Breakwall - Spring 2016 - volume 7

Breakwall

Breakwall

CONTRIBUTORS

VOLUME 7 • SUMMER 2016

Volume 7 • Summer 2016

C OR E Y BL A CK MAN W EN D Y DE AN EL IZ ABE TH F OK E S-E L JER LEEN J U S TU S ER IC OD U M IN D YA P OWE LL K Y LE SE R E NA S R OMMEL TH OR P E R A QUEL WILB ON MAR J OR IE CH A MBE R S MEL AN IE C O S TANZO PAUL A D IFR ANCE S C O LOUIS H A A S PAIGE MAR GULIE S S H ALIC E MATH I S DAN N Y MU R TAU G H JE S IK A OR AH O SK E AR F IL PA J AR ILL A G A C H AR LOT TE SH U MAK E R D ON SVOB OD A J AME S TH OMA S A AR ON UR B AN R OBY N WH I TE DAVID WILLIA M S J AT H IK A A P U SH PAR A J AH AN N MAR IE VANE K C HR IS TIN A WAT S O N DAY V ON R O SE

A Literary Journal produced at Cuyahoga Community College

BREAKWALL • A LITERARY JOURNAL

Breakwall

Volume Seven Summer 2016

Breakwall is a title that will call up personal images and memories for the many people familiar with a Lake Erie breakwall. Metaphorically and symbolically, this title also connotes a need for people to break down the barriers, or walls, of separation, ignorance, fear, and so on. Breakwalls are strong objects that are meant to withstand storms and the furies of nature, and they help keep the calm and rough waters separated; in fact, they help create the calm water on the shore, provide safe harbor for boats, and breakwall lighthouses were once beacons of light providing safe passage for ships. In a community as diverse as Cleveland and its surrounding areas, these metaphors and symbolic images certainly apply.

STAFF: Design Editor Steve Thomas Selection Committee Naizhjay McDaniel Matt Zack Faculty Advisors

MANY THANKS: • Cuyahoga Valley Career Cen- • The staff, faculty, & adminter, Patrick J. Ruebensaal, and istration of Cuyahoga Comthe junior and senior Graphic munity College, specifically Imaging classes for making Dr. Michael Schoop and Dr. G. the printing of this publication Paul Cox, for their support. possible.

Breakwall assumes all responsibility for the content of this magazine.

Jack Hagan, Creative Arts • Journalism

Daniel Levin, Creative Arts • Photography Lindsay Milam, Liberal Arts • English Jennifer Skop, Liberal Arts • English

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Volume Seven • Summer 2016

POETRY

PHOTOGRAPHY

PROSE Jathikaa Pushparajah

Marjorie Chambers 23 Melanie Costanzo (cover) 47 Paula DiFrancesco 29 Louis Haas 39, 45 Paige Margulies 37 Shalice Mathis 55 Danny Murtaugh 57, 59

Jesika Orahoske 53 Arfil Pajarillaga 51 Charlotte Shumaker 25 Don Svoboda 35 James Thomas 19 Aaron Urban 33, 43 Robyn White 41 David Williams 49

Eric Odum Poplar Tree 11 Trump 13

DRAMA

BIOS

Indya Powell Let Me Introduce Myself 15

Dayvon Rose Dysfunctional 72

About the Contributors 80 About the Selection Committee 81

Corey Blackman Red 6 Wendy Dean In the Palm of Your Hand 7 Elizabeth Fokes-El Again Whole 8 Jerleen Justus Where Love Is 10

Kyle Serenas The Life in the Day 16 Rommel Thorpe History Lesson 17 Raquel Wilbon No Shade 18 Resurrection 19

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Straight Out of the Pushparajah Household 67 AnnMarie Vanek Lucky 62 Christina Watson Chivalry Is Dead 64 Not the Right Time 66

VOLUME SEVEN • TWENT Y-FIFTEEN

Red

BY COREY BLACKMAN Now-a-days These streets look a lot like glossy red paint Right out of the can It’s not a normal red either More like a blood clot red, No More like I hope my kid don’t see this red, No More like a shoot first, not even knowing the meaning of questions are red.

NO? What would you call it?

Homicide, Suicide, or even Genocide?

Thinking of that one right?

You think you got it right?

Wrong!

All Three!

Not only are we fined For every time we fight back while black, yellow, or even white We are confined and are told “Die slowly and while you at it take few more with you” Color is dirty anyway Right!?

Only so you can feather your gain Right!?

RIGHT!?

Sometimes I wish I had Green, Blue, Yellow, Black, or even White To take away the sheer agony of the clot The fire from the shot, And the people from the hanger’s knot, Maybe everything be alright.

But Now Every time my children look out the window All they hear is The crack of a bullet, So they too can remember The hot painful passion of Red.

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BREAKWALL • A LITERARY JOURNAL

In the Palm of Your Hand

BY WENDY DEAN

Every one of us is born with a chance.

A chance with destiny it may be.

But without your admiration, goals, and dreams Meeting your destiny will never be.

Live your life you have been given As if tomorrow is your last Evolve into the person you were blessed to be After all, you are the only person that was given the gift to be you Grab onto your admiration, goals, and dreams Make it be your destiny You hold your world in the palm of your hand Only you can make your world be the world that you want it to be.

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Where Love Is

BY JERLEEN JUSTUS

Love is in the breaking dawn, As the sun begins to rise.

Love is in the soft white clouds, Floating gently across the skies.

Love is in the smell of lilacs, Meandering through a summer breeze.

Love is in a melodious wind, Strumming a tune through the trees.

Love is in the ocean's crest, Breaking waves upon the sand.

Love is in a tender touch, Lovers walking hand in hand.

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BREAKWALL • A LITERARY JOURNAL

Again Whole

BY ELIZABETH FOKES-EL

He said I didn’t know

Yet a pool of degrade

Waking countless

Who I was

Each day’s

mornings

Til’ I met him

Puffy red eyes

where I was swimming

That his vision

True oppression

Tear saturated spot on

His perspective

He said I didn’t know

pillow

Changed my perception

myself

Never seems to dry

Of me

Til’ he met me

Willing self out of bed

False arrogance

That when I allowed his

In bathroom to make-up

And possibly

entering in my life

My disguise

That may be

He intervened between

Maybelline and pageant

True, but not like he thinks

Love/hate battles

smile for work

Yes he honorably

I fought internally

Where all the outward

Called me queen

Combating who I was

Lies

Poured sweet words

before

Masquerade

Like spring

And who I was struggling

He said I didn’t know me

Waters over me

to be

Til’ we met

Waters not quite cleansing

Evolution

One another

Links in former bond

But it seems

He hid himself behind

missing Choking, drowning I tried lifting

He never realized

Flowered words

His arrival to my life

Not long when I

Produced sleepless nights

discovered The conflict that

Head up for breath

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Constant-ly burdened

wanted from me the

Where I’m going with

Stunted this brother

lack of

wisdom gained not quite

He was still a lonely child

sanctuary/joy

certain

With an absent mother

unattainable

But this play

although flesh gave

never would I reach

My life

illusion of a man

the depths of healing

Continues after

he couldn’t cover desolation felt when he couldn’t touch her

intermission

he sought

So can’t close the curtains

I couldn’t meet

Alive again

his needs

no goodnight kisses

But I tried

I’m here

he only longed to hug her

Really I killed myself

I’m here

adult now searched/found

trying

the end to the suffer-ing

Consciousness taught

experienced

His sanity wasn’t worth me

she’d never get

Dying

he only lived to love her

Had to grasp what makes

disenchantment

me whole

hopes of filled voids

so began untying

thought he would fix me

The web of damage I’d consented to

but this man/boy needed mending

I refuse to settle as partial person

long before been destroyed

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Poplar Tree

BY ERIC ODUM

The roots, slow wine across the lap of the earth like a dance hall seduction, Dig deep into the hips, grind into the hard mantle of her.

The fruit.

It grows.

Like a sunrise bursting from the seed, and we see it, and the seed…it swings.

The fruit.

It sings, a funeral dirge and we watch with eyes as wide as the sweeping hand of a flood, The furrowed brow of a god sitting, and watching his creations, plant.

It is a strange tradition, These roots, These fruits colored like the Caribbean, colored like the diaspora Colored.

Like the ripe skin of bodies that chant like a Sunday morning, Skin that is slick with the condensation of freed souls, A pair of dead snake eyes, Staring at the sky, Eyes looking for God asking, “Why?” And the clouds spread, The fruit dangles, wishing it could touch the ground, Wishing it could toss these stems into the soil, Wishing that this tree Had never seen daylight.

Had been smothered, like a hooded face.

But instead Coroners harvest, And it’s always a good year for flesh, The melanin is always in season, And we cry, The unhung, The ones with necks attached as firmly as childhood promise rings on grown and weathered hands, Knuckles popping luck buckshots, and faulty engines.

Did you know?

They found a man shaped mango, Hanging, From the outstretched limbs of a welcoming tree, In the backyard of a home, he had never seen with the light of his eyes, 10

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The poplar tree runs rampant across the land, In this day and age, We have a habit of reviving the dead, So we build up platforms, In the shape of agriculture, And let it make sun kissed angels out of men and women who were still in mid-affair with their breath, Their lungs still accustomed to the kiss of oxygen, Their eyes still full of moons—and just as glassy, They are the rope, Tug of war between tree limbs and gravity.

Between the fates of broken winged sparrows and worms.

Trapped between the clouds and the ground.

And we still act as if, They are phantoms, That their bodies aren’t rotting under the sun, That we still aren’t planting century ripe traditions of death and destruction, But this be 2015.

We don’t see color, We can’t hear fruit scream, We can’t hear their songs, Their chorus trapped beneath skin---you still can’t bear to sink your teeth into.

Strange indeed.

Strange to watch them swing,

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Trump

BY ERIC ODUM

Their ancestry is woven into the roots further than the flags of your forefathers.

Inside the soul of this soil, There is a country-wide dream catcher holding hope inside each curve.

Dear Donald Trump, Please, Tell me again who should go home.

How your status is more truth than people, who lived on this land for centuries before being smothered by faces— White as ghosts, Pale as phantoms, Treated like plague rats and test tube experiments, for good ole America.

A foundation built on wet bloody soil, Never build a house on sand---it will slip from the brick, much like speeches slip from your tongue, Dear Trump, You say immigrants are ruining America.

That we should make America, American again— …Then we need you, to drift back to whatever part of Europe birthed you, How far back does your blood go?

Is it sewn in the soil here?

Or did it float, On the pleasant crest of waves?

Was is airborne, like a virus?

Were YOU born here?

Dear Donald, On behalf of all people who don’t look like you, Who have never seen the inside of a penthouse suite America is a bloody stump, Trump….

Culture amputated by the muskets and swords of ancestors who were accustomed to keeping what they kill, Like a slave trade, Like a Caribbean occupied, Like a people shoved into reservations on THEIR land, Like a face covered in so much oppression---we struggle to recognize who we used to be.

Let them come, Bring children and grandparents from hunger into some ill-shaped idea of hope, Let them come, And do the jobs you are too damn TRUMP to do— 12

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Dear Donald, Who do you think keeps your tower clean?

Dear Donald, Who do you think drives your cars?

Dear Donald, Who keeps your streets clean?

Your food prepped, Your suits pressed— The American dream isn’t only meant to look like you.

Dear Don. Did you know, That the idea of “Keep America, American” was the slogan of a gang of Phantasms, hell bent on beating the beauty out of the night, Stringing up the griots of a land long lost, Treating them like street lights.

Are you a Klansman Trump?

Dear you.

This country Was built under the strained and scared backs of men and women who weren’t fuckin from here.

With this history of horror, This blood-stained dream catcher bouncing back nightmares into the minds of men who think they are entitled to some patch of dirt that their hands have never touched, An Earth they never loved, Who have forgotten the name of the wind--Be lucky.

Anyone wants to come here.

Sincerely, We.

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Let Me Introduce Myself.

BY INDYA POWELL

Some things you need to know about me.

I am from finger snappin, eye rollin, tongue poppin, hip holdin Yeah, I know all about attitude.

At times my mean mug was armor Just in case I had to disarm ya.

Best believe I wasn’t gonna get caught slippin Your bad if you thought I was dissin.

Some things you need to know about me.

I was taught to love the skin I’m in cause I get it from my momma.

My black don’t crack.

I’m in love with all that.

Some things you need to know about me.

I may be sassy, but I keep it classy.

Too much of a lady to ever be trashy.

Kinky curls.

Thick curves.

Plenty hips.

Yes, I’m in love with all of this.

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The Life in the Day

BY KYLE SERENAS

Buzz . ..

Three seconds arrive, three seconds ago the abrupt realization.

Buzz . . .

We are waking up to the noise of desk jobs and ambulance sirens.

Buzz ...

The same breakfast , the same news.

Always tragedy, Only consoling in regard to less Off a world so cruel, It's the same coffee, the same Boss strolls in, like a cartoon character, Words you've heard three thousand You've memorized all For all the

always tragedy. tragic musings to take your mind, off from a place so unkind. bitter taste striking your palate, in his same black suit, same empty face, times in this three thousand-time place. the microwave food buttons, microwave food items. sitcom you've watched in three thousand reruns, '' Tomorrow, I'll get started with fun." same as the day before,

Star ting to speak the words, to the Speaking to yourself, The sheets smell the And off you go, to a

place you've been before.

Been before.

Buzz . ..

Let me sleep for a few more moments.

Far from the place of the 6 a.m. alarm clocks.

Buzz ...

I'm not anywhere, I'm not here.

Most importantly, I'm not back there.

Buzz ...

These three seconds arrive, before the abrupt realization.

Repeat the hour. Repeat the day. Repeat the year. Repeat the life. Repeat

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History Lesson

BY ROMMEL THORPE

History is written by the wjnners Ancient civilizations lost because they didn't follow the ways of the winners People of distinction now forced to adapt and conform or be subject to exile or execution What a choice to live with Empires covering up the truths for greed and power Which in all actuality.... Are minimal gains Hidden truths in religion... forcing ALL from the same descent to hate each other And believe that being DIFFERENT is to be the enemy But... the enemy of my enemy... is my friend How ironic?

Lies written in books... passed down to children from the liars...

Excuse me ... "scholars" to make the masses believe that what they tell us has to be true But when were these "scholars" ever in battle?

Crushed beliefs, rebellions, and uprisings because our brainwashed militaries Are programmed to believe they are fighting "terrorists" to preserve our freedoms...

But when were we ever in true danger?

Reclusive countries, whose only wish is to be left alone Are forced to be friendly... but only after invasion and pillaging of resources...

But yet... the hatred toward the invaders is unjust?

People... rather history of distinction all but erased from memory...

But is it not distinction that brought us together and made us so great?

Moors, Egyptians, Mayans, Polynesians, Asians, even Persian and NATIVE AMERICANS displayed in museums and history channels instead of our school books....

Funny how history is written....

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No Shade

BY RAQUEL WILBON

Formed from carbon, just a ball of dust The light inside shines before it reaches its final peak Still forming is it blackish, brownish, grayish High heat and pleasure from the remarkable pressure Fresher than before Not yet reaching the core Precisely cut from every angle As it shines for all to see Like a beautiful fruit tree No shade, just being free

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BREAKWALL • A LITERARY JOURNAL

Resurrection

BY RAQUEL WILBON

Like a phoenix rising from the ground No longer bound Radiant and shimmering, with a crown, No more games for the crown burst into flames To reclaim what was once put to shame The majestic presence fills the house with a new name Shattered but never fell apart Resurrection

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Marjorie Chambers

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Charlotte Shumaker

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Jesika Orahoske

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Paula Difrancesco

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James Thomas 25

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Aaron Urban

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Don Svoboda

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Paige Margulies

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Louis Haas 29

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Robyn White

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Aaron Urban

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Louis Haas

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Melanie Costanzo 33

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David Williams 34

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Arfil Pajarillaga

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Jesika Orahoske 36

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Shalice Mathis

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Danny Murtaugh

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Danny Murtaugh

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Lucky

BY ANNMARIE VANEK

"Wake up, Annie!"

me while I washed dishes are now in a filthy heap in the sink.

The lights that once illuminated the dining area peek out beneath the rubble on the floor. The walls are streaked with black trails of soot, and everything is soaked. This was supposed to be my sanctuary from the world, my respite from the cruel insensitivities exchanged daily in my overworked, overstressed, mildly depressed blue-collar midwestern suburb – and it’s decimated. The black air permeating my ravaged house is absorbed into every piece of clothing, every pore, hanging on me like a toxic aura.

I breathe in the heavy air and catch a nostalgic whiff of campfire. I had always enjoyed sitting around fire pits, roasting and sharing marshmallows, sipping hot chocolate or slurping down a beer, inhaling the woodsy scent that clings to hair and clothes long after the embers blacken. There’s a certain primal magic around campfires, a strange glue that bonds people over stories, raucous laughter, and quiet communal reflection.

I'm blind to any magic now. All I see is devastation, and I am desperate to salvage my possessions from the lifeless bones of my home, any bits or pieces of me left from before my world went up in flames. Clothes, books, photographs, art supplies, all of my artwork, childhood artifacts, knickknacks, mementos - almost everything I own is destroyed. And where the hell is my poor cat?

Tom and I make our way upstairs to my bedroom, on the old staircase that was steep and treacherous before the fire. The potential structural damage makes it even more precarious. I shamefully glance at my battery-less smoke detector, and wonder what would have happened had I slept in my own bed last night.

Every wall on the second floor is scorched and ripped apart.

There is a large hole in the ceiling above my bed, a ghoulish skylight allowing us a glimpse of the July sun scorching the periwinkle sky. Chunks of drywall garnish every inch of space like peanuts sprinkled on a sundae. My clothes are sprawled over my bed where I had left them the night before. They marinate in the sooty, soaked bed linens, absorbing the burnt stench that’s impossible to wash away.

The day stretches on, our energy depletes, and Lola is nowhere to be found. Wearily, Tom and I meet with the clean-

It’s four AM and my cell phone keeps ringing, over and over again. I spent the night at my fiancé Tom's house, and the shrill ring cuts the serene peace of my dreams. I know something is wrong even before I'm met with the hysterical voice on the line, quavering "Annie, your house is on fire!" Dread crushes my rib cage, expelling the air from my lungs, and constricting my heart.

I would soon become familiar with those physical manifestations so curiously produced by the heart: the woozy numbness of adrenaline-infused panic; the stress-induced exhaustion that turns limbs and chest leaden and burdensome with weight; the aches and pains wrought from weary mind and soul.

It’s serendipitous that the man I’m about to marry is the son of a firefighter. Tom inherited his father ’s ability to handle emergencies, and I’m completely beholden to this genetic predisposition. His cool level-headedness contrasts my paralytic fear as he calmly tosses on his clothes and drives me home. "I'm here," he reassures. "It's gonna be okay, we'll be okay."

My block is cordoned off, so we park down the street and scuttle past the local news reporters, the concerned neighbors, the shameless ambulance chasers and fire restoration contractors wielding business cards. Tom assumes the first line of defense, sparing me from the throng of people. I’m embarrassed to have the entire neighborhood’s eyes upon me and my charred house.

The fire has been extinguished by the time we arrive at the scene. As the sun rises, firefighters finish their surveillance of the area and linger around my yard. Some, still inside, check for hot spots. The damage isn’t visible from where we stand, facing the front of the house, and I’m anxious to get inside to find Lola, my cat.

We are given clearance to enter, and I succumb to shock as I step inside what used to be my kitchen. My home was quaint, tiny, and I’d taken pride in my orderliness. To see it now, I’m completely awestruck, and slightly uneasy to have had a house full of strangers bustling through it, destroying the contents with irreverence in their pursuit to quell the flames. All the windows are broken. The curtains that at one time had fluttered daintily above 41

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up service, the insurance adjustors, and the neighbors. The last thing I want to do is go shopping for new clothes, but my wardrobe now only consists of the clothes on my back, and they reek of smoke and sweat. I buy some cheap packs of socks and underwear from KMart, some generic tee-shirts, some unstylish pairs of jeans, and some toiletries, just to get me through the next couple of days. One last stop at the post office to leave my forwarding address, and I head back to my fiancé’s house my new home - to collapse in his bed, under the weight of an exhaustion I've never felt before.

Early the next day, Tom leaves me to sleep while he reexamines the damage. He rings my cell phone an hour later, breathless.

"She's here, she's alive!" he shouts at me, excitedly.

My beloved orange cat was hiding in the crawlspace, frightened, with sooty paws, and miraculously unharmed. My heart swells with elation at this news, and I'm struck with the realization that I would sacrifice every last possession just to be here on this planet, with Tom, with my friends and family. Safe, together, whole.

I’ve had my life shaken up in the past, inspiring my dogged determination to live each day as if it was my last and not take a minute for granted. But as time passed, my days resumed their monotonous predictability, and I snuggled safely back into my comfortable routine, forgetting that tomorrow is never certain. Now, as if to remind me, my home goes up in flames, I lose everything, and the platitudes that swarm around tragedies and disasters come back to slug me in the face, screaming "WAKE UP, ANNIE!" I am lucky to be alive.

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VOLUME SEVEN • TWENT Y-FIFTEEN

Chivalry is Dead

BY CHRISTINA WATSON

"What if I told you it was all a lie?"

The clink of glass accompanied by a distinctive hum echoed in the quiet room. Winter still clung with persistence to the outside realm, as was evident in the delicately frosted window panes.

"Then, you do like pineapple?"

A female giggle emanated from behind a gloved hand, and golden eyes sweet as honey peered between her fingers. She let her question hang in the air before carefully sipping her wine glass. Evening was fast approaching, and it would soon be time to leave.

"No. I hate it."

"So you lied to me? Hmm." "Yes, I lied to you. Which means I'm telling the truth when I say that it was all true."

His gaze slid sideways, the movement very slow and deliberate.

He was not an imposing figure, the lying man. His height was negligible and his voice quiet, allowing him to slip by unnoticed in most social gatherings if he so desired. But his eyes were sharp and all-seeing.

Their vast, colorless expanse betrayed only a glimpse of the brilliant mind behind the unimposing figure, or the shocking cruelty of his innermost thoughts. It depended on the day.

The expensive woman sitting long ways across his couch uttered a faint, "Oh" at his remark. Though she had turned her head away in tasteful disinterest, the man knew he held her attention captive like a butterfly in the palm of his hand.

He smiled, and a deep chuckle escaped his lips as he shook his head.

"Oh, my dear...My sweet girl. This...this means nothing."

A dismissive wave of the man's hand encompassed the entire room, the woman playing host before him as if she were a true duchess, and the whole of their present state. "You can't fool me. None of this can. You think that by putting on airs and playing to the delicacy of my tastes you can forget? You think that you can treat me as if I was another one of your sniveling guests? I am disappointed in you...You don't know me at all."

"No, I don't."

The sharpness with which she bit off her words surprised him, if only for the slightest of seconds, and a part he thought lay extinct within him shuddered under her all-too familiar gaze. Though she rested the crystal glass on the table daintily, her delicate frame now grew rigid and cold as she 43

lifted herself from the couch. The graces of nobility fell from her body like heavy robes, and the savagery in her voice betrayed a bitter pain.

"I never knew you, and I hated you for it. You lied to me. You fooled me. And you relished every minute of it...Destroying me...Snatching innocence and peace from that poor girl without any bit of remorse. Saying you were taking care of me when really you were satisfying your own gluttonous desires! You never cared about me. Even now you lie to me through your teeth. You..."

"Yes, me. The man who fell prey to your charms. The boy who was so blinded by the twinkling glow of a goddess that he failed to see Hell when it stood before him with arms wide open. Or have you really forgotten? If so, then you have the honor of truly surprising me...And I mean that not in the most flattering of senses."

The man allowed himself a brief laugh before snapping his mouth shut. A weariness suddenly passed over his features, and as he unburdened a heavy sigh he now seemed much older than he had let on.

"I never wanted this to happen...I never wanted any of it to happen...I hope you realize that, because that much is true. Then again, what is true about this whole mess? What really happened, who is to blame? The truth about this is that it is all mere words about a past heavily biased and under scrutiny by the present. How...How could something so good have gone so wrong?"

"Perhaps you should have accepted a good thing when you had it, instead of pursuing more and turning it sour through your efforts. That is the best way to let a good thing go so wrong. And you found that out all by your clever self..."

The woman before him remained cold and unwavering, not once giving him pity as she relentlessly hammered home the truth. Years of harsh reality had taught her never to give in, never to hand out second chances and trust people when they say they've changed. Because people never change.

"You're a fool if you think I've forgotten, if you think that I'm going to turn around and say I'm sorry. I did nothing wrong, I only accept blame for not being wiser in the past. But now I am, thanks to you...I could have never had a better teacher. You do have an excellent point, I'll give you that. Who is really to blame? Who is really in the wrong? That all depends on who is telling the story. You have hundreds of adoring followers who think I'm a witch and that I'm the wife of the Devil for not seeing what a knight in shining armor you really are. That if only I wasn't so closed-minded I could accept

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your undying love and we'd be the perfect couple. And you love it.

"Then there is my husband, and my own small circle of trusted companions. They hate you. They knew me before I met you, and then they were forced to know me again after I met you. They think you're a selfish bastard who doesn't know what it's like to not get everything he wants, and that he throws a temper tantrum when things don't go his way. Life isn't fair, I hope you've learned that by now. Because I am done teaching you."

Stormy eyes stared up at the ceiling, listening to every venomous word without interrupting. Once she had finished speaking and now silently glared at him, expecting a response yet dreading it, the man blinked slowly and watched as her tiny fingers quivered with unspoken rage. How he had longed to hold them, to caress his fantasy and kiss away her irrationality. If he could, he still would. He never learned.

"My dear, if I was really the man you imply I am, then you would be dead. I know I can't get everything I want, but that doesn't stop me from wanting it."

"Get out of my house."

The threat pierced the air like a gunshot, and a second round was aimed to kill.

"Get out of my house."

"Or what? You'll kill me? You wouldn't do that, you don't have the strength to do that. Would you really kill an unarmed man, a guest in your household who you had graciously invited for a drink? My, my, that sounds like planned murder to me. I wonder how it would look in the papers? I wonder what your husband would think..."

The man allowed his gaze to rake across her features, and he drank in her perfection, the glittering gold of her eyes, the utter contempt on her face. He knew she would do nothing about it, he had counted on it.

She hadn't changed.

"If you had really wanted me to leave you alone all those years ago, you would have said so."

"I did say so. Many times."

"Ah, yes, but you weren't entirely convinced that that was what you wanted. You didn't convince me."

"I didn't need to 'convince' you. I only needed you to listen and obey me. Perhaps I was being too nice; perhaps I should have just shot you and washed my hands of you forever. I'm convinced now that is what I should have done."

Despite the severity with which she had spoken, he could not help but laugh at the absurdity of her statement. In his mind she was nothing more than a kitten trying to roar like a lion, for he knew what a real beast looked like, and the damage it could inflict. He greeted it every day in the mirror with

a smile and a promise.

Bored with throwing words at each other from across the room, he carefully took a step toward her, then another, until he was close enough to smell the lavish scent of her hair. His fingers traced patterns across her bare shoulders, and he relished the sensation of her tense yet creamy skin under his touch.

"I only wanted to make you happy; I could see how miserable you were, how miserable you still are. It pains me to see such a beautiful creature suffer. Let me into your life again, and I can show you what true happiness is...

Please, there is much more about me you don't know. I can give you so much, don't let it go to waste..."

Her heart pounded harder against her rib cage with each passing second, agony etched into every fiber of her being as her mind screamed within the confines of her skull. His offers were like temptations of sugar-coated poison, and they were already working in her system, weakening her and tearing her apart. She bit back a startled cry when she felt his mouth begin to trail kisses down her neck, but she was powerless to lift a single finger against him. Tears fell from her gilded eyes like drops of silver as she begged for the torment to end.

"Please, stop...Please...Do you have any idea the pain you inflict on me?

You can't possibly make me happy, you can only cage me and toy with me...

And I will not be toyed with. Not anymore."

An explosion suddenly tore through the room, bringing their conversation to a screeching halt. Neither person dared to make a sound; they remained frozen with him defiling her wishes, but then the man uttered a faint moan. Limply releasing her from his hypnotizing propositions, he collapsed to the ground and moved no more.

"Are you alright?"

Stepping out from the next room, shotgun in hand, a gentleman in a simple suit waited with growing anxiety for his wife to respond.

The woman hesitated briefly before nodding once at her husband, and she managed a shaky smile. "Yes. I am now."

Unable to resist any longer, she covered her face as her frail body succumbed to the sobs she had held back for so long. Strong arms gently pulled her into a comforting embrace, and her husband ran a hand down her back in a soothing gesture.

"It's all over now, it's ok. It's ok now. He won't hurt you anymore. I promised I'd protect you. I promised."

The woman didn't dare look back at the thing staining her ornate rug. Her nightmare had finally ended and she breathed freely for the first time in years. Slipping her hand into her husband's, she closed her weary eyes and sighed.

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VOLUME SEVEN • TWENT Y-FIFTEEN

Not the Right Time

BY CHRISTINA WATSON

Rain pattered on the roof of the diner, dribbling slowly off the gutters and into the street. There it trickled along as it collected other debris, and loose leaves shaken from the storm gathered in a wad by the sidewalk drain. Chilly night air pierced my jacket as the door opened with a whoosh, and another late-night customer came stumbling in. Bowing my head, I didn’t bother to look at the man. I already knew the face he wore; I didn’t feel like looking in another mirror today. My hands shook slightly as they cupped round my steamy coffee, and I heaved a deep sigh. Looking left then right, green emeralds sliding under a mess of curly hair, I quickly reached into my coat pocket and hunched over the counter as I poured the contents of the canteen into my mug. I was probably not nearly as stealthy as I thought I was; this stuff will do that to you after a while. Risking a whiff of the concoction before gulping it down, I grimaced and choked back the burning sensation. Scotch and coffee was probably the worst decision I’ve made in my life, I thought as I drunkenly contemplated the drips on the counter. No, scratch that. I’ve made worse decisions.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw her sitting at the same counter across the diner. Same dull gaze, same slumped posture, though I doubt she was struggling to keep down her supper as I was at that moment. Light golden hair, sea foam eyes, a beautiful complexion, and a face that broke your hear t just looking at it. I admit , I do not know her well. I sit in the back of the class, while she takes her seat at the front. Always early, that one, and she never misses a class. I know she’s a good student too; I’ve snuck a peak at her quizzes whenever the prof hands them back . Genius, a freakin’ genius. Makes me wonder what the heck she went through. Guess that ’s what happens when you live this long; this world has a nice way of tearing down all things bright and beautiful in their prime.

I’ve seen the way he looks at her, and the smiles they exchanged with hands intertwined as they walk home. Volumes could have been written solely based on those nonverbal cues, the little gestures. She seemed happy. It wasn’t my intent to follow them home; my dorm happens to be right beside hers. Two worlds apart yet never intersecting, always parallel with no chance of collision.

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Tragically poetic in a way, I should write it down if I can remember it in the morning. I had always turned aside my face when they kissed goodnight; it wasn’t my business after all. But yet it was, in a way.

I remember when that shiny happy girl first moved in. Me, being a seasoned college-goer at the top party school in Ohio, bet she wouldn’t last a week. And if she did, she would never be the same.

Yet as I looked into those stormy sea-green eyes, laced with bitter determination and a hardened resolve, I knew there was more to her than I would ever find out. She wanted to forget herself here, to drown in this wonderfully intoxicating world and surface a reborn individual of society. It’s tempting, I’ll admit. I would say she succeeded.

A jolt of pain shot up my leg, and I sunk my teeth into my lower lip to bite back a cry. This was getting real old, real fast. Seems scotch and ibuprofen just won’t cut it anymore. But who am I kidding, it’s never gonna change. Not even twenty-five and already complaining of an aching hip and back; I’m a real trooper alright. What a model citizen, as I sit at my stool tightening my quivering legs until I can feel the grinding bones and tendons at the source. I should be stronger than this; this pain should be nothing. It’s nothing, nothing…

She stopped coming early to class. Her perfect attendance was untainted, but the quiz scores dropped lower and lower as she meekly stuffed her work into her backpack. Her quivering shoulders gave it all away as she suppressed the flood of tears that will burst through the dam the second she closes the door. She walks herself to her dorm anymore, alone, and I can’t smell his cigarettes on her clothes whenever she passes by. As I sit across from her at the diner, I know what it is. I’ve looked in that mirror countless times before.

Without finishing her cup of coffee, the girl scooted back her stool and left. Another whoosh of air, another human being disappearing into the night. The way she shuffled her feet, keeping her head down as she maneuvered past the drunk street-dwellers, I couldn’t help but feel a pang in my chest. I wish I knew her story better. I wish I could know what happened, all the in-between bits and details. From where I’m sitting, I can only see the beautiful beginning, and an ending filled with pained memories twisted by the careless whims of a people belonging to tragedy.

I wish I could have been her friend.

BREAKWALL • A LITERARY JOURNAL

Straight Out of the Pushparajah Household

BY JATHIKAA PUSHPARAJAH 2012 was a tough year for Torontonian youths. With the rising rate of teen suicides, it has become easy for one to take their own life when the going gets rough. Being a victim to the cause, I am here today, with the newly learned value of life, through my failed attempt. Committing suicide was not something I had thought of previously. I felt that I had enough of my life, which seemed worthless at the time. Growing up in a rough household, I felt if I took my own life, no one would realize I was gone. The only person I actually loved and knew loved me back was nowhere in sight, which made me feel even more alone. I’m now able to understand why life is so important, and the significance I hold to the ones dearest to me.

Everyone has breaking points, but it’s important to know that no life is worth sacrificing. I learned this the hard way, but now I can truly say I am happy and ready for any challenge life throws at me.

My name is Jathikaa Pushparajah, and this is my story.

Growing up in the Pushparajah household was not pleasant at all; in fact, it’s something I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy.

I have a brother who is four years older than I am; his name is Umesh. I have no respect for him; I hate him, and hate calling him my brother. Hate is a strong word, and I only use it to describe my feelings toward Umesh. I know this is starting to sound harsh and unnecessary, but trust me I have every reason to despise this excuse for a man. Umesh and I were the best of friends as children; but things quickly took a turn for the worst as he went into his adolescent years. For some reason he began shutting my parents and me out, and I felt as though I had lost my best friend. Our interests had completely altered. He no longer wanted to be in the same room as I. Of course, I was upset, but I learned to accept. I realized four years is a big age gap, and maybe he was 'cooler' than I was. I still remember thinking as a child “Anna (meaning older brother in Tamil) is 11 and I am 7. No wonder he does not want to play with me.

Maybe when he is 24 and I am 20 we can play together again because I will also be grown up." I was a naïve child, to say the least.

When I was in fourth grade Umesh and I had our first altercation. We got into an argument; if I remember it correctly, it was over a bag of chips. He became so enraged with me and began hitting me; he punched my hand really hard breaking my pinky.

That’s when I realized Umesh was short-tempered. Years went on and the fights grew worse; Umesh and I got into petty arguments that resulted in severe beatings. I’ve had many injuries, including bruises almost everywhere, black eyes (one incident resulted in two black eyes at one time), and even stitches on my scalp, after being hit with a plank of plywood. The sad part was my parents physically could not do anything about it; they had tried to stop a fight while in motion, but that only meant having punches thrown at them as well. They’d try talking to him, but that resulted in more anger, and he would come running right back to me with a vengeance. They tried setting him up for psychiatric evaluations, but of course, he was in denial of any type of disability, and once again, would come right back at me with blazing fists. My parents were too scared to let me call the police because of what might come of our family. Due to the heavy head-butting in my household, I never felt loved. I always thought Umesh hated me because I had done something to disappoint him. I also thought my parents didn’t love me, because they never resolved the beatings and issues I constantly got into. Till this day I fear facing Umesh, because nobody ever knows when his anger will flare up, and when it does, I know that I will be the only target.

At the age of sixteen I started dating Koba; he was two years older than I- a high school dropout, working at a fast food restaurant but the sweetest guy. I met Koba at the mall one day. My friends and I had gone to the mall to meet with our friend Jatheep.

We were standing at the top of the escalator, when Jatheep and a few more boys joined us, Koba being one of them. A security guard was walking towards our direction, and someone in the group had said “Walk. Now!” That was enough for us to understand trouble was coming. We all began heading for the exit door, when Koba grabbed my hand, interlocked fingers, pulled me ahead of the others and put something in my bag. He said "Hold this for me.” I had no idea what was going on. A security guard stopped us as we neared the exit, and said to Koba, “Excuse me sir, I need you to come with me.” Koba looked the security guard dead in the eye and said “Why? What’s wrong? I’m just at the mall with my girlfriend. We’re just leaving.”

The security guard looked confused, quickly apologized and let us 46

VOLUME SEVEN • TWENT Y-FIFTEEN

go. Koba began snickering, and thanked me. At the time I had no idea who he was and what he was thanking me for. When we got outside he let go of my hand and told me that he and the boys had gotten into a fight with another group of boys on the lower level of the mall. He put brass knuckles in my bag, because he didn’t want to get caught with a weapon. The whole thing felt like a scene out of a Bollywood movie. Thus began a crazy relationship. I think back to that day all the time and wonder, "What the hell is wrong with you Jatsz, why was that NOT your cue to run?" There was something about Koba, his soft voice, his gentle heart, the whole bad boy act and even his scruffy beard. Once I laid eyes on him, there was no going back. I found my soulmate.

Years later Koba and I became two peas in a pod. He spoiled me. Not by buying me riches and showering me with gifts, but by showering me with endless love. I’ve never experienced unconditional love until I met Koba. He was always there for me standing by my side whenever I had needed him. Koba was the kind of guy that could make you laugh at your own mother’s funeral. He never fails to make me smile, even if I’m mad at him. There were definitely bumpy roads, but that’s a given with any relationship. We tend to give each other space when we argue so that we don’t say anything to each other that we will later regret. One day we got into a fight for God knows what reason, so we stopped talking for the day. I decided to go out and blow some steam off with friends.

I came home late that night, a bit intoxicated. For some reason Umesh was mad, as per usual; he decided to take his anger out on me. As soon as I entered the house he began yelling at me. I knew he was going to start throwing his fists soon. Being intoxicated, I wasn’t able to make the best judgment calls. I argued back and the problem escalated. Umesh beat me up; he had me on the ground and repeatedly punched my face. Umesh picked up my cell phone that fell out of my pocket and called Koba. Umesh didn’t like Koba, he always thought Koba was bad news, and seeing how serious Koba and I were in our relationship, Umesh didn’t want Koba to be a part of our family. When Koba answered the call, Umesh began yelling into the phone “I’m beating up your girlfriend! Come do something about it." Koba of course was outside my house in five minutes flat; however, by that time Umesh had cut open my lip and thrown a glass cup at me causing minor cuts. I was furious and over the idea of being beaten up constantly. During the incident my father was home and couldn’t do anything to stop Umesh, so it felt as though he didn’t bother trying at all.

47

I decided that fearing being assaulted for no reason was no way to live my life. I wasn’t enrolled in school at the time, and was working full time at McDonalds. My life had no value, and no one would even miss me if I was gone. It would make it a lot easier for my family as well, if I wasn't around. They could easily attend to Umesh’s needs and live merrily. I walked into my room, popped half a bottle of Tylenol into my mouth, and walked over to the laundry room and began chugging down a bottle of bleach. I was intoxicated, and truly believed drinking bleach would kill me. Fortunately I was wrong. Then I noticed the commotion down stairs; Koba had been in the foyer of my house calling my name. While I was upstairs Koba and Umesh had fought. I ran down the stairs, and saw Umesh on the ground. Koba grabbed my hand and we were headed to his van when six police cruisers pulled up. Umesh called the police at some point, and, needless to say, Koba was the one who got arrested that night for trespassing. The police didn’t take my statement because I was intoxicated; they rushed me to the hospital instead.

That was the first time Koba had ever gotten charged or gone to jail. He did it for me. Koba was able to help and save me when my own birth parents couldn’t. After that night, Umesh didn’t lay his hands on me for years. Drinking bleach and swallowing Tylenol had me in a daze. I was very dizzy, but, for some reason, that was the exact moment I started thinking clearly. Thoughts were running through my head, and I didn’t want to die any more, I wanted to live and be happy with Koba. After all, it was clear after that night, he was the only one that mattered; he was the only person that would be there for me when I needed him. Koba gave me a reason to live.

Breaking points are a given in any person’s life. It ’s impossible to live a life without conflicts or issues. If life were that easy things like racism, pover ty, divorces, and war wouldn’t exist. Every thing in life is a lesson we learn through. I lived and I learned. I now know the value of life, and I also know that blood is not always thicker than water, a phrase many have heard.

Yes, it ’s scientifically proven; however, when you boil down the logistics, two individuals having the same blood doesn’t mean a thing. In any given situation I would pick Koba over Umesh; I mean it ’s not even a question wor th asking. I have learned that life is valuable, and I need to treasure it.

After my experience, I’ve taken an interest into new beginnings. Last summer I visited Sri Lanka for the first time, and I stayed there for five months. I was able to see my uncles and aunts, and explore the country. It gave me a new perspective of

BREAKWALL • A LITERARY JOURNAL

life to see how my parents grew up, and how my nephews and nieces lived. School was not affordable, but every parent did anything they could to save up money and send their kids to school.

My mother had thirteen siblings including herself; she was the thirteenth child, so naturally Umesh and I were the youngest of that generation. My cousins were married and had children, but they had also gone to school and made something out of their lives. They had either become some type of engineer, doctor, lawyer or business professional. I realized that my elementary and high school education was completely paid for by the government. If everyone else was able to do it, why shouldn’t I have made an effort? People began to think my mother raised her children wrong, because her siblings’ kids had made something of their lives, yet she had raised an abusive son and a daughter who simply did not care. While in Sri Lanka I told myself I would go back to school, get good grades, get a good job, and prosper. I was not going to let someone like Umesh crush my dreams.

After Sri Lanka, I came to Cleveland and stayed with my cousin.

I thought if I went back to Toronto and tried to go to school, I would be distracted by the havoc Umesh would be causing. I did some research and found Tri-C had a good Criminal Justice program. I made up my mind that I wanted to stay in Cleveland and finish school. I talked to my cousin and he was more than happy to support me; he called my mother and spoke with her. She was very happy to hear that I wanted to go back to school. After a brief visit to Toronto, I headed back to Cleveland and started the process of registering to Tri-C. In May I officially began my first semester. My major is Criminal Justice; due to the switch in countries, I’m not quite sure what my career plan is just yet. I'm here today, and for the next two years, and I plan to make something out of my life. I truly value my life, and want to live as long as God intends me to. This new beginning in my life has been an amazing chance to show the world that I am strong, and prove to myself it does not matter who knocks you down; what does matter is standing up taller and stronger so they cannot do it again. Through the mistakes in my life, I’ve learned many lessons, and also learned how I should be living. I use these lessons every day to make each day better than the last.

Everyone has a story and every story is different in their own way. The key is to know what one’s own story is. I often think about having children and grandchildren when I am older, and what I would tell them about the years I lived. I’ve a lot to share, but wouldn’t it set a bad example for them? I think about

it, but still don't know the answer. I would hate to see my children struggle, but I struggled and I am able to still move on in life. Maybe struggling and bumps in the road are useful as much as we dislike them. I know I cannot wait to finish this chapter of my life, and start the next one. I’m excited to see what life has in store for me. I know I’ll never have to deal with Umesh again because I only plan to go back to Toronto and visit. I was able to pack my things up and leave the poisonous situation that was home. It was the best decision I’ve ever made in my life. As much as I despise that man, I will thank him when he is in his death bed for allowing me to become the strong individual I am today.

With the new found character within me, I know that Koba and I can make it through life happily. We have our arguments here and there, and recently because of the distance put between us, we’ve been breaking up quite often, but there is a quote that I often hear by Harry Kronman that reads “I mean, if you love something very much, you've got to go easy with it -- give it some room to move around. If you try to hold it tight like that, it'll always try to get away." When it comes to Koba, I live by this quote. I made the move I had to make in order to live an extra day, and if he’d like some space, I am glad to give it to him. It’s tough being with someone for eight years, then having to be separated. Due to the outstanding charges Umesh has against Koba, Koba cannot leave Canada, or come and visit me. I know we will get through it if it is meant to be, so I’m not at all worried about the current standing of our relationship. As for the rest of my life, I plan to take it one day at a time. It’s the right thing to do; I wouldn’t want to get ahead of myself. I am in a good place right now, mentally and spiritually. I’m enjoying the little happiness Cleveland has to offer me. Life as we know it varies from person to person, but I have come to find that with every waking breath we take, we are able to revise and change our perception of life. A couple years ago, I could not care less about waking up to see another day, and today I cannot wait to wake up tomorrow and take life on. I want to shout and scream as loud as I can that I’ve made it. I was brought on to this Earth for a reason, and I intend on staying.

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VOLUME SEVEN • TWENT Y-FIFTEEN

Dysfunctional

BY DAYVON ROSE

Lights up on Sarah sitting upside down on the couch reading a book. Sitting on the ground against the front of the couch is Gabby writing on a notepad. Emma enters holding a tray of cookies and a small book with David following her.

DAVID: But, Mom, do you guys really have to meet her?

EMMA :Yes, David, it's important for the family to meet your future wife!

DAVID: ButEMMA: It's my house...boom point mama!

Emma high fives Sarah, but almost knocks her down.

DAVID: Mom, we’re just history partners.

EMMA: That’s not what I read in your little diary. Dear diaryDAVID: You went through my journal?

EMMA: Went through, read, skimmed, they're practically the same thing. Anyway, that’s not important right now; what’s important is the new addition to this family.

DAVID: She cannot become part of this family!

EMMA (Stern): And what’s wrong with this family?

DAVID: Well, Sarah’s a know it all. You’re…

Emma shoots him a look.

A very loving mother who might have a tendency to want things her way. Gabby is just Emo. SARAH: I am not a know it all, I’m the soon to be first female president. All must know my higher intelligence so that I won’t be underestimated.

EMMA: As for me I just like to have things exactly how I want it, in a very specific order.

GABBY: That’s not a control freak?

EMMA: Anyway, I promise mama bear will behave herself in front of Suzy.

Emma removes David’s book bag and leans it against the chair as she sits and begins to read a small book.

DAVID: It’s Julie mom, Julie. And remember don’t close the door. It automatically locks.

SARAH: Julie? Hm, I like the name Jenny a lot better!

GABBY: I always loved the name Gerta.

SARAH: Gerta sounds disgusting.

DAVID: Look, we need to be alone tonight, so if you don’t mind leavingEMMA: Um, excuse me: off-Broadway actress here. I’m the one who pays the bills around here so I think we’ll be staying.

SARAH (Laughs): Exactly, why would we leave? Just look at him, Gabby. Look at this extravagant creature, rarest of its kind in fact. See the anger in his eyes, the over-sized dose of tension in his muscle, and the complete desperation surrounding him that tells the destruction that is to come in his future. This right here is a real desperado. Get it? Desperate. I’m so funny. Gabby, are you listing to me?

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BREAKWALL • A LITERARY JOURNAL

GABBY: Didn’t you see I was creating a monologue about the absence of life force and freedom that binds us into complete nothingness inside this room?

SARAH: Um no, what I do see is our brother being a party pooper. Do you see how he treats us? He should learn to respect our presence. He probably doesn’t want us to meet his girlfriend.

DAVID: She’s not my girlfriend!

SARAH: Yeah, yeah, and I’m the Queen of Sheba, who is famously known forDAVID: Get out!

GABBY: You guys are starting to disturb my aura.

DAVID: Excuse me?

SARAH (Fast paced): Her aura, doofus, you know the atmospheric energy that changes corresponding to one’s emotional state. It surrounds living things such as animals, plants, and even humans. (Regular paced) Sorry I’m going a bit fast for you aren’t I? DAVID: Jeez, you’re going to scare her off.

Julie knocks on the door.

DAVID: She’s here? Mom, how does my shirtEmma looks up with a giant smile.

DAVID: Never mind. Gabby, how does my shirt look? Good, bad, too much?

GABBY: I guess you could have chosen a better shirt, one that doesn’t show off your bad complexion. Also, those pants really point out your aura of desperation.

DAVID: My what? Look I'm going to regret this, but Gabby, invite her in while I go change. You both go upstairs when I come back. Mom, please watch them.

EMMA (Sarcastic): Sure...

David leaves off-stage.

SARAH: Hey Gabby, help me come up with an ice breaker for Julie!

GABBY: How much does a polar bear weigh?

SARAH (Jokingly): Oh, gee, Gabby, I don't know.

GABBY (Fast paced): Enough to be an obese bear that is overly depressed and has nothing else to live for in which he crushes the surface he is sitting on and drowns, thus breaking the ice.

Emma puts down the magazine and stares at Gabby with displeasure.

EMMA: Sweetie, you're supposed to comfort her with your words, not creep her out!

SARAH: As always I have to carry this family with my knowledge.

Julie knocks again, Gabby leaves off-stage. Sarah sits on the couch attempting to look sophisticated.

Emma attempts to fix the furniture and fidgets with her hair. Gabby enters on again followed by Julie.

GABBY: Welcome to the Robinson's basement. You can sit on the disgusting dust mite infested couch over there or have some week old fungus filled cheese and dry crackers my mother set out.

JULIE: Aren’t those cookies?

GABBY: Look, girly, I don't like new people and I'm so fresh out of mercy.

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VOLUME SEVEN • TWENT Y-FIFTEEN

SARAH: Her name is Gabriella Samantha Esperanza Alexandria Robinson, but she likes to be called Gabby.

JULIE: Oh, nice to meet you, Gabby. I'm Julie Watson.

EMMA: And I'm David's mumsy, single parent, Off Broadway actress ya know. It's totally OK if you would have accidentally confused me for one of his sisters, but I assure you I'm not a day under thirty five.

SARAH: Mom aren’t you forty?

EMMA: Shh. JULIE: Well, nice to meet you Ms. Robinson!

EMMA: You don't have to be so formal, sweetie. You can call me Emma or, you know, Mom. Why don't you just have a seat right here?

As Emma moves back to her seat and Julie sits, David enters wearing a different shirt.

JULIE: Hi David.

Julie walks to hug David, but he walks under her open arms.

DAVID (Nervous): Hi. EMMA: Well, here we are...all together. I, uh, have to go take care of something.

Emma leaves off-stage.

DAVID: Before you say anything, want a cookie?

GABBY: I once had a hamster named Julie.

JULIE: AwwGABBY: I destroyed her!

Emma enters on stage.

DAVID: OK , enough! Everyone knows each other? Good. Now, you two canEMMA: Oh no! David, somehow the door is locked.

DAVID: What! No no no...

David rushes off-stage as Sarah walks over to Julie and curtsies.

SARAH: How can I be so rude? My name is Sarah Robinson, but you don't need to know my middle name. You should know though that in Hebrew Sarah means “princess,” which is sort of like president or something. All you need to know is that I…will become the first female president.

David enters.

JULIE: Oh, well that's nice. Hey, Ms. Robinson, did David tell you that we'reDAVID: The best partners in history class!

He awkwardly punches Julie’s shoulder softly.

DAVID: Study buddies...uh yea, anyway, Mom, where is the key?

EMMA: What key?

DAVID: The basement key! The key to the basement!

EMMA: Oh, that key? Well, you see, uh, I lost it.

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BREAKWALL • A LITERARY JOURNAL

DAVID: So they’re stuck here?

David goes off stage to the door, no one notices him.

SARAH (Fake crying to Julie): I don’t know why my brother doesn't like us…(Breaks her fake crying) I mean me. (Fake crying) He forces us to our rooms whenever he has guests, which isn't a lot. He treats us like creatures. I just try so hard. Point Sar- I can't even say it.

Emma shimmies her way to Sarah acting worried and holds onto her fake crying.

EMMA: Oh, my baby!

JULIE: David, did you real-David?

Notices David’s gone and goes to the steps by the door while David bangs on the door; Gabby follows Julie.

JULIE: David! David, what are you doing?

DAVID: I’m trying to get help. Help! Help! Help me, please!

GABBY: You do realize that we’re all down here? No one can help.

DAVID: Dang it!

David takes Julie’s hand and they go to sit on the couch. Gabby sits between Julie and David breaking their hands apart.

EMMA: Who wants to play truth or dare?

Sarah breaks her fake crying and stares at the cookies with joy.

SARAH: I do! I do! Yay Gabby, we get to party! And we get free cookies!

GABBY: I think it would be more fun to show Julie David’s baby pictures.

Sarah grabs a cookie and sits on the couch next to Julie.

JULIE: How ‘bout we just try to finish this project.

DAVID: Yeah, yeah, OK .

David gets up and attempts to sit by Julie. As he does, Gabby shifts awkwardly leaning over the couch and Julie leans over Sarah. He squeezes through the two and sits.

DAVID: So Julie, I thought of an awesome idea for our project.

GABBY: I can tell you're stressed.

DAVID: I’m just fine. Anyway, we canSARAH: As your future leader I can help you!

GABBY: No, I’ll help!

SARAH: You just want to make it worse!

GABBY: No...I just want to make it enjoyable...for me.

EMMA (Annoyed): So, it's obvious these two just being study buddies they would like nothing more than to just work on their little project and break the dreams of a caring mother. (Beat) Come on children, how about we do some meditation?

GABBY: I was just having fun.

SARAH: I’m gonna plan out my inauguration speech. It’s gonna have sparkles and cupcakes andEMMA: Honey, we really don’t care right now, let’s just meditate.

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Sarah and Gabby have trouble getting up. Succeeding, they sit on the ground and Emma follows. The three get into their meditation poses and do ohm’s.

DAVID: Back to the project: I thought of a really cool topic...just hear me out...do a presentation… pause for effect…on the history of dental floss.

JULIE: That’s interesting, but…just hear me out…we could tell your mom?

EMMA: Tell your mom, what?

DAVID: Nothing important, just that we're working very hard on our- (Badly pretends to be in pain) Oww, ohhh, my stomach!

EMMA: Oh my baby got a stomach ache. I’ll get the bandages.

Emma walks off-stage.

GABBY (Happy): I swear the woman knows how to ruin a moment.

SARAH: You’re creepy.

JULIE (Sarcastic): Ha, Ha. Nice try.

Emma enters on-stage.

JULIE: (Whispering) Now David, why didn't you tell her?

Emma stops and slowly turns with a curious face.

DAVID (Whispering): You see how she is; she might not be able to handle it.

Emma slowly walks behind the couch with a hysterical look. No one notices.

JULIE: I mean it's our one month anniversary David, she has to know that we're...

Emma leans over the couch with a giant curious smile, but David and Julie don’t notice.

JULIE: A couple.

EMMA (Yelling): I knew it!

David and Julie are startled.

DAVID: Mom?!

EMMA: I knew you two were together! Oh lordy, the wedding is back on!

JULIE: Wedding?

DAVID: Mom, just calmEMMA: I knew locking the door was the perfect idea...

DAVID: You what?

EMMA: We only did it to help you.

GABBY: I didn’t want to help you.

SARAH: I was forced down here. She bribed me with ice cream. I couldn’t help it. She bribed me with the flavors, the flavors, man!

EMMA: Well...

DAVID: You're kidding me.

EMMA: David, you don't understand.

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DAVID: No EMMA, I think I do! I understand that my mother keeps nudging into my life like it's hers!

GABBY: Drama queen.

SARAH: Yeah calmDAVID: And you two. Will you ever go a day without trying to ruin my life?

GABBY: No. SARAH: You can’t talk like that to the first female presiDAVID: You're not going to be president. Unlike you, I have a real future to worry about.

GABBY: And, unlike you, she actually cares about this family. You really are a jerk.

DAVID: What?

GABBY: Just like mom, you always want to have things your way, so much that you try to hide us upstairs. Like Sarah you like to make things only about yourself, and like me, well we all can see you can get too emotional. I might not act like I care a whole lot about them…cause I don’t, but at least I know they care about me.

Silence.

EMMA: David, I'm not sorry, but I just wanted this night to go well for me...I mean for you. You're my son; it's hard for a mother to let go.

DAVID: Maybe that’s what you need to do...let go. I will always be your son, but I can't always be controlled.

SARAH: Ahem…What about my apology?

DAVID: Yeah…Sarah I’mSarah slaps David.

SARAH: Woot! Apology accepted!

DAVID: OK …I deserved that.

JULIE: This family has a lot of drama...nice!

EMMA: Uh, how about we all go get some ice cream!

SARAH: Ice cream!

GABBY: Yippee, we can just forget about what just happened.

EMMA: You know, David.

DAVID: What?

EMMA: Your diary really needs a new name. Dysfunctional can give off a bad vibe. I read it all night and I just don't understand.

JULIE: Diary?

DAVID: No! I don't have a diary. Mom! David walks slowly towards Emma who slowly backs up.

EMMA: I couldn't help it David, it was just there...open...in my hand. Race you to the car!

Emma pushes David to the couch and runs off-stage.

DAVID: One second, Julie. Mom, come back here!

David exits off-stage.

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SARAH: Oh, come on, Gabby, let's get us some ice cream!

GABBY: I'm surprised no one tried to call for help. I mean, we all have phones.

Gabby and Sarah exits as Julie's phone rings.

JULIE: Hey dad...yes I'm fine, I was just about to go get some ice cream with David and his family...His family? They're interesting. No they aren't that weird...wait what? (Beat) But dad do you guys really have to meet him?

Lights fade to black out. End.

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About the Contributors

ture stories for the Virginia Mountaineer and Kentucky Pike County News. From 2008-2014, Jerleen volunteered as a reporter for the Cleveland West Side Plain Press.

Corey Blackman is a young black revolutionary of Cleveland and a student at Tri-C. He is a rising poet, photographer, and filmmaker. Paige Margulies is a Cleveland-based lifestyle photographer. At 20 His poetry, photography, and videos are the reflection of his love, years old, she enjoys exploring in the woods, around town and on the lake to find new places to shoot, and new people to shoot with. passion, and pride centered on his life and social justice.

Marjorie Chambers knows the value of continuing her education. Shalice Mathis is a current student of Cuyahoga Community ColSome time ago, she received degrees from Tri-C and from Cleveland lege. She was born in Cleveland and grew up in Cleveland Heights.

State University. She became a Tool & Die maker at General Motors. She currently resides in Cleveland where she continues to study While preparing to retire, she returned to Tri-C to pursue a degree Photography and Liberal Arts. in Photography. Upon completion she wants to teach inner-city Danny Murtaugh is a 23-year photographer and student currently youth the Art of Photography. living in Cleveland. Danny enjoys storytelling and casting emotion/ Melanie Costanzo is a photography student at Tri-C, based in thought through aesthetic visuals, while trying to exercise his creCleveland. She enjoys telling stories through her portraiture, docuativity whenever he can. Aside from his passion for photography, mentaries, and landscapes. She believes great creativity is often Danny enjoys fashion and plans to combine the two in the future. the result of team effort and values working closely with her clients. Melanie cannot wait until her assignments allow her to travel. Eric Odum is a graduate of Cleveland School of the Arts in the disciplines of Creative Writing and Dramatic Arts. He was a 3-time Wendy Dean is a journalism and mass communication student at member of Cleveland’s youth slam team, and 3-time coach after he Cuyahoga Community College. She plans on transferring to Kent State aged out. He currently is pursuing a non-profit administration deUniversity and majoring in broadcast journalism. Wendy’s interests gree, while teaching in the arts. include volunteering, writing, traveling, martial arts, and fitness.

Jesika Orahoske graduated from Cuyahoga Community College in Paula DiFrancesco was born in Fortaleza, Brazil and is married May 2015 and is currently a Freelance Assistant and Wedding Phowith two children. She has been living in Cleveland since October tographer. Her photograph was taken from the last assignment she of 2005. She decided to study Photography at Cuyahoga Community experienced at Tri-C. Jesika enjoys volunteering for associations College in the year of 2014 when she got her first DSRL camera. such as March for Dimes.

Paula’s favorite type of photography is portraits and is very proud of having her first photograph published in Breakwall in 2015. Her Arfil Pajarillaga is currently a student at Tri-C, with the intent of pursuing a degree in Fine Art Photography at Columbia College in twin boys are one of her inspirations and subjects of her photos.

Chicago. He prefers and almost exclusively shoots in analog film Elizabeth Fokes-El is a dedicated student who is attending Tri-C format. He is passionate about the arts, with a strong focus in phoin pursuit of her Associate of Arts degree. After she obtains her detography and music. gree from Tri-C, she plans to transfer to Cleveland State University to obtain her degree in Social Work. Elizabeth wears many hats, Indya Powell is a journalism major who loves to write about evincluding writer and mother. It is her children whom inspire her to erything around her. She is most inspired by life’s journeys, love and happiness. Indya has graduated from Tri-C and plans on continuing her write and finish school. education at Cleveland State University. When taking a break from writLouis Haas is a 20-year-old photographer currently enrolled at Triing, she enjoys reading, cooking, and spending time with loved ones.

C. He’s deeply involved in the Cleveland music scene, whether it’s playing in his band Sweepyheads, or taking photos for other local Jathikaa Pushparajah was born March 18, 1993 in Dubai and moved and touring bands. Louis still generates most of his work the old to Canada in 1997. Pushparajah experienced many downfalls in life, which lead to the decision of moving to Cleveland. Pushparajah, fashioned way in a darkroom. enrolled at Tri-C and majoring in Criminal Justice, hopes to graduJerleen Justus' love of writing poetry began in high school in the ate from law school and become a successful lawyer. late 1960s. Ten years later, as a freelance writer, she wrote feaDayvon Rose has always loved poetry and playwriting as a way 59

BREAKWALL • A LITERARY JOURNAL

to not only express his feelings, but show the feelings of others around him. He was a shy guy until high school where he joined the theatre department and since then has been involved both on stage and back stage.

will pursue degrees in American Sign Language Interpreting and Criminology at a four-year university. Her hobbies include reading, writing, sketching, playing piano, and being involved in her church, college, and deaf communities.

Kyle Serenas is a writer from Western Campus and an alumnus of Cuyahoga Community College. He majored in Paralegal Studies and works in his field. He is currently studying science at Tri-C for enjoyment. Kyle is a fan of Samuel Beckett, and Ron Currie Jr. is his favorite author. He enjoys writing literature that breaks from the mainstream.

Robyn White has been a photography student at Tri-C for approximately four years. She enjoys photographing a variety of subjects and learning new techniques to create interesting visual pieces. In particular, she enjoys combining her passion for photography with her passion for sociology to create images with a scholarly twist.

After graduating from Tri-C in 2015, Raquel Wilbon currently attends Cleveland State University as a junior working towards earning her Bachelor of Arts degree in English. While attending Tri-C, her work was selected for publication in both The Voice and Breakwall. She has given a number of literary readings and has been recognized as a trained mediator, workshop facilitator, and Don Svoboda is a recently retired engineer enjoying the challenge has certification in the areas of leadership and honors. of using digital photography to highlight and express the variety David Williams reveals expression and commentary through viof creation. An avid bicyclist who explores much of northeast Ohio sual works. Born in Cleveland, he uses his thirst for exploration to and beyond, Don has 12 young grandchildren who provide no lack push his work. He experiments with several genres of photography.

He is currently working on a street photography series. of delightful photographic opportunities.

Charlotte Shumaker is currently a student at Cuyahoga Community College and is majoring in photography. She hopes to attend the Cleveland Institute of Art, and after graduation, she plans on moving to Key West to be a professional photographer. Charlotte has always been interested in photography and began taking classes her sophomore year at Cleveland Heights High School.

James Thomas, a 25-year-old Cleveland native, is a full-time student of the Media Arts and Studies program at Cuyahoga Community College. His focus is on film production but his talents reach into writing, sketch, illustration, painting, and of course, photography.

A graduate of Collinwood High School, Rommel Thorpe has always been interested in writing. He started in middle school and it progressed into a few publications through his high school’s creative arts group. He is an Associate of Arts major with a passion for journalism.

Aaron Urban is a 23-year-old student at Cuyahoga Community College and the University of Akron. Although he is majoring in Mechanical Engineering, he has strong interest in photography, videography, and music. Aaron aims to keep these interests active as he continues to pursue his degree.

AnnMarie Vanek attends Cuyahoga Community College's Western Campus, working towards a degree in Visual Communication with a focus in Graphic Design. She is a longtime art enthusiast who enjoys creative writing, drawing, and reading. She also loves to admire well-designed graphic art and typography. She and her husband live with their two beautiful kids in North Royalton.

Christina Watson is graduating from Cuyahoga Community College in Spring 2016 with Associates of Science and Art degrees. She 60

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About the Selection Committee Naizhjay McDaniel is a staff writer for The Voice and will graduate in Spring of 2016 with an Associate of Arts. She will then attend Kent State where she will pursue her Bachelors in Journalism. She enjoys public speaking, photography, and doing research.

Matt Zack is a photographer and graphic designer living in Lakewood, Ohio.

Since his graduation from Tri-C, he has made a living as a freelance creative.

He is always up for a road trip, firmly believes in quality over quantity, and thoroughly enjoys good food, anything involving whiskey, and spending time with his girlfriend, friends, and two dogs - Charlie and Archer.

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Call for Submissions

2016-17

Breakwall is Cuyahoga Community College’s creative and literary arts publication. This publication is a high quality, easily accessible creative outlet for students to showcase their talents in the arts (poetry, fiction, drama, essays, feature articles, photography, graphic art). All Tri-C students, current and former, are encouraged to submit.

Each contributor may submit up to three pieces, in any combination of genres: Prose/Drama/Feature Articles: 3,000 words maximum per piece; one-act plays are appropriate for the size constraints of the publication. Please double-space submissions.

Poetry: 1,000 words maximum per piece; please submit in the page layout you intend.

Artwork and Photography: Only black and white submissions will be accepted. Please save as .jpg file (quality of 8) with a resolution of 300 ppi. The image size must be 11” as its highest or widest dimension. Save each photograph as “Last_First_number_email address.jpg” All pieces must be submitted in electronic format. Save all text files as .rtf, .doc, or .docx and all visual images as .jpg files on a flash drive or CDROM. The drive/CD must contain all submissions plus a 50-word biography of the contributor, written in third-person point of view. Submissions will also be accepted through e-mail.

Only submissions that are complete and follow all guidelines will be forwarded to the selection committee. Selected works reflect the aesthetic judgment of the selection committee and no work is guaranteed publication.

Please double-check for grammatical and typographical errors prior to submitting your work. The editors are not responsible for publishing errors contained in submitted items.

The editors use a blind submissions process. Therefore, do not include your name on the submitted entries-include it only on the Submission Form where you list the title(s) of your work(s) and your contact information. In early spring 2017, selected contributors will be notified of the intent to publish their work(s). Anticipated publication date is late spring 2017.

SUBMISSION DEADLINE: FRIDAY, DECEMBER 9, 2016 You may submit your drive/CD in one of two ways:

MAIL/IN PERSON: VIA EMAIL: BREAKWALL, C/O LINDSAY MILAM LINDSAY.MILAM@TRI-C.EDU MLA 223-S 2900 COMMUNITY COLLEGE AVENUE CLEVELAND, OH 44115 If you have any questions, please contact Lindsay Milam at Lindsay.Milam@tri-c.edu or at 216.987.4544.

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Submission Form

Please answer all questions on this form. To submit your work, follow the directions on the Call for Submissions.

CONTACT INFORMATION: NAME MAILING ADDRESS PHONE NUMBER CITY, STATE, ZIP EMAIL ADDRESS Which Tri-C campus do you attend?

Circle One

Metropolitan

Western

Eastern Westshore/CCW

SUBMISSION INFORMATION: List the title(s) and genre(s) of your submission(s). Please be sure that only the titles of your submissions appear on the copies you are submitting to the editorial committee. There is a maximum of 3 total submissions per contributor, regardless of genre. Genres include prose, poetry, drama, essay, art, or photography.

Title of Submission Item

(if submitting artwork, indicate the medium used, such as digital photography, acrylic paint, etc.)

Genre

Submission #1 Submission #2 Submission #3 BIOGRAPHY:

Please include a 50-word biography with your submission. If your work(s) are accepted, this biography will be featured on the Contributor list. If you do not include a biography and your work(s) are accepted, your name will not be listed on the Contributor list. Use third-person point of view when composing your biography.

STATEMENT OF ORIGINAL WORK: I hereby state that all works submitted are my own and previously unpublished. I grant the editorial committee permission to use my works for publication and promotion of Breakwall, which may include publication on the future Breakwall website.

Contributor Signature

Date

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