Eye Contact Transformation
The Literary and Art Magazine of Seton Hill University
Eye Contact Volume 31 Issue II Spring 2017
Copyright Š 2017 by Eye Contact. After publication of this issue, all rights revert to the original artists. Eye Contact is published in the fall and spring semesters by Seton Hill University students. The ideas herein are not necessarily those of the university or the student body as a whole. Printed by Seton Hill University Xerox Copy Center.
Staff
Editor-in-Chief
Caitlin Hensel
Director of Operations Bridget Malley
Prose Editor
Madeleine Robbins
Poetry Editor Corey Niles
Art Editor
Devina Colรณn
Layout Editor Bianca Socci
PR Manager Evan Vissat
Faculty Advisor Dr. Michael Arnzen
Graphic Design Coordinator Rebecca Scassellati
Ebook Editor
Willa Black
Business Manager
Zachery Odenthal
Staff
Samantha Gray Zairera Washington Jennifer Bergman Alexandra Gipson Madison Wilson
Foreword
To the Reader:
Thank you for picking up the Spring 2017 issue of Eye Contact. This past year has been a wild journey, and the staff has worked very hard to take the magazine in new directions. This issue is the first one in years that has had a theme, and it’s allowed us to grow in regards to the layout, the advertising, and what we want this magazine to be as a whole. The accepted pieces for this magazine are, I think, of an especially high quality, and the final result has blown all of our expectations out of the water. This issue would not be nearly as polished without the generous contributions from our patrons, and it would not exist at all without all the hard work and new ideas that the editors and staff poured into the magazine. I am so proud to have been part of the team that helped make those ideas come to fruition. Special thanks once again to our faculty advisor, Dr. Arnzen, who continues to help foster our ideas and encourages us to make the best magazine we possibly can, and Director of Operations Bridget Malley, who continues to be the best co-boss I could possibly hope for. Every member of our staff deserves a medal for the effort they put into this issue, especially when so much of this issue’s creation process was changed by the presence of our theme, and I cannot thank them enough for their enthusiasm this semester. Over the course of this year, this magazine and its staff has moved in entirely new directions than anything I’d worked with previously. We all hope you enjoy the result. Happy reading!
Caitlin Hensel Editor-in-Chief
Creating a magazine is a lesson in uncertainty. How many submissions will we receive and what will the content be? Will a themed issue open avenues for creativity, or will artists and writers turn away? Did I format that template correctly? Where’s the nearest coffee shop at, anyway? What we do as a staff is take this uncertainty and wrangle with it. We take the blank page and watch it transform; out of the generosity and talents of patrons, contributors, and so many others, a magazine is made. We’re never quite sure how it’s done. All we know – all I know – is that I’m grateful to be a part of this. From this blank page onwards, may we hazard yet forward!
Bridget Malley Director of Operations
Table of Contents
Lanugo by Madison Wilson................................ 7 There Will Be Order by Devina Colรณn............... 8 Bubble Gum by Alexandra Gipson..................... 9 The Letter... by David Von Schlichten.............. 10 Tres &Passing by Bridget Malley...................... 12 The Peeping Tom by Rebecca Scassellati......... 13 What We Used to Be by Marisa Valotta........... 14 Strange Birds by Stephanie Malley................... 18 Release by Chynna El-Ayazra........................... 19 Dandelion Fluff by Madison Wilson................. 20 Roasted by Kaitlyn Culpepper......................... 21 Arithmetic Magic by Rebecca Scassellati.......... 22 Journey by Bianca Socci.................................... 23 Self Image by Stephanie Malley....................... 24 Forming Guitars by Devina Colรณn................... 25 Do Good by Caitlin Hensel.............................. 26 Reflection by Sarah Hester............................... 28 Dilate by Evan Vissat........................................ 29 Daughters of Midas by Bridget Malley............ 30
Cover Art
Creativi-tea by Evan Vissat
Lanugo Madison Wilson She was pretty. Of course, she was pretty. It was effortless, uncomplicated to be pretty. Pretty was good, and pretty was nice, but she craved perfection. Her heart, mind, and synapses ached, every sinew stretched, snapped, and pleaded for something ethereal. Simple as the notion that struck her, the journey to her best self began. Achieving sublimity was no painless task. Initially, she struggled and fell in abundance, her hopes crashing to the kitchen floor, her knees to the ground of a desolate restaurant bathroom. Her foolish fingers many a time scratched at the spongy, unfinished surface of her body, her masterpiece, clawing desperately for the celestial life inside. Through shrieks and agony, though, she began to feel her fleshy form melt, dissolving from the acid of her power and purpose. Those grateful tear splashes echoed in her memory as she battled with the seemingly ancient memory of her primitive, pathetic form. Now she was almost complete, though she shivered in shameful disagreement. Could she ever be truly complete? If not complete, then she was certainly transformed. Warm, protective down, precious lanugo, covered her every inch, rippling like a field of freshly grown wheat in the wind. Budding scapular wings threatened to score through her fragile, mortal flesh with every bend and stretch. At any moment, she was bound to be finished for flight. Skeletal talons raked anxiously against all she touched, leaving trails of the undigested that she had long disregarded and forgotten to cleanse herself of. Her feeble breath caught and she froze, interrupted by a faint rumble, so quiet and only for her. A whisper of encouragement in her final times from the reliable, her only ally. The only one who lauded her evolution as beautiful rather than monstrous. In a world that always grappled at her for more, more, more, she sent praise to the one that she was indebted to. To the only one who ever wanted less.
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There will be order Devina Colรณn
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Watercolor and Pen
Bubble GUm Alexandra Gipson Chomp and chew and cherish the fruity flavors that tango inside my mouth, a never-ending sea of strawberry waves and lime tides. Blow a bubble, make it pop. A burst of energy, a splash of flavor. Kiss me again, you taste so sweet. In the silver wrapper, a ball indented with teeth marks and drained of its taste, crumpled up and dropped in the waste. Limited sweetness in both the bubble gum and you. Too much work, not enough pleasure. Isn’t it funny, you were what I used to treasure. I spat you out and threw you away, but don’t worry. I’ll find a new favorite flavor.
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The Letter you woke up to this morning David Von Schlichten My Dearest, Last night, after watching you sleep for 45 minutes while slowly eating a couple cold, sweet plums that I had purloined from your refrigerator, I resolved not to kill you. You should be honored. I—the serial killer the media has dubbed “Jack the Writer” because of my brilliant epistles that I leave at every kill— have selected you for survival. I pardoned you, even though slicing your throat with my knife would have been ecstasy. Instead, I delicately traced the side of your face with my knife tip, careful not to hurt you, before doing the same with my gloved fingertips. Such a visage! A face that transfigures. I had good reason to kill you, as I did with all three of my kills. You see, most humans have been metamorphosed by society into stupid, monstrous vermin. Ergo, almost everyone deserves death. Thus, I squashed the first vermin because I knew how self-absorbed she was with her appearance. I squashed the second because he had raped a child and then boasted about it on Twitter. And I squashed the third because he was just too wealthy; no one needs three houses. 10
You were to be my fourth kill. I was going to squash you because, today at 1:43 PM, you extended your middle finger at me from the safety of your car. I have no idea why, but it does not matter. Nothing I ever do warrants obscenity. Our mad world has grown vulgar and hateful and cruel, so I was going to make an example of you. That was why, without your knowing, I followed you home and then waited until I was confident you had gone to bed (no one is more patient than I). Breaking into your home was easy because you had hubristically left a window unlocked. Soon I was standing over you, little insect, prepared to squash you and leave behind one of my epiphanic epistles that would reveal your sins to a ravenous world. But then, that face of yours, up close! Those cheekbones, the curve, that narrow nose, those full lips, that mole on your left cheek. Just like My Lovely, whom I never stop missing. A reincarnation. I will never cease sighing. So much painful beauty. My Lovely was the only pure human being I have ever known. I could not kill you. For the first time in my life, my urge to kill was muted. Dearest, I am giving you a second chance. You have another opportunity to be kind to others, to not extend your middle finger, to refrain from contributing to this world’s ugliness. You have the chance, once you awaken, to metamorphose from monstrous vermin to human. I will be watching to see how you do. Do not disappoint me again. Madly, “Jack”
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tres & Passing Bridget Malley Old age sits down with a creak. Doesn’t speak. Youth looks warily at the sky. I don’t know, I’m not certain, but this is what I do: I shake hands with who I could be, then make a choice. One of us disappears and the other assumes her name. Here, let me shake your hand. Youth doesn’t know what the future holds, just knows it’s not the promised land. Old age grips tight to an umbrella. I know, I’m certain I carry every version of myself within me in the shape of absences, empty spaces that contain could-have-beens and maybes. Old age looks back at Youth and Youth is unaware; she sits gazing at a blank sky. Asks, “Should I or shouldn’t I?” All that I’ve become – I wish it were clear-cut. May lightning strike me if I’m wrong. Old age is looking at the back of Youth’s head, mouth open, waiting for her to turn around. Youth never does. 12
The Peeping Tom Rebecca Scassellati
Marker and Digital Drawing
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What we Used to Be Marisa Valotta The children stand against the off-white wall, which has so many cracks shadowed in gray that it almost looks like marble. They are the art against the museum walls. Some pose, while others simply stare at the camera. Others turn their backs, and no amount of nudging and grabbing and twisting of arms will convince them to face forward. Each face is beautifully defiant. They are unmoving, fierce and knowing, with the stillness of lingering fog in a valley. None of them smile, except the girl posing with the cartoonish pig mask, its pink mouth open and curving up to its winking eyes. There is no way to know if the girl behind the mask is also smiling, because she will not remove it. None of the children speak, not even to each other. No one knows where they came from, because they won’t say. The police department looks like it was uprooted and placed in the midst of a fairytale, or maybe it’s the other way around and the children were torn from the pages of a book and thrown into the middle of a town in the middle of nowhere. They are scattered around the room, looking lost among the harsh lights, the stained carpets, sitting stick-straight on cracked chairs in front of cheap metal desks. The officers shuffle their papers and clear their throats, asking questions they don’t know how to ask. How do you ask a girl with buffalo horns in place of hands where her parents are, what her name is, where she came from? She will only gaze at you, head slightly tilted in mild curiosity, eyes soft but commanding. You don’t know why, but you think she has authority over you. What do you do then? How do you ask the boy with a dead swan draped around his shoulders if he is lost? He will only look at you, lips turned down, eyebrows slightly furrowed, as if you are the strange one, asking questions that don’t make sense. And then there is the boy with the black leotard and tutu, curved horns jutting up from his head, his dark curls tangled around them. He holds
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onto the horns and doesn’t let go. His arms never seem to get tired. They don’t tremble. You try to catch him resting his arms, but he seems to know you are watching him, so he watches you, as if trying to catch you doing something. It is so unnerving that eventually you realize you have stopped watching him and started watching yourself, careful of any mistake or blunder that might cause the boy’s calm eyes to flare up. It doesn’t seem like he would ever hurt you, but you are wary all the same. His calm elegance reminds you of the dead swan draped over the other boy’s shoulders, and his skin is just as white as the bird’s feathers. The girl who refuses to face the camera is wearing a simple but heavy black dress that ends just above her knees. The sleeves are long and flared at the end. You wonder if you should check to make sure she isn’t hiding anything in them. Over her dress she wears something resembling a knight’s breastplate, only hers is white and latticed, creating a pattern of diamonds across her back and chest. It must be ornamental, not defensive. For the picture, she holds her arms up slightly, bent at the elbow, as if saying “what are you talking about?” She wears a delicate silver chain like a shawl, hanging from the crevices of her elbows, across her back in a “U” shape, each end swinging down to the floor. Her hair is cut in a straight black bob. No matter where she stands or sits after her photo is taken, you never see her face. She is always moving, but never facing you, until you wonder if she has a face at all. You start to think it’s possible that you’re dreaming, but you know you aren’t. You’ve lived long enough to know the difference between dreams and reality, and this is reality. You’re just not quite sure how what is happening is real. One by one, each child is ushered against the wall in front of the camera. The shutter clicks, the flash illuminates their faces for a moment (none of them ever blink), and then they are placed in chairs scattered throughout the room. You are reminded of that time your grandmother asked you to help set up her moving porcelain Christmas dolls. Somehow alive, somehow not. Both beautiful and terrible, with steady eyes always watching. The line of children seems endless, and by some miracle no one else calls in to the station all day. You aren’t sure if you’ve just started your shift or if it should be ending soon. You don’t remember eating or drinking, although you must have because you are not hungry or thirsty. No one offers the children anything. You just know, without any explanation, that they will
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What We Used To Be... refuse food. You cannot imagine anything passing through their lips, in or out. Not words and most certainly not food. A boy is handed over to you and you are told to “read him.” You aren’t sure what this means at first until you see that he is bare-chested, and there are words written on the left side of his chest. They swirl around one nipple, fanning out in the shape of a hurricane. The words continue onto his shoulder and all the way down his arm. He wears a helmet on his head, made of metal with two spikes protruding from the front, almost like tiny rhino horns. In his hand he clutches a hollow, metal cylinder with a wire connecting it to his helmet. You ask him with whom he is communicating and how the device works, but like the rest of the children, he just looks at you. When you tell the boy to sit in the chair, he does not resist. He sits with the best posture you’ve ever seen at the edge of the seat, hands placed in his lap. You pull a chair up next to him, uncomfortably close so you can read the words on his skin. The boy is not the least bit bothered by your proximity. It is either this, or he hides his emotions well. They all do. You are surprised to see that the words written on this boy’s skin are in English. The children are so uncanny, so ethereal that you are certain they would have a language of their own. But instead, it’s like they came here to deliver a message to you, only it’s not a message, it’s a list of names—41 names, for the 41 children in the station. You write every name down on your yellow notepad: Lena of Blackhill, Jacob of Tin Harbor, Sandra of Buffalo Valley—on and on you follow the line of black ink along the boy’s skin until you are reading the last name at the very bottom of his wrist. Up until now, you’ve had no reason or desire to read the names out loud, but with this final one, you do: “Edith of Windstone.” A girl with a short, ashy-white mohawk, head shaved on the sides, stands at attention at the sound of what must be her name. Her small, faded pink dress flares out a few inches above her knees. She looks like a ballerina who has grown too old for the dance but isn’t willing to quit just yet. The strangest part about her is the phonograph horn she holds in her hand. She raises the slimmer end to her lips and blows through the tube. A curious sound flows out through the other end — a light, high, fluttery sound, almost like a flute. The music wavers higher and lower; it sounds like a call to war. When Edith removes the horn from her lips, the children are all standing.
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Everyone in the station falls quiet and still. They all turn to face Edith. None of the officers move to stop her or take her horn away. She is mesmerizing, regal, a terrifying innocence that doesn’t belong—not to her and not to any of the children. Are any of them actually children? With each passing moment, it seems less likely that they are children and more likely that they are some ghostly apparitions come to haunt your town, memories of what used to be. You could not say if these people are two or thirteen or thirty-five. They have no age. They just are. The children gather around Edith at the door, looking like a small army ready for battle with their mismatched weapons and armor. They are prepared to face whatever it is they are going to fight, and they don’t look afraid. It’s as if they believe they are invincible or bulletproof. There is a boy with goggles on his head and wooden wings tied to the length of his arms. He slides the goggles down over his eyes and shakes out his wings, rolls his shoulders, ready for flight. He smiles, and this is the first time you’ve seen any of them smile, then gives Edith the thumbs up. They process out, smoothly, their bare feet silent when they hit the floor. You look out the window, wanting to see where they are going, and you are startled to see that it’s snowing out now, even though it’s the middle of summer. At least, you thought it was summer. Now you’re not so sure. It could have been winter the whole time, or did time pass—whole seasons— without your notice? The last person to go is the boy still sitting in the chair in front of you, the boy with the words inked onto his skin. When the last of the children lets the door shut behind him, the boy stands, and finally, he speaks. “Thank you for your kindness. But we must go on our own now.” You do not reply. No one stops him. When he is gone, it’s back to business as usual. The calls start coming in—Mrs. Brown yells your ear off, complaining about her noisy neighbors again. As usual, you manage to calm her down enough to convince her that she doesn’t need to call every time her neighbor mows the lawn at 7AM. When you step outside, the sun is just rising and the snow is gone. The children are nowhere to be seen. There is no trace of them. Were there ever any children at all? But you know there must have been, because when you check the station’s files, the pictures of the children are still there. But they are already a distant memory.
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Strange
Birds Stephanie Malley
Poets are strange birds, no wings but what they weave for themselves out of scraps of their own and others’ lives or cobble together from twigs, leaves and mud paste. Some hobble. Others falter in the face of an unrelenting wind. A blessed few take off in flights almost too beautiful for words.
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Release Chynna El-Ayazra
Drawing 19
Dandelion Fluff Madison Wilson
Breath for a boy, bedded by another Encircled green stem, grasped by his lover Bubble flowers, an ivory halo Earthy down — tickled lips, begged for a blow Filled with jaded hopes to be an only Not cast to the umbra of the lonely To have use, purpose, not just one of those Merely good to hoe the hill where he grows Though she matured, body as evidence Seeds clung to long — expired innocence Now a soul swaddled in tattered, torn tulle The highlands mourn, howl for the little fool, Who gave her heart, her crisp air for his needs Her wishes will only turn into weeds
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Roasted Kaitlyn Culpepper
My name is Jet. I want to tell you my story, because I have the feeling I won’t be around to tell it much longer. I can feel it, deep in my gelatin. I woke up a while ago to the crackling of a fire and the subtle shifting of wooden logs as they’re poked and prodded with a big metal stick. It is not an unfamiliar sound. The smell of chocolate and graham crackers wafts through the air. I prepare to be shifted and possibly smooshed about because I know soon a human hand will rummage through our plastic home and pick members of our family at random to torment. They will not return. When I feel my brother, Puffed, being pulled from my side, that’s when I know the end truly is near. I see the sharpened stick in the human’s left hand as he grabs Puffed with his right, and before I can think to look away I am watching the monster push the stick straight through my brother. I pray to the gods of corn syrup and sugar that he is no longer with us after that moment, that he is not conscious as the human slowly roasts him over the flames until pieces of his charred remains float through the air alongside sparks from the fire. A hand reaches for me next, and it is made clear that the night’s horrors are far from over - I am in for s’more torture than I can possibly imagine.
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Arithmetic Magic Rebecca Scassellati Every morning, I’d shrug on my bulky navy-blue sweatshirt and attempt to wrangle the barbaric monstrosity known as my hair. Of course, tying that rat’s nest back in a ponytail only cleared away the space on my face to show off my stunning pimple collection. With a sigh, I’d silently criticize my reflection. My chest was flat, my teeth were horsey, and I’d seen chuckwalla lizards with longer eyelashes than mine. I would’ve given anything to look different. Not even inhumanly flawless like some Barbie dream girl supermodel. Just different. So when my fairy godmother finally appeared, I didn’t care that there was a calculator jutting out from her pocket protector. I didn’t question the fact that her wings were shaped like protractors, or that she had the slopeintercept formula tattooed to her left bicep. The moment she materialized in my room and asked me my greatest desire, I knew exactly what to say. “Transform me into someone else!” I begged. “Make me look different! I don’t care how! Just change the way I look! Please!” “You want a magical transformation?” she gasped in delight. “Then here you go!” Well, the magic worked all right. I used to be 5'2", 140 pounds. Now I’ve been dilated to exactly 90% of my original height, weight, and girth. My entire body has been flipped horizontally, so that the mole on my right cheek is now on my left. And to top it all off, I’ve been rotated so that I lean drastically to the left no matter how hard I try to stand up straight. Other than that, I look exactly the same. In geometry class today, we learned that a transformation is the alteration of an image on a plane that retains the image’s original shape. Despondent, I let my leftward-leaning head fall against my desk with a loud KLUNK, lamenting over the consequences of my stupid wish. I should’ve known better than to trust a fairy who was on math.
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Journey Bianca Socci
Digital Photography
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Self Image Stephanie Malley
In the incomparable dark, in the womb of the earth, I, Cicada, dreamt I was one in a million, then woke to a crush of us, one million copies of a dream seventeen years in the making, moments in the breaking, a cicada emerging and merging in iconoclastic light in a tomb of mass birth.
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Forming Guitars Devina Colรณn
Acrylic paint on Bristol paper
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Do Good Caitlin Hensel The marks appear in her seventeenth year, glowing faintly on her forehead, palms, ankles, neck—holy-fire eyes that gaze blankly out into the world. The luminescence shifts color depending on the light; in darkness, she almost thinks she can see them blink. It’s an honor, of course. When her parents finish crying, they tell her how proud they are of her. They wrap her hair in tight silver ribbons that match her new dress and slippers, and everyone in the village bows when she approaches, offers her dinner in their homes, or gifts. The elders visit her daily, holding her wrists in their hands, staring at the trails of irises, looking for patterns. Each day, they put a different weapon in her hand—a curved dagger no longer than the width of her palm, a broadsword so heavy it thunks to the ground when she tries to hold it, a spear that stands taller than she. Then, finally, they give her a crossbow that curves into her hands like her palms were made for it, and the eyes briefly flash white. It’s an honor, she thinks that night, staring at the shadows her crossbow casts against the floor. There is only one Protector at a time, and to Protect is to follow the path of angels. To do good. It’s an honor, she says. She etches it into her skin, between the lines of eyes. Before she leaves in the morning, she makes sure her crossbow is on her hip, that the ribbons in her hair are wound tight and do not fray. It’s an honor. She repeats the words when the current Protector watches her, a shadow at the edge of her vision. No matter where she goes, she can feel its eyes upon her—the sigils on her body burn, as if those holy-fire eyes are staring back. One morning, the silver ribbons fall from her hair in tatters, and her parents lead her to the center of the village for the transference. She remembers to bring her crossbow with her, but only just barely, and holds it tightly in her hands to stop the shaking. The eyes blink, open and closed, lazily looking at the world around her. The current Protector stands away from her and the crowd, the eye on its forehead glowing faintly with her markings. She’d never looked it full in
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the face before anymore than she would look at the ash left behind after an inferno burns itself out. But now, she can’t help but stare. She never knew the boy the Protector used to be. It became long before she’d been born. She wonders who that boy once was. The eyes close and open faster, the lights fluctuating between green, gold, red, purple, red, black, red, over and over. The Protector begins to speak in a voice that chokes in the air and falls dead around her, pulling on her skin and dragging her down into the dark earth. When her mind’s eye opens and sees the path of angels. The path is nothing like like the valiant, beautiful figure she’d envisioned, no white feathers or flaming sword or righteousness in the dirty, gray place. Nothing but a sack of wasted flesh with a million eyes that are focused only on her. It drags itself closer, its broken wings sliding behind with a terrible scratching sound that drags itself across the inside of her skull. She wants to move, but the eyes and fear chain her in place as it looms over her, ragged breath gusting in her face. It smells of carrion and exhaustion—it is so, so tired. It is ancient and wordless, a festering wound that fights off infection with its own rot to protect and sanctify and Do Good. There is no flaming sword, but its body radiates heat as if nursing its own flame, one without light. And it touches the eye on her forehead it sets her afire with the words Do Good, filling her up and burning her alive, until there’s nothing but ashes and the command. The new Protector opens its eyes. The old Protector kneels in front of her like a husk thrown aside to wither, the burning marks fading only to scars. With holy-fire eyes, the new Protector see the agony in the kneeling figure’s still-present soul. There is a boy in there. He is suffering. It raises its crossbow with steady hands. Do Good. There is only one Protector at a time.
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Reflection Sarah Hester It is magic, the way it aligns. Never again will I believe It just wasn’t meant to be. I can trust you. You say with a sigh, It’s been a long time since I have found that Someone cared deeply for me. Looking back on our life, it was wrong to assume That you never truly loved me. As time went by, I began to realize You weren’t all that I thought you were. I have to reflect, and sadly conclude, that I have to reverse what you are in my eyes. I have to reverse what you are in my eyes. I have to reflect, and sadly conclude, that You weren’t all that I thought you were. As time went by, I began to realize That you never truly loved me. Looking back on our life, it was wrong to assume Someone cared deeply for me. It’s been a long time since I have found that I can trust you. You say with a sigh, It just wasn’t meant to be. Never again will I believe It is magic, the way it aligns.
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Dilate Evan Vissat
Digital Photography
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Daughters of Midas Bridget Malley Bird bites at wolf and tries to howl but misses, so she sings. Bird soars but can’t break space. She dives and folds her wings. In my life, I wish I were – I tried to be all teeth and spine. Wild, but oh, with a touch that turns the small things all to gold. I want to silence my doubts in a way that is beautiful and lasting. I want my fears to know I am waiting for them. Wolf leaps and turns but can’t take flight – he smiles a splintered grin. Wolf howls to bird, the notes all wrong, then shreds the melody’s skin.
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Senior Page
A collaborative poem written by the seniors of Eye Contact magazine. Take your time. Go back for seconds. There is more room to breathe than you think. The walls aren’t closing in around you. The eye of the storm will last some hours yet. Let the plate fill, hours still to hear the noise your mind makes when your lungs fill with food before you choke on the nourishment and go back for dessert. 31
Devina ColÓn
is an artist who enjoys experimenting with different mediums, is a freshman and art therapy major at Seton Hill University.
Kaitlyn Culpepper
Contributors
is a sophomore at Seton Hill studying creative writing and psychology.
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Chynna El-Ayazra
is a student at Seton Hill University majoring in bad decisions and endless excitement (Art).
Alexandra Gipson
is your classic English major who enjoys reading, writing, petting dogs, and drinking tea.
Caitlin Hensel
is a maladaptive daydreamer and chronic procrastinator who occasionally writes things.
Sarah Hester
is a forensic science major from Cleveland, Ohio.
Bridget Malley
eats words - or is it vice versa?
Stephanie Malley
is a stay-at-home mom and Seton Hill parent who enjoys writing poetry for both children and adults.
Rebecca Scassellati
is a freshman graphic design/English double major who enjoys musical theatre, fairy tales, comics, and drawing people while they’re not looking.
Bianca Socci
is a sophomore graphic design major and pizza enthusiast.
Marisa Valotta
is a sophomore creative writing major at Seton Hill University.
Evan Vissat is a creative writing/communication double major who takes great interest in music, reading, and graphic design.
David Von Schlichten
is a religious studies professor at Seton Hill and a student in the MFA program in Writing Popular Fiction.
Madison Wilson
is a psychology and sociology student at Seton Hill University whose hobbies include writing, creating art, drinking coffee, and ranting about social justice. 33
Patrons 34
Michael Arnzen Patricia Beachley Bill Black Daniel Casebeer Christine Cusick Dana Elmendorf Debra Faszor-McMahon Dennis Jerz Fran Leap Laura Patterson Kim Pennesi Judith Reyna Beth Runquist John and Fides Scassellati David Stanley Charmaine Strong Tamara Swank Maureen Vissat David Von Schlichten Collin Wansor Albert Wendland Carol Zola
Look to our website for more information about the Fall 2017 issue. www.blogs.setonhill.edu/eyecontact
Indiscreet Public Statements