the labcat

sometimes it's hard to be funny

2011-12-06T07:55:00.000-08:00

in honor of our upcoming bad poetry, bad music event (thursday night, 7.00, dewey lounge, be there), here's a lab cat challenge:

write a wonderfully bad poem. comedy's always hard to put into written words, without expressions or hand gestures. so i find that saying out loud the jokes you want to make helps start the wheels moving. if you come up with anything, email us! i'll post it! and you can be i'll be subjecting you to some of my bad poetry beauties very, very soon.

submission date extended!

2011-12-01T16:44:00.000-08:00

hey y'all! show off your brainy chops in our smith college lit & art mag. we extended the deadline to december 23rd, the very end of the semester, for all you procrastinators out there. but really, we'd love to read & see your stuff.

so send in your poetry, short stories, essays, screenplays, drawings, painting photos--anything, really--for publication in the early spring. limit to five poems. stories should be 5-7 pages. art should be in 300 dpi. all submissions as attachments to labrys@smith.edu. yes, that was a fragment.

be sure to include your name, title, and class year in the body of the email.

contact sylvia, at saltreut@smith.edu or allison at apilatsk@smith.edu, our lit mag mavens, with any questions. should i have written all of that in small print?

hope to see you in the submissions pile! happy december!

bad music bad poetry

2011-12-01T11:32:00.000-08:00

a celebration of cold
creativity:

bad music, bad poetry

dewey lounge, seven p.m.

thursday/
december 8th

(bring silly rhymes, half-baked stories, undeveloped pictures, a off-pitch song or two.
crapapella will be joining us for some loud & proud bad music.
laugh off finals stress, grab a piece of cake, and join us for a LABRYS study break)

-->i'll cook up some more bad poetry by then.

weekend inspiration

2011-11-10T17:22:00.000-08:00

a little something to get your pen penning, your shutter shuttering, your paintbrush painting...

thanksgiving break is in two weeks. express your home home--the good, the bad, the ugly--whatever comes to mind.

send us the things you come up with! we'll post em.

rainy days

2011-10-14T13:59:00.000-07:00

no sun and copious amounts of rain calls for a little Bukowski.

Alone With Everybody

by Charles Bukowski

the flesh covers the bone

and they put a mind

in there and

sometimes a soul,

and the women break

vases against the walls

and the men drink too

much

and nobody finds the

one

but keep

looking

crawling in and out

of beds

flesh covers

the bone and the

flesh searches

for more than

flesh.

there's no chance

at all

we are all trapped

by a singular

fate.

nobody ever finds

the one.

the city dumps fill

the junkyards fill

the madhouses fill

the hospitals fill

the graveyards fill

nothing else

fills.

the magic of this poem rests in Bukowski's semiotic strip tease--the point of this depressing nihilism is to call into question the seemingly obvious significance of the human body. of course, we hope that another person will eventually mean love, companionship, the end to loneliness. Bukowski robs us of our innate and elusive humanity and relegates us to pitifully hopeful animals, a group of which he is a part. "we are all trapped by a singular fate" -- even the speaker is a part of this group of lonely people and with this admission, any didactic or condescending tone relents. because of this, we as readers are able to distrust this jaded and heartbroken creature who speaks to us, and we are able to find idealism while maintaining the knowledge that heartbreak (and rain and gloomy days) will appear again. so why not dwell in it, until a beautiful fall day emerges?

a fresh fall

2011-10-11T11:00:00.000-07:00

This fall, we've decided to freshen up our vision for the LabCat. We still want to see, read, hear your work. We also want to talk about process , inspiration, criticism. Send us an essay, a poem, a painting, a song that somehow has made your day indulgently sad or positively brighter. Tell us why. Tell us how you start your art, give us tips, share inspiration.

Here's a collaborative space for Smithie's creativity. Join us!

When I realized that I love you --Kiersten Wulff

2011-03-29T11:16:00.000-07:00

When I realized that I love you

I was on that stretch of interstate
where the green hills of Vermont are
suddenly the swoops and dips of lying bodies;
an expanse of massive slumber

And whoever is up There was poking their
fingers through the clouds to stroke
patterns of light on evergreens

I think my favorite way that you worship me
Is when you create a watershed on my body
letting drops of champagne or melting ice
create wet paths over my shapes until you
catch the drops with parted lips

I am morphing for you, let me
Loosen the hinges of my hips or
Tell you which bird you saw or
Take Earth’s food and feed it back to you

You are morphing for me,
I will let you
Find my dark corners and gather
My river stones— I trust your feet
In my moving waters.

You're Like my Knight in Shining Armor, Except You're a Princess by Emily Bush '11

2009-10-13T19:52:00.000-07:00

You're like my knight in shining armor, except you're a princess. from Nina Schwartzman on Vimeo.

This absolutely neato torpedo video collage comes to us courtesy of gold star Labcat contributor Emily Bush and finals week, spring semester '09. Isn't it funny how academic pressure inspires creative endeavors? Labkitties, what sorts of artistic visions have come to you this mid-semester crunch? Show us!

Toodle Noodle,

The Labcat

Hello, Kitties!

2009-10-05T12:04:00.000-07:00

The Labcat has been enjoying a bit of an extended summer vacation, but now that the leaves are turning and the nights are getting ever more nippy it's becoming apparent that the time has come to trade beach blanket bingo and iced tea lemonade for more...indoor pleasures. And what better way to enjoy the great indoors than curled up with a mug of dining hall hot chocolate and your very own Labcat?

That's right, we're back and we want to know what you do!
Yes, you!

In case you're not familiar with what we do, I'll clue you in. The Labcat is the online life of Labrys, Smith College's art and literary magazine. Think of us as Labrys' web savvy partner in crime. We were established last year by the dearly missed Elizabeth Pusack and Emily Burkman, who couldn't get enough of your submissions and decided that once a year just wasn't often enough to see them all in one place. We accept everything from notebook doodles to jokes to scenes from your screenplay to collages! As long as you did it, we want it!

Of course, the Labcat isn't a substitute for Labrys, so anything you submit is also eligible for the magazine. Let us know if you'd like pieces to be considered for the print edition when you send them our way.

Send submissions as attachments to labrys@email.smith.edu.
Anonymous submissions are welcome. Please indicate whether you'd like us to enable or disable commenting.

Yours faithfully,

The Labcat

Car Lights and Ice Cream, by Emily Bush '11

2009-04-19T18:15:00.000-07:00

York Beach; Powers by Rachel Miller '09

2009-04-14T15:43:00.001-07:00

These lovely photographs were slated to appear in the 2008-2009 issue of Labrys, but we weren't able to get high-res versions for printing. So be careful when you submit: always scan your artwork or take your photographs with 300 dpi at least. If you have particularly large images (like 20x30in or something similarly ginormous) at 72 dpi, we may be able to make it work. Still, better to have your images at 300.

Isabella by Liza Aberbach '11

2009-04-14T15:41:00.001-07:00

Mirror Images; Protest by Molly Sauvain '11

2009-04-14T15:38:00.000-07:00

Snacks, No People

2009-04-11T17:41:00.001-07:00

Shots from our Fall Issue Reading/Release Party!

They are all of snacks and books and things, no people. Sorry.

Thank you for coming! (Part II)

2009-04-10T13:58:00.001-07:00

Thank you for coming!

2009-04-10T13:52:00.001-07:00

Thanks to everyone who came to the reading last night! It was lovely to see all of your faces, which are also lovely. Keep an eye out for the poets you heard last night and more in our upcoming issue! We have Amanda Pollock to thank for these shots from the party.

Green Street Café Hosts Labrys Poets

2009-04-03T05:30:00.000-07:00

Thursday April 9

8-9 PM

64 Green Street

Four poets from the upcoming print issue of Labrys will read from their work as part of the Green Street Café Poetry Series!

Anny Chen

Amy Sefton

Megan Burbank

Indus Chadha

Come enjoy a glass of wine, pots de crème, the candlelight or just the poetry! Reading ought to last under an hour!

Laundry by Angelica Huertas '10

2009-04-03T05:23:00.000-07:00

the clothes must be separated.

first, my son’s faded band tee
a whitish smear undoubtedly spurted
as a result of his private passion.

there is a hint of red stain
in my daughter’s underwear, betraying
the secret of new sexuality.

my husband’s blue button-down
carries the faint scent of foreign woman
an odor familiar from his embrace.

and the only sound that echoes in this house
is the dull hum of the washing machine.

Love by Claire Harper '11

2009-04-03T05:10:00.000-07:00

She lay awake in her boyfriend’s arms some nights, watching the blue of a movie flicker over blanket and walls. She felt the weight of his arms on her ribcage and tried to feel the size of her heart. This pressing feeling against her esophagus, was this love? She imagined that lumpy cardiac muscle expanding, ever expanding to hold this big thing called love, its thin pathways lengthening, its unexplored niches becoming cavernous. She pressed herself closer to his warm body, wanting to retreat into his comforting skin. To make her overwhelming but still abstract feeling for him something solid, to live among his precious organs and hold in her hands the beautiful cells that made him.

Watching, by Allison McCormack '11

2009-04-02T11:48:00.002-07:00

Petrograd, by Abby McIntyre '10

2009-04-02T11:48:00.001-07:00

Other Side of the Glass, by Claire Harper '11

2009-04-02T11:46:00.000-07:00

October Growing Pains by Melissa Maranto '12

2009-04-02T09:33:00.001-07:00

Wrinkled in my closet
Folded and jammed between
A flapper gown and a faded spacesuit
Lies my favorite costume:
Iridescent white slip,
Gold-painted cardboard jewelry, plastic scepter
To make me Queen of the Nile
Cherished that outfit, promised
To wear it on another Halloween

It’s my final year of high school
I’ve spent the whole day in costume
Prepared to prowl the darkened block
For the very last time:
Wrapped in enigmatic black
Velvet cape, emerald painted face, pointed hat
Cleopatra forgotten, for now
Not bound by a river’s waters
I defy gravity as the western witch

But I am bound by schoolwork
Shackled by my own maturity
Slave work unknown to an Egyptian queen
I am slave to my own nature:
My sophisticated black colors my mood,
And I dream of skipping again
Through both street and life
Seeking happiness and chocolate
My Cleopatra gown white as innocence

The clock strikes eleven
Celebrations, quests for candy over
My studies complete at last,
I can challenge my situation:
Toss aside the broom that failed to fly
Retrieve white dress, fake jewelry
But the little slip sticks
Refusing to fit a woman’s body
My face still green with envy
For the child I once was

We Live off the Highway by Catherine Dodson '11

2009-04-02T09:20:00.000-07:00

We live off the highway. Like so many suburban landscapes, they laid the thick black tongue of the highway down and these houses just kind of sprouted up around them.

Have you ever listened to the call of the road? It never ends; be it dark or light, dawn or dead of night, the highway keeps up the roar. I can hear it even now, beneath the murmuring tones of suburbia; lawn mowers, children, birds chirping in the pseudo-wilderness of the immaculately tended backyard forests.

So little of this existence are words spoken. Present in the absence of sound is the silence, or worse, the hushed and quieted tones of languages that would be spoken aloud, crushed beneath the roar of that yellow-barbed beast.

Shleep by Nina Schwartzman '10

2009-02-16T18:13:00.001-08:00

A Poet by Sarah Collins Honenberger '74

2009-02-05T05:27:00.000-08:00

You put your head in the oven. Because Ted left you? I don’t think so. I’ve read the bee poems. I’ve read your novel. You tried once before when you were too young to know what it was—or even guess—but you came back. Suicide was just another idea, hyperbole of life and death, fascinating and frightening. An exam you failed the first time. So you sat and spun the words and ideas into poems, threads of hope and hate. And then you put down the pen, turned on the gas, and rested your cheek against the cool metal and closed your eyes. The emotion melted away, pooled into puddles—pure into alloy—and then welded flesh and untouchable gas, a monument to what was, a substitution for what might have been. You never meant to give it up for nothing known or dear.

Nicholas cried out in the night, Mama, while Frieda worried tears to threadbare skin. And Ted wept, thinking he had done it to himself. Or perhaps not able to stop himself, rejoiced to think he was the ultimate tutor then, the mentor and the pupil merged, control that had escaped him with your pulsing heart and brain. And again now and now and now he pushes the lines across the page, hidden in the dark hole, enemy of the red bursts that split a body bold. The river washes by him, prostitute poet, flotsam on the flooded shore.

Remembering the crowded sidewalks, pram caught on the curb, and blackened letters in your hand, he struggles to forget. Instead he writes it down, the birthday letters, before he remembers he no longer has you to type it out on a clean page and to send it out into the world, a pirate ship of starless greed. He blots out sharp phrases from your journals, lies down in still waters, and genuflects to his own image reflected there. The thought-fox warily sets lame prints in snow, colder and deeper in the darkness than Ted’s nightmares or the weeping children’s waking dreams. The eye widens, coming about its own business, and he thinks he touches again the melting fingers and your smile. Blinded, he writes and lies and sells them wholesale, the gold pieces heavy on his heart. Your story, just a story, he says. Yet he knows now the loneliness you felt, as if by osmosis he becomes you, harried and searching, wanting and disdainful.

The clock ticks. Grain by grain, the hourglass empties its hate. White fists become the ashes of what could have been. Coal angels, ask and you shall receive. Yours, Sylvia, was a weird blue dream that might have been a sunny day gone stormy or an ocean sucked into the earth and swallowed whole. You wrote ‘what immortality is,’ but never meant it for yourself.

Sarah Collins Honenberger ’74 embraced a second career as an author at a Smith Alum Summer Session, SASS, in 1995. Her first novel, White Lies, was a 2007 nominee for the Library of Virginia Fiction award and her second novel, Waltzing Cowboys, just released in January 2009, is an Editor’s Pick on Bookviews.com. More at www.readhonenberger.com.

"A Good Affair While it Lasts" by Ingrid Johnson '11

2009-02-05T05:08:00.001-08:00

"A Good Affair While it Lasts".mp3

Party Time! Save the date!

2009-02-03T10:31:00.001-08:00

You are cordially invited to the release party and reading for the fall print issue of Labrys! We hope you'll come in out of the snow for some arty/litty festivity!

Where: The Poetry Center, Wright Hall, Smith College!

When: Friday, February 20th at 7 PM!

What: Food, Poems, Prose, Artwork, Music, Magazines!

Longer Still by Kelsey Hattam '09

2009-02-02T22:38:00.001-08:00

Longer Still.m4a

For Lillian by Anonymous

2009-02-02T22:26:00.000-08:00

Perched on Hail Mary,
on the verge of Our Father,
the Apostles and their Creed
thread between your frail fingers.
Rocking back and forth,
paper thin eyelids drawn closed—
I can see the thoughts behind them.
Your lips are moving
and what you are saying
fills the room
although no sound escapes you.

A Blog with a Website!

2009-01-28T18:52:00.000-08:00

We have a real website now, folks!

www.smith.edu/labrys

At the moment it has information about joining the staff, submission guidelines, a picture of the current issue and where to find it (soon). In awhile, it will also have a complete archive of Labrys print issues and an update about our fall issue release party.

Check it out!

Hello Second Semester!

2009-01-28T17:52:00.000-08:00

We hope, Dear Readers, that you haven't forgotten us in your excitement and haste in the beginning of the spring semester. We have things in store for you, exciting things like parties and magazines and submission deadline extensions...

Print Submission Deadline Extension to February 28th

We love you so much that we want more of you! There's plenty of time to scan or photograph your artwork, polish a poem, or finish coloring a comic strip. Send them along for consideration in our Spring Issue. Read the submission guidelines along the righthand column - we appreciate it!

Fall Issue Release Party

It's coming! The fall issue is hot off the press and ready to go out the door and into your eager hands quite soon. In celebration, we will be hosting a reading and get-together.

The Show by Kelsey Hattam '09

2008-11-24T21:26:00.001-08:00

Kelsey, The Show.m4a

Windows by Emily Burkman '09

2008-11-24T20:52:00.000-08:00

Photographs by Molly Sauvain '11

2008-11-20T19:33:00.001-08:00

Seventh Sister by Alix Bregman '10

2008-11-20T19:20:00.000-08:00

First Semester

John Smith told me
i was worthless
i believed him and opened
my pink umbrella
under a sunny glass ceiling

then i burned the apple betty
in my easy-bake oven poor child
while the shatter of a glory stein
squealed in my ears

the shots ring out
spilling on the table
the illusory fable splashes
into the toilet.

i wish i was who
i meant to be here
strong sister strong
like you but who
are we trying to be?

Second Semester

when i grow up i want to be a Goldsmith
when i grow up i want to be a Silversmith
i'm grown up make me a Blacksmith
i'll be a locksmith.

see my bruises doubt you
do but they’re there
there there they say they
don’t know what they’re
talking about

i don’t want to be here
i don’t want to hear bees
i’m a wanton won ton who cannot have two Bs
stop talking to me. but they don’t.

Stop drinking
Alcohol it’s bad for you stop
Drinking coca cola it’s bad
For the starving children and the poor who
Find their way to college with frowns affirmed in action.

Spring

they stick nametags down their throats on fingers
they stick nametags up their girlfriends
i’m bulimic i’m gay i’m tortured i wear black
but don’t tell me how to run my life
i run on my own.

dear sister
help me
Help Me.

Break by Janice Estrada '11

2008-11-20T19:17:00.000-08:00

I find it hard to concentrate
Excitement? Perhaps.
Excitement to hold the golden answers you have held already
Nerves?
Nerves that call to me and reaffirm the fear that I might have missed out on something
That little thing that makes you gasp and squirm
When asked to reveal an assumed hard night’s work
Planned out with time
Exhaustion?
Derived from a sleepless night

No I have no chosen to sleep this night.
Why might you ask?

Because I am behind
Because I have chosen to sleep through those fall mornings while you minds were molded
Because I have failed at choice between academia and health
Because I have ravished my blankets to their fabricated lengths
Because I have chosen to delay
Because I have chosen to diverge in midnight conversations in hopes to catch some glimmer of a future that holds happiness
Because I have slacked
I have…
You fill in the blank

And yet I feel alive
Having fought with my mind against time
To the sights of a book well used
To the taste of a Coke gone flat
To the smell of a refreshing smoke
And to the sounds that anger me through jealousy

I stay awake
To hear the slight pressure of your wooden floors as you awake from your slumber
Hear the yawning of a well rested night
Hear the aching of the body to move
Hear the sighs of contempt for a new day
Hear the groans of your first meal you find unsatisfactory
Hear the mind’s traveling through your agenda
Hear your first morning thoughts

To see the dawn’s first spectrum
Between night and what you call day
And what I have called bedtime
To see the first dawn’s greeting
This is what I find that truly makes me feel alive.
To look out one side window and see the night
And to step onto a porch embracing a new day
This alone makes me feel unconquerable
As I face the eastern sky
And hold fast to the hopes
That today will be the day
Where I conquer a sleepless night
And stand in the glory of academia

Today will be the day
That I will truly live in this college
As a student
As a mold to what is expected
As a citizen in a mediocre world

Today will be the day
That I will live a life preordained

Today will be the day

Things I Want by Amy Sefton '10

2008-11-19T05:33:00.000-08:00

Things I Want is a serialized collection of drawings about desire, images, and the Internet. Keep an eye out for updates to the series.

News from The Labcat

2008-11-16T18:48:00.000-08:00

We've decided to give The Labcat a bit of a makeover. We hope this will make the site easier to manage and enjoy. Thanks to all our contributors and readers. We are proud to introduce the work of musician Kelsey Hattam '09, just a few posts down. Her songs are the first Labrys has ever had the pleasure to publish. We continue to seek submissions for The Labcat. See the sidebar for submission information. The fall print issue of Labrys will be out in mid-December. Check back for information on our release party and reading! In addition, we are seeking submissions for the next print issue of Labrys through mid-January. Submissions may be sent as separate attachments to labrys@email.smith.edu. Images should be scanned at 300 dpi. Text should be sent as 12 point Times New Roman Microsoft Word documents. Label all files as the title of the piece. Do not include your name in your document! Please include, full name, class year, and title of your piece in the body of the email. We are looking forward to hearing from you!

Untitled by Emily Burkman '09

2008-11-16T17:57:00.001-08:00

Captain's Quarters, Late at Night by Laura Markis '09J

2008-11-16T17:48:00.000-08:00

Waiting for ships to pass in the night
That just never came.
Now I’m counting down the hours ‘til dawn,
But the sky just gets more grey.
Feeling my way by constellations
Is a painful circumnavigation –
And I have to do it alone;
No one else knows the way.

The scattered stars burn like scars:
Winking, knowing, laughing, growing.
They mock me when I am lost.
They say to lose oneself is to be set free,
But I have never felt more trapped.
At least I have the comfort of the sea,
Its constant, lulling melancholy.
What more could one ask?

As the aching wanes and I can breathe again,
I realize how rough the waters have been.
How long have I been in my quarters?
Perhaps I should send a distress signal?
No. I’ll just sit at my desk and pretend to rest;
Get as close as I can to forgiveness,
And wait for the dawn.
Tomorrow is another day.

Subway Man by Wiley Reading '10

2008-11-16T17:44:00.000-08:00

On a dismal train
traveling noisily
from Hoyt-Schermerhorn to Lafayette,
a man with piss on his clothes and beer on his breath
lurches charmingly toward me

the skinny and smiling and paper-brown man
sits down with his thigh
pressed against mine and studies me
with rheumy eyes

life is getting me down
he says and I nodded, knowing
I’ve needed others,
always,
to give me some relief
and now I smelled it coming:
anonymous release

Life is hard he said
you bust your ass at work and then you
get home to some ball bustin’
from the woman-you-love
I nod as middle-aged merchant’s wives
sidle slowly away from the pair of us
and our troubled talk
You’re too pretty to have a hard life
he says

That's how it is I say
and he doesn't tell me
I'm too young to know
he would be wrong
and then
he holds out a skeleton arm
wrapped in sinew and street dust
and I shake his hand and leave
the holy place

Ancestor by Gwen Gethner '11

2008-11-16T17:39:00.000-08:00

Powdery stone dust
Chipped delicately away,
Paintbrush and dental tool
Slowly reveal
The line of my jawbone,
Smooth and fossilized,
The ridges of my teeth,
Tiny legacy
Of my disintegrating body.

Later, buried
In the orange-brown motley
Of anonymous stone,
My straight miracle
Of a knee-joint
Is uncovered,
Two worn ends
Of bone hinging the door
To future centuries
Of bipedalism.

Fragments of my body’s frame
Cradled in a scientist’s hand
That reminds me
Of my own.
Slender, dexterous,
With the elegant offshoot
Of an opposable thumb.

Doesn't Seem to Matter by Kelsey Hattam '09

2008-11-16T17:30:00.001-08:00

Doesn't Seem to Matter.m4a

Hear more of Kelsey's music here!

All I've Sown by Kelsey Hattam '09

2008-11-16T17:29:00.001-08:00

All I've Sown.m4a

The Receipts, a found poem by Anonymous '10

2008-11-03T11:58:00.000-08:00

Do there really need to be scholarly articles on
Effects of income on drug choice in humans?
I mean, isn’t it kind of obvious?
As Whitney Houston once said:
“Crack is cheap. I make too much money to ever smoke crack…
Where are all the receipts from the drug dealer?
I want to see the receipts.”

Study Abroad by Alexandra Bregman '10

2008-11-03T11:51:00.000-08:00

The European Union stars blind in Eiffel Tower photos
While French kids at McDonalds sneer at Americans between cigarettes
Musicians sing in Spanish on the metro passing by yet another
Couple’s fleeting, slimy embrace

On my way I eat
Crepes made by Musulmen and pizza made by Frenchmen
Brushing the Iraqi beggars knelt on the Champs Elysees
Between Asians in berets
Smiling at the obese homeless man outside the boulangerie with his “hungry” sign

Nightfall leads me to lonely rockers lingering
In an empty concert hall looking for their scene
I get a few more onceovers in the dark crowd before
I avoid the coffin elevator
And sleep in the Haussmann across from a new apartment
building.

Bonjour.

last night i dreamt my father drowned the cat by Amy Sefton '10

2008-11-02T13:35:00.001-08:00

last night i dreamt my father drowned the cat
it was almost worse that he hadn’t meant to
he’d intended to give him a swimming lesson
outfit him with cat goggles
flippers
a cat sized swimming cap to protect his pink and sensitive ears
he submerged him in the fishtank
with the sunfish who snapped at his tail
weaved in between his whiskers
swam fast and dodged his batting paws
and i forget what happens next but soon my father is holding our cats body
and it is limp
and dripping
and pathetic
and he looks so genuinely crestfallen that
in my dream
i am more worried for my father than for my cat
and my heart breaks for my father and not for my cat who is dead
because my father was careless and stupid
and forgot to buy a cat ladder
a cat snorkel
a cat sized life preserver
and i want to protect my father
from the rest of the family
and the other cat
who won’t be as understanding as i am
and don’t understand what it is to have a plan that falls apart at the end

Wheelchair Gladiators by Genevieve Cheng '10

2008-10-30T17:59:00.000-07:00

"Will Groulx (Team USA, #10) yells in agony after having just fallen a few centimeters short of crossing the goal line during the Beijing 2008 Paralympic Wheelchair Rugby Gold Medal Match."

The Wise Eye by Melissa Maranto '12

2008-10-30T17:56:00.000-07:00

The strongest memory of all was the vision of a pair of wise, ancient sky-colored eyes that burned and knew the truth. The image still made Ezab’s heart thud painfully with cold sorrow. Every day as he closed the bakery, his eyes were drawn like ants to sugarcakes to the placard above the lintel, and every time he read it, the memories returned. They used to come in relentless floods, but now it was only a few images: the taste of a honey-bite on his tongue, a short barked laugh…and others, perhaps a forced laugh of his own, or the dull ache of a supposedly laudatory slap on the back from one of the other men.

Maybe it was because today was the seventh anniversary of her disappearance, but for whatever reason, Ezab walked to the box where he kept the recipes instead of leaving. He rummaged through them for a few seconds and withdrew one card. It was not the original, and he had the recipe committed to memory, but it was enough of a reminder.

Everyone knew Kirutha, the sharp-eyed, sharp-tongued young woman who lived alone in a hovel just inside city limits. The last surviving King’s Spy, it was said; she wanted to leave Bahereh, and most of the city of Bahereh wanted her gone too, but she was not allowed to go lest she leak valuable information to anyone. All of the other King’s Spies had met with untimely deaths and unfortunate accidents, but somehow Kirutha had managed to survive. Some claimed she was a witch. Other rumors whispered the great monarch himself had given up on causing her death because he was terrified of her. As for the question of why such a being had been chosen to be one of his protectors against coups in the first place, no one had an answer.

So when Ezab was dared to go to Kirutha’s shack and make some sort of romantic advance toward her, even some of the other men protested. The dare at age eighteen was a ritual, an unofficial passage into manhood, but it was no good if the dare would almost certainly result in death. But in the end it was decided; Ezab would go to Kirutha and ask her if she wanted an evening out or some such—and she must not know it was a dare.

So naturally Ezab’s heart was throbbing away in his throat like a bird trying to tear loose from its cage as he paced in the direction of Kirutha’s hovel. He had heard stories of what Kirutha could do: how she would dart forward and rip out your jugular with her teeth if she were displeased, or how a single withering glance from her could dry up a woman’s bleeding or make a male’s manhood drop off.

By most beggars’ standards, Kirutha’s shed was not such a dreadful place. But to Ezab, the four walls fashioned of long sticks lashed together and plastered with daub seemed to make a shoddy child’s fort rather than a home. But there was Kirutha, sitting straight-backed on a hand-woven mat before the hovel, a small yellow-furred cat seated beside her, knots of mop-haired peasant children darting about just a few feet away, as if it were her palace. And to think she actually used to live in a palace.

Ezab hung back, watching her, stalling for a few seconds before confronting the woman he sincerely hoped would not tear out his jugular. He sidled surreptitiously behind a large rolled-up carpet leaning against a nearby building, keeping his eyes on Kirutha. She disappeared into the hovel and when she came back into view she was carrying a tray of what looked like fresh, steaming baked honey-bites. Before Ezab had time to be puzzled, his emotions jumped straight to disbelief, for the children flocked from various hiding places to the witch-woman’s side and plucked the honey-bites from the tray. As the children chewed noisily, Kirutha scolded them, “What do you say?” and was answered by chorus of sticky “thank yous.”

Ezab was half-shocked, half-confounded. Kirutha was feeding the capital city’s children? Since she was now eating one of the honey-bites herself, they were likely not poisoned, but how in the white world did the children trust her after all the warnings their parents had surely given?

Swallowing hard, Ezab picked his way around the munching children to reach Kirutha. When he was but a cubit from her, she was bent to one side, stroking another cat that had sidled up beside her, so he nearly jumped out of his skin when she addressed him. “Ezab Abfuya, son of Yarim Abfuya the butcher. What do you want?”

“I…I, uh…” He stuttered. Some of the nearby children eyed him curiously, enjoying the spectacle. One of them, a dirty-faced little girl with lopsided braids, piped up.

“Maybe he likes you, Kiri!”

It was not a good time for speculation, but Ezab wondered why the child chose to call Kirutha by the first syllable of her name followed by an “i,” usually a nickname reserved for the closest of friends.

“Um, yes,” Ezab stammered. “She…she’s right.”

Kirutha turned to face him. It was the first time Ezab had seen her up close. Her skin was the color of dense cinnamon, her stony features large and sharply defined. She was not beautiful, but she certainly held one’s attention. Her eyes were blue, bright burning crystal blue, an intense color rare as rain in desertlike Bahereh. The face was youthful, devoid of lines, but those eyes could have seen a thousand summers. Ezab’s heart squeezed itself into a tight little ball, as if trying to avoid her gaze.

“I’ve been watching you,” Ezab lied. “I’ve heard the things everyone says and I, well, I want you to know I don’t think they’re true. And I want to prove everyone wrong. You want to go out sometime?” He sucked in a gust of air and held it fast, praying it wasn’t the last breath he ever drew.

Her face did not change but for the movement of her mouth when she spoke. “You just turned eighteen. The men dared you to do this.”

Ezab flinched. “How did you know? You…can’t read minds, can you?”

She did not smile—her mouth remained in a firm scowl—but her eyes twinkled. “I can see the facts,” she answered cryptically before adding, “And it’s really quite obvious. You look to be about eighteen years old. There is fear and confusion in your eyes, but no happy anticipation. Also, I would have known if you had been skulking around my home.”

“I guess this is why you were a King’s Spy.” Ezab winced even as the words fell from his lips. Why did he always blurt out whatever was running through his head when he was under pressure?

Much to his surprise, she laughed. It was a short, percussive sound, as if her voice had forgotten how to make it. “Aye. But it didn’t take a spy to figure what you were doing. It was all over your face.”

Ezab scuffed the ground with his foot. “I’ve been told my face is like an open book. Not just an open book, an open child’s book.”

She barked out another laugh, and this one sounded a bit more natural. “Have a honey-bite, Ezab Abfuya.” She offered him the tray, taking one morsel for herself and popping it into her mouth in a very unladylike manner. Ezab followed suit, insisting to himself that if she hadn’t poisoned the children, she wouldn’t poison him. A surprising burst of caramel sweetness shocked his taste buds as he chewed.

“These are good!”

“Of course they’re good. Kiri made them,” noted a small boy critically, glaring at Ezab from his seat in the dirt as if the young man were severely lacking in brains. Ezab flushed.

“You…bake for them?” Ezab wiped his sweaty palms on his trousers, silently uttering prayers that the witch-woman wasn’t toying with him.

“You’re surprised?” Her voice was suddenly deadpan. Being completely unreadable had doubtless made her an excellent espionage expert, but Ezab was certainly no assassin.

“I, er, I hadn’t…heard anything…about you being able to cook…I mean, a King’s Spy…” he was babbling again. Blast it, why couldn’t he act more like the man he had supposedly become?

“I worked in the royal kitchen.” There was a bit less of an edge to her voice now. “And if you tell anyone that, I’m afraid you’ll regret it,” she remarked, the ghost of a smile twitching at the corners of her mouth.

“I won’t tell!” Ezab placed a hand over his heart.

She chuckled loudly, and Ezab flinched, eliciting laughter from many of the nearby urchins. “You amuse me, boy. Feel free to return, if you wish. After all, I can’t have these little ones eating all of my honey-bites, can I?”

Ezab forced out a laugh.

“Tell the men I glared monstrously at you and threatened to curse you when you approached me. And say I threw this after you as you ran away.” She reached behind herself and lifted a heavy, tarnished metal spoon, pressing it into Ezab’s hand.

She did not say goodbye, but he knew he was being dismissed. With a hasty farewell, Ezab turned and skittered away, his ears burning from the catcalls the children shouted after him.

So from then on, every time Ezab saw the spoon nailed above his lintel, he was reminded of the reception the men gave him when he returned from his dare. They had guffawed as they practically dragged him to his home to affix the spoon Kirutha had “thrown after him” to his doorway, clapping him on the back and pronouncing him a man. Now that he was one of them, he spent a great amount of time in the pubs with his new friends—usually Hemi and Fyarlo, two other eighteen-year-olds who were constantly challenging each other to drinking contests. Ezab had spent many a morning sleeping off the profane amounts of alcohol he had imbibed the previous night at the urging of his friends. He particularly remembered the first time Fyarlo had bullied him into a contest against Hemi. That had resulted in all of the men remembering how Ezab Abfuya couldn’t hold liquor to save his life. Naturally he was a prime target for drinking contests now. Afterward, he always boasted emptily that he was holding out on everyone and one day would be able to drink more than any man in Bahereh.

How strange that every time he saw that battered old utensil as he walked, so often still weak and headachy, from his home, made him feel like a small child who had broken a window and blamed it on his smaller brother—certainly it did not make him feel like a man. The dare was a test, a demonstration of a man’s mettle, but he had simply walked up to Kirutha and she had guessed his motivation immediately. Kirutha could read him much more easily than the men with whom he now blustered and joked in the pubs, which was likely why whenever he began to wander absentmindedly, his feet led him to Kirutha’s hovel.

She did not seem surprised when he reappeared in front of her home. Neither did the children; in fact, the little girl with the crooked pigtails sang out to him, “I knew you’d be back!” as he busily chewed one of Kirutha’s peppered pretzels—then proceeded to make a complete fool of himself fanning his tongue at the spiciness.

It was almost a relief, being around someone who could see right through him—even if she still terrified him just a bit. He didn’t have to waste his time pretending to enjoy crude jokes or trying to deepen his voice while laughing hugely. For a former spy, Kirutha was surprisingly willing to converse. Granted, she had divulged only her age (twenty-four, which mortified Ezab even more, as she couldn’t have been more than sixteen or seventeen at the height of her espionage days), but she was much more willing to listen to him ramble than the men. And the men didn’t make such excellent cinnamon cookies. They didn’t occasionally threaten to kill him just to laugh at his reaction either, but he was willing to tolerate that from Kirutha. Most of the death threats came after he ranted about the torture of being forced into drinking challenges; first she would advise him on how to avoid those situations, and then warn him that she might have to kill him for being such a baby.

A good part of their time together was spent silently, with Ezab watching Kirutha make various treats—she didn’t mind as long as he didn’t unduly distract her. He would stand behind her, transfixed, as her long quick fingers measured ingredients and prodded dough. She had built her own small oven of clay, and Ezab swiftly picked up on how to use it. Not only that, he found he had a knack for memorizing her recipes. Every one was delectable, but Ezab’s favorites were the honey-bites, and the day Kirutha allowed him to make a batch of his own, the children pronounced them “nearly as good as Kiri’s.” Though Kirutha encouraged him to introduce his baked goods to the other men, he kept his new interest a secret.

Six months had passed since Ezab’s eighteenth birthday when he finally asked her the question that had been troubling him since they met. By then he had learned that she could not read minds; she was simply astute, and much wiser than he ever had a prayer of being. Which is why he asked her one day: “Why is it that I still don’t feel like a man? The men accept me.”

She seemed surprised at the question, something that rarely happened. “I would have thought you knew by now. The person the men accept is not Ezab Abfuya, but a pretender who acts as one of them in order to gain the false acceptance you have now. Yet you worry they will not accept you if you are yourself.”

“That might be because the Ezab Abfuya I really am is a weakling.”

Kirutha raised and lowered her bony shoulders, which were now covered in a thick wool shawl Ezab had brought her when the nights grew cold. “You have never had a chance to prove that you are anything but a weakling. The dare is an empty, hollow tradition that proves nothing real. One day there will be a chance for you to choose between the two halves you have become. The choice will show your strength, your belief in the person you know as yourself, and then you will know you are a man.”

“So I will feel like a person split in half forever, then.”

Rather than rebuking him for the childish comment, she regarded him somberly with the blazing, ancient-looking azure eyes that Ezab could still barely stand to meet. “Never say that danger cannot find you, Ezab. For the minute you do so, it will.”

At the time, he had shrugged off the advice—he had been hoping for something more like, “You should feel like a man, you’re doing everything right, it will just take time.” But it was barely a month after this conversation that she vanished. Ezab hadn’t visited her for a week, as his father had been keeping him busy—teaching him a “real man’s trade” in the butcher shop. He went to see Kirutha one morning only to find the hovel empty, the children absent. He waited for a few minutes, then left, and returned many hours later. Ezab had been sure she only had gone to run some errands or some such and would return promptly.

But she did not return promptly, and unease began to swell in Ezab’s heart. Surely no harm had befallen her—what earthly force could possibly harm Kirutha? She was simply a constant in his life. But on the third day of her absence, Ezab overheard the men discussing her in one of the smoky pubs.

“I heard the king finally got her,” Fyarlo confided to Hemi.

“What, the same way he got all the other spies?”

“No, not exactly. The others all met with unfortunate accidents; I’d lay odds the king couldn’t arrange that for the witch-woman. Tadul is one of the palace guards. He saw them bring her in.”

“Did they…?”

Fyarlo cut Hemi off. “He doesn’t know. Don’t know if that witch-woman can even die. Who cares, anyway? Oy, Ezab! Up for a drinking contest? Let’s see if you can get through an entire tankard!”

Ezab took the memory of those words and buried them deep in his mind where he would never again find them, telling himself over and over that they must be wrong. But as days became weeks and weeks became months, and the stories of Kirutha’s capture began to circulate, Ezab slowly came to realize that his friend was gone and would never return. He even made several trips to her hovel, took some of her belongings home with him, especially her recipes. Instead of going to the pubs, he made honey-bites, peppered pretzels, and cinnamon cookies to pass the time, ignoring what the men would think if they knew he was baking.

But the news of Kirutha’s fate truly hit home the day the king’s herald made a public announcement. A former King’s Spy had been suspected of foul play against the king, and she had been appropriately dealt with, claimed the herald. And everyone in Bahereh knew that the phrase “appropriately dealt with” meant “executed.”

That night when Ezab went home, he fingered gently through all of Kirutha’s recipes. When he found the one for the honey-bites, the first treat of hers he had sampled, the dessert whose smell always had seemed to cling to her, he took it in his hands and turned it over and over. Then, in a sudden, violent burst of activity, he rent the ragged paper card to shreds, the pieces drifting to the floor like ashes.

Now Ezab replaced the honey-bite recipe card that he had copied from memory in its box. The honey-bites were the signature dessert of the Wise Eye Bakery, and now Hemi and Fyarlo, who once would have mocked him for doing such a womanly thing as cooking, came into the bakery every day after work for a small platter of the sweet morsels. Though they did enjoy honey-bites, Ezab did not speak to them much; a few times, he had had to throw them out for coming in blind drunk and causing a racket. He did not have the same type of popularity he once yearned for, but he was certain that Kirutha would no longer be calling him a “pretender” if she were still alive. She would be proud of him.

As he walked out, he paused before the threshold, glancing up at the placard. It bore an illustration of an all-seeing blue eye, flanked by an inscription: “The wise eye sees through the lies in your lives.”

New Moon by Allison Pilatsky '12

2008-10-29T08:09:00.000-07:00

The way frost turns on the air
And bites grass down to dirt
Before the first moon is full.
This is winter and its accompaniment.
Now waning, she is the sky’s
Mirror and she wakes in the middle
Of the night to ask if we have long
To live. This unknown measure
Draws her eyes closed again
And lips part in a half moon’s
Mile, overreaching fingers of light
And I leave her in bd.
Outside I notice snowbells
In the garden. This is joy.
The moon is gone.

Untitled by Bella El Makdessi '12

2008-10-26T19:32:00.000-07:00

Jurassic Prelude by Wiley Reading '10

2008-10-26T19:27:00.000-07:00

I can’t wait
until the Rapture—
when America will return
to wild God’s country
Princeton will be choked
with sandpipers and clothed
in spruce and boggy
skunk cabbage.
Detroit will be strangled
by giant ferns,
its long-abandoned
Automalls now nurseries.
for neo-prehistoric plants
Nevada will burn.
Las Vegas will sink into
the sand.
Mammoths and Behemoths
will roam through Montana
crushing Exxon stations like
peanut shells.
I want to be the only one
left
for the dinosaurs to hunt.

Photographs by Molly Sauvain '11

2008-10-21T05:52:00.001-07:00

Grow by Caitlin Treacy '12

2008-10-21T05:48:00.000-07:00

I think (maybe) I knew her, once,
before her smile was bones.
Something happened between
caring and then, later, leaving.

Before her smile was bones,
she could lift me onto her shoulders.
Caring and then (later) leaving
was easy at night when walls were darkest.

She could lift me onto her shoulders
back then. I didn’t sleep at first, but rest
came easy at night, where the walls were darkest:
somewhere in-between ivy vines and flower gardens.

Back then, I didn’t sleep at first. But the rest
became easy once I was gone for awhile.
Somewhere in-between ivy vines and flower gardens, our
honeysuckle used to grow. I sucked their marrow out

which was easy once I was gone for awhile.
The leaves crumpled, and weeds overran the place where
our honeysuckle used to grow. I sucked all the marrow out
of her past. She’s dry and bleached and not even real anymore.

I think that maybe I knew her once—before her smile was bones.

Raindrops by Gwen Gethner '11

2008-10-21T05:42:00.000-07:00

Somewhere a woman sings an aria to her piano,
With the rain bright on the windowpanes
And the chairs dusty under crocheted covers.

Somewhere a man digs a grave
And the rain streams gently down the mound of earth
And spatters his yellow slicker.

Somewhere a boy runs to the alley
Holding his tongue out to catch a drop of rain
And sloshing through the puddles.

Somewhere a woman dreams
Of rain on Mozart’s grave,
A man places a bunch of violets
Heavy with raindrops on a coffin,
And a boy shouts a song
To the rain.

After the Avenues by Elizabeth Pusack '09

2008-10-15T18:24:00.000-07:00

Baby by Dana Glass '09

2008-10-15T18:22:00.000-07:00

You are a thin creature, like a
malnourished child in my arms,
slender and brittle. If you were
alive I would hard boil eggs
for you. If you were alive,
we would have play-dates and
discuss politics. As it is,

I have fabricated a thin life for us:
I bury myself in tea-colored
manuscripts, face hovering
ghoulishly above the miniature blue
bonfire of your one, looming eye.
Darkness begins before night and
continues after.

To Market, a Photo Essay by Eliza Warren '10

2008-10-10T13:34:00.000-07:00

Eliza says: "It's half from Portland, ME and half from Edinburgh, UK from all open air (mostly farmer's markets and international food vendors."

Slippery Structures by Christa Whitney '09

2008-10-10T13:32:00.001-07:00

Sometimes I get this very eerie sense that entire systems of values, constellations of attention are occurring around me that I am completely outside of. This feeling can be brought on by something as simple as noticing an interesting outfit someone in my class is wearing. The way I would wear an old worn out sweater would surely not enter this sub-cultural stream of fashionable norms. Hair falling over the eye or a bra visible above the line of a shirt sometimes make me uncomfortable in the same way I am when a word is employed in the classroom, responded to and repeated, and I appear to be the only one who doesn’t understand. Another striking instance of this is dating etiquette. I have friends who seem to follow this very complex unspoken code of rules about how long one must wait after a first date to call for the second, or how many text messages can be sent in a certain period of time, or what is the time frame in which panic can be eluded and when, exactly, the lack of a text or Facebook wall post in reply signifies a grave shift in feeling of the other party, and, therefore, a period of “justified” freak-out can ensue. Herein, I am filled with a dual emotion of jealousy at being excluded from this secret language, and incomprehension at what seems to me a distortion or betrayal of emotions or aesthetics I find innate. And I circle back and around to the question: would my life be more fulfilling in some way if I tapped into these streams of alternate rules of being that generally slip by my peripheral vision in undertone murmurs?

Untitled by Bella El Makdessi '12

2008-10-09T11:13:00.000-07:00

Refocusing, the heat from the oven
Warms my hands, feet on the tiled floor- lain
Before my arrival here. A new house,
Old habit. In rooms above, boxes linger, Sharpie
On cardboard-Names scratched out, re-labelled. Kitchen,
Living room, bathroom. Books.
Small shots of pain, frozen. Seemingly
Disconnected. I clench, don’t attempt
To change the situation. Hairs on my leg stand on end, ignored
For the smells reaching, chocolate baking. Result
Of large changes provoking smaller ones, my system
Confused by movement, unfamiliar spaces, stopped
Writhing.
Gather yourself, the voice told me. So I produce
Something small. Of little value, but great effort
The clenched muscles collecting an egg, don’t
Break it yet.
Steadying my breathing, Crack.
And now, the smell, cracks open the oven, steam
Fogs my glasses. I see a misty vision of Aztec history
And witch-doctors,
And writhing bodies
And sickness
And cocoa beans.

Photographs by Molly Sauvain '11

2008-10-09T11:02:00.000-07:00

Don't forget, click to enarge.

Welcome to The Labcat

2008-08-21T08:48:00.000-07:00

Welcome to The Labcat, the new online life of Labrys, Smith College's art and literary magazine. We want to see what you do, and we want you to see what we do, and not just once a year! Please send submissions as attachments to labrys@email.smith.edu. We especially like short poems, flash essays, flash fiction, jokes, comics, fotos, drawings, scans/transcripts of things you made or wrote in grade school, and last but certainly not least, collage. That said, send in whatever you're up to, as long as it isn't quite long.

Cheerio,

The Labcat

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