The Literary and Art Magazine of Seton Hill University
Eye Contact Order & Chaos
"...in all disorder a secret order." – Carl Jung
Eye Contact Volume 31 • Issue 1 • Fall 2017
Copyright © 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. Printed by Seton Hill University Xerox Copy Center.
Staff Editors-in-Chief
Madeleine Robbins Madison Wilson
Art Editor
Devina ColoĚ n
Literary Editor
Alexandra Gipson
Layout Editor Bianca Socci
Assistant Layout Editor Rebecca Scassellati
PR Manager Evan Vissat
Faculty Advisor
Dr. Michael Arnzen
2
Cover Art
Fallen by Bianca Socci
Web Editor
Marisa Valotta
Business Manager Zachery Odenthal
Staff
Jennifer Bergman Morgan Bergman Tasha Brownfield Sadye Eisenhauer Chynna El Ayazra Jacob Meager Camila do Nascimento Kemaura Vance
Contents Foreword . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4 Destruction by Alexandra Gipson . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5 Internal Storm by Danielle Hegyes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6 Zephyrus Fooled by Madison Wilson . . . . . . . . . . . . 7 Hands of Fate by Madison Wilson . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8 In the Silence by Mariah Betz . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9 Picture Imperfect by Stephanie Malley . . . . . . . . . . . 10 Primary Motivation by Colleen Malley . . . . . . . . . . . . 11 The Path by Bradlee Allen . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12 : a cylinder... by Kaitlyn Culpepper . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 16 Curious by Rhonda Gibson . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17 Eden's Decay by Megan Smoulder . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 18 Imagination by Jordan Mayers . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20 Mortality by Bradlee Allen . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 21 Almond Blossoms by Rhonda Gibson . . . . . . . . . . . . 22 Milky Watcher by Michael Arnzen . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 23 Out of Season by Sam Gray . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 24 The Almond Tree by Rebecca Scassellati . . . . . . . . . . . 25 Locked in a Gaze by Evan Vissat . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 26 Partial Eclipse by Albert Wendland . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 27 Shower by Kaitlyn Culpepper . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 28 Mother & Son by Nicholas Dormihal . . . . . . . . . . . . . 29 Contributors . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 30 Patrons . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 32 3
Forew0rd The theme of order and chaos is a venture into the relationship between usual and unusual, normal and weird, conventional and strange. In different ways, order and chaos both explore reality, experience, ideas and beauty. I am proud to present a magazine that contains all that and more. From scribbled ideas back in June to our first draft of this issue, the semester has been a “hypercaffeinated extravaganza� of creativity and learning. Thank you to my co-editor in chief, Madison, for communication and patience, and to our editors for exciting ideas and commitment to our work. To the entire staff, thank you for devoting time and energy to the magazine. Your effort resulted in a record number of submissions and a magazine you should be proud of as our own collaborative work of art. Thank you also to our incredible advisor, Dr. Mike Arnzen, for guidance and hilarity, and for teaching me to recognize the power of art and literature. To our patrons, contributors and readers, thank you for supporting our creative endeavor. Let this issue of Eye Contact remind you to notice order and chaos in the world.
Madeleine Robbins For the Fall 2017 issue of Eye Contact we continued the previous semester’s idea of proposing a theme for our contributors. We saw astounding levels of ingenuity, imagination, and talent in our submissions that allowed us to create the high-quality magazine that we strive for. There is something deeply relatable about this theme and the way that contributors granted us a tiny piece of their world, with the faith that we would care for it. This issue shows the variety and familiarity in both order and chaos, and I hope you see yourself in our work, as I certainly have. As this is the first issue I have published as Editor-in-Chief, I owe abundant gratitude to those who make this magazine a possibility. Thank you to Maddie Robbins, my co Editor-in-Chief for serving as a mentor and friend. Thank you to Dr. Arnzen, our advisor, for his continuous support, opinions, and hilarity. Thank you to our staff for their commitment and creativity. Thank you to our patrons for contributing to the arts and seeing their importance. Finally, thank you to the reader for giving our piece of art a home. I hope you find a home in it too. 4
Madison Wilson
Destruction Alexandra Gipson Crack open the sky. Scratch the blue until it bleeds; azure droplets sprinkle down, false rain not to be caught on the tongue. Hammer until the clouds crumble then listen for the brontide: heavy boulders tumbling down a mountain, watch as lightning blazes across the split sky dancing like madmen, spastic and spirited. The sun and the moon, reunited lovers possessing fresh hatred; they cannot exist in the sky together. Rage and jealousy fuels the fire, a fight for dominance ownership superiority, stars shoot downward instead of horizontally. Conflagrant birds plummet, nothing but ash meets the ground, hurling asteroids create craters in the earth’s crust. All simply collateral damage in the battle of time. Crack open the sky and watch the world explode
5
Internal Storm Danielle Hegyes photography
6
Zephyrus Fooled Madison Wilson
As order succumbs to storms of chaos, You rode on the tail of a sunny day Lightning crackling, cackling, paradise lost Mama said, “Twisters always come that way.” Your sky, shades I was taught to spot in school The salient chartreuse of an old bruise Acidic raindrops descending misrule Nocent intent, a fresh town to abuse How do I rebuild my home’s splintered barn? Innards strewn across fields my parents grew The familiar torn, shorn, tangled like yarn Wind-battered, I wander lands I once knew After eras of hunting, my gaze lands On a discarded chair, my own heart’s kin In ancient leather, like my father’s hands He cradles my weary limbs, I begin To rely on a force that’s not my own In his warm embrace, I make my new home
7
Hands of Fate Madison Wilson photography, digital
8
In the Silence Mariah Betz I lay in a meadow, arms behind my head. Soaking in the sun, I breathed in and out slowly. Birds chased each other through the air, singing as they went. A light breeze rustled the leaves in the surrounding trees. I closed my eyes and enjoyed the moment, for I knew I couldn’t be here long. A slight chill pervaded my skin. Where did that come from? The wind started to become colder, sharper. I opened my eyes. The once clear sky was now speckled with clouds. The sun’s heat had weakened. I stood up in dismay as the wind continued to pick up. I hugged myself. It’ll be alright, it’ll be alright. Whirlwinds spun around me. It was as if I were standing in the middle of a tornado. Whipping, tearing hair, limbs, skin in a race to reach nowhere in particular. They spun and swirled around me-- and I was stuck in the center. I tried to walk a few steps into the chaos, braving it, but was ripped and tripped and pulled back into the middle. All I could do was stand, every effort going into that one act, and scream. Scream until my voice screeched into oblivion. I stood, alone, helpless. Silence. I sat in a room full of students studying, reading. The clicks of keyboards resounded off the blank walls. A pair of friends chatted in the corner. I grinned as they laughed at something, but I was left out of the joke. Sighing, I returned my eyes to my computer screen. Time for homework.
9
Picture Imperfect Stephanie Malley You position us like paper cutouts propped up on shadow-stands: a little left, more to the right, back a tad, a tad further, now a little more left. Always you are surprised by our drooping smiles and sun-shuttered eyes. When will it click, the impossibility of condensing flesh-and-blood to a snapshot that fits perfectly into a slot in your wallet? Even as you slide us in, you leave the mark of your own fingerprints.
10
Primary Motivation Colleen Malley oil paint
11
The Path Bradlee Allen
There are tales as old as time about why we shouldn’t stray from the path. From Little Red Riding Hood to the wendigo, leaving the order of civilization always leads to creatures of savagery. Just take the leash off your dog and see how easy they are to control. But let me guess: You don’t believe in those stories? I’d never cared for those superstitions either, but I did pride myself on my efficiency. Paths are pointless if they don’t take the quickest route, I’d told myself. Even when I took a weekend trip into the wooded hills of Appalachia, I decided that there was no need to follow the path up the mountains when I could just cut straight up into them, right? It had been so hard to find a secluded area of the forest where logging, housing, nor people were anywhere in sight, but sure enough the inspiration that had inspired so many before me would be mine. Night fell more quickly than I’d anticipated, so I began to tie my hammock between a set of trees and tied my bag amidst the branches above. I hadn’t realized just how thick the air on campus was until I’d gotten into the woods and breathed in the scent of nature. I’d always been a rather heavy sleeper, so imagine my surprise when I woke in a nervous sweat. Almost like it knew something was wrong, my body was tense. I was in fight or flight mode, and I had no idea why. The stars above were ample light, but still I got the sense that something was lurking in the trees, just outside of my vision. “Dammit Lisa,” I cursed under my breath as I rolled over in my hammock, putting her words out of mind. She and her horror films could screw right the hell off, even with that snapping twig behind the tree line. “Just a deer,” I assured myself. The next morning, I gathered my stuff and started up the mountainside once more, biting into one of my granola bars. I ended up finding a pond about half-way up the hill, a large majority of it covered in algae. All afternoon, I could feel Emerson’s spirit flowing through me as I wrote there at the edge of the pond, but I nearly dropped my journal into the water when there was a gigantic splash. I looked, but nothing was there. I sighed as the waters calmed and put my pen back to the paper, noting my surroundings with quick, lyrical lines to be formed into a poem later. Before I realized it I was gasping for breath; something had pulled me off my rock by the ankle. I cursed myself for worrying about the poems and notes lost when my journal fell from my hands and struggled to get free. The water was too murky to see whatever it was, but the piercing pain in 12
my ankle was enough to aim near with my other foot. It took a few tries, but I was freed and swam as fast as I could for the light above. Hurriedly, I shambled out of the water, grabbed my bag, and started to run. I didn’t realize that I was bleeding until I had been running for several minutes and the adrenaline wore off, leaving me hobbling. I had to have been running (read: hobbling) for a solid hour, up and down slopes, hurrying around trees. Eventually my left foot just gave out and I let myself sit there, but even as I started catching my breath I tore my first aid kit out of my backpack to pour antiseptic on my cuts and start wrapping my ankle in bandages, too out of breath to scream as the wound burnt anew with its cleansing. I ate a few granola bars and drank one of the wine coolers I’d brought with me; I deserved alcohol. I began setting up camp; this time I started a fire. I also climbed the trees several yards before setting up my hammock. I dried off by the flame and ate some of my jerky before climbing – nearly slipping several times – into my hammock. I didn’t fall asleep for hours. I just stared off into the darkness, afraid of what lurked just outside of my fire’s light. I was too panicked from the attack to even consider the fact that I’d had no sense of direction when I fled the water. I didn’t have any idea how to get back to my last campsite, let alone civilization. A chill shot down my spine before I even opened my eyes the following morning. I could feel a gaze upon me, but I assured myself it was just my own mind playing tricks on me as I started to climb down the trees, working to untie my hammock. I quickly started packing up my journal and tools from around the camp and started walking down the hill, hoping if I went down it’d lead to something or someone helpful. I decided I’d catalogue my experiences so that, if something happened to me, others might find my journal and know how to get to— I dropped the book and quickly looked back, turned to stare into the forest. I could feel sweat beading as my body froze in sheer terror as the water stained pages of the journal I’d lost in the lake fell to my feet. Whoever – whatever – had attacked me followed me. It brought my journal and left it there. It was just sitting there, amongst my things. I didn’t even notice. I grab it every morning out of habit; I didn’t even realize anything was out of place. I tore my pocket knife from my pants and flicked it open, looking around in paranoia as I watched for my assailant from the day before. Thoughts were being replaced by new ones as fast as they could form, but the only coherent one I could form was the realization that it was toying with me. The understanding that it had sadistic, intelligent traits. Everything else was drowned out by my subconscious trying to take control. 13
Survive, survive, survive, survive, it was shouting. All I could really focus on was getting out of there and doing it alive. I have to go slowly, if it’s smart enough to taunt me, it’s probably smart enough to lay traps… I thought to myself. I was naïve though, because it didn’t need a trap, and even if I had been right, I didn’t get the chance to be cautious. The full weight of someone slammed me to the ground and I heard a sickening crack rip through the air from my chest, drowning out the crumpling of leaves below me. Claws sank into my back and teeth my shoulder as I struggled to get on my back so I could fight my assailant off. Finally, though, I did manage to get a forceful knee into its gut, which seemed to knock the air out of the humanoid shape. I panicked and held my knife defensively as I watched it double over to regain its breath. Slowly it stood into a crouch, its massive shoulders heaving with its labored breathing as its lungs tried to refill themselves. There she stood, her dirty, ratty, auburn hair long and disheveled as it hung down her back. Her face was obviously that of a human, but just as clearly not. Her pupils were small, as if they caught light more easily, and her eyes themselves held a distinct air of savagery. Her lips were curled back into a snarl, exposing her mouthful of fanged teeth. Her hand gripped at her abdomen which was coated in scars, much like the rest of her body. I could see that her nails were grown out, not only long but thick and sharp. They had begun to coat over her fingertips, almost consuming the rounded points as they began to resemble claws. She growled before bolting off. Even her movements were different – she ran on the balls of her feet, her legs outstretching naturally. The moment she disappeared into the woods I panicked again and started in the opposite direction. I had to put distance between us…unfortunately that meant going back up instead of down. Did she do that on purpose? It didn’t matter. At least now I knew what I was contending with. It didn’t take long before I was out of breath, though. It was barely noon by my watch, which had somehow survived – if you take anything from this story it should be to buy a Relic watch – and I was already exhausted. I didn’t think I’d find much downhill, but I knew nothing was up the slope. Even by retreating, she had essentially trapped me here on this mountain. Something told me she could find me anytime she wanted, too. It went on like that for days, maybe weeks. I kept trying to find a way down the mountain, but she kept blocking my route. Sometimes she’d be standing there in my way and just watch me turn around, others she attacked. Each time I barely escaped with my life and I could only thank my knife for the fact that I hadn’t been turned into her lunch. One time while we were struggling she managed to bite off my right ring finger and I 14
watched in horror as she chewed it – bones crunching in her maw – before swallowing my flesh. Blood dripped down her mouth as she pushed harder, getting hungrier. I had to rely on the forest for my food, but she didn’t always leave me time to cook. Perhaps the most horrifying point of this whole experience was the time I realized I was eating a deer’s leg raw… and I hadn’t seen her in nearly a day. I had plenty of time to cook it, but I’d grown so out of the habit. Some supplies I abandoned to move faster, others I lost in struggles with her or animals around the forest. I realized my body…and my mind were changing. I didn’t care though. That voice was screaming louder and louder the longer I was in the forest. Survive, survive, survive! it shouted, and I was willing to do anything it told me to. My fingernails were growing longer, my teeth were sharpening themselves on the bones of my prey, and my hair was growing more unwieldy. I don’t know how I did it, but I managed to find my way to the very same pond where she first attacked me. I leapt at first because when I looked into the water, I thought it was her waiting to leap out at me; it was my reflection. I could feel myself slipping. I’d come here to study the world, but I was stooping to some sort of… creature. Just like her. That’s when I heard them: Voices were coming out of the forest. A man was speaking to his son. They were carrying fishing poles. I lurched behind one of the stones that littered the pond’s shore and waited. What if they were like her? What if they took me back? Wait, wasn’t that what I wanted? Don’t I want… to go home? I froze and my body tensed as I heard the screams. I turned to see her tearing into the father, blood splashing into the water as the son tried to peel her off, screaming angrily for his father’s safety. I bolted from my shelter; I had to help! The screams grew louder and I was upset by how eerily quickly I ran to the trio. My heart rate rose, my hand gripped the knife tightly, not that I felt I really needed it anymore. There was no way I could get to the father, not now, but the boy? He had to be at least nineteen, and I still had a chance to get to him. I wasn’t sure I’d make it, I thought she’d get to him first. But I made it in time. My knife met flesh first, followed by the rest of my weight as blood went spurting. As our bodies fell to the ground, her screams of anger and rage tore into the sky. My teeth sank into the younger man’s throat as his warm blood slipped down my throat and, I ate hungrily. I looked up, watching her warily as we ate our fill. She glared at me for having stolen her second meal, but I didn’t care. I was hungry. 15
: a cylinder containing a narcotic, herbs, or a medicated substance for smoking Kaitlyn Culpepper The first one dangles loosely between plush lips, painted cherry-red to complement smoky eyes. Excitement, peace, and cool between rolling paper. Months later they’re shaken out of a pack and handed over, friend to friend. They huddle together, sitting on benches or leaning against buildings, bonding over their bad habit. Years later some of the best ones she’s had are also the worst ones she’s had because she lights them when she’s desperate, meant to be an exception when they’ve already become the rule. Now they’re often fumbled out of their pack by shaking hands, lit with a lighter that feels like 20 lbs of guilt in her jacket pocket when she sneaks out of the house for a quick one away from her kid. At night she’s haunted by the image of one dangling from cracked lips – split from the coughing, perpetually parted to help with the breathing – being enjoyed by a woman who she wishes wasn’t so familiar.
16
Curious Rhonda Gibson acrylic on wood
17
Eden's Decay The wind rustles the leaves, emeralds sparkling in the summer sun, while birds whistle on their perches proclaiming peace as small critters dash across crinkling foliage. The forest of life overcome by roaring trucks and humans who hack the oxygen-makers and homes of the animals who cannot protest. The gently waving grasses mix with dandelions, clover, and thistle, where spotted fawns dance as a doe stands guard. The insects rush hour, searching for pollen, smaller insects, or friends, a vivacious ecosystem now home to diesel engines and an array of human waste overfilling a crater, pop cans, bottles, boxes, couches, bags, every color layered with slime, sewage, and maggots enjoying dinner. The endless palette of colorful coral that hides beneath the iridescent indigo waves, 18
Megan Smoulder
fish of every species dancing with no danger or care, then Earth loses its sunscreen, turning coral into a graveyard where bleached bones reach up from the ground, color faded, a place no fish will enter. The ice sculptures glisten in the daylight, flaunting their sapphire hues while they stand rigid and tenacious against the crisp blasts of blizzards, but they are defenseless against the scorching ball of fire which slowly flays their skin, exposing entrails, tears slide, mixing with polar bears and penguins whose ground beneath them disappears. Crystalized beaches luminous in summer heat, families lounge, smiles stretch on sunburned faces, piĂąa colada condensation, the repetition of waves that keep coming and never go. Water climbs the slope, reaching footholds of steel towers, creating cement rivers and unfamiliar lakes. Land and people retreat, new cities of Atlantis form. 19
Imagination Jordan Mayers graphite
20
Mortality Bradlee Allen Under the dark sky the lights pass by From side to side the wheel turns as does the world The moon shines down on the road I can feel my eyes growing heavier It’s too hot or too cold there’s no winning with this car Cracking the window and turning up the heat The radio’s broken I missed the exit Headlights from oncoming traffic Beating against my already tired eyes It’s alright though I’ve only got an hour to go Rumble rumble rumble CRAP rumble rumble Jerking to the side, focusing on the road I can do this I’m almost home Just have to stay awake a little bit longer What happened? Why is it so cold...? 21
Almond Blossoms Rhonda Gibson acrylic on canvas
22
MILKY WATCHER Michael Arnzen purple eye of corrupt alabaster red veins jagged in marbling shattershock the orb jiggles wet between lids blackened with scab mascara it twitches so much atrophied light yawning a chaotic chasm of color the pupil is a universe snuffed and reborn in a blink
23
Out
of
Season Sam Gray
When the snow seemed ten feet high, and I believed that I would never see the world under that thick white crust again, my mother spun me my very own cocoon. Carefully robed in white woolen sheets and soft down felt like heaven, but something took over me. I would kick and thrash once the lights were off, untucking carefully folded
hotel corners, haphazardly
wrinkling the smooth sea of warm waters from around me. Until at last, my body found
solace
from that
incubation bundle, and all there was to see
were
two sets
of toes
out in
the cold:
Butterflies
24
out of season.
The Almond Tree Rebecca Scassellati marker, digital
25
Locked in a Gaze Evan Vissat I can’t help but think that one must have a mind of water. While others have that of, a terrain most vapid, each word exchanged, a footstep that cracks the mud...
Your thoughts are Great waves, thundering and frothing as they thrash upon one another, yet quietly nestled behind your eyes. Such is the nature of water, one of extremes, an eternal polarity. One instance, devoid of sound. Wrapping one in a deep caress, yet they do not drown. As the gale returns, passion, the moon, pulls the tides towards the sky, and through your eyes, I see this happen. They are my windows to this ocean, Depths without end. I can almost dip in my toes as goosebumps flood my skin. 26
Partial Eclipse Albert Wendland photography
27
Shower Kaitlyn Culpepper The world shrinks to white knuckles between teeth – I see blood in my reflection in the metal faucet before I feel any pain. A scream is scraping at my insides. I want to wail, and see what the sleek, white walls do with the sound. I stand, head bowed, wet hair framing my face like thick moss curtains – a waterfall of tears leaking from my caved-in eyes. Everything flows d o w n & a w a y, making me wish that I too could disappear into the piping… I dip a pruned toe into the drain below. If only I could wrap myself in the plastic curtain that protects the outside world from my mess –
28
form a chrysalis. Although, if I emerge again, what can I do with wings that are soaked through?
Mother
&
Son Nicholas Dormihal
Today, she dusts, whistling as she occupies herself with busy work. She knows that, in a few days, he will come back home and everything should be tidy before then. Today, he sits, huddled in a dark hole as, just above him, bullets fly and people shout. Rockets burst and homes crumble, but he has no way out. Help won’t come for an hour and he must wait until then. She finds his old catcher’s mitt. It makes her smile, because it reminds her of when he was small and he would beg to go to the ball game. He’ll like to see it, but she must wash it off before then.
He finds a tunnel in the hole. It makes him smile, because he thinks it’s a way out. He crawls, pants, keeps looking for a light, but the earth shakes, the roof buckles, and there is only darkness. Everything’s clean and neat. She can’t wait to see him. The clock ticks on and she keeps waiting. She rocks in her chair, sips her tea and thinks “He’ll be home soon” as she looks out the window toward the light.
29
Contributors Bradlee Allen
is a senior psychology major and family studies minor who loves writing in most forms.
Dr. Michael Arnzen
has taught in SHU's Writing Popular Fiction and English programs since 1999.
Mariah Betz
is a sophomore creative writing major with a Spanish minor and dreams of dragons, magic, and deerstalkers.
Kaitlyn Culpepper
is a junior at Seton Hill studying creative writing and psychology.
Nicholas Dormihal
is an English major at Seton Hill University, and a long-time practitioner of creative writing.
Rhonda Gibson
currently works as an art teacher and creates artwork based on where she lives.
Alexandra Gipson
is a junior English - creative writing major and Spanish minor who drinks unhealthy amounts of coffee and writes healthy amounts of poetry and prose.
Sam Gray
is a student of English literature at Seton Hill University who lost herself in the pages of a book once and hasn’t left since.
Danielle Hegyes
is an art education major and aspiring photographer from Perryopolis, Pensylvania. 30
Colleen Malley
is a junior theatre performance major and freelance makeup artist who spends her free time plotting world domination.
Stephanie Malley
a SHU parent, is an occasional poet who especially enjoys writing light verse.
Jordan Mayers
is a sophomore graphic design major who prefers having dessert before dinner and fills her day with as many cat pictures and as much Netflix as possible.
Rebecca Scassellati
is a cartoonist whose head is full of Broadway lyrics, cleverly disguised as a serious student.
Megan Smoulder
is a junior creative writing major with a secondary teaching certificate at Seton Hill University.
Bianca Socci
will attend the function if it means free pizza.
Evan Vissat
Excuse me while I step in, make a picture, and write some weapons.
Albert Wendland
teaches English and Writing Popular Fiction at Seton Hill University.
Madison Wilson
is a sociology and psychology student at Seton Hill University who uses art and writing to express the necessity for feminism, intersectionality, and social justice. 31
Patrons Mike Arnzen Bill Black Daniel Casebeer Ted DiSanti Dana Elmendorf Debra Faszer-McMahon Dennis Jerz Laura Patterson Nicole Peeler Kim Pennesi Judith Reyna Beth Runquist Charmaine Strong Tamara Swank John and Fides Scassellati Maureen Vissat David Von Schlichten Albert Wendland Emily Wierszewski
32
Look to our website for information about the Spring 2018 issue. blogs.setonhill.edu/eyecontact
INDISCREET
PUBLIC STATEMENTS
34