TheCriterion The Literary Magazine of
American International College
Spring 2014
Cover Photo by Janek Schmidkunz
THE CRITERION EZINE – SPRING 2014 EDITION President of the College Provost Interm Dean of Business, Arts and Sciences English Department Head English Department Liaison Editor-in-Chief Editorial Assistant
Vincent Maniaci Todd G. Fritch Susanne T. Swanker Robin Varnum Lori A. Paige Julie R. Bodnar Rachael A. Salyer
Featured Writers *Janek Schmidkunz (Digital Photography)
Photograph
*Tyrone W. Mans (Poetry)
Soulo
Abriana Morales
Who’s to blame?
Tiana Powell
Photograph
Taylor Ruscillo
Basketball Player
Ashley Felix
Photograph
Katelin Peery
The Ocean’s Tide of Life
Mike Rivas
Off the Coast of Alaska with the Sun Shining at 1 a.m.
*Jasmine Kearse (Short Story)
A Portrait of Kayla Werlin
Alexis Torosian
Lost in the Woods
Soslan Khamitcaev
Russia, Caucasus Mountains
Emerson DeBrito
Trading Ethics and Love for Money – What Have We Done?
Karen Giguere
How Powerful is Love?
Selene Weekes
I Don’t Care.
Melanie Corso
Painting
Demetria Wood
Pure Love
Isabela Olschowsky
Photograph
Joseph Petrone
A Blessing
Isabela Olschowsky
Photograph
Ike Ekwueme
I’ll Get Better
Joseph Petrone
Song 1
Mattie Rousseau
Painting
Anonymous
The Last Journey
Joseph Petrone
Last Spring
*Mattie Rousseau (Artwork)
Sculpture
Kylie Pluta
LOVE.
Ike Ekwueme
Help those in need
Anonymous
“A” Street
Ike Ekwueme
If only I knew that before
Cover Art by *Janek Schmidkunz (Digital Photography) *Award receipent for the best submission in their respective category All text and artwork © individual contributors.
Soulo by Tyrone W. Mans
There are heartbeats here counting on me Stars that pay homage to God in my eyelids Sacrifices that outlined my existence Wings that dare me to walk like a man I never asked to be here But I was born with the flesh of a king Holding on to everything worth living for Fighting for everything worth dying for Who’s to blame? by Abriana Morales
Lil Johnny’s mom leaves for weeks at a time, and his daddy’s out trying to sell dimes. Lil Johnny is home struggling with his homework, but there is no one to help him. With no help in sight he takes flight, leaves the projects and roams the streets at night, Under teenage watchers who all have records, he learns from the best how to be a nuisance. Lil Johnny steals from the corner store, mom grounds him and disappears again, Dad gets locked up, Lil Johnny’s at home with his neighbor’s mom, who’s his babysitter. Lil Johnny is getting touched by the babysitter. Filled with anger he turns to his crew, and they turn him into a banger. He beat and robbed a woman for her purse and was sent to juvenile hall. At 17 his crew robbed a man’s car, and before they took it, used his head as a punching ball. Seven months in jail, but that was nothing, Lil Johnny comes out shoots his first gun at 18, Officially drops out of high school, finds the girl of his dreams makes her his queen. Things get ugly when his supposed to be friend starts texting and sleeping with his girl. He grabs the only thing he knows that would set his friend straight; Twice in the chest, yet the kid survived, nowhere for Lil Johnny to run, the only thing to do is await his fate. Lil Johnny got life. Who is to blame for this new inmate? Lil Johnny’s parents were never there; They didn’t give him the proper parenting he needed, they didn’t care. There was never any discipline; he did what he wanted.
He was molested by his babysitter, because his parents weren’t anywhere to be found; Lil Johnny’s father got sent to jail, his mom was never around, His parents let him down. Lil Johnny’s an inmate because of his parents? So his parents failed him? Lil Johnny was in a community with people with records, The people he hung out with were bad influences, When he had no one to look to, he turned to his crew, They robbed and beat people together. Growing up in the projects, They were robbing to get money. Lil Johnny’s an inmate because he grew up in the projects? Society put all the people with records in the same place? So Society failed him? Lil Johnny shot his first gun at 18, A year or so later shoots his friend twice in the chest. It’s horrible to think Lil Johnny thinks this is the wild, wild west. Lil Johnny doesn’t have gun permit. Why would someone like him have gun, who is so unfit? Lil Johnny’s an inmate because someone gave him a gun? Lil Johnny had three things on his record. Deemed as a habitual offender, he received life. Only his third offense, could he have been given another chance? At 19 he possibly could have turned his life around, But policy makers create these laws trying to crack down. Lil Johnny’s an inmate because policy makers created unfair laws? Lil Jonny beat and robbed a woman. Lil Johnny stole a car and beat a man. Lil Johnny shot his friend twice in the chest. Lil Johnny’s an inmate because Lil Johnny made horrible choices? Who is to blame? In the world we live in not everybody is on the same page, But as individuals we must do our part in society so our young men and women don’t end up in cages. So many things could have been done so that Lil Johnny’s life went differently. Take care of those around you, Bad decisions are too hard to undo. It is left up to you, to figure out who is to blame;
However, to blame is to make an excuse, no excuses Do your part in society so there can be less Lil Johnnys and more people giving helping hands to those in need. Be positive and be a good example so others can see that they too can succeed.
Photo by Tiana Powell
Basketball Player by Taylor Ruscillo
I look at the clock Four seconds left I dribble down the court I cross over to get past the defender I stop at the foul line I pull up and shoot the ball Off the backboard It circles the rim Swish 2 points It right goes in The buzzer goes off And the entire crowd Is screaming I throw my hands in The air with such happiness The game is over I take a deep breath with such relief And smile
Photo by Ashley Felix
The Ocean’s Tide of Life by Katelin Peery
The ocean’s tide is coming in Back and forth, it never ends The push, the pull; it’s power is strong But where it ends it always begins Life is like this ocean’s tide Full of happiness, sadness, surprise Just when you feel like you might reach the shore The current’s there pulling you back for more Life is a series of ups and downs Sometimes the waves bring you crashing down But just when you think you’re at your defeat Life places you right back on your feet Off the Coast of Alaska with the Sun Shining at 1 a.m. Photo by Mike Rivas
Off the Coast of Alaska with the Sun Shining at 1 a.m. By Mike Rivas by Jasmine Kearse
“More cider?” the bartender asked the woman to my right. I eagerly awaited her response, figuring if she said yes, when it was my turn to reply, I would happily oblige as well. “Can I actually just have a red wine, please?” she answered. After specifying the size she preferred, I gestured and nodded in agreement, slightly feeling odd for having a second round of drinks with my former choral teacher. Although it has been three years since I graduated Longmeadow High School, I still felt the same fear and humility around her as when I was seventeen years old. The bartender poured the two glasses of vino and presented them to us. We both immediately took a big sip. ”If music be the food of love, play on,” she jubilantly exclaimed. “Classic K-‐werl,” I thought. Always the lover of all things good food, wine and, most importantly, chocolate, she seemed almost relieved to have completed her obligatory frosty English cider and be moving onto the good stuff. Since she was often quoting Shakespeare and other transcendent dead men’s work, I was used to K-‐Werl’s integration of great art into her daily conversations. We were sitting at the bar in the pub basement in Central London, surrounded by her current students and a few chaperons. I, being in London for a semester abroad, met up with the group at St. Paul’s in Covent Garden to see my alma mater’s select chorus, Lyrics, perform at the weekly Sunday Mass. The group had retired here for a traditional Sunday Roast after a long day of sightseeing and reminiscing. The slight scent of stale ale and hot crispy chips smothered in gravy permeated the noisy room. As the server neared us with our plates of food, the delightful bouquet of our meals wafted over
to us. Our plates were piled high with a succulent roast for her, and mushrooms for me along with the traditional accouterment. I immediately put my napkin on my lap to show K-‐werl that I deserve to sit at the big kid’s table. Sitting at the bar, instead of the small café tables occupied by high schoolers, was surely a step up. I was no longer the angsty teen she used to know. I was a grown up, after all! I was a Lyrics alumnus, sitting with my fellow grown-‐up, Kayla Werlin.
I remember when I first saw K-‐werl. It was in seventh grade at the Junior District’s Choral
auditions. We were to warm up with the high school girls. It was a big deal. When we walked in, this lady with a Beethovenesque hairstyle passively motioned for us to join the group that had already started the pre-‐audition ritual. K-‐werl was dressed like the epitome of a Chico’s model with a sprinkle of hemp. Literally. She’s the one that made me try her Trader Joe’s hemp milk (which takes like boiled grass, by the way). In the midst of the anxiety filled room, she inserted punny music jokes, easing the palpable tension by making everyone giggle. “What did the fermata say to the soprano at her final performance of Make Our Garden Grow?” she jested. “Hold me for eternity!” Naturally, I made sure my laughter surpassed the volume of the feeble few. She needed to know that I was in on the joke, even though I had no idea what a “fermata” was and why an opera singer would want to hold it. After being in the room for a mere five minutes, I knew I was obsessed with her. It was evident that the students respected her, enjoyed her, looked up to her, and maybe feared her a bit. We all had heard horror stories of the forced quartets select choir participants had to undergo to prove that were practicing, practicing, practicing. I saw one of those moments myself when we had to memorize all of the text to Carl Orff’s Carmina Burana. The freshman that underestimated her wrath surely learned his lesson after he was made to sing two movements in front of the entire group. With trembling lips, he spurted gibberish, making quite clear that he had not done his work, while K-‐werl stared at him, boring a hole through the very essence of his soul with her daggerish eyes. Needless to say, he never came to rehearsal unprepared again. Classic K-‐Werl.
We quickly dug into our steaming plates of food, savoring every morsel, and catching each other up with our respective lives. “So what shows have you seen?” she said. With the strong belief in frequently attending performances to perfect an artist’s craft, K-‐Werl wanted to make sure that I was taking full advantage of the culture of theatre that pulses through London. I began to go down my list of shows. She half smirked when I mentioned Wicked. “My, how things come full circle,” she said between bites of Yorkshire pudding. Ms. Werlin was referring to the field trip she took some music program students on my sophomore year. We sat in second row orchestra seats at the Boston Opera House and watched the “Popular” musical with wide, eager eyes and bushy tails. By that time I had already had her as a teacher for one whole year, and I could easily say she was my favorite.
A year before that, I finally made it to high school and immediately signed up for her freshman
women’s chorus course. We were a group of mouths full of braces and acne plastered faces, silently awaiting the infamous scary teacher we had all heard horror stories about. K-‐Werl pranced out of her office with enthusiastic energy, and immediately commenced her rendition of Schmidt’s Prelude (My Little Girl). “Well go ahead! Massage each other!” she shouted in a sing-‐songy declaration, forcing everyone to rub the backs of the strangers on our right and left, welcomed or not. She insisted that we start out every rehearsal with class-‐wide massage train. This came to be a part of our stress-‐filled ninth-‐ grade day that we would look forward to. K-‐Werl would take advantage of the moment by sharing announcements with the class. That day she explained to us that she would be holding auditions for the select women’s choral group The Accidentals. Of course most of us already were fully abreast of the attributes of this group. They were popular for the pieces of iconic music written to show of the power of a female voice chosen by K-‐Werl, along with the totally unflattering black concert dresses. When I went to gather more information about the audition, I expressed my wariness, fearing that I would not make the ensemble. “Well, there’s one thing you can be completely sure of. If you don’t audition, you definitely will
not get in,” she said as she rustled with the wrapper of one of the Hershey’s Kisses that she kept in a huge basket in her office and popped it in her mouth. That very advice has aided me since. “This is a bit weird, no?” I said, remembering where I was and who I was with. “Weird?” she answered. I reminded Ms. Werlin of our conversation about four years ago. I was in her office crying because I was not sure where I was going to college, among other emotional issues that were heavily plaguing me. She reassured me not think about my future in such a daunting manner, but to take life in twenty-‐four hour increments. She also threw in the compulsory “Everything will be okay, just you wait,” for good measure. I looked around the pub at the wide, eager eyes of her current students, partially jealous that some of them got to have her as teacher for another three years. Sitting at the grown-‐up table with Kayla Werlin I said, “Remember you told me everything would be okay? You were right.” “Yeah. Duh,” quoth she. Classic K-‐Werl.
Lost in the Woods by Alexis Torosian
You made me feel different. You gave me the night and day. You brought me to the top of the trees, Just to drop me like the autumn leaves. Your secret was cold As you stole my heart And left me in the dark. You told me you cared, That I had meaning. Now all I have is a lingering hug I want so desperately to shake off. I still remember when you complimented my eyes. And then tore me apart with yours. I let you in, Knowing you would leave, Taking so much from me. I was the autumn pond And you came along with your icy glaze Leaving me in the cold. Your lips lasted longer than planned, And here I am still thinking of them. You left me in the woods alone, Russia, Caucasus Mountains So lost and confused, Photo by Soslan Khamitcaev Just to find out You had no care for me at all.
Trading Ethics and Love for Money -‐ What Have We Done? by Emerson DeBrito
What have we Lost in the End They do not Know What’s in Store. God is the Owner of Course. On your marks Get Set Open the Doors and its Yours. Scared and Dismissive how can your Eyes be so Wide open and Miss this. People are Breathing and still Cannot Live The world isn’t flat but People are Stuck in the Box Digging up Holes Fears make you Dig. They made it before me now they want to cut of my bridge. Double the profits 2 equates 4 Make it a Plank, Knowledge is Power and Faith is my Strength Please god Allow me to walk over water. How Powerful is love? by Karen Giguere
Just how powerful is love? So strong life depends on it Courageously occurring within a moment Everlasting and secure in the heart Does it only happen in ones mind? Or is their actually that special feeling? Broken or just unfairly disappears? A passion deep within the soul But afraid to commit to ones-‐self? Is it really worth the pain in the end Or is it just the beginning The explanation is unknown Words won't describe it It's there, It's wanted, It's needed Between two people, two lonely hearts Only time can tell How powerful love truly is
I Don’t Care. by Selene Weekes
Did you not know I don't care? It didn't bother me when you didn't say hi. It didn't bother me when you walked by. Didn't you see my head held high? It's because I don't care. You were a friend that stabbed me in the back. You were a friend that put lies out so I can get laughed at. Yes, I heard all the rumors and lies. They might still be spreading like flies. But is that why you keep your head down, to ignore my eyes. Did you think you hurt me? Did you think I cried? Artwork by Melanie Corso I didn't ask why because just like my head my life stays high. Now your lies made you a loner. Now your lies can't even go further. You made yourself irrelevant, and now you watch me get all the benefits. Your complaints are forgetful. You were unfair so don't ever think that I would care.
Pure Love by Demetria Wood
When meeting him for the first time, I felt nothing but happiness. My mother finally cracked, Finally accepting him. A graduation present, she said, For having such a successful high school career. Beautiful amber eyes, Meet with mine. So full of uncertainty, About his new home. But after a few minutes of hugging, It was love at first sight. His sweet and soft meows, Make me love him even more. Months and years went by and After seeing him grow bigger, I feel like a real mother Watching her babies grow up. In many ways, He is my first baby. After three years of him in our house, He still remains so close to our hearts. Unbeknown to us both, we didn’t realize, He needed us as much as we needed him.
Photo by Isabela Olschowsky A Blessing by Joseph Petrone
Bring back the tin-‐drum summers And the wishing-‐well fiery winter nights of February. Let’s live the downtown life by the waterfront, Dressed in a suit of drunken branches And street salt. Take me back to the diners of the mini malls. Seat me as the head of the charity-‐cases Where we’ll toast! To bleeding cream covered cherries Dancing in the balcony of your listless mouth. There you may dazzle me with thy labor’s fruit; Whip my senses, O Ripe Artichokes Take me to Madman Grocery Heaven! (You left me naked on the steps, a
Desiccated wilt in the sand an Urchin face down in the dust...) And may the soft funeral band parade through the aging Rues of Agawam, her morning mists thick with Cinnamon-‐ Fucking the nerves of brain; Like a harlot screaming out Through the windows of the skull, Grunting in ecstasy. (They shriek out into the din of night) Twisted are her rebellious tits in the hands of Herculean Bodyguards, their divine gyzyms pooling over taste buds-‐ Like puddles of rain over the plains of Nod. And there, may the sun shine brightly upon your face! And from your dreams echo the radiant eternal beauty Of the REAL Paradise. Most profound and holy these dreams to-‐be As you will watch them toil: The sweat dripping from their Firm chiseled features. Erode Do NOT! NO! I want you lying upon the sultry beaches to sleep! And when you rise, May you rise again laughing. Laughing Always, laughing freely At me, at yourself, At your cupboard rationality and freezing methodology. Laugh at the recipes, at the oven, the stove, And the dirty spoons in the kitchen sink. Laugh at the dancing, laugh at the samba and (Pounding upon the linoleum floor-‐) The guitar I could never play (Howling in breathless laughter). Look! Down upon your toes and laugh At the calloused cracked bunions Impressed with antique caresses. Hark! And laugh at the waitress Indifferent to our check and sporting glasses! Laugh out at the couple’s faces lost once,
But shortly seen again over the shoulder laughing… And Laughing Again! At the wrinkly old, the chronically dumb At the young and forgetful-‐ Lost like a whirlwind in Springfield; Like a shallow puddle of shaving cream in the sink; Like a hermit crab, stumbling on a crowded beach Oblivious to the hungry gulls and the pounding of the people’s feet-‐Oh To What’s Lost In The Hungry Void Of Laughter! And laugh… laugh loudly, laugh endlessly, And when the sunset falls short Or your breath fails you-‐ Giggle (like Louie tipping over the couch for some Steak) the sweet gentle squeals of spite! The ocean with its changing tide Can always take us by surprise Yet though it’s filled with triumphs and strife That’s the beautiful thing we call life
Photo by Isabela Olschowsky I’ll get better by Ike Ekwueme
I will receive I will achieve Whether you agree or not I will believe More math homework Pile it on the plate It may take a while But I’ll make the due date. Don't pity me, I am happy-‐ there's no sorrow Learning is a process, it will be easier tomorrow.
Song 1 by Joseph Petrone
come (let me take you there) where the wild lilies grow and bluebirds perch on branches of mistletoe; where the sun-‐shine (white as snow), flows over flaming sand ( i’ll take you there just take my hand) we’ll be therewhere the soft river sighs and the drifting tide slides over stones (where crustaceans hide) (and slips into the cool heart of spring) while passing velvet scenes of anemones in radiant bloom; (we both can still see it, but we must leave soon) there you and I can lie (so still) and be remade (as caterpillars are and april daffodils do) we’ll stay there ‘long the grassy bed (where you can rest your golden head) Artwork by Mattie Rousseau by the shoreline of blue and briney foam (there you and i can be alone) just us two: and i will lean closely to your ear (and whisper words clear) too sensitive for teardrops… or monarchs to hear (or dare ever touch)-‐ i love you my dear (so very much).
The Last Journey by Anonymous
The darkness was closing in around me. I knew it would do no good to scream. The chill I felt had nothing to do with the weather. I pulled my thin shawl more closely around my shoulders. I would not, could not give in to the despair slowly devouring me. The fog outside mirrored the fog in my eyes and in my soul. At least the rain had finally ended. I still sought, though I could not find. Weariness melted my bones. Where would my journey take me next? Finally a shadow rolled across my path. The once-‐distant roar grew closer and louder. A man looked down at me from his perch atop the beast. His gray eyes stabbed me like tarnished blades. He extended a withered, deathly hand. “Ticket, lady?” he rasped.
Last Spring by Joseph Petrone
My Car Has a pack of Cigarettes In the glove box, though I promised Rebecca That I’d quit. There’s a stack of CD’s on the passenger Seat, covered in old granola Wrappers and crumbs. They’re Cracked, and the discs Are jumbled a bit. Below the seat are Frayed wires. They hook up to The air bags, and They’ll burn the hair off Your legs if you’re not Careful. Leaning against The door is a wooden Bat, black with Soot –on its business end. Artwork by Mattie Rousseau Behind me are a few beer Bottles. The wrappings long ago withered In a puddle of old yeast And stale breath, mixed With crooked caps and other Bits of garbage. Oh, and there’s and damp pile Of dress clothing on the backseat, Along with somebody’s Iron. But that’s long been forgotten. And here’s the door pouch, Filled with old receipts and bank
Statements. And if you look Behind you, you’ll find The photographs I took Last Spring: It was late March then, And the evenings were chilly. The weather will change soon though I’d tell Carm, It’s almost April after all. Pretty soon we’ll be in t-‐shirts again And we’ll dig out the fire-‐pit And walk around in the woods outside your house… But Rebecca’s joined the navy, Bobby’s moving to New Hampshire, And Pat still doesn’t have a car; The sisters are moving to Texas with Their fiancés, And Bill is still fixing airplanes down in Phoenix… And I’m going to the Peace Corps Come July. I remember lighting up a cigarette then, His cigarette, and walking down Hickory lane In the misty streetlight. We passed the old house Kicking rocks into puddles and just Killing time.
LOVE. by Kylie Pluta
When I first saw you my heart skipped a beat I didn’t know when but I knew we needed to meet For that was the moment when I knew When I thought of love, I would always be thinking of you. From the way you said your first hello To the night of our first goodbye I knew right then and there It was you who I wanted for all my life. Love is not something easily felt But when it comes to you it seems so easy Through the tears and the laughter You’re all that I am after. From the way you love me To the way you make me feel Through thick and thin I am in this till the very end. What your love does for me cannot be put into words For your love is more than ill ever deserve I am forever thankful for the endless love from you The only love that I know will always be true.
Help those in need by Ike Ekwueme
You see them and you walk You always have time to mock You hear, but you don’t talk Just help, stop looking at your clock. Offer help to the needy Send food to the hungry Your wardrobe is full of clothes They don’t even have laundry. Support, help, and lend Pick up their slack Take the responsibility Don’t turn your back Don’t worry about the amount It’s the thought that counts Give, Give, Give You’ll have more in your account. Do it from your heart Don’t worry about fame Give with a smile Don’t ask for anything in exchange. “A” Street by Anonymous
Trash cans all askew Skid marks about the pavement Playground covered in shattered glass Sounds of screaming over pounding bass Needles Knives Shells Cries Tears Hell
If only I knew that before by Ike Ekwueme
Think before talking Plan before moving Count before buying Reason before deciding Pause before diving Reflect before accusing Listen before responding Obey before questioning Search before concluding Research before presenting Check before crossing Ask before taking Knock before opening Read before ignoring Understand before storing Forgive before morning If we do that word before Life would be more rewarding