Staff
Editors-in-Chief
Alissa Berman
Megan Wick
Layout
Valeria Miranda Moreno
Emir Pirija
Copy Editors
Editor: Hanna Lynch
Pan Deines
Lilli Black
Staff Artists
Caine Ryan
Tatum Huegel
Roman Di Giulio
Ellie White
Public Relations
Editor: Spenser Lamphear
Caine Ryan
Megan Radley
Web Development
Editor: Clara Fletcher
Benjamin Davis
Stephanie Friedman
Letter From The Editors
Dear Whitman Wearers of Clothes,
Do you own a pair of jeans? Boots that zip up the side? A backpack? If so, you should probably know the history of the zipper. It took almost 70 years for the zipper to catch on; in 1851 it was first called the “automatic continuous clothing closure” which is both overly descriptive and difficult to say. Needless to say, the name needed work. In 1923, a brand of galoshes took advantage of the technology, advertising their product as able to be fastened with a single movement of the hand. Some genius called these galoshes “Zippers,” a name which stuck. What a versatile little invention the zipper has since proved to be!
Today, the zipper holds snacks (preferably Cheez-Its) in the form of a Ziploc bag, it terrifies children as a carnival ride, and is a handy way to merge on the freeway. Zippers come open with a slight tug which is convenient when you really need to pee (unless you insist on a button fly), and zipping down a zipline is a wonderful rush! However, these handy interlocking fasteners are delicate and need a careful hand—they’re often the first part of a jacket to break, they can catch your fingers when you least expect it, and, when they first came onto the clothing scene, they were accused of corroding natural human values as they were just too easy to use.
We hope you’ll never look at zippers the same after reading this issue of quarterlife.
With hearts wide open,
Megan & Alissa
Is your fly unzipped?
Haha, made u look.
Table Of Contents
Calen Romig
Sophia Mathieu-Bravo
Pan Deines
Joshua Cox
Anonymous
Lili de Souza
Nissa Schlossberg
Siena Stiles
Tali Hastings
Megan Wick
Lili de Souza
Coco Leusner
Sam Allen
Conor Bartol
Sam Allen
Pan Deines
Frankie Franz
Connor Walker
Who are you
Calen Romig
Who are you to decide what I have to give
Who are you to decide if I get to live
A man, surely
What other qualifications do you have that I do not
Strong, brave, passionate
These things I will be
These things I am every day beneath the ginkgo tree
In my garden
I do not sneak into your garden
I do not steal your bees
Or the honey that they make
Day after day without complaint
Because they do not know that there is a meadow beyond the gate
But you never showed it to them
But you never ask to see the tree
You never even asked if it was there
You dismissed my garden
You didn’t care
You still don’t
So why do I still want to sit at a table
Made from its wood
The wood that I cried and bled for
In that dark night when I thought I lost everything
Ripped, unzipped, clippings in a newspaper
Who are you to cut down my ginkgo tree
And use it for your table
And then not even invite me to have a seat
In the Beginning, There Was Her
Sophia Mathieu-Bravo
Untitled
Pan Deines
I listen to music and eat ramen in the half-dark. I put on my flannel pants, because it’s cold outside, and then get under the blankets. I listen to music. I change into boxers because my flannel pants are too warm for being under the blankets. I get back in bed. I realize it’s actually quite warm in my room because the windows are closed and the heaters are on, so I get out of bed and turn off the heaters. When that doesn’t help I open the windows. I listen to music and fall asleep on top of the covers. I wake up cold at two am. I pull the blankets over myself and contemplate getting up to put on my flannel pants, but the bed is just starting to get warm. I fall asleep again. I wake up at ten thirty to sunlight breathing through the glass. I contemplate wearing shorts to breakfast but decide on pants because it’s cold outside. I eat breakfast and spend the day in my room, trying to write a paper but write in my journal instead. I put on a sweatshirt and wool socks because it’s cold outside. I realize it’s actually quite cold in my room because the windows are open and the heaters are off, so I close the window and turn on the heaters. I shed my wool socks and sweatshirt once the room warms up again. I eat dinner at five o'clock and then go to a friend’s room to spend the evening listening to music. I laugh when she gets hair dye on the carpet but in my head I’m sitting with some lines that aren’t quite right yet. The sun sets. I walk back to my room and sit down at my desk. I’m hungry again, so I listen to music and eat ramen in the half-dark…
The Inspection
Joshua Cox
All of Monday morning, it was all I could think about. I paced the room until my feet carved a ditch around my bed. I rehearsed what I would say when she arrived. I walked into the bathroom a dozen times and found something to move just an inch to make it all perfect. I emptied the trash can. Then, I threw out a tissue and emptied it again.
It was noon and she still hadn’t come, so I wrote an email asking if my inspection could be delayed. “I just need more time,” I thought. “My busy schedule would benefit from a later inspection date,” I wrote. I had nothing planned for the rest of the day. I never received a response.
The knock came at 2:04 p.m. “One moment,” I said, just as planned. I opened the door to a woman wearing a sickly grey-green housekeeping uniform and carrying a clipboard.
“Here for your inspection,” she said, smiling. I forced my own smile and stood aside to let her in.
She looked over the bed: clean, olive sheets that smelled of lavender, made perfectly. I told her that I kept it that neat every day. She said, “hm,” and made a note.
She went into the bathroom: items arranged by the sink, shower tiles spotless, mirror perfectly clear. I told her that it was usually even cleaner. “Hm,” she said, and made a note.
She ran her gloved finger over every surface in the room, never finding a speck of dust. She admired the empty trash can. She listened to every story I told and brushed aside my promises of incredible cleanliness with a “hm” every time.
Finally, she had checked every item off her list. We stood in silence together while I traced the corners of the room with my eyes, avoiding her gaze.
After a time, she spoke.
“I need to end it,” she said.
I nodded, slowly. “I know.”
“I’m sorry that I can’t give you what you want.”
“It’s not your fault.”
She stepped toward me and handed me a sheet of paper from the clipboard. I didn’t look at it until she had closed the door on her way out. Across the entire page, in green pen, she had written, “FAILED”.
At least my room had never been cleaner.
The Zipper
Anonymous
t he first thing i do when i get
h ome is to unzip.
e ek i love being un-
z ipped!
i love the feeling of having my
p een free! i
p ray for times like this. i am
e xcited to
r emove my pants.
YEOWCH! jk
Anonymous
today the zipper caught my peen.
it hurt so bad, i scrumpt a scream.
from out the peen flowed blood.
man, i felt just like crud.
suddenly, i woke from my dream!
Mother Earth
Lili de Souza
Listen to the sounds of life and love
Hear the earth as she sings to you
Sway with the wind as he dances above
And the trees as they dance in harmony too
Hear the song of the grass as it sways
And the ballad of the bird as it softly plays
Hear water on rock as it swiftly cascades
Let the wisdom of the world wash over you
Sit with the earth and hear her cries
For she can sense how she slowly dies
Listen to her as she begs and pleads
As we slowly destroy her
With nothing but ease
-Pukai
Mouth Goes: ZZZIIIPPP
Nissa Schlossberg
If I could have a zipper for a mouth I’d want my foot to be a flipper, to have a hipster as a sister, and a blister like my mister. Before my flippers slipped in slippers at the bottom of my body and got all hot and whispered kiss her in the middle of the lobby with the puck you have for hockey and your homework that you copied. I’d leave a note for you, you stocky jockey, you curdled nerd who hurdled hard and went to Bard where you regarded stardom as a shard of something great, enlarged.
After a Long Week
Siena Stiles
Mr.Zishfipper
Tali Hastings
Confessions of a Twenty-Something-Year-Old-Girl
Megan Wick
Sometimes my teeth feel too big for my head, filled with words and cavities and covered in worn down enamel. I can run my tongue over the canyons between them and can almost fall in, if I think about it hard enough. I should call my mom more than I do, but I’m worried about what I might tell her when there’s a moment of silence. I might tell her that I miss my youth, even though I’m still in it. I would say that recently, I sat in a circle of preteens–bonafide children–who think themselves adults, and wondered if I’m the same way, posturing as something I’m not. Giggling with friends over adolescent inside jokes, crying over meaningless crushes and broken jewelry. I looked at them and felt a camaraderie I rarely feel amongst others my age. I wanted to know what the years have in store for them–joys and losses, heartbreaks and vices. Have they had their first true encounter with their own mortality yet? Have I?
The Goldfish
Lili de Souza
The
goldfish swam
at the
bottom of the
bowl Around
and around
with nowhere
to go. The fish
was gold,
the bowl was white.
And through
this contrast,
the fish
took flight.
-Pukai
Bedtime Story
Coco Leusner
Some time ago, there once lived a young lass,
Who listened closely and sat still during Mass.
Her hair hung in braids, tied with a bow;,
She knew some things that most adults didn't know.
She often wore yellow, or sometimes pink,
And sat in her dresses while she would think.
Although she barely reached her mother's hips,
She spoke a powerful voice from her lips:
"Why is it that women, smart as we are,
Keep falling behind, falling so far
Since men are too insecure to allow
Women to do things that they know how,
And could do better, if given a chance?
Instead, we have to avoid and dance
Around opportunities, hidden,
Kept out of reach in favor of men."
Her query was only met with dismay
And the doctor came by later that day.
He brought with him a metal string and clasp
And stitched up her lips before she could gasp.
"Zip her, zip her!," her father shouted, and
While her mother sobbed, she reached out a hand
To her child who was quiet, a rare sight,
But her silence was forced from all their spite.
The doctor stood back and then he waited,
Watching to see this small girl defeated.
But she grabbed at the clasp which she then tore,
Ripped it off her lips and onto the floor.
Dripping down her chin, it was crimson red
Soaking into her dress while her lips bled.
She stared at the doctor with a sweet smile
That, covered in blood, overcame his trial.
Pollution
Sam Allen
When I started coughing
my bicycle would carry me
chain rattling with judgment
cross-town and, obliged,
I’d carry it up thirteen stairs
to your apartment.
We’d shuck off our clothes
and watch cartoons
wrapped in superhero blankets
like a weekend at Grandma’s
until I couldn’t tell where my sickness ended
and yours began.
It Zips Up in the Back
Conor Bartol
The day we first embraced you ran your hand through my hair and down my neck, and then you lingered on something small and cool against my skin. You worried at it as confusion passed over your face, then you turned me around and told me to take my shirt off.
You told me I had to see a doctor, your words muffled as you tried to swallow the bile rising in your throat. I said it’s fine, it’s nothing, it’s just always sort of been there, and you said no, that’s definitely not normal. You called it a growth. I never really understood that. “Growth” implies some abnormality, some adjunct added after the fact. It wasn’t a growth, it just grew with me.
Has it always been that big, you said, and I said well yes, and no. It had always run from the nape of my neck to the tail of my spine, but the size of the slider and pull were unchanged, and until I stopped getting taller it grew more teeth every year. It had never been a problem before, I said, and you said okay. Is it a problem, I said, and you said no, and I said okay.
So it wasn’t a problem, but still you had me wear turtlenecks, and walk behind or beside you, never in front, and in bed when I rolled over in my sleep, my back to you, you would turn away from it. We avoided the beach and you kept a wide berth when I showered.
Eventually I got you to touch it, and you tentatively pulled at the top. With a zzzz it unzipped a few inches, and, shrieking, you wrenched it back up. It stung. I think something got jammed in it.
You said it was too much and you were sorry but you just couldn’t do it, and you turned away from me. You walked away, and I could see the sun glinting off a silver stripe along the back of your neck, disappearing under your shirt. What? You thought we were so different?
Love Song #14
Sam Allen
My love is like an elm tree in the wind~
You could make soup from him.
My love is like the wind from distant seas~
He smells of salt and dirt.
My love is like a calling turtle dove~
Sometimes he’s in Berlin.
My love is like a granite peak sublime~
He takes some gear to scale.
My love is like a well-used Nissan Rogue~
I hit him with my Prius.
My love is like the Panama Canal~
He’s long, and full of boats.
My love is like a lonesome autumn rose~
Always covered in bees.
Response to "Mock Orange" by Louise Gluck
Pan Deines
Yes! Sex is like an orange, but not
the way you meant it.
(This is to say I’m sure you meant it,
that they’re often disappointing,
oranges.)
This is to say that sometimes
when I remove the outer layer
a bitter taste creeps
under my fingernails
and sometimes
oranges
are bruised and broken open
(it must have been a poet
who named it flesh)
long before they even reach
a stranger’s hands.
Yellow Pocket
Frankie and Franz
I’m behind
the counter
My pants unzipped
Hand in Pocket
The dog sits alone
I think he’s reading
the paper or
Licking the Bowl
Clean
Some guy just
went to the back
He slipped on
the tiles soaked
In Piss yellow
urine.
Is this science fiction?
The Bomb
Connor Walker
The piercing buzz of cicadas offered appropriate ambience for the sudden blast of heat as he left the food court. He always hated the Virginia summer; he was used to a nice, tolerable dry heat, the kind where the wind blows and the heat washes over you. This kind of heat clung to him like glue. He took one last sip of his drink before tossing it, ice rattling as it slipped into the trash can before summarily being incinerated.
“Clemens!” he heard behind him. He whipped around and saluted.
“Colonel Bell, how are you today, sir?” he responded. Col. Bell nodded.
“Hot, Clemens, hot, sweaty, and ready. I heard you came back from leave?” Col. Bell said.
“That is correct, sir,” Clemens replied.
“The District?”
“Correct, sir.”
“Jesus, Clemens, I’m trying to have a conversation with you. What did you get up to?” “Um, I just meandered, I guess, sir. Went to a few museums, looked at some monuments, shopped a little, stuff like that, sir.”
“Exh-fucking-ilarating, Clemens. At least tell me you bought something,” Col. Bell said. “I did, sir. I got this thingy,” Clemens said as he reached into his pocket and extracted a little, black, plastic bar and handed it to Col. Bell.
“Oh! I remember these, do you know what it is, Clemens?” he asked.
“No, sir, I-”
“It’s a thumb drive. Where’d you get it?”
“Antique store on MacArthur Boulevard, sir.”
“Ha! Antique! I guess I am that old, huh? Do you know what’s on it?”
“Sir?”
“Oh, for-it’s a storage device, Clemens! Files, data, pictures? Why in God’s name would you buy it if you didn’t know what it was for?”
“I thought it looked interesting, sir.”
“‘I thought it looked interesting,’” Col. Bell echoed and chuckled to himself, “Bless your heart, Clemens, I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Col. Bell walked off briskly before letting Clemens respond. Clemens turned around and headed back to his car and deposited the thumb drive back into the breast pocket of his uniform. He tapped the interface on his temple twice and opened a conva line to Sergeant Grant in CybOps.
AlbertClemensE5: Grant
EliGrantE4: what
AlbertClemensE5: I got a thingy
EliGrantE4: I do too and its bigger lol
AlbertClemensE5: a thumb drive dumbass
EliGrantE4: A WHAT
AlbertClemensE5: thumb drive
EliGrantE4: where did you get it
AlbertClemensE5: district
EliGrantE4: ohh lol that makes sense how much was it
AlbertClemensE5: $15
EliGrantE4: ah shit its used isnt it
AlbertClemensE5: idk
EliGrantE4: i do know. dw tho we can wipe it
AlbertClemensE5: why
EliGrantE4: $$$
AlbertClemensE5: srsly?
EliGrantE4: ya dude
AlbertClemensE5: okdk, ill head over
Clemens tapped the ignition and drove over to the ARCYBER building where Grant was. Grant had always been a weirdo obsessed with older technology, especially anything pre-2010. Grant had originally planned to go to New Seattle for the tech industry, but when CybOps was founded two years ago in 2061 Grant signed up almost immediately.
When Clemens arrived at Grant’s cubicle, Grant kicked his chair over to meet him and immediately stuck out his hand.
“Specialist Grant,” said Clemens.
“Gimme,” said Grant. Clemens rolled his eyes and procured the thumb drive.
“No wonder you’re still a Specialist,” said Clemens as he handed it over.
“My apologies, Sergeant. It won’t happen again, Sergeant. I’ll kiss your ass, Sergeant,” said Grant as he took the device from Clemens, “and that’s why I ain’t been discharged yet.” Grant held it in awe for a second before removing the cap and inspecting it closer. He gave a slight “hmph” before placing it down. He pointed a finger upward as if exclaiming a bright thought before taking out a big, black, brick and pulled it apart.
“This here is a Tadpole,” said Grant.
“Right…” said Clemens.
“The laptop kind, not the frog kind. If I can turn it on, that means we can open the files on that ‘thingy’ you got. Once we open the files, we can clear the data. Capisce?” Grant spent a few minutes digging around in one of his various cluttered bins before pulling out a bulky cable. He plugged one end into the laptop and the other into his personal workstation device, and he waited for the laptop to light up. The startup tone played and Grant inserted the thumb drive. He stared at the screen hungrily, waiting for the popup. He clicked on it. The thumb drive revealed a single file: boneFood.zip.
“What’s that mean?” asked Clemens.
Grant waved Clemens off before clicking on the file and accepting to unzip it. When it was done, a gif popped up: it was a man chugging a gallon of milk with the caption “I gotta feed my bones!!” Another window popped up. Then another.
“What the hell?” said Clemens.
“Oh my God…” said Grant.
“What is it?” asked Clemens
“Three exabytes. Three exabytes of this stupid fucking thing.”
“So? It’ll just crash the computer, won’t it?”
“No, Clemens, you don’t get it. I plugged it in to my station, which is connected to the hub, which is connected to the whole goddamned internet. It’s over, man, it’s fuckin’ over.” “Then Unplug it!” said Clemens, rushing to the laptop, ripping the cord out. Grant shook his head, his face overcome by grief, the blood completely flushed from his head. Clemens touched his temple twice to no response, the lights went off, the silent whirring of technology faded, and all that was left was the whirring of the cicadas.
Thanks For Reading!