Flash Flood

By: Christine Mrozek 

 At the beginning of medical school, they said, "Be ready to drink out of a fire hydrant." Today, I felt like one was gushing over my head. Outside, what had started as a drizzle was now a torrent. Inside my head, a maelstrom of emotions surged. Not only was it the week before a flood of testing in difficult subjects, but I was also being battered by an influx of hormones—meaning that once again my period would likely be synced to the days of the exams. Perfect. 
    To make matters worse, I was also sinking into a whirlpool of worries. My normally sunny outlook was darkened by family health problems that I could do nothing to help with. Tests worth half my grades in certain subjects intimidated me. I had a growing suspicion that the mouse problem in my apartment was back, making me wonder: Does do no harm also apply to the mice you might cohabitate with? I also was concerned for the wonderful man who was brave enough to stick with me since the beginning of medical school, through my flares of pre-test anxiety and the stories of, "What did I sever from the cadaver this week and how?" A pain in his hand had started as a sporadic occurrence, but now it was more constant and sharper. I might have been the one who wanted to be the surgeon, but he could do magic with his hands—relieving my stress through his gentle touch. He was upset because the injury was also interfering with his work. I was upset that he felt so bad. As a concerned medical student, I gave him all of my unlicensed medical advice, including  a handful of differential diagnoses and begged him to see someone else if it got too bad. Today, the pain had gotten that bad.
    Before lunch, I fretted. I felt powerless knowing there was nothing that I could do to help at this point. Or was there? Within the past year I had gotten some training in Reiki, an energy relaxation and healing technique. While I couldn't prescribe medications, I could offer that. I texted him the suggestion of visiting.
    As quickly as my hope appeared, it was eclipsed by his discomfort. After a long morning of texting all he felt like doing was resting. I tried to offer counter solutions: I could meet him halfway somewhere, pick him up at a train station, or even drive the whole way myself. If I were in a more logical mindset, I would have taken into consideration that pain can make me just want to be alone and sleep. Yet, lunch break sailed by and my emotions hadn’t quite ebbed to anything remotely calm.
    I tried using a mindfulness technique. Focus on your breath. Breathe in. Breathe out. A tear escaped. As our lecture on viruses turned to the subject of the lytic cycle, I also felt like I was ready to burst and explode from the inside. I slipped out of lecture and ran to the bathroom. While the fiber cereal I had in the morning did a number on emptying out my colon, I still hadn't flushed out the other negative feelings inside of me. I tried to go to the gym and sweat out my sorrows. However, just like the stationary bike I was riding, I got nowhere. 
    The breeze ruffled through my jacket as I trudged to my car, whose bright color was a sharp contrast to my current mood. I flopped into the front seat and as I started my ignition, the song, "Come and Get Your Love" played out from somewhere within my bag. I fished for it and uttered a frustrated hello.
"How was your day?" he asked.
 "Alright..." I replied as I shifted the car into reverse and started to back out of the lot.
         "How were classes?"
     "...not bad..." 
         "Are you sure you're okay?"  
         I fought to compose myself. "Eh, test week is coming up... I'll be alright."
         I didn't want to add to his burden since he already felt bad. Though conversing with me was the equivalent of talking to a wet dishcloth, he still consoled me, and by the time I was home and sitting down, he managed to make me smile. He told me to go and take my shower. Potentially, he'd be able to make a trip in for the evening.
    With a new glimmer of hope, I was able to wash off some of my distress. I looked at my work with new eyes. I steadily marched through notes as rain began to drum on my air conditioner from outside. After dinner, my phone rang again.
" How would you like to study something else for a little while?”   "Of course!" I exclaimed.
     " Well, I should be there around 10, then!"
     "I can't wait! Drive safe!"
  After a few minutes, the steady drumming on my air conditioner from before had turned into a rock solo. Lightning flashed, thunder crashed, and my heart pounded. How were the roads? My stomach sank with the thought. I didn't want to distract him from driving so I didn't call, but I watched my phone intently. An hour passed by. Only the sound of rain graced my ears. Frantically, I started praying. I didn't know what else to do. A few minutes later, "Come and Get Your Love" blared from my phone.
 "Hey."
    "Hey! Are you okay?" I asked, now shaking.
"So, there's a tree down about 5 miles from the exit. I need to take a bit of a back way. Be to you closer to 10:20 now."
"Ok! Just drive safe!"
At this point, all I wanted was to see him in one piece. The Bruce Springsteen song, "Wreck on the Highway" came to mind, which further unsettled me. I tried to get back into my notes, but was jolted from my seat by an emergency weather alert from my phone: FLASH FLOOD WATCH IN YOUR AREA UNTIL 2AM.
 "Shit... Shit..." My subsequent rise in blood cortisol made me incapable of uttering anything else. My knight in shining armor was fighting against a dragon of a storm. Single handedly, I might add. I peered out the windows. The roads were wet, but it wasn't quite a river. I checked weather stations, and not only did they grace me with the news that there was also a tornado watch, but pictures of other flooded areas also flowed onto my screen. I thought I had panicked before.
A text message. "This sucks."
Immediately, the worst came to mind. He was stuck somewhere in a ditch, surrounded by water from all sides. It was the veritable incarnation of being up shit creek without a paddle, especially as captain of a vessel unsuited for aquatic explorations. Trembling, I texted back, "Where are you? Are you okay?" 
Time passed by. Sweat poured down my face.
"Took a wrong turn... Couldn't see where I was going."
    He was alive. Be he was still out there. And I was stuck in here. More time passed by and I spouted out any prayer that I could remember. It got to a point where I couldn't wait any longer and called him.
"Hey," I said shaking again. "Where are you at? Are you ok?"
 "I'm in your parking lot."
    Springing to my feet, and almost running out the door without my keys, I rushed to meet him at the side door. Rain still poured down, but soon my miracle, my angel, appeared, carrying an offering of candy. I hugged him and my tears melted into the rain. I've never been happier to see someone alive before.
    "Let's go inside."
    After a storm of a day, and a hell of a night, I was finally in the paradise of his arms. I slept better than I had all week and could have stayed nested by his side forever. The sun rose, and as the rays of light entered my room my morning was warmed further with a kiss. Yet, heroes have other duties to attend to, and he had to leave shortly after we awoke. I hugged him tightly before he left, and turned back to my work with new energy. I was going to be ok.
    When it was time for me to go to school, I found a damp love note under the windshield wipers of my car and smiled again. Which of us really needed the most help yesterday? I'm still not sure. Regardless, at that moment, I could feel my heart beaming at the beauty and power of contact with another person, especially from the wonderful kind that flooded my stormy night with sunshine. 

A Morning Launch

By: Linda Chamberlin

Obstinate sun out there somewhere,
Insisting through cloud coverage
That it is day again. 
I burn them down.
Every day like a flimsy match.
Oh, I could start something, 
I could really light it up.    
But not today. 
Yeah, not today. 

I hold my breath.
A little, all the time, I know I do.
How can I deflate the worry in my chest?
Sugary treats and TV shows,
Online shopping, a good long doze…
They put the blinders on, that’s all:
Indulge the ego, stifle the Self.
I can do better.
I can be better. 
I just need to uncloud my vision,
Shake the syrup from my veins,
And remember who I am.

I lean into the luxury of solitude and silence.
I am queen of my infinite nutshell.
But the me that’s honed by interaction gets
Fuzzy, hazy, murky.
My social graces, weakened from disuse, 
Let loose my human ties.
I come unmoored,
Drift out to sea,
And bump into the wall of my walnut.

Small Animal

By: Charlie Fencil

I noticed the cut to his lip. It started at his jaw and ran like a small red river across the corner of his mouth.  He cradled his left hand like it was a small animal. One he was trying to keep safe and warm. I asked him what had happened and the story began to unfold. 

He had been at home with his little brother, a friend, mom, and stepfather. It started when his stepfather threatened his little brother.  An argument began, words were exchanged, and after a little while my patient retreated to his room.  He told his friend it was time to go.  When he was about to leave his stepfather stepped into the room and threw him to the ground.  He got on top of him and started to punch.  His closed fist struck my patient in the face again and again.  His friend tried to pull him off, but he couldn’t.  After a period of time my patient escaped and made his way for the door with his little brother.  With the door almost open, the stepfather ran up and slammed it shut.  My patient’s hand, like a misthrown ball through a neighbor’s window, broke through the glass of the door.  His story stopped here.  He did not tell me how he got to the emergency room.  He didn’t want to talk to anymore.  He just wanted his hand checked out.  I could see the fear in his eyes, and I didn’t want to push the issue.  I check out his hand and his mouth the best I could.  After I was done I thanked him, and went to give my report to the doctor.  

I barely remember being sixteen.  The only things that remain are vague memories of freedoms building and of racing around the world for the first time.  The warm home I went to at night and the family that made sure I ate before I went to bed.  I could not put myself in my patient’s situation.  I could not fathom the fear, the loneliness, and the pain of sitting alone in a hospital room with fresh scars from your family. I knew we had to call child services, but that did not address the underlying problems that my patient faces every day.  It is a small Band-Aid to put in place to help hold together the fibers of his life until he reaches eighteen. I am not even sure child services can help him to escape from the repeated assaults on his body. In that moment I felt the power of the short white coat draped over my shoulders disappear. 

I do not yet know the limit to our ability to help others.  I cannot put into place my future role as a physician or a healer.  Where does medicine stop and the world outside take over? An experience like this shatters my faith in the power of a white coat, but also inspires me to explore its boundaries. The ability to heal extends far outside of the ability to cast a broken hand or clean a cut to the mouth.  It extends into the personhood of those in our care. I am learning that to find the boundaries of medicine one has to struggle with the paradox of both letting go and jumping in headfirst. We have to be content to heal what is in front of us and rely on others to help in aspects that we cannot. However, we must also be bold enough to jump headfirst into a problem that is outside of our medications and procedures. We must learn to navigate the rough waters of poverty, abuse, and addiction that afflict many of our patients’ lives. 

a visit

By: Candice Mazon

when love knocked on my door
after years of absence,
i let it in.
the knock came unexpectedly,
in the middle of washing dishes.
i felt the vibrations from the door,
down to the floor,
and up my spine.

i could’ve sworn i locked the gate.
i never thought anyone would want to come in.

i let love sit across the coffee table,
as i fumbled hellos and offered drinks.
“tea?”
it nodded.
“how have you been?” 
i said, with a shaky voice and trembling hands.
it smiled.

i barely recognized it. 
it had darker hair,
a different voice. 
it liked books now
and talked about its sister. 
it laughed more than i remember, 
and looked at me in a different way.
did i seem different too?

“you’re welcome to stay.
as long as you want to.”
it nodded again.
the tea kettle whistled.
i grabbed two cups
and watched the hot water pour down
like a waterfall.

i looked back at love
while it stared out the window
and i wondered
if visitors ever stayed forever,
if forever was always a limited set of horizons, 
if horizons ever enticed people away
to leave whatever
or whoever
they called home.

A Walk In Kensington

                                                              By: Rohit Mukherjee
 
Kensington & Cambria, 4:10 PM
I saw the man from Clinic:
His thick matted black hair,
Deep wound on his forehead
Bleeding a lazy, red stream.
His body was falling asleep.
 
His eyes were drifting,
Sheathed by confused lids
Opening and closing
Cyclically,
Slowly.
 
The Clinic, 3:30 PM
“Baby, we gon’ give you narcan.
Just know, you get it if you fall asleep”
Yellow jacket, bleach blond hair,
She was sunshine and concern.
 
He stared indifferently,
Slumped in a chair.
Commotion buzzing around him,
His puff jacket was a defense
Covering all but his eyes.
He wanted to hide.
 
And then he disappeared.
Sunshine ran around whimpering,
Angst filling her face
Staring at an empty lawn chair.
 
Kensington & Hart, 4:08 PM
I thought he was dancing.
There was reggaeton booming.
His torso collapsed to the beat.
To his left:
Gleaming white washing machines.
To his right:
A Technicolor empanada.
The sidewalk was a stage.
 
No.
Legs failing him,
His slender frame fell
Slowly, gracefully
A piece of paper,
Drifting from air to concrete.
 
Eyes widening,
He hoisted himself up,
And walked south.
 
Kensington & Somerset, 4:20 PM
My watch said we walked for 15 minutes.
Fear amplified every second.
Every breath he took was a gift,
A way for my panic to ease.
Every time he closed his eyes,
I felt him drifting away.
 
He spoke the entire time.
What words did he say?
Nothing made sense.
Maybe it was heroin
Cooking up word salad.
 
Maybe it was panic,
Filling my ears.
Irony is a dark putrid wax:
My head, so full of science
My heart, beating furiously
Eyes waiting for chest rises,
All so utterly powerless. 

Modern Day Fairy Tales

By: Anya Golkowski

It is February, and I am volunteering at the Boys and Girls Club in North Philadelphia for nearly five months. Across the room, a Connect Four game starts to get more and more heated, as accusations of cheating and lower than average intelligence start to fly. Finally, as expected, James has an outburst of anger, yelling vehemently that there was no way he would have lost if the game were played fairly. Wrapped in his accusation of injustice comes a slew of insults. Ms. Jade has to yell over James to quiet him down, threatening to kick him out if he does not calm down. This tips James over the edge. Another injustice. He starts grunting and kicking the walls. I finally go up to him and ask if he wants to talk.  He shrugs and looks back at me, a little hopeful. Sitting across from him, I ask him the first thing that comes to my mind, “Where is all this anger coming from?” What I get is a mumbled, “I don’t know.” I nod awkwardly. 

Let me stop and preface that I am not skilled in talking to nine year olds. I never had younger siblings, and my experience working with children has always been limited to adolescents. So when I asked James to talk, I had no idea how to diffuse the situation that I had come to learn was far bigger than being chastised by a teacher.  

I met James on my first day of CEE, and quickly took a liking to the quick-witted and enthusiastic boy. As I spent more time with him, I learned more about his personality, and noticed traits that made him stand out from the other kids. He is quick to see relationships whenever we do science experiments, and he loves math. He also knows a little too well how to insult his peers with jokes of false paternity, abandonment, and domestic abuse. Over the year, he has become adept at throwing tantrums when adults ask him to let up on his friends. 

I know some of James’ story. James lives in government funded project houses in North Philadelphia. His mom is rarely home, and he frequently rides his bike around in circles because he is locked out. He doesn’t have a father, and he remembers when his older brother got locked up. He always knows who is fighting, where and at what time. He has been suspended from school more than four times this year. I can think of at least five serious reasons why James might feel angry everyday. 

Yet James doesn’t seem to know what is wrong with him. He is not able to go up to his teachers and tell them that he feels rejected. He does not know how to tell his friends that he misses his brother. All he knows is how to kick walls and yell louder than his peers. So he is labeled as a misfit, as a child with “anger issues,” and is frequently put in time out. 

In my naivety, I thought James would connect all the dots as he sporadically told me his story throughout the year. I was hoping he would say something like, “I’m tired of waking up and fighting this world just to survive. I want someone to help me.” Or think something like that. But instead I got a frustrated, “I don’t know.” 

Our society seems to have a problem with angry youth like James whom we can’t control. We fear the gangs they create, get annoyed at the graffiti they draw, and feel frustrated at their lack of engagement in school. So to try and fix these situations, we create well meaning after school and youth outreach programs, expecting children to come to them seeking help and guidance. But how many well-educated, privileged medical students or even doctors seek help when they need it? How many Wall Street brokers seek counselling for their addictions? Yet we expect children who are not even able to emotionally comprehend their situations to open up and asked to be saved.  

Despite obvious evidence to the contrary, in my fairy tale version of reality, all who wanted to be saved – and deserved it - got what they asked for. Helped by white knights, friendly animals or pure magic, they somehow always found their magical path to happily ever after. In real life, kids are left wandering not even knowing they are lost.

Morning Light

By: Esther Lin

He was a cheerful figure, always.

“Uncle, why do you live there?”

“Why not? Look how convenient it is!” He waved a hand behind him.

She adored him, the creative way he had about him, the way he transformed his strange room into a welcoming and comfortable home. His room flooded with light in the early morning, and to a young girl, it was like a secret hideaway, warm and secure.

“Uncle, where do you sleep?”

“What do you mean? Right here! Look how comfortable it is,” he exclaimed, arms gesturing expansively. In the golden light of the early afternoon, he would show her how to lay down paper and paste, to make the rough wooden floors into colorful, smooth panels. The manic edge to his cheer never frightened her; it wasn’t sharp and it would never cut her. He was always kind.

“But, Uncle, why do you stay here?”

He heard the whispers that followed him as he walked, but let them slide off like rain drops on the waxy leaves of the palm trees. It would not do to let her see. The gentle coddling only made him dizzy, blurry with mania and panic. Reality was a tenuous thing, and back home, curled up in his nest, he tried to untangle threads that were hopelessly knotted. As the sunlight slipped away, so did he.

“Uncle, I heard a noise last night.”

The dark was always a treacherous thing, an amorphous being that could not be trusted. As he thrashed in nightmares, he awoke, gasping, to face new horrors. He reached out for something, anything, to hold, to protect himself with. Phantom chains held him down, cut off his air, wound tightly until he sat up straight, clutching his throat and sucking lungfuls of precious air. But the dark was always treacherous, and momentary peace gave way to blinding panic­­. Where was he? Where were they? As he spiraled deeper into unconsciousness, he heard them­­-him­­-someone scream.

Worn to the bone, he lay in the dark, waiting for them to come for him.

“Uncle, where are you?”

She huddled in her closet, papered and cushioned the way he taught her. As she ran a finger over the tape line­­”Uncle, this means it’s mine! You can’t come in!”­­she let the noise of the house wash over her. Footsteps pounded on the stairs above her head, her grandmother cried, and she pretended that her colorful walls could block out the world.

“Uncle, where are you?”

He ran his hands over the papered walls, the curved edges and hard panels that he had made his. But nothing was his, not when even after the sun came and filled the room, bleached it with warmth, even then, the dark would return. They would return.

So he turned, readied himself. Laid down in his shallow nest, where it didn’t matter if he didn’t feel safe. Picked up what he held close to his chest in the dark, readied himself.

And stepped out into the morning light.

“Uncle, where did you go?”

Later, she learned.

Run

By: Leann Dudash

I ran
to the nearest grassy field,
and clutched
my corner of the Earth.

As I ran,
the earth billowed behind me,
caught in the breeze,
flapping idly.

I saw the ground wrinkle
below me
and I knew
you were doing the same.

You grabbed your bit of the Earth
and ran to me.
We folded the distance
like sheets.

A Love Affair with Science

By: Anya Golkowski

Only a fool would think Science is a man. 
Science is a woman dressed in black with red luscious lips. 
She is careful and cunning and skilled
at stringing her victims along in a lifelong search for meaning. 
Science flirts with depth and illusions. 
Science is a tease in the worst ways. 
She’ll draw you in with a hint
of how the world works. And then, 
run laughing,
as you despair in the tangles of details you lost yourself in. 

Maybe she’ll call you in with the promise of greatness,
but pity the fool who ever attempts to hold on to her for very long. 
No, Science was never a man, shackled to his textbook.
Science is a seductive goddess
with a trail of spited, yet devoted lovers.  

Shadow Plane

By: Nikil Revuri

Land of Light and Dark,
Of white hallways and
Frantic alarms, frenzy
Brought to life amid
Prodding tubes, pricking
Needles, and wailing
Ill, there lies shadow.

In that shadow, we
Stand in that abyss
Between saccharine
Light and bitter Dark, 
Holding apart arms,
Interlaced fingers,
Barrier to fall.

When they fall, children
Up high, Dark tendrils
Claim their spark of fire,
As disease takes hold,
Invading body
And soul, we must stand,
Guarding life and Light. 

Breathe life with outstretched
Arms while sirens blare,
Says that shadow creed,
Invoking our strength,
Pursuing duty,
Between drapes, amongst
Faltering heartbeats.

Metronome, we seek
That monotone beat,
Steady and assured.
Yet, some slip, cadence
Turns to a flatline
As tendrils drag under
Another being.

Beings of sorrow,
We learn to let go,
Lest our shadow fades
Casting us to Dark,
Dragging us under,
Rending asunder,
Tantamount to death.

From death comes promise,
For some want not pain,
Nor misery, lest
Pricking needles sting
Once more, seeking cure
At cost of pleasure,
Those we relinquish.

Relinquish our hold
On this shadow plane,
Saying our farewells
As dark wisps abduct,
Shunning caring hands,
Dying nobly.

Patient 12

By: Parsa Salehi

“I won’t let anything break my spirits. Nothin. With God on my side imma keep on breathin” 
-J.C. aka Patient 12

Early on in my internal medicine rotation, I was assigned a patient admitted for constipation. I remember our first encounter with clarity. His eyes, his position in the bed, the stutter in his speech, his 5/5 strength, his complaints, his beliefs—the list goes on. Although there was no way of knowing Patient 12’s fate at the time, I had a feeling dwelling in the deepest corner of my brain that something was off—that somehow the experiences shared with this patient would be different than my interactions with other patients. 

    Even after a physical exam and history consistent with the attending’s diagnosis of bowel obstruction, something still felt off. J.C. told me that this was just a small obstacle and that he would recover without a problem. He told me about suffering a broken leg years ago in a work accident, and how God gave him the strength to rehabilitate and walk again. I shared with him the story of my recent broken clavicle and how God also helped me recover from the injury. We bonded. He described his sheer will to live and determination to get through this. I assured him we would do everything to help him, and he thanked me. However, something in his eyes told me he doubted some of his own words. 

The next day I did a mini-mental exam on him. Person, check. Place, check. Time, check. He even told me the name of the president, Barack Obama…who he proceeded to tell me he knew personally. Obama would send him a personal card every Christmas—sounded plausible, but improbable. He then told me Michelle and the Obama kids visit his house often—sounded like delirium. I could sense the foundation of J.C.’s determination was cracking. His voice trembled as he assured me he would get through this. I noticed he would avoid picking up the calls of his family, who I had never met. When he would pick up, I could hear them pleading on the other end for more information about his prognosis.  Silent tears escaped from his eyes as he put the phone down, without hanging up. Again he reiterated his determination, his own strength, and faith in God.  I saw something different in his eyes that day—fear. He was scared, questioning his own faith, making empty promises—was he in an existential crisis?
What didn’t make sense to me was why a simple bowel obstruction was stripping a previously strong-willed man of his hope. This was not just delirium. Patient 12 realized the end was near before anyone else in the hospital did. Before the attendings. Before the medical student. Before the nurses. Before the physical therapists. At the time I didn’t truly understand J.C.'s words and behavior. Most of all I did not understand the look in his eyes. In retrospect, I now understand that look. The look in Patient 12’s eyes was the look of a man who knew he was being dragged down by death, but was unprepared to make the journey to the next life—a man pleading for someone to grab his hand and pull him to safety.

That same day imaging showed a mass in J.C’s colon. Colorectal cancer was responsible for his obstruction. He needed surgery. Frankly, I don’t think he understood what was going on when he went under the knife.  When he woke up from the anesthesia he was a different person. He was combative. He continually accused the hospital staff of trying to hurt him. Oddly enough, the only person he trusted was me.  The day after his surgery he was making a gurgling noise in the back of his throat; he fought off the respiratory therapist trying to suction the fluid. He made the attending physician bleed during cardiac auscultation. He died later that night, after I had already gone home.  

I still don’t fully understand why this experience has been so meaningful for me. I have experienced death before. I have seen more traumatic things in the hospital (full code ALS patient, gunshot wound to the head, overdoses, etc.), which should have made Patient 12’s death look relatively benign. What I think impacted me the most was seeing a patient make the transition from life to death so quickly. Moreover, the fact that the patient did not want to die and was not expecting death really affected me. To see a patient go from a relatively common ailment (bowel obstruction), to cancer, to surgery, to death all in a short interval did not afford me—or the patient—enough time to ruminate on the situation and accept death.  The look in his eyes and his silent calls for help are etched permanently into my hippocampus. 

Perhaps part of it was highlighting for me that death can happen at any time, and that we are not always prepared for it—shattering my previously held conception of death. It’s difficult articulating what I saw in J.C.’s eyes and how it made me feel. All I know is that Patient’s 12’s death reaffirmed something I’ve always known: everyday is a gift, one ought to enjoy life as much as possible, and one should never take health for granted.

What Do You Say?

By: Jason Roley

What do you say,
When the words just drone on and on,
Like the lyrics of that pop song,
Or an overworked mom on a tirade?
You’re struggling to wade through,
The ashy shade that's accrued.

What do you say,
When all you see is crimson?
Two hearts, once connected,
Now dissected, infected with a fiery blaze.
You’re suffocating from the smoldering clouds
That faze and induce a heavy malaise,
As you lie there and bleed pools of sadness,
Your madness spilling messily on the kitchen floor.

What do you say,
When there’s nothing left to say—
Nothing at all?
When the talk, which was gay, is now a bay,
Of lifeless wood, a broken sled,
Devolving and falling,
Stalling and stonewalling.

What do you say,
When you’ve surrendered,
But trying to mend things only hurts?
The only move left is down—
Down a slippery slope into darkness.
You’re drowning,
The current shifting and twisting,
There’s no way back.
You don’t even know if you’re running—
Running on the same track.

What do you say,
When in the end,
What you intended,
Cut deeper and meaner,
Than any surgeon’s quintuple bypass,
And the wounds are slow to heal,
Like an undigested meal,
The acid corroding the steel,
Your heart no longer able to feel.
This struggle is the ultimate crumble.

What do you say,
When the gas that’s entrapped,
Explodes like napalm,
Cracking and splitting,
Like lips without lip balm.
Your soul is now a walking corpse,
High on embalming fluid.
The rest is sealed, the anger congealed,
The dream, a distant memory no longer seen.
Two steaming glaciers now familiar strangers.

What do you say?
What can you say?
Why say anything more.

Sheets

By: Leann Dudash

Wouldn’t it be nice to dream,
that we lay in the same bed.

The miles between are only
expanses of cotton threads.

I think if I reached out for you,
somewhere, our hands would meet.

I bet you’re closer than it seems,
only lost in blankets and sheets

Slot Machines

By: Jared Weiss

Behold life, in all its glory,
life so full of wonderful riches,
of love and laughter,
of happiness and peace,
all seamlessly swept under the rug,
trampled upon by the masses,
masses with agendas,
with checklists full of boxes,
the boxes of life,
all of the things that
need to be accomplished,
all of the burdens that
need to be unloaded,
in a world where they come
twice as fast as they go,
ostensibly all this in pursuit
of the good life we all strive for,
only it so often feels more like
striving and less like living,
caught up in a sticky web
of tasks and choices affecting
the people of our lives,
who we sometimes like
and we sometimes hate,
who we sometimes hold close
and we sometimes push away,
not to mention ourselves,
so obsessed with liberty
and the pursuit of happiness
that we forgot about life;
we were too busy pursuing,
and those forefathers of old
never guaranteed success in that pursuit
because even then, they knew it was only
an ideal for most, something that
happened to other people, but not us.
Still we hope that maybe
we can become one of the
lucky few, the lucky ones that
by some miracle manage to
figure out the whole blasted thing,
only we do it the same ways
we always have, going about the
same lives we have always led,
somehow expecting that
if we just give it time, it will pay off;
a world full of gamblers playing
the lifelong slot machines.

My Journey

By: Nikil Revuri 

A thin wire stretched, pulled
Taut over a raging sea, 
From shore to distant shore,
The dirt from which we rose,
To the faraway land that we all go.

Tentative steps forward, 
Carefully balancing on that rope,
I begin that journey,
Waves crashing far underneath,
Moon and sun cycling wildly overhead.

With every step taken, I surge,
Pushed ever faster, howling winds
Biting at my heels, forcing me along.
Memories come and go, relinquished
By the inevitable passing of time. 

Around me, other lines draw into
The horizon, each sporting a rider,
Each on their own quests.
Some are near, getting nearer
And some are far, getting farther.

Ahead, they all plunge
Into a wall of mist that I, too,
Must face, to conquer or
Be conquered, within those
Hazy tribulations, uncertain perils.

Sheer force strikes me, crossing the
Misty veil, staggering, making useless
My limbs, they flail and fall.
My body tumbles off the knife-thin edge,
Into the azure-bounded abyss.

On a thread I catch hope
As I descend tumultuously, 
Slowing to a tenuous halt
Seconds before my demise,
Swaying in obscuring fog and gale.

One hand atop the other,
I will not be broken.
And so I rise, certainty
My ally as I strive to board
That pathway once more.

Hoisting myself up, and out
Of the mist, past those trials.
I am proven, hands shaking
But heart unshaken, stepping
Forward, to the unknown horizon.

My journey must continue
Despite such perils ahead,
Past the fearsome wind
Beyond the anxious waves,
My line will prevail.

Me, With Eyes Closed

By: Jared Weiss

Where did you go?
This, I know how this feels now
To feel the descent of the clouds
From unforeseen skies,
Down over me, through my head,
the great exhaustion, the great
unease, emptiness, seemingly
random, always disruptive,
eternally incomplete,
permanent fog,
this is me, me
with my eyes closed
let the fingers do the talking
let the words be disjointed
as the mind that births them
one of its many ugly processes
and extraordinary wonders

I know where you went
I know how easy it is to
get lost in the storm, to lose
your vision, to lose your direction
to get stuck inside your own
misconceived notions of reality
and your role within its
fantastic coincidences
paving endless roads
all covered in rain
all covered in hail
from the storm of the clouds
from unforeseen skies
I have been where you vanished
I have been to the point where
the pavement ahead and behind
crumbles and you realize that
any way is forward and any way
is meaningless and all of the puddles
that form from the rain of the storm
of the clouds from unforeseen skies
are just like the ones before them and
I know how easy it is to get lost
and I only wish that if we are lost
that maybe we could find the way
back out of the fog around
ourselves together

Matcha Churros

By: Yoon Sung

One of my fondest memories from working in the kitchen is the Family Meal I had with the other cooks and staff each day around 3:30pm, before the dinner service madness began. As a farm-to-table restaurant, we regarded freshness of local ingredients as one of our highest priorities. Therefore, whenever we had produce or ingredients that were no longer of guest-worthy quality, we would use them to come up with dishes to feed our staff. For one of our events, the other members of the pastry team and I made churros, rolled in cinnamon sugar, served with a warm chocolate sauce. Since we had some dough left over, I decided to fry it off for Family Meal the next day. Generally, churros are long and straight, around 4” in length, but I had some fun experimenting, making shapes and seeing how long I could make them. When Family Meal came around, the dining room was bustling with excitement, and everyone loved these light, crunchy treats, fresh out of the fryer. I had a lot of batter to go through, so I ended up skipping my meal and staying at the fryer, but it was so worth it, seeing how excited everyone was. Ever since then, churros have become one of my favorite desserts.

Churros are made from choux pastry, the same light dough that is used to make éclairs, beignets, and cream puffs. Choux traditionally consists of only butter, water, flour, and eggs. Instead of a raising agent, the dough utilizes its high moisture content to create steam and puff up the pastry while cooking. When done correctly, churros should be golden and crispy on the outside but light and moist on the inside.

Recently, I was lying in bed and thinking of what flavors and dishes would go well with matcha (green tea powder), one of my favorite ingredients. I’ve had matcha cakes, cookies, lattes, donuts, ice cream, but realized that I’ve never had or heard of a matcha churro. I figured the matcha would lend a beautiful deep green color, and that its bright but earthy flavor would balance nicely with powdered sugar and a warm chocolate sauce. The next day, I did some experimenting, and was very happy with the result.

I had four of these while standing over the fryer. I hope you’ll enjoy them too!

Ingredients:

Churros

-6T unsalted butter

-2 ¼ cups water

-1t vanilla extract

-1t salt

-2T matcha powder

-2 ¼ cups all-purpose flour

-1 egg

-Oil, for frying

Chocolate sauce

-3 ½ oz dark chocolate chips

-1/2 cup heavy cream

-Pinch of salt

Directions:

1. Place flour in a bowl. Sift the matcha powder into the bowl and stir.

2. Place butter, water, vanilla, and salt in a saucepan, and bring to a boil over medium-high heat.

3. Remove from heat, and add flour mixture to the pot. Stir vigorously with a wooden spoon until a smooth dough forms, about 1-2 minutes (It’s quite an arm workout, but keep stirring!).

4. Transfer dough to a bowl, and add an egg. Stir vigorously again until the egg is well incorporated, and the dough is smooth, about 2 more minutes.

5. Transfer dough to a piping bag with a star tip (3/8”).

6. Heat oil in a deep skillet over medium-high heat until 400°.

7. Pipe dough into the oil in batches, and fry until golden brown, about 2 minutes. Turn frequently, and keep the oil between 375-400°.

8. Transfer to a plate lined with paper towels, and dust with powdered sugar.

9. Make the chocolate sauce: Place the chocolate chips in a bowl. Put the heavy cream and salt in a saucepan and warm over medium-high heat. Just before the cream comes to boil, remove saucepan from heat and pour over chocolate chips. Let it sit for 1 minute. Stir until a thick chocolate sauce forms.

10. Enjoy immediately!

Days in the Sun, Nights in the Rain

By: Anonymous

Too many empty "see you tomorrow"s
I thought I had missed the sunset and sunrise
 Too many unfilled rain checks
 I thought I forgot my umbrella
 Too many empty smiles
 I really thought the mask was real
 Too many nights spent wandering and wondering
 I thought your mind might have run past me for a second

 I turned to look. I realized it wasn't you. You were never there.
 The sun rises.
 I see tomorrow. The rain falls around my umbrella.

Streetside Clinic

By: Luke Gatta

My stethoscope feels like a Fisher-Price toy
when I push against his denuded chest.
The sounds are hard to hear when he speaks.

He talks, endlessly,
of hustling, snorting, prison.
A job here and there.
Two suicide attempts, 
four daughters, 
somewhere.

I need to auscultate, 
so I ask about tomorrow.

He pauses.

I hear two beats,
and they sound no different than mine.

a year in review

By: Candice Mazon

i have been used to falling
falling  
falling.
but this year, i rose.
and everything bloomed. 
love came in drizzles, 
then in waves
reaching the shore
then pulling back on itself.
loving this skin
has never been free flowing. 
but i tried.  
like always, i tried. 

tried to walk on tightrope
hoping there was a net underneath.
tried to drink starlight
and ended up light headed. 
tried to laugh with the universe
 and realized i loved its silences. 
this year brought adventures
 in familiar cities, 
in unfamiliar buildings,
 and even within the confines
 of a twin sized bed. 

the better things
that i’ve been waiting on
came with an embrace. 
they saw my face looking out the window,
with cobwebs in my hair, 
longing in my hands. 
they stumbled in, then told me, 
“thank you for believing
everything would turn out okay.” 
because it did. 
and more things will come.
some unwelcome visitors, 
but also moments of bliss.
 so i will continue to look at the moon,
 as she tries to hide herself
night after night.
 and i will continue to be brave,
 and be afraid.
 be reckless, 
and too cautious.
 and i will continue to love
 who i love, 
catch all the hurt
with these birdcage hands,
have faith in the Fates, 
and trust in the strength
embedded in my DNA
to venture on. 
as always,
as always, 
as always.