selfish can you be to put us through this tonight of all nights. TOM That’s not fair. I miss her like crazy. I know you do too. But the world doesn’t stop turning. We don’t have time to let it stop turning. ELLIE You don’t have time to let it stop turning. (Points to her chest) I do. You have the company, all I had was her. I have plenty of time now. TOM Ellie, honey, you’re being unreasonable— ELLIE (Loudly and with a certain finality to it that stuns TOM into silence)
Remus 57 And you are heartless! TOM (Takes a sharp inhale. He looks wounded) (Silence) ELLIE You never talk about her, you never visit her grave with me, and you’ve spent all day pretending she never existed. MR. SAM Mr. Evans, are you sure I shouldn’t roll the partition up? We’re still about fi fteen minutes from the venue because of the traffi c. ELLIE No, no, it’s fi ne. (ELLIE leans forward, towards the divider between them and MR. SAM.) Wow, yes, you weren’t kidding about that traffi c. MR. SAM Yes, ma’am, rush hour. (ELLIE, still leaning forward, now has a better view of the front of the vehicle. MR. SAM’s suit jacket is on the passenger’s seat, his phone in a cupholder, and a lavender air freshener hanging from the rearview mirror. ELLIE’S attention is caught by a daisy on the dashboard in front of him. She turns to catch a glance of her husband, who is rigid in his seat still. They make eye contact; she shakes her head in disbelief and turns back to MR. SAM.) ELLIE Say, Mr. Sam… you remember our Daisy, don’t you? TOM God, I was hoping we were done with this. You don’t need to answer that, Sam. ELLIE Be quiet. Mr. Sam? MR. SAM Of course, I do, ma’am. You know I loved her like she was one of my own. ELLIE Do you visit her? (MR. SAM looks up and makes eye contact with TOM in the rearview mirror, then looks back towards the road) MR. SAM Every Wednesday morning. ELLIE That’s so kind, Sam. And the daisy there? On your dashboard? MR. SAM Oh, right. It’s for her birthday. Mr. Ev – (He corrects himself quickly) I got a bouquet for her grave this week and saved one to put here in the car. ELLIE (Touched by the sentiment) That’s lovely, Sam. (ELLIE sits back, thoughtful. TOM is still silent) Seems you’re the only one ignoring her birthday, then, Tom. TOM I’m not ignoring her birthday. Would you stop with that? MR. SAM Ma’am, on Wednesdays – TOM
Remus 58 (Expression hard, tone stern) Sam, please. MR. SAM (Reluctantly) Right, sir, not my place. ELLIE (Looks between the two men, confused, then back at TOM) I don’t even know when the last time you went was. What, a year ago now? MR. SAM Really, on Wednesdays – TOM (Angry) Mr. Sam! ELLIE Would you let him talk, Tom? I care more about what he has to say than what you do. MR. SAM Ma’am, I’ve been taking your husband to visit her every Wednesday morning since she passed. TOM (Under his breath) Jesus Christ. ELLIE (Confused) I don’t… I don’t understand. MR. SAM Every Wednesday morning Mr. Evans stops by the cemetery on his way to work. He’s the one who bought the flowers for her birthday today, I just asked if I could keep one for the car. I know it’s not my place, and I know you made me promise not to say anything, sir, but I had to. (ELLIE falls silent, turning to look at TOM who can barely meet her gaze) ELLIE (Brows slightly furrowed, searching TOM’s face). Why didn’t you say anything? (Silence) Why refuse to even bring up her name in conversation and let me think you’d all but forgotten about her? (MR. SAM brings up the partition now. TOM takes a shuddering breath, fists clenching at his side.) Why, Tom? TOM (Explodes, extremely emotional) Because I see what it does it you! (Silence. TOM takes a deep breath) I don’t talk about her because I can’t bear the look on your face when I do. (He nods in her direction) That look right there. And I didn’t say anything because… it’s been two years and neither of us have healed even a little bit. I thought that if you didn’t have to watch me grieve too, then maybe you could make your peace with it at least. I’m sorry, Ellie. I do miss her, so much. (ELLIE is silent, trying to process everything. TOM is fidgeting now) You were right. I shouldn’t have agreed to go to this banquet tonight. We can go home. ELLIE (She shakes her head, then reaches for TOM’s hand) No, we don’t have to go home. That’s all I needed to hear, Tom. That you miss her too and that we’re in this
Remus 59 together. TOM (Squeezes Ellie’s hand, smiling. He leans forward and knocks on the partition) Sam? (Partition is lowered.) MR. SAM Yes, sir? TOM (Smiles again at Ellie) Turn the car around. We’re going home. MR.SAM (Smiles) Yes, sir. [End Scene] SCENE TWO Setting: Hempstead, Long Island (NY, USA), 2013. (A small dining room, at night. A wooden dining table and four wooden chairs are in the center of the room. On the table is a vase of fl owers, a paper towel stand, salt and pepper shakers, one potholder and two place mats on opposite sides of the table. The back is decorated with various photo frames of a couple, MARIE and SAM, some photos are recent, and some photos are old. Against the wall is a hutch, with a fruit bowl, a bottle of wine, and a pile of mail on it. The shelves are fi lled with various plates and bowls. MARIE is moving around the room, preparing the table for dinner. She is wearing jeans and a blouse, covered by an apron with stains on it. SAM enters the room, wearing a suit. As he enters, MARIE sets a casserole dish onto the potholder on the table.) SAM (Surprised, smiling) You had time to cook tonight? (MARIE jumps a bit, startled by his presence. She turns and smiles at him) MARIE Sure did. Ms. Evans sent me home early, poor thing hasn’t been feeling well lately. (MARIE turns her back to SAM and continues to set the table. SAM gives her a quizzical look) SAM You don’t say? Tom didn’t mention it. MARIE (Laughing, back still to SAM) Tom, is it now? On a fi rst name basis with your new boss already? SAM Well, no, not technically. He calls me Sam, you know? “Mr. Sam”, he says. (SAM takes off his suit jacket and sets it down on the back of one of the chairs) MARIE (Teasing him) And, let me guess, after years of being “Mr. Nicholson”, this feels like a downgrade. SAM (Rolls his eyes, smiling) An upgrade, I’d say. Retirement isn’t so bad, after all.
Remus 60 MARIE (Under her breath, but still loud enough for him to hear) Working until eight in the evening is hardly retirement, love. SAM I drive and sit in fancy cars for a living. After thirty years of sitting in classrooms for seven hours every day, I’d say this isn’t too bad as far as retirement jobs go. (MARIE laughs, and moves over to the cupboard, grabbing two large dinner plates from one of the shelves. While she moves around the room, SAM walks over to the hutch. He sorts through the pile of mail and hums a song to himself.) SAM (Without looking up from the mail) Need any help, dear? MARIE No, no need. I’m almost set up, I’m just waiting for the casserole to cool a bit. SAM (Opening an envelope) What kind did you make? MARIE Chicken and mushroom. SAM (Looks up from the letter at his wife, brow furrowed) Mushroom? We had mushrooms? We never buy those. MARIE No, Ms. Evans had a bunch in her fridge that she wasn’t going to use, and she said I could take them, so she didn’t have to waste them. SAM (Looks back down at the letter) Why would she buy them if she wasn’t going to use them? MARIE Well, I’m sure she was planning on using them when she bought them, but they’ve been making her sick lately. She’s repulsed by them now, can’t even look at them. SAM Oh, I see now. (Under his breath) That makes sense. (MARIE hears his comment and gives him a questioning glance that he doesn’t see. She turns back to the cupboard, and grabs silverware from one of the drawers. She changes the subject.) MARIE She also gave me a lovely bottle of wine to take home, it looks expensive. SAM (Laughs to himself) She didn’t want that either? MARIE She’s just being nice, Sam, don’t overthink it. (The conversation stops, it’s quiet. MARIE begins to scoop the casserole onto two plates and sets one down on each place mat. SAM arranges the mail he was sorting through back into a pile, before going to the table and sitting at one of the set spots. MARIE sits across from him. They begin to eat.) SAM I’m surprised Ms. Evans let you go so
Remus 61 early tonight. MARIE She’s sick, I told you that. SAM (Looking at his food, absentmindedly) It’s not like you can catch what she has, it’s not contagious. (MARIE suddenly looks up from her plate and gives SAM a questioning look.SAM’s eyes widen briefl y, before regaining a nonchalant expression.) MARIE (Cautious) How do you know that? SAM (Pauses and clears his throat) Um, I don’t, I guess. Even still, you said just two days ago that she has been a little short-tempered lately, so the generosity surprises me. MARIE (Forcing a relaxed tone) She’s plenty generous, I’ve never had any issue with her. She just was having some mood swings, I guess. SAM (Mindlessly, focused on scooping food onto his fork) Ah, yes, I’ve heard pregnancy can do that to a woman. (SAM quickly realizes what he’s said and covers his mouth in shock. MARIE gasps but doesn’t look surprised by the information he has accidentally revealed.) I mean, uh— MARIE I knew it! You knew! SAM Wait, what? MARIE About the pregnancy. You knew! SAM You knew? MARIE Yes, I knew! Ellie told me two weeks ago. SAM (Sighing) Tom told me Monday morning. (Silence. Both look deep in thought. SAM takes a slow bite of his food, staring off into space with wide eyes. MARIE sets her fork and knife down and rubs her temples.) MARIE (Quiet, hesitant) Why didn’t you mention you knew? SAM (Shrugs, calm) Same reason you didn’t. MARIE (Sighing) Just because we didn’t have kids, doesn’t mean we can’t talk about other people having kids. SAM (Finally looks up and makes eye contact with MARIE) Marie, it’s not that we didn’t have kids. It’s that we couldn’t have kids. MARIE (Tense) And we’ve made our peace with that. SAM Have we? MARIE Well, yes. It didn’t happen overnight,
Remus 62 but I think we’re fine. SAM Except it’s been thirty years since we found out and we still avoid talking about it. (Silence. MARIE looks away and begins to fidget with her fork) Talk to me. MARIE It’s silly, you know? There are plenty of other ways to have kids, and we chose not to. I feel silly being jealous like this. SAM You don’t need to explain it. Or rationalize it. I get it. (Silence. They both begin to eat again, less tense now. After a few bites, MARIE stops and looks back up at SAM, a small smile on her face.) MARIE I am excited for them, though. Ellie is a lovely woman, she’ll make a great mother. SAM (Teasing) Ellie, now, is it? On a first name basis with your boss? MARIE Oh, shush, you. If you can do it, then so can I. SAM I suppose it will be nice to have a kid around, even if it isn’t ours. MARIE It’ll be the most time either of us has ever spent around a baby. SAM I know. I think it’s exactly what we need. MARIE Oh, I can tell by the look on your face right now that that child is going to be spoiled rotten. SAM With the parents she has, that was going to be the case either way. We’ll just be a bonus. MARIE She? SAM Oh, yes. I was just looking at their baby shower invitation, we got it in the mail today. It’s a girl. [End Scene.]
Remus 63 Cat Eyes Kaya Chamberlain 12:00 in Trastevere
Remus 64
Remus 65 Fragments of a Fleeting Life (5 May 2023 @ Teatro Testaccio) The Dramatic Arts Club Cast: Sofi a Brushtein, Bruno Bielecki, Kathryn Uliana, Mia Gallinat, Amelia McRae, Kea Gerike, Paul Carpenter, Marco Parolin, Francesca Ferraro, Justin Taylor, Gian Carbone, Autumn McIntyre, Alexis Apple, Omaima Houbadi, Olivia Kesselman. Crew: Bruno Montefusco, Danilo Meriano, Patrizia Fasano, Omaima Houbadi, Kathryn Uliana, Charles Schwebs, Liliana Zimberg, Yujin Lee, Logan Uhlig, Amina Mamedova.
Remus 66 Glare in the Fog Antonio Fronterrè Sheep walk by on the misty plains; limelight in the moon’s shadows Shush! Curtain’s off, roaring applause, clasping hands, thunder in the air. Shelling in the black sea. Dust, dust from the rolling gears, deer running limbless in the dark. Will you shoot, my soldier? Wind wipes away memories of times long buried. Moss. Moss in your fingers, feel the running water far, far, farther away, crushing falls on unspeaking, undying, stones. And the sun, by the chariots pace, drags away the pain; The night, grieving stars, brings… snapping leaves, falling brothers. Waves crash on the unending reefs, shepherds in the storm, cries howling in the clashing valleys by the morning they will find, bottomless caves trapped, shush! Third act? Remus 66
Remus 67 One is for Sorrow Yasmine Guiga Chapter One May 27, 1692 Salem Village, Massachusett s Bay Colony To the Honorable Deputy Governor of the Massachusett s Bay Colony, As discussed in previous correspondence, the situation here in Salem is dire. I fear an evil spirit lurks in our midst and is plott ing to destroy this colony. All the signs are here: our children are sick, our crops are failing, and our economy has taken a turn for the worse. It is for this reason that I have decided to set up a special Court of Oyer and Terminer to try the accused. Five of them are already in jail, awaiting trial, while more are being arrested as I write this to you. It is my honor, dear Mr. Stoughton, to appoint you Chief Justice of this court. To aid you in this diffi cult endeavor, I have carefully chosen eight more men, which I deem to be persons of the best prudence. Captain Samuel Sewall, Major John Richards, Major-General Wait Winthrop, and Peter Sergeant are on their way from Boston. Justices Jonathan Corwin, John Hathorne, and Colonel Bartholomew, as you must know have already been involved in the crisis. Colonel Nathaniel Saltonstall will be traveling from Haverhill to join the court as well. All these men are members of my council, and the majority of them are experienced and well-respected judges. They are, I believe, this colony’s best hope. If everything goes as planned, the trials will begin next month. May God save our Puritan City upon the Hill. Your Most Humble Servant, William Phips, Governor of the Massachusett s Bay Colony ~ Remus 67
Remus 68 Twelve deaths in Salem Village, Massachusetts Bay Colony: Massacre, Suicide, or Witchcraft? In the summer of 1693, shortly after the end of the witch trials, a dreadful incident took place in Salem Village. The nine members of the Court of Oyer and Terminer, as well as Governor William Phips who had appointed them, and the town’s Puritan minister, Reverend Samuel Parris, were all found dead in their homes. Robert Thompson, a nephew of Captain Samuel Sewall, was also found dead in similar circumstances, the morning after his wedding. His wife, a young woman whose name seems to have simply vanished from all historical records and colonial newspaper articles, disappeared on that same day. When interrogated, people had trouble remembering her name, or even describing her features. All they remembered was that the young woman had been close with Ethel Osborne, one of the women executed for witchcraft. The cause of death for all these men was never confirmed. No traces of injuries or previous illnesses were found, and they appeared to have simply died in their sleep, but the people of Salem Village blamed the witches. This last incident proved that evil did exist in their town. In the aftermath of the trials that changed the course of North-American history, these mysterious deaths and the disappearance of Thompson’s wife raised questions that to this day, have not been answered. ~ ~ In the rare books and manuscripts room of the Boston Public Library, a young man sat at a table, hunched over a collection of documents and old correspondence. A feeling had arisen in him, strange and unfamiliar; a mixture of hope, puzzlement, and something else, something much darker which he couldn’t quite name yet. August put down the book he’d been reading and rubbed his eyes. He reread that last passage, copying down the words witch trials, mysterious deaths, wife, vanished, and witchcraft. In his notebook, he wrote: Ten town officials and a minister found dead after the Salem witch trials – revenge? Mass suicide? Magic? What about Robert Thompson? Was his death a coincidence? Did his wife kill him and run away? Why does no one remember her? Ethel Osborne? August didn’t believe in magic, or organized religion. He wasn’t entirely sure if he believed in God, but he liked to think that he believed in something. Something had to exist beyond the scope of mortality, something had to be out there. He had researched enough of history to know that as a species, humans needed to believe in a higher power, a good and just influence that could forgive their sins and give meaning to their lives. August didn’t know
Remus 69 what the meaning of life was, but he was looking for it in his work. He hoped that by studying the history of alchemy and magic and its correlation with the vilifi cation of women, he would learn more about what it meant to be human. He had extensively studied history, religion, and a good portion of literature that when the time came to narrow down his area of doctoral research, he confi dently marched into his supervisor’s offi ce and proudly stated his choice. August was twenty-three and hopeful back then. Dr. Higgins, a stern woman in her late fi fties, was notoriously fastidious about her students’ research topics, and August had prepared himself for the possibility of rejection. After pitching his idea, he had sat on his chair, fi ghting the urge to fi dget like he always did when he was nervous. Dr. Higgins had looked him up and down for a good ten seconds and to his surprise, said, “Well, Mr. Jacobs, this is fascinating.” “Really? You don’t hate my idea?” “Hate it? I love it. This is a very interesting proposal.” She smiled. Dr. Higgins rarely smiled. August had barely been able to contain his excitement. “There is so much I want to research…all these major events in history: the Renaissance, the Salem witch trials, the Enlightenment, World War I and II…magic has always played a role in culture, religion, science, politics – ” “But,” Dr. Higgins had interrupted, “the topic is big, and your interests are rather broad. I would like to see you narrow it down. Focusing on a period of history or specifi c fi gures that were infl uential in alchemy and occult studies? Otherwise, you’ll spend the next six years of your life drowning in information and never fi nish your dissertation on time.” Three years later, his work was sucking the life out of him. Academia will do that to you. His father’s words, tinged with disapproval, echoed in his head. He ran a frustrated hand through his hair. Who was this nameless young woman? How did she manage to disappear like that? A part of him knew that this was irrelevant to his research, that tracking down one person who might not even have existed in the fi rst place would only slow him down, but it was too late; the thought had already latched onto his brain and he knew he would keep digging. Questions about the aftermath of the Salem witch trials fi lled his head as he packed up his notes and distractedly made his way out of the room. His footsteps echoed across the corridor that was by now familiar to him and he jiggled the keys in his hand. August loved the Boston Public Library. This building contained so much history, so many records of human accomplishments. A database of more than twenty-three million documents, including books, manuscripts, maps, drawings, lett ers, and other original works dating back as early as the tenth century. He could spend his entire life here, and still wouldn’t be able to access all the information this place held.
Remus 70 No one was allowed inside the reading room after 4:30 pm, and no one was allowed to access the manuscripts except for staff – well, staff and August. They were kept in a special room behind the research desk, but he had made deal with Rose, the head of the Rare Books and Manuscripts department. He could come and go whenever he pleased, in exchange for two free tickets for each of his performances. Rose was a live theater enthusiast and she particularly loved Shakespeare, which meant she had a soft spot for August, who grew up in a family of famous stage actors and performed Shakespeare in his free time. His phone buzzed in his back pocket. It was a text from Sarah. Got caught up at work. Will probably be late for dinner. Don’t wait for me! He sighed and typed back a quick reply, feeling his mood shift instantly. No problem. He tried not to think about Sarah as he walked into Rose’s office to return the keys he’d used today. He knocked twice on the door and let himself in. “Two tickets for A Midsummer Night’s Dream, as promised. You can go this weekend or the next, just give them my name –” he stopped. The office was empty. “Rose?” he said, walking around her desk. “I have your tickets and the keys.” No answer. There was a door behind Rose’s desk that lead to what August assumed was the manuscript vault. It was slightly ajar, but no light was coming out of it. “Rose, are you in there?” he tried again, this time with a small tremor in his voice. August watched as a slim silhouette emerged from the darkness. It wasn’t Rose. Rose was a short woman in her late thirties with straight black hair. She wore patterned dresses and had a different pair of glasses to match every outfit. This woman was August’s age, she wore a long, flowy black skirt and had auburn hair that was piled up in a French twist. She wasn’t short, but her slender build made her seem delicate and almost ethereal, like a wraith. A beautiful wraith with eyes the color of molten gold. That last thought had August frowning and shaking his head. He blushed, embarrassed for having noticed so much about this stranger. Silence stretched out between them as they stood there, looking at each other in the small, cramped room. There were only a few feet between them. “Uh, you’re not Rose,” he said, perplexed. He kept his voice low, reluctant to disturb the quiet that had settled over them. “And you’re not supposed to be in here,” the stranger said. Her voice was deeper than he expected. August shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his bad mood from earlier making an appearance. “I know, but I have a deal with Rose.” “Is that what the tickets are for?” He looked down at the two tickets in his right hand. “Yeah,” he said, and
Remus 71 before he could stop himself, added, “who are you?” It came out harsher than he’d intended it, but it was too late to take it back. A shadow crossed the stranger’s face. “Are you always this pleasant?” He sighed, pinching the back of his neck. I haven’t had a good night’s sleep in weeks, my research is driving me insane, and my fi ancée canceled our dinner plans for the third time this week, he wanted to say. Instead, all he said was, “Uhm…sorry… tired…long day…” He handed her the set of keys and suppressed a shiver when their fi ngers brushed. Her hands were ice-cold. The stranger nodded once, sett ing the keys on the desk. “I’m Lila, I’m the new archivist. Today’s my fi rst day.” She moved slowly, deliberately, unlike August who could barely stand on his feet without squirming. “I’m August. I come here almost every day.” “For fun?” Lila smiled. It made August want to smile, too. “For work. I’m doing research for my doctoral dissertation.” “What kind of research?” she asked. “The esoteric kind,” he said playfully, but there was a note of bitt erness in it. He loved his work and hated it at the same time. He either let it consume his every waking hour – and sometimes even his dreams – or he got so sick of it he considered dropping out. But August was mercurial by temperament, and sometimes struggled to keep his mood in check. “That’s the best kind,” Lila said. “What are you researching?” August hesitated. Whenever he told people about his work, the reactions ranged from mild disbelief to complete disinterest. Even Sarah barely asked about his research. “Magic, alchemy, and its relation to the vilifi cation of women throughout history,” he said. Lila blinked, absentmindedly reaching for the pendant around her neck, and August braced himself for another “that’s nice,” or “sounds interesting,” but she simply said, “Why?” As obvious as it should have been, no one had asked him that question before, aside from Dr. Higgins, but that was only because she was his supervisor. None of his friends and family had cared enough to ask him why he did what he did. The scholar in him was intrigued by this stranger. “So much of history is wars and bloodshed. I want to focus on the individual experience, the ambivalence of human nature, and the role that magic – or the belief in the existence of magic – played in the evolution of humankind. Why do some people choose to believe in the occult while others vehemently condemn it as evil? Are humans inherently fl awed? Are some people predisposed to be morally corrupt? That’s what I’m trying to understand – in a nutshell.” August was almost out of breath when he fi nished, and Lila hadn’t taken her eyes off him.
Remus 72 “Is that all?” she laughed. “So, do you believe in magic?” “Ask me that question again when I’ve finished my dissertation,” he said, and smiled. ~ Later that night, August had a peculiar dream. He was one of the judges in the Salem witch trials, and an auburn-haired woman, dressed in all-black was brought to court. She had cuts and bruises over every inch of exposed skin, and when she opened her mouth to speak, his name was the only thing that came out. He woke up in a panic and sat up in bed. His skin was damp, and his breath came out in shallow gasps. That same feeling of troubled bewilderment he had when working in the archives the night before came back to him. He looked at the time: 2:35 a.m. Sarah still hadn’t come home. - untitled - Nia Atanasova
Remus 73 Simmer Raegan Peluso
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Remus 75 - untitleds - Kendall Grant
Remus 76 - untitled - Alexandra Shaburova
Remus 77 Hunger Lucia Guerrieri Clara likes it when he is idle. She feels a sense of calm when she watches his long fi ngers dance along the piano keys while the rest of his body remains still. He usually plays after dinner. She always wants him to play “Clair de Lune”, he sometimes listens. At dinner, when she looks at him after his long day at work she watches him focus on cutt ing the tenderloin. Their almost identical children, Theo and Alice, wail like sirens in anticipation of their long-awaited dinner, and their cries echo throughout the hollow house. When it is time to put the kids to bed, Clara and her husband pick a movie to watch, something mindless that neither of them pay att ention to. When they fi rst met, he loved to paint, and watching him was what Clara supposed bliss to be like. She could see the intensity in his eyes, focusing only on his brushstrokes caressing the canvas. He had paintings hanging up in his shoebox apartment in New York City. There were scenes of skyscrapers and a woman in a white dress with stark blue eyes, matching the dark ocean behind her. That painting did not make it when he moved in with Clara. When they go to dinner with their friends, Clara insists that they sit at opposite heads of the table. This allows her to watch him over the rim of her wine glass. She carefully studies him as he cuts his steak and laughs with his friends. Clara has not slept since he stopped painting. She realized that sleep is deceiving. He may look idle, his eyes closed and hands still, but his mind is not. Most nights she watches him from the chair next to their bed while desperately trying to dissect his dreams. The people she has not met , places she has not been. Things he has experienced alone that Clara will never be able to share. When Clara’s body betrays her and her eyes begin to close, she loses herself. She sees images of women strangling her, their blue eyes paralyzing her. She stares at paintings of her family but with her face scratched out. She dreams of never marrying, the road becoming endless and the days becoming fruitful. When Clara fi nally wakes, it is morning, and she is exhausted from a full night of living. She fi nds the bed vacant and cold to the touch. He has already left for work and the kids are crying. Clara prays every night he dies before she does. She will have an open casket funeral for him. He will wear a suit and tie with his hair combed back. When it is her turn to gaze at his closed eyes and silent mouth, she will feel her body relax and her breath return to normal. Clara will fi nally be able to sleep.
Remus 78 An Ode to a Toxic Love Bart Jansen op de Haar It is time for a revolution— A revolution in my heart. The hundredth time I made this resolution, But I don’t know where to start. I just know this single truth: My chains are forged by You, And if your hold I could refute I wouldn’t know what to do The wait will not be long my love, The time for change is now. I’ll end your cruel rule my dove, Just let me find out how So far, I know this single fact: I scream loud to be free, Knowing it is all an act You’re all good parts of me. Beloved tyrant of my heart. precious yoke around my neck. treasured reason that I’m scarred. Your savage reign one day will crack. And yet, with certainty I know, That when the deed is done, And of your chains I have let go, I’ll clasp them right back on.
Remus 79 On a Candlelight NEMO The light of the candle speaks not of intimacy to me. Its wax dripping down my lips keeps a secret only God and I could share; and seeing as “God” is just what I made up to justify the love I was forced to spit out with blood — it is a secret I keep with “Myself.” The fl icker of the fl ame — the litany of grief— the base all corroded — old marble steps. I’ve used fl ames to worship but mostly to smoke. Could you ever blame me? It was never my choice to make. I was never allowed to get out of this unscathed. I think I was just born to burn. Remus 79
Remus 80 The Fool Kathryn Uliana Pete didn’t make it a habit to answer calls from strangers, but the landline on the wall never rang. In all honesty, he only left it on the kitchenette wall because it looked cool. To his knowledge, there were only two people who knew that phone’s number: the last tenant and the landlady. He had planned to spend that Saturday alone in his one-bedroom apartment, when he realized there was a third person who knew the number. As he put the receiver up to his ear, he heard the slurred voice of his writing partner, Hazel, on the other line. “Oh good, your stupid landline works, I’m glad I called it first. I figured you’re ignoring your cell on your days off.” “Hazel?” Pete frowned, clutching the receiver closer to his ear. “Yeah,” Hazel said, “I’ve got-a... an idea for a play.” Pete heard a car pass by on her end. “Where are you?” “Right outside. Let me up, please. I don’t like being exposed downtown. I might see someone I know in this s-state.” The buzzer rang through the apartment. Pete waited by his open door uneasily until he heard heels click up the tile stairs. Hazel was in a wrinkled white top, one that was in danger of being ruined by the glass of red wine she held. “How much have you had to drink?” he asked as she brushed past him into the apartment and plopped onto his green pleather couch. Hazel shrugged. “You know my tol-tolerance. More than four I’m sure, but it’s only wine. My buzz will be over if I have some water.” Pete took that as a cue to grab her a glass. While he walked to the sink, she grabbed the bottle of red wine he had opened earlier and poured it into her glass, mixing it with whatever she hadn’t finished. “Where did you get that?” he said, pointing to the now full glass of wine. “Some outdoor bar a few blocks back. This guy left it on his table to go chase down a girl…” She shrugged, and the wine swished, threatening to spill over. “Anyway, the play. Let’s scrap what we’re working on. I’m thinking we write about a girl who starts killing men, you know, for f-f-fun.” Pete surrendered, “Ok, I’ll bite. What’s going on? Where’s your boyfriend? “Oh Mason?” Her expression darkened. We broke up. At a ‘Roadhouse’ Texas, Cattleman’s, I don’t know. What even makes a restaurant a roadhouse? Bull-l’s heads on the walls?”
Remus 81 She threw her arms up, the wine sloshed around as she continued, “I should’ve seen it coming, you know. In the beginning he didn’t even pay att ention to me until I dyed my hair red, right? So, when I dyed my hair brown, as you can see,” she pulled at her hair bringing the glass tauntingly close to her head. “He started to be, like, really distant. Guess what his mom’s hair color is? Red! It’s red. A natural red. It’s hilarious really, you know, Pete, he reminded me of you.” She kicked off her pink slingbacks and laid across the couch. Pete sat down in the small space she left. “Thank you?” “I only say that cause, like you, he’s smart and nervous. I surround myself with smart people. You included.” She paused for a moment. She had a look on her face that Pete deciphered as either nausea or slight sadness. “But with that kind of intelligence comes neuroticism, mostly in men. And with you it’s fun! Cause we aren’t…You know.” She made a vague motion with her hands. “When the girls you go for would never date you, just like, you know, you’d never date me.” She zoned out for a moment, and Pete tried to grab the glass of wine from her hand, but she absentmindedly pulled it away. “That’s correct, but what makes you think that?” “How do I say this…intelligent men – and I’m generalizing here – you lot like younger girls, empty girls. Like mysterious Barbies you can project on to... you know, without their own…personalities? No…desires? No.” “Identities?” Pete suggested. “Thank you, yes! Smart men hate women with identities,” she said forcefully while turning towards him.” Now, Pete, I’m not saying you’re like that. What’s your relationship with your mom like?” Without waiting for an answer, she moved on. “I mean, that’s why I usually date dumb guys.” Without another word, she pulled something from her bra; it was a bright, colorful card. She put it on the table. A young man in a fl oral robe blissfully stood on a cliff ; the bott om text read, The Fool. “Did you steal that from the bar, too?” Pete asked. “No, from my psychic.” She smiled. “She has a fuckton of decks; she’ll be fi ne. Look here, I am a fool. I am the fool because I date men, Peter. It’s embarrassing. It’s embarrassing to be a straight woman. This is me.” She pointed to the litt le jester blissfully walking off the cliff . “Th-that’s me.” She slurred and looked at him for a while, searching for a reaction. Pete instead looked at his feet, unsure how to help her. “I’m sorry Pete, I just came to hit- oops, Freudian-’ she hiccupped. “-slip. Vent, I mean vent…but hit too, you know physiologically. Psychologically?
Remus 82 Physcoana- Whatever!” She stammered through until the last word. “You’re easy to hit. But that’s good, stay like that.” She leaned over to squeeze the hand that he rested on his knee. “You are the type of guy girls marry. You’re a winner.” She looked down for a moment and sunk onto the couch, letting go of his hand. “We don’t have to write that play, let’s stick to what we’ve got.” After another moment of silence, Hazel took her hand off his knee and placed the glass on the table. Pete watched as she pulled her knees to her chest. “I’m going to call you a cab.” he said as he tried to pick up the glass to put it on a coaster. It slipped out of his hand and spilled all over the table. Forward Isabela Alongi
Remus 83 Limes Marina Matt ei
Remus 84 Berenice Berry Hannah Cunningham
Remus 85 My Grandfather Sam Autumn McIntyre Beginnings “What’s his name? What’s your grandpa’s name?” The teenagers were riding their bikes and skateboards on the sidewalk. I was six or seven years old, and I was walking in front of my grandfather. Or grandpy, as he was aff ectionately called. “Sam!” I exclaimed. The teenagers laughed. “That’s what we thought! He looks like a Sam.” I turned around to grandpy and smiled. He smiled back at me. The teenagers scurried away. When I still lived in Eagle River, Alaska, grandpy walked me to school every morning and then back home in the afternoon. He used that time to complete his daily workouts. He’d hold his arms out to his side, bend his elbows, and hit his thumbs on his chest. Then he’d ball his hands into fi sts and use the bott om of his palms to hit his joints. I’d see those teenagers on our walk home frequently. They’d bike by us in fascination, watching grandpy do his exercises. Now I see myself like those teenagers. My memories of him are fi lled with that same fascination. I wonder who he was and what he did in life. I want to ask him questions too. My grandfather died of a heart att ack over a decade ago, when I was eleven years old. I used to understand Mandarin, I watched Chinese dramas with him, we even went on a trip to Beijing together. His death put an end to all that. And to my biracial childhood. My mother emigrated from Beijing to Boston in 1991. For a long time, I only knew bits and pieces of her story. She learned English by working at McDonald’s and watching daytime television. She eventually met my father, a Bostonian whose ancestors descend from Italy and Scotland. They married and had my sister and me and sett led down in Alaska. My grandfather came over from Beijing to help raise us. My mother didn’t speak much about China. When I asked her questions, I was given simple answers. Answers like: “We used to play in Tiananmen Square and watch the fi reworks.” “We went to the grocery store once a week to buy food. We could only get a certain amount.” “I had an allergic reaction to peaches and went to the hospital. I once asked her why she left China, and all she said was: “Everyone wanted to go to America at that time.”
Remus 86 I had more questions than answers. In high school I had a fantasy. My mother, sister, and I were in Beijing for Lunar New Year. Our large family was sitting around a round table. We ate mooncakes, dumplings, and Peking duck. There were red lanterns and paper dragons everywhere. Fireworks blasted in the sky. We were home. But after grandpy’s death we never returned to China because my mother said the journey was a pain in the neck and it wasn’t worth taking so much time off work. With time I became increasingly curious about my Chinese heritage. And after moving abroad for college, those questions began to plague me. I looked Chinese, I cooked a mean stir fry, and I could make dumplings. But I didn’t speak Mandarin anymore. I hadn’t been to China since I was eight. I didn’t know anything about my Chinese family. I didn’t even know my grandfather’s real name. In fact, I realized my grandfather was the answer to many of my questions. If I started with him, I thought I might unravel the rest. “I want to do a project on grandpy,” I said to my mother over FaceTime. “I want to write my capstone on him.” “On grandpy?” My mom was cracking sunflower seeds between her teeth. “I think it’s a good idea,” I said. “It would make an interesting story,” she answered. “He lived through a lot of history.” “How much do you know?” “He wrote a memoir of sorts,” she said. “It’s short. Maybe ten pages. I remember he used to sit at a desk and write on a legal pad. You know those pads he used to keep baseball scores?” For a moment I was back in my childhood home in Alaska, standing in the doorway, and watching my grandfather keep score of the latest baseball game. He was standing in front of his tiny, gray television and writing on a yellow legal pad in blue ink. “I forgot he used to do that that,” I said. “My sister in China has the papers,” my mom said. “They’re in our family home. It won’t be much, but it’s a start.” I nodded. “It’s a start.” Later that week, I received a message from my mother asking me to call her. “The memoir is sixty pages,” she nearly yelled. “He talks about his mother, his father, his siblings, all of us. My sister is going to send photos of the pages so that we can translate them. It’s crazy how detailed it is. He had such a good memory!” My mother’s older sister sent photos. My mother’s younger sister helped with translation, and this is what I learned.
Remus 87 In the Wake J. Scott Cameron The fog sits like a bed skirt this time of morning – grayish white pleats below a slow, pulsing illumination that hints at a place of respite. The sky is cast-iron. The sun, a pilot light prepared to propel to its crest and back again – perpetual – a Peaceful Projectile counterpoised until maybe half past six, when it erupts into presence and the fi xed mist is mixed back into the heavy humidity ever present this far below sea level. Eventually, we wade through and reach for the truck’s door handles. A lott ery ticket put us on this trip – a turn to inspect whatever Remains. We turn left out of the driveway, then right into a pensive, inchworm crawl. All that is left is Patience. Fifty thousand other winners for the day work their way along the stretch, bordered by blinking lights – a tarmac glitt ering in red-carpet delight. A runway for the hopefuls. Remus 87
Remus 88 Patriotic red-white-blue, Red-White-Blues… The occasional orange-yellow, Orange-Yellows fly by, flickering along the edges of our path, accompanied by a hum Behind, Aside, In front – Police Caravan, followed by Corps of Engineers Caravan, followed by News Station Caravan. A constant, low thump is overhead – Patrol chopper, Army chopper, News chopper, Chopping: conveyor belt sushi with sparklers dulling the appetite like the smell of sulfur singed skin, and a stomach that knows best. The outline comes into view about noon, an Oz already conquered. The front wheels plunk off the causeway, falling from a star like a miracle. (Claps from the back seat.) Camouflage Humvees zipper the caked highway, barely visible among the sound walls – layered like Hiroshima sunsets into early-‘46. Remus 88
Remus 89 All fi fty thousand, in front and behind, a simmering iridescence in the surrounding grays and browns. We roll through yet unblemished layers of the sunbaked silt – the fresh crunch of that chance path signaling Christmas Morning Bubble Wrap Explosions. Something Primitive in the satisfaction. The motion begins a slalom through an obstacle course of equally gray-brown and once properly placed objects: overturned vehicles of every necessity and leisure, refrigerators laid on side – fl ayed, open, exposed, insides tumbling out – square soot-covered seppuku carcasses. In the lethargic heat of this summer afternoon, the ‘X’s’ hang heavy on every exhausted exterior, sagging with Search-and-Rescue Codes too numerous to count. And like those scraping through the remnants in mid-August ’45, fl ipping pieces of pocked concrete clinging to sheared rebar – a certainty of security in the future lost from only moments ago – we confi rm, against all callus and craving, there is no reason to return.
Remus 90
Remus 91 Fluctuations Kea Gerike Milan in Watercolors on an Envelope Marina Matt ei
Remus 92 Too Young Miranda Braemer
Remus 93 Salted Caramel Cake and Other Dreams Olivia Kesselman Whispers And I whisper into empty marmalade jars And dying fl ames Where is home? But it makes no diff erence, They don’t know any bett er than I do. Helpful Tips for Befriending The Void When your closet door rests ajar in the middle of the night, when the last person has left after the movie ends, when the road back home holds only you; whenever it’s just you, it’s also The Void. When you have the chance, and it’s not often, (works best between the hours of an early dinner in the summer and the dead of night what am I doing with my life panic), speak to it. The Void, although seemingly scary at fi rst, can be your friend. Soft whispers and traded secrets. It loves knowing what you’ll do next Thursday and what you really think of your friend’s new boyfriend. The Void doesn’t judge, which is what makes it the best listener. You can show your appreciation with a gift like the stray bobby pin at the bott om of your bag or two spritz es of your favorite perfume. You can stare into The Void, and it will stare back. You win if it blinks fi rst, but the prize is not worth it. Beware of the fi rst morning of April, it won’t be as kind as it always is. And don’t confuse kind with nice, for The Void is rarely ever nice. But even when you forget it’s there, and you haven’t spoken in months, it’ll wait for your return, as it always has. When you are the last to clear out your locker before summer break, when you’re half asleep atop the coat pile hearing the faint laughter in the other room, it’s there. When there is no one else, it’s just you, and The Void.
Remus 94 A Recipe for Mothers, Daughters, and Salted Caramel Cake The overwhelming scent of sweet carrot and onion fills the room. The steam coming from the pot keeps fogging her glasses, but she doesn’t mind. It’s just five past eight when the floor creaks quietly indicating her entrance. “Hi mom, sorry I’m late.” “Where’ve you been? Dinner will be ready in no time.” “I know I’m sorry, there was an accident down the road, whole street is closed. Had to go round the park.” The older woman simply nods as she continues to stir. Margo takes a seat at the table across from her mother and watches as she works. Silently observing as she delicately chops more vegetables and seasons multiple times after each taste. Her mother serves two almost identical bowls of carrot soup, placing the fuller one in front of Margo. After a few moments of quietly sipping her soup, her mother finally asks. “Is work going well?” “Oh, uh, work’s fine.” Margo hasn’t touched her food yet. “And Edgar?” “He’s… also fine.” Her mother gives her a stern look, “just fine?” “We broke up, well, he broke up with me.” “Well, you know what I always say, if it wasn’t meant to be…” she sips another spoonful of soup. Margo opens her mouth to respond, looks up, eyes glossy, but her mother is not looking at her. She thinks better of it and musters up a different sentence instead. “Are the,” she clears her throat. “Are the flowers blooming nicely?” “The peonies? Yes.” “Mm.” She looks down at her own bowl, swirling the spoon around the soup. Her mother eyes her steadily. “Don’t play with your food.” “I’m not, just waiting for it to cool down.” Her mother exhales loudly, giving in. “So, you two broke up, I don’t know why you’re so upset. You’ll find another one, and if not, so be it. I live alone, and I am just fine by myself. Have been ever since I left your father.” “That’s what I’m afraid of.” “What, of being alone?” “No,” the oven’s timer drowns her next words, making them inaudible to her mother. “Of being like you.” Pushing her chair back, her mother opens the oven door, the strong smell
Remus 95 of caramel fi ghts with carrots and onions for dominance in the small kitchen. With a mitt ened hand she retrieves the cake pan, placing it atop the stove, sprinkling a generous amount of coarse sea salt on the cake. “Are you staying for dessert?” The question sounds almost accusatory. “I made your favorite.” “Oh, yeah, sure.” She returns to her seat but doesn’t fi nish her bowl until she sees Margo fi nish hers fi rst. She wastes no time once they are both done. Clearing the table quickly, she moves on to the cake, cautiously taking it out of the pan and sett ing it on one of her nicer, peony covered, plates. The patt ern reminds Margo of the new sheets she bought for her bed last week. They are still in their packaging waiting to be washed before she can use them. She tells herself she did not care much for the design of the fl owers, that she bought them just because they were on sale. Her mother returns with the cake, placing it on the table before beginning to cut some slices. “I have to go mom.” She stops her motion for a brief moment before continuing, “Alright.” “I’m sorry.” They both look down at the cake between them. “You want a slice to take home with you?” “Sure, yeah, I’d like that.” Her mother meticulously takes one of the pieces and sets it inside a tin container, wrapping it in a fl oral cloth. She hands the container to Margo but doesn’t immediately let go of it. “Be sure to rinse it before giving it back to me.” Looking down at the fabric she runs her fi nger over the petals, “I will.” Her mother turns to fi nish tidying up the kitchen, so Margo turns to leave, calling back to her. “I’ll see you next week then.” “Alright.”
Remus 96 Ode to Northern Michigan Kelsey Logsdon It’s a rare experience To watch each season change. Seeing the snow melt off the pines, Dripping down to feed the plant embryos So that in a few weeks’ time They may bloom from the brown And bleed into spring colors. What an honor to feel the breeze Flowing from cool to warm. To witness the sun heating each lake Throughout the months. To lay atop the sand dunes And empty out the mind, Absorbing summer’s sweet song Of birds and bees. Nothing quite like watching the leaves change; Emersed in a sea of colors That will soon all fade to white, Turning to a brisk cold That reddens our noses and cheeks, But reminds us of the peace of warmth.
Remus 97 Forest Marina Matt ei
Remus 98 Dark Shapes