CENTRAL REVIEW SPRING 2019
SPRING EDITION 2019
About Us The Central Review is a literary journal publishing prose, poerty, and visual art by Central Michigan University undergraduate and graduate students. It is edited and produced during the fall and spring semesters under the auspices of the Student Publications Board of Directors. All submissions are considered in our student writing contest. Upon each publication, exemplary works are awarded top honors within the categories of prose, poetry and visual art. Poetry Winner: Amanda Miiller for “In Great-Grandma’s Memory” Prose Winner: Isabelle Fleszar for “Coup D’etat” Visual Art Winner: Alexandra Mapp for “Save Me From My Past”
The Central Review editing staff make all final decisions.
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Central Review
Attn: Editor-in-Chief Student Publications, Moore Hall 436, Central Michigan University Mt. Pleasant, MI 48859 Copyright © 2019 The Central Review by CMU Student Publications First publication rights reserved Rights revert to author upon publication
SPRING EDITION 2019
CENTRAL REVIEW Visit Central Review: www.thecentralreview.com Like our Facebook page: http://www.facebook.com/TheCentralReview Download our podcasts by subscribing to Central Michigan Life on SoundCloud, iTunes and Spotify Send submissions to cmucentralreview@gmail.com for the 2019 Spring Edition
SPRING EDITION 2019
Table of Contents
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Meet the Staff ............................................................................................................................ 2 Editor’s Note .............................................................................................................................. 3 Night Dream / Jingyue Zhong...........................................................................................4, 5 Save Me From My Past / Alexandra Mapp...................................................................... 6 I Long for Times / Jade Driscoll............................................................................................ 7 Visions of Anxiety / Kaylee Hamilton............................................................................ 8, 9 A Language Turn Around / Bailee Rudolph.............................................................. 10, 11 Put On Your War Paint / Holly English....................................................................... 12, 13 Being Half Brown Is / Meghan Dyer................................................................................. 14 Silver Linings / Caroline Carpenter.................................................................................... 15 Wrap Your Head Around It / Isabella Gross............................................................. 16, 17 In Great-Grandma’s Memory / Amanda Miiller....................................................... 18, 19 Coup D’etat / Isabelle Fleszar ...............................................................................20, 21, 22 Michigan / Ava Strainovici ............................................................................................ 24, 25 Laughter Lines / Madison Hren ..........................................................................................26 Motor Skills / Hunter McLaren ............................................................................................27 The Deer I’ve Seen / Travis Dyer ................................................................................28, 29 Taking Over the World / Hope Goodearl .................................................................30, 31 Bees / Stephanie Schumaker ........................................................................................32, 33 The Room / Sage Tischer ......................................................................................................34 Color Transcends / Grace Long .........................................................................................35 Possession / Sera Heft............................................................................................................37 Iris / Kira Borum.................................................................................................................. 38, 39 Keeping Up Appearances / Mark Elgersma ............................................................40, 41 Taking Flight / Grace Long....................................................................................................42 Winter Haze / Makaela Grinzinger .....................................................................................43 Central Review cover and publication design by Qi Zhou
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Meet the STAFF Jordan Price Editor-in-Chief Jordan is a senior studying communication and English language, literature and writing with a minor in journalism. She is also pursuing an undergraduate certificate in creative writing. In her (minimal) spare time, Jordan enjoys watching almost every show on NBC. After graduation in May 2019, she plans to work as a book editor at a publishing company.
Rob Linsley Assistant Editor Rob Linsley is a communication major and journalism minor who’s gradually coming to terms with being a hermit. Robert Fanning once called one of Rob’s poems a “trippy nightmare,” and Rob’s been inspired to outdo himself in writing increasingly trippy, nightmarish work ever since. Rob’s poems have previously been published in X/Y: A Junk Drawer of Trans Voices, Connecting Writing Centers Across Borders, and the Eunoia Review.
Ivory Fields Editor
Ivory is a junior studying English language, literature and writing with a concentration in creative writing. When she is not in class, she is either writing poetry, short stories, or working on her novel. After college, she wants to work at a publishing company doing editorial work.
Kathryn DiMaria Editor
Kathryn is a junior studying English with a double minor in Communication and American Sign Language (ASL). She has a passion for reading and writing and she hopes to one day pursue a career in editing.
Jaclyn Prout Editor
Jaclyn is a 5th-year student studying for a B.A. in English Literature, Language, and Writing with certificates in Creative Writing and East Asia Studies. After graduation, she hopes to work as an editor for fiction pieces based on Asian history, culture, and language. She is currently working as a library page, writing a novel of my own, learning Japanese, and studying abroad in Japan in Spring 2020.
Christine Ferguson Editor
Christine is a junior studying English with a specialty in creative writing. Her hobbies include reading, writing and finding the most insane rollercoasters to ride.
Qi Zhou Kelly Kisell Editor
Kelly Kisell is a junior studying English with a concentration in creative writing. She is part of the winter guard at CMU and plans to go to grad school when she graduates.
Graphic Designer Qi Zhou is a junior studying advertising. He has been working with CM Life as a graphic designer beginning Spring 2019. He has a strong passion for graphic design and meeting new people. He plans to continue to enroll in grad school at CMU upon completion of his bachelor degree.
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EDITOR’S NOTE Dear readers, As a child with my nose in a book, I craved fairytale endings— when the main character feels at peace, when there have been lessons learned, and when everything just seems to fall into place. Now that graduation looms in the following weeks, I find myself feeling the same desire for such fairytale endings in my own life that I once read as a child. Change is not something I have always been accustomed to. Entering into the first of many big life changes, I am in the process of preparing myself for the years to come. It’s scary, regardless of how many people in the past have warned me of the emotions that graduating college brings about. For now, I will live in the comfort of knowing the impact that Central Review has had on not only me, but our editorial staff and our readers, as well. Being the editor-in-chief of Central Review over the past year has been instrumental in my success and growth throughout college. I am extremely blessed that our contributors trust our editorial staff with their work. Throughout this edition, you will read and see work contributed by some of the most creative undergraduate students. Working on this edition of Central Review was a very different vibe than our fall 2018 edition, in that most of our submissions were more light-hearted and euphoric in contrast to the heavy and serious topics of last semester. I suppose it is true that the change of weather and scenery in the spring can affect art, especially with the Michigan weather changes. Working with this group of people has been one of the greatest memories from college. I’d like to thank the incredible staff at Central Michigan Life for providing us with the resources we need for publicity and publication, especially our advisor, Dave Clark. Thank you to Dawn Paine, our designer for the edition, who made it look so exquisite. Thank you to my talented and dedicated editors: Rob Linsley, Christine Ferguson, Ivory Fields, Kathryn DiMaria, Kelly Kissel, and Jaclyn Prout for your work on this edition. Lastly, thank you to our readers. We hope you enjoy this edition as much as we do. As for others who are graduating in the upcoming weeks, I hope your fairytale ending unravels itself to make you feel at peace, to teach you lessons, and to let everything fall into place.
Jordan Price Editor-in-Chief, Central Review
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Night Dream BY JINGYUE ZHONG
My absolute solitude Was whispered by the vicarious galaxy. The sky Full of treasure Was my lullaby of serendipity, Which represented felicity. The slight drizzle Turning into a bubble rain Was like almond cream of last night’s dream. A twinkling golden star Winked at me From overhead. The breeze Kissed my cheeks. It smelled Like peach flavor bubblegum Mixed with jasmine tea. I stretched myself, rubbed my eyes, And inhaled the familiar scent. On a red-clawed dragon, I climbed over the rainbow, To escape from the bittersweet insomnia, And be exhilarated by the epiphanic wonderlust. The destination was closer and closer. I looked in the window, with the velvet Draping gorgeously, the woman Over there was knitting.
Jingyue Zhong is an English Language and Literature student. As an exchange student from China, this is her second semester in America. With a passion for music and literature, Jingyue likes reading poems both in Chinese and English, and she enjoys comprehending the emotions and cultures behind the words. She thinks the world is full of poetry and beauty.
SPRING EDITION 2019 | 5 There was a gentle knock on the door, Holding a plateful of steamed dumplings in her hand, She gave me a great homecoming present. I bolted one and said, “No one can cook better than you�. Tear-stained pillow woke me up. I opened the curtain, Stared into the darkness Until morning came.
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Save Me FROM My Past BY ALEXANDRA MAPP, VISUAL ART WINNER
Alexandra Mapp is an oil painter and Detroit Native, with a passion for creating what she doesn’t get to see in media and life on a regular basis. Her current focus is giving a platform to plus-size women as to show them in a desirable and loving light. One of the artist’s common components in her work is the use of the Sankofa—an Adinkra figure which symbolizes to look to and learn from one’s past. With this piece, titled, “Save Me from My Past,” Mapp chose to hone in on the tenderness of love, forgiveness, and understanding within a romantic union.
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I LONG FOR TIMES BY JADE DRISCOLL
when slimy serpents tried to swallow me whole as I swam in Strawberry Lake when ghosts would hear me walking at night as my slippered feet made the stairs creak when killer bugs would devour my flesh if I veered off the mown path when venomous demons would rip me from sleep if my feet were not tucked in tight when every rough wind through the trees held the potential to tear my house down when a room without a light meant the world had gone black forever when the broken voice box of a windup toy composed the haunting soundtrack of a nightmare I long for times when the torturous rapping on my window was more than simply a branch
Jade Driscoll is a senior English and Creative Writing major. Upon graduation in May 2019, she will stay at CMU to pursue a Master’s degree in English Literature, specializing in Creative Writing. When she is not writing, Jade enjoys reading, listening to music, and going to concerts. She has previously been published in journals such as Collision Literary Magazine, Remington Review, and 30 North.
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VISIONS OF ANXIETY BY KAYLEE HAMILTON
Evolution. Take the Truth as a grain of quinoa, take it as you may. Fight or flight has evolved to herds of butterflies. Fluttering freakishly each eternally long moment we dream of the unknown. Adrenaline. Blood rushes preparing for a fight– or a marathon. Picture it in this light: fleeting feelings of awkward– spastic waves to friends not returned or saying you too when the waitress says enjoy your meal– Flight. Run fast. Trust in your Nikes, trust your sprint speed. Run from awkward. Approach it from this angle: Fight or flight has become crippling constant anxiety. Biting, ripping, spitting your fingernails– your leg constantly pulsing. Focus on the page you say, as you breathe in the eucalyptus roll-on oil that Aunt Sue said would aid in the fiddling: the fallout, from fear of failing to fit in, a floating device to latch on to while your arms flail side to side, your head, begins to bob. Drowning. Inadequacy. The Gremlin can lunge at you at any time. Fight. Fight the fear. Evolution of fear into policy– or lack thereof. Today, today you practiced a drill at school, safety. School is supposedly savoring innocence, safety. Your teacher firmly says get to the safe place, the red carpet becomes shapes as your eyes go crossed from staring and wondering. Staring. You wonder if you’ll become the carpet yourself. Is there really a safe place? Will the quiet game work... if, (heaven-forbid) an intruder entered. The flashcards, vocabulary, multiplication. The flashcards can’t save us.
Kaylee Hamilton is a junior studying Sociology: Youth Studies with a minor in Substance Abuse. Over her past three years, she has been actively involved with Alternative Breaks, Club Pompon and America Counts and Reads. She enjoys supporting local coffee shops, debating social justice topics, and reading in a hammock.
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A LANGUAGE TURN AROUND BY BAILEE RUDOLPH
She sat at her desk In the grim class And looked at the board Upon it perched an arrangement of letters She’d seen a few times before Her teacher had given orders To the young class They were to learn the alphabet Forward and back If they wished to pass She looked down at the chart That had been given out for practice And watched the letters arrangement for Collective concoctions Of words never brought together before:
Absolutely Abstract Zoologists Bodacious Botanist Yodelers Catastrophic Catatonic Xylophones Dogmatic Damaged Worms Egotistical Euphonic Vernacular Fragmented Factual Unicorns Gawking Grotesque Terminology Heroic Hellenic Sadists Idiotic Ignorant Runners Jumping Jolly Queries Knickknack Kleptomaniac Pumpkins Legitimate Leggy Ostriches Mopy Mellow Nickers
SPRING EDITION 2019 | 11 Nimble Niggly Moonlight Ocean Oasis Leavers Pumpernickel Pickler Kangaroos Quaky Quiet Jackdaws Robust Randy Ideologies Safety Staggering Hideaways Terrifying Trope Gallows Universally Understanding Flatulence Vivacious Vacant Endangerment Wonderfully Wordy Drama Xenic Xebec Categories Yellow Yapping Babies Ziggy Zippo Arrangements
She recited her alphabet to the teacher The next morning at school Teacher sat at her desk Eyes wide and muddled As the words danced in her head “The alphabet—learn the alphabet is what I said,” The teacher explained She looked back and hands found hips Straight away “That’s what I did,” she explained And went on “Say my sentences and you’ll see that each word begins with the correct letter. Start on one end to have A and the other for Z, either way the alphabets there—now, do you see.” The teacher thought it through Then said, “It makes no sense.” “Not to you,” said she with a grin. “But to me and now I know my ABCs and XYZs.” Bailee Rudolph is a senior graduating in May 2019. She will return to CMU next semester to continue on to gain a master’s degree in Children’s and Young Adult Literature. When Bailee is not writing, she is texting her mother, messaging her grandmother on Facebook and using Snapchat to contact her little sister. Once social media is put away for the day, you can find Bailee reading a book which she will, often, discuss with her father the next time she sees him while drinking another cup of coffee.
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PUT ON YOUR WAR PAINT BY HOLLY ENGLISH
Blood of your enemies in a small metal tube shaped like a bullet called ‘death warmed over’ a vivid, vibrant red that clashes with your peach lips
It feels wrong. perhaps it’s the way you applied it too thin too thick missed a curve of bowstrung lips over-lined the bottom increased sex-appeal cheap is bad They say expensive, better They say what They don’t tell you is the question you long to ask which is which? Drugstore is all you have all you can afford coins scraped together from couch cushions lint collectors in the laundromat ashtray of your grandmother’s car
SPRING EDITION 2019 | 13 Cheap red bleeds more on you than your enemies staining your skin Put on your war paint, girl. Realize you’re still not pretty.
Holly English is a junior studying Secondary English Education with a minor in history. Holly works at the Writing Center and is a member of the National Council of Teachers of English. She enjoys reading and writing – as her last name, major, job, and career aspirations might imply. Holly likes to think she had a choice in what career she chose, but with a name like English, it seems more like fate. When not drinking copious amounts of coffee and studying, she can be found caring for her plants or singing show tunes.
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BEING HALF BROWN IS BY MEGHAN DYER
a (un)Holy war: white or Arab, American or Lebanese, fought between broken noses almost blue eyes a spangled hijab church bells a bald eagle perched on the branches of my homeland’s cedar tree a grandmother who always forgets that our tongues can’t perform the same dances that her language strangles my lips and renders my ears unconscious a classroom full of straightwhiteboys who shout allah’ akbar and kamikaze into my bleeding heart as if every girl with paper bag skin singlehandedly shook the twin towers most of all, a life like a perpetual doorway. I’m half in and half out but could never belong in either room.
Meghan Dyer is a third-year student studying English and History for a BS in Secondary Education. Outside of her studies, Meghan works as a consultant in the Writing Center and as the head coach of Mount Pleasant’s color guard program. She is passionate about education, feminism, equality, the environment, warm socks, the color yellow, musical theatre, literature, and petting soft dogs (with their owners’ permission). This is Meghan’s third time being published, but it is her first time in the Central Review.
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SILVER LININGS BY CAROLINE CARpenter
A picture sits on our dresser of family beach day. My parents met us in St. Augustine, Florida; they saw my bruises and my mom told me to leave you, but divorce is messy and scary, that I knew. The beach was crowded; you didn’t even want to come, but we smiled when the photographer counted to one. I kept the picture in a frame on our dresser because, Christ, at least you kissed me that warm St. Augustine night.
Caroline Carpenter is an English major who enjoys writing both fiction and poetry. This is her third year at Central.
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WRAP YOUR HEAD AROUND IT BY ISABELLA GROSS
She took both her ears by the top tip pinched between pink finger and thumb and tugged with small power, like an infant caught on Mother’s pearls. She took another cautious glance at the bathroom counter where the long plastic prediction teetered perilously – Positive. So she tugged and tugged until her delicate ears grew into an elephant’s. She gathered up her forehead in her fist like a puppy’s scruff, and anchored by her cement jaw, she pulled it into the sky where it caught the cold breeze and billowed like a parachute – unfurling her skin into a smooth sail that blocked out the sun. She stretched and stretched her skin like clay – Eyes two great lakes, Nose a long mountain, a sole peak, Mouth a gorge slick with darkness, Wet tongue a plush river –
Bella Gross is a second-year student pursuing a degree in English and a Creative Writing certificate. She is currently the Vice President of Le Cercle Francophone RSO and has been speaking French (poorly) for six years. She is headed to Stirling, Scotland in the fall to get in touch with her heritage and, as it turns out, she’s keen on fried haggis. She loves Avatar the Last Airbender, crushing her amazing friends at Mario Kart, and her supportive family. She dreams of a job in editing and writing and marrying the new guy who plays MacGyver.
SPRING EDITION 2019 | 17 Her womb was not quite cold or chasmal as a cave, her heartbeat did not return as echo absorbed by the translucent skin of a moonlit stalagmite, assuredly calcifying. She wound her quilted thoughts around the Earth. She thought for a while.
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IN GREAT-GRANDMA’S MEMORY BY AMANDA MIILLER, POETRY WINNER How was school today, my dear? of course, you’re not in— I was thinking of your beautiful daughter. I must’ve confused you two. Of course, you’re not in Any relationship to have a child I must’ve confused you with with your sister. In any relationship to have a child with? I’m not getting any younger. With your sister, I fear there seems no hope for grandchildren. I’m not getting any younger, but did I get another thing wrong? There’s no hope for grandchildren that I’ll even be able to remember. Did I get another thing wrong? You say I have great-grandchildren I’m not able to remember them, and I’m sure I’m not old enough for that.
SPRING EDITION 2019 | 19 You say I have great-grandchildren so, was it that girl who wore pink? I’m sure I’m not old enough to forget her. See, I remember I told her I liked her dress. Remember that girl wearing pink At Easter brunch last week? I remember I told her I liked her dress Because pink is my favorite color. I missed you at Easter brunch last week, but how was school today, my dear? That blouse is lovely, did you know pink is my favorite color?
Amanda Miiller is in school to become an English teacher while studying creative writing and biology on the side. Her favorite things are whales, wine, and poems. In fact, a perfect night for her would be reading poems about whales while drinking a glass of wine. She looks forward to graduating in December and beginning the next chapter of her life.
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COUP D’ETAT BY ISABELLE FLESZAR, PROSE WINNER
Cooper Deta took a long drag from his vape pen. Opaque pomegranate steam billowed from his pursed lips, straight into the face of a passing paper-laden lawyer. In a spray of legal documents, the lawyer tripped over a loose sewage grate and went sprawling. Coup snickered and stored his vape pen in a pocket of his cashmere suit jacket. He’d put it off long enough. It was time to run his company to the ground. Strawberry-blond dreadlocks bounced as Coup entered the skyscraper, green eyes flashing with manic excitement. Secretaries with short skirts and “high” standards giggled and undid the top buttons of their blouses as Coup strode past. That’s right, ladies. Get some practice in. On the street, your bodies will be your only assets. The board was waiting for Coup in the conference room. A toad-like man with a cheap toupee scoffed when Coup entered. “You’d think you’d be in time for your last meeting as CEO.” “Richard, you’re looking good. Drain the blood from any virgins recently?” Coup let out a lighthearted laugh, masking the cold fury bubbling in his stomach. He’d expected to be usurped eventually, but he hadn’t expected Bootlick-Dick to be the usurper. “I’m kidding, old bud! Let’s get down to business.” The negotiations started. How much Coup would get as severance, where the company was going from there, how long the transition would take. With a woeful sigh, Coup rested his hands on his chin. “I have to say, it’s been an honor. I’m so happy that my baby will live on in your very capable hands.” “That’s very mature of you, sir.” Richard gave a shit-eating smirk as he slid the final legal document to him. Coup had to resist the urge to punch every single tooth out of his gingivitis-wracked gums. “Yes, it is.” Coup pulled out his phone, casually pressed a button, and elegantly signed his severance papers. With a jaunty bow, Coup strode out of the meeting room and into the main lobby. The lights started to flicker, and below the polished floors, Coup heard the computer servers desperately whirring. It’s funny how fast a virus can tear through a tech company. Coup took a drag from his vape pen as he pushed his hand against the glass door and let himself out. Steam from his pursed lips intermingled with the thin tendrils of smoke oozing from between the tiles. Coup stepped onto the street, not bothering to
SPRING EDITION 2019 | 21 look back as the secretary’s desktop caught on fire, and not flinching as tendrils of yellow electricity started to dance across the moist surface of his skyscraper. Ahem, Richard’s skyscraper. A car was waiting outside for him, but he strode past it. Winding through the uptight business district and into the up-and-coming part of town. Stylized graffiti sprang from every wall, advocating for peace and love. College students sprawled on the sidewalk, colored chalk in their fingers, doodling suns and stars. Coup stepped around the students and passed a holistic remedy shop, a vegan café (their wheatgrass/soy macchiatos were to die for), and finally arrived at the yoga studio. Sticks of incense puffed peacefully at the front desk, which was three wooden barrels covered in a plank of barn wood. Rustically bound packages of homemade soaps and essential oils slouched casually in rough-hewn shelves. A young woman with henna tattoos running up her neck and a pierced lip looked up and beamed, “Long time, no see!” “Rain! It has been a while, hasn’t it?” Coup peeled off his jacket, buttoned it up, and draped it over ornate wooden hooks nailed to the wall. His oxfords were clumsily kicked off one by one. Coup didn’t bother untying the laces. “How’s Argyle?” “Getting big,” Rain said, pulling a yoga mat from a honeycomb alcove in the wall. “He just started preschool, so Amy got back into glassblowing.” Glass baubles glittered from knotted twine bracelets in confirmation. Coup used a silk garter to wrangle his head of dreadlocks into a ponytail. “Room C?” “It’s all yours. Let me know if you need more steam.” Rain held up her hand to cut off Coup’s coy response. “And, no, it’s not always steamy when you’re in the room.” Coup laughed and padded down the hallway, bare feet luxuriating in the intricate texture of the woven bamboo. He found his room and spread out his mat, little beads of condensation already forming on the tip of his upturned nose. The room was dim, steamy from the small vents inlaid in the walls. Wooden beads dangled from the walls, clacking lightly as Coup ran his fingers over them. He let his mind drift as he lay on his back, palms upturned. Breathe in... breathe out... Coup started to cycle through memories, trying to find his happy place. Elementary school, the smell of old PB&J and spilled apple juice. Little girls, with their pigtails bouncing in the fluorescent lights, clamoring to hold his hand and be his desk partner. Boring. No one wanted to talk about the newest computer or the advances in nanotech. They babbled on about cartoons and goofy-shaped rubber bands. The teacher couldn’t be bothered to notice how miserable he was; Coup got 100% on everything! How could he be unhappy? Middle school, high school, all the same stuff. Perfect Cooper, genius Cooper, be like Cooper. Pushing past that to college. Coup was on track to be valedictorian, so what did he
22 | SPRING EDITION 2019 do? He dropped out. Every emotion—fear, love, hate, attraction—had to be magnified a million times over. Coup had to feel everything so strongly, so he could push away the boredom, the monotony of being himself. God, it felt wonderful. He wasn’t even thirty, and he’d already built and broken three companies. Hell, the only thing he was truly invested in was this neighborhood. Peace was something he’d discovered when he walked down a desolate street, praying to get stabbed or shot, and instead heard laughter coming from an abandoned shop. A sunbleached FOR SALE sign was covered by a bright red SOLD decal. There they were, Rain and Amy, cleaning and remodeling for their new yoga studio. Amy skootched behind Rain, buckets of paint strung across her arms like Christmas lights, and gave the other woman an absent-minded kiss on the shoulder. It was so pure, so real that Coup had to take a knee. They were happy with what they had, and they had each other. No ulterior motives, no grandstanding, just... love. They didn’t see him as he snuck away, each footstep through shattered glass deliberate. In this neighborhood, they’d be lucky to last a month. There was a fresh corpse on the street every other day, a mugging on the hour. But maybe he could surreptitiously donate to some charities and encourage them to clean up the area, grant some loans to small businesses, and start them off in the neighborhood. It took almost three years, but Coup transformed the community from no man’s land to the trendiest part of the city. While things were transitioning, Coup would hire out the entire studio for a day and pay extravagant amounts of money, just to keep Rain and Amy’s dream alive. His phone buzzed from his back pocket, pulling him from his reverie. Coup cracked open his eyes and squinted at the LED screen. A single news alert blared across his screen and a video started playing. It was Richard’s skyscraper, alight like a torch at a pagan ritual. The glass windows of the building shattered from the intense heat, raining sharp fragments on the cameramen and firefighters. The video cut to a reporter interviewing Bootlick-Dick. An enormous grin split his face as he watched the soot-covered lacky tremble like a leaf, his toupee burnt to a crisp. Coup turned the volume on his phone way up and set the video to loop. Coup closed his eyes, meditating to the sound of despair, feeling the soft foam mat beneath his spine. Breathe in... breathe out.... This. This was his happy place.
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Isabelle Fleszar is a second-year Neuroscience student in pursuit of a creative writing certification. Isabelle likes power walking to loud music in a futile attempt to drown out her anxiety, making puns, and doting on her lemon tree, Dante. This upcoming summer, she will be taking a two-week writing intensive course at Cambridge University in the UK. In the future, she hopes to work at a neuropsychology clinic and get her science-fiction/comedy/superhero story published.
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MICHIGAN
BY AVA STRAINOVICI, INSPIRED BY DEAN RADER Many years before Michigan, there was no Michigan. All our roads have potholes, but that’s just pure Michigan. The stars are beautiful if you lie on a dock in upper Michigan. I am able to point to my hand when giving direction, because I live in Michigan. I’ve heard of Kid Rock before, he said something about summertime in northern Michigan. We claim Kid Rock too, in Romeo, Michigan. You know that rapper, Eminem? He’s from Detroit, Michigan. A state so unique, if you fly high enough you can see both peninsulas in Michigan. State flower: apple blossom State song: Michigan, My Michigan.
SPRING EDITION 2019 | 25 My family from the south says I talk through my nose because I’m from Michigan. At the next light, make a Michigan left, only in Michigan. Water from the great lakes is always available, while in Michigan.
Ava Strainovici is a sophomore from Royal Oak, Michigan. She is studying English Literature, Language, and Writing with a focus in creative writing. In her free time, she likes to play with her dog and be outside. She also enjoys watching sports and hanging out with her friends. Some of her goals include wanting to publish a book(s) and traveling more.
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LAUGHTER LINES BY MADISON HREN noun wrinkles that appear next to the eyes that are most noticeable when a person is smiling or laughing OR the first thing i see when i look at him OR the light that peeks through the clouds on a rainy evening OR your lover pulling you closer in the middle of the night OR a sip of coffee on a december morning.
Maddie Hren is a senior pursuing a B.S. in journalism and a certificate in creative writing. And, no, she has no clue what she’s going to do after graduation, so please stop asking her. Maddie is a self-proclaimed professional napper, the popcorn queen, and a lover of vegetarian chicken nuggets. She is also the proud mom of the sweetest kitten in the world, Rosemary. In her spare time, Maddie enjoys collecting records, writing angsty poetry, and any other stereotypical hipster activity you can think of.
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MOTOR SKILLS BY HUNTER MCLAREN I remember that my first kiss felt like earth and sand and ocean and I could feel orchids growing out of my mouth while he was building trap doors in his mother’s living room. A boy’s lips touched my own and I felt the planet crack under my feet, I gave birth to a dazzling and violent natural disaster that eventually swallowed us whole. I remember that my second kiss unfolded like a lost letter in the backseat of my car, our hands traveling like paper kites soaring over new hills, directions lost in translation. I can still feel him sitting in my passenger seat if I concentrate hard enough, I drive home every night with white knuckles. I hope no one ever asks me where I’m from, I don’t know the answer to that anymore, with uncertain fingers I’ll divide my chest into tectonic plates and see if I can be truthful for the sake of earth and sand and ocean.
Hunter McLaren is a senior graduating in May 2019 studying English Literature and Writing with a minor in Ethics, Values, and Society. Hunter has had a passion for poetry and creative writing since high school, where he was an active member of poetry club and performed in two poetry slams. His journey as a literary scholar has brought him into contact with many creative works, but he often finds himself returning to contemporary and innovative writers such as Rupi Kaur or Jamaal May. Hunter is a SAPA (sexual aggression peer advocate) and is committed to supporting survivors of sexual aggression and related issues, as well as generating meaningful conversations in and outside of the classroom about issues that drastically impact college students such as mental health, sex and gender, and racial equality.
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THE DEER I’VE SEEN by Travis Dyer
A fawn in someone’s field, accompanied by its mother and many others’, feeding on hay and weeds, but mostly weeds. “Looks like there’s nine– no, eleven,” says my dad, who stopped the truck like usual. I just want to get home. A doe in the backyard, spied through my dad’s binoculars, munching on flowers and grass. Her head and tail rise for danger, but I’m just looking. A family in the driveway, standing, before leaping into the woods, followed by others. “Did you see the points on that one?” my dad asks. I didn’t, but I didn’t see much point in looking. A newborn at the creek, or as we’d say, “crick,” sipping on water for the first time, its knees wobbling over the water. It looks like it may fall in. The current is too lazy to sweep it away, but still I hope it doesn’t fall. A corpse on the leaves, surrounded by fur, not shot or attacked by anything other than age, ribcage showing, maggots squirming. My dad had taken me to see it, teach me the circle of life, but I don’t have the stomach for it.
SPRING EDITION 2019 | 29 A buck in the trees, spotted from our blind, my dad points and I shoot. A spotted sika in the park, poking at tourists with fuzzy antlers, snacking on crackers and demanding more. My fingers brush against its coarse fur and I give it a cracker.
Travis Dyer is a senior studying English with a minor in Cultural and Global Studies with certificates in creative writing, TESOL and East Asian Studies. After graduation, he plans to teach English in Japan and later become a translator.
30 | SPRING EDITION 2019
TAKING OVER THE WORLD BY HOPE GOODEARL
If dung beetles ran the world, we would be extinct. To start, they would be horrible politicians (maybe slightly better than our current ones). They wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between oceanography and toilet water. Trying to preserve the toilet water, completely disregarding our use for it. And during their time as politicians, they would think the keyboards are playgrounds. They would find some way of accidentally setting off the nukes, killing us all. Then the stench. All the dung beetles that were crushed, from falling buildings, stinking up the air. Not like we’d be around to smell it. But, all the other animals left, they would hate it. Having to smell all of the crushed dung beetles.
SPRING EDITION 2019 | 31 Although, the only creatures left would be other beetles. Their stupid exoskeletons protecting them from dying, saving them from the crumbling buildings. I bet they would hate the dung beetles, though.
Hope Goodearl is a senior from Novi. She graduated from Novi High School in 2015. She is pursuing a Secondary Education degree in English, with a minor in English as a Second Language and a Creative Writing certificate. She is very excited about her first published piece and couldn’t be happier to be published in Central Review.
32 | SPRING EDITION 2019
BEES
BY STEPHANIE SCHUMAKER I remember all of the bees on the day you passed away. I watched them glide from hole to hole, through the tunnels of the dirt. I can only wonder if you’re one of these bees. Are you peeking at me through your hideaway in the Earth? Are you checking on me and making sure I’m still breathing? I remember the way your mom told me, and the way I knew before the words escaped her mouth. I pictured your car slipping and sliding across the unlit road, deep within the night. I pray that you didn’t feel the hurt, as the doctors said your muscles were relaxed before impact. But my fists tighten up in anger knowing there’s no way to bring you back.
Stephanie Schumaker is a senior studying English and a minor in Women and Gender Studies along with a certificate in Creative Writing. She is also a very loving cat mom who enjoys reading, writing, and a whole lot of Netflix. She has dedicated her poem “Bees” to her late friend, Dakota Dean Murphy (1997-2014).
SPRING EDITION 2019 | 33 Did you see me fall to the ground? Did you hear my cry out my hope that you would finally show and the whole thing would turn out to be a joke? In your room hides a small journal in which you wrote me a song. I’ve spent a long time trying to write you back, but my poems will never reach your hands. Now the only thing I thing I see are the bees that skim our knees, on the day that birthed our grief. They fly around slowly with a soft hum and a sweet buzz that slows my breathing. They whisper in my ear, “He’s here dear, no more tears please.”
34 | SPRING EDITION 2019
THE ROOM BY SAGE TISCHER
I conferred with the carpet, Said: I’m sorry the bed with which You were intertwined Had to be ripped away. And into the square moat it left behind, I will add my tears. I whispered to the walls. And apologized for the lack of decorations, That the posters and pictures were taken down Blurry 3x5’s capturing equally blurry nights. It’s just that joyous sights seem wrong here. I warned the windows, Quilted and covered. I’m sorry that you can never again be looked through. I conversed with the contents. The electrical cords and old school papers The worn clothes and rusty change laying on the ground. I tell them each, ‘you stay’ ‘you go’ An unqualified sorting hat. They know I’m not their owner. I spoke to the room Until it looked As sad as I felt. How do I explain to the mirror That one reflection Will never come again?
Sage Tischer is a second-year Elementary Education student, focusing on Language Arts, with a minor in Early Childhood Development and Learning. She loves nature and in her free time can often be found reading any book she can get her hands on.
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COLOR TRANSCENDS BY GRACE LONG
Aspiring professional photographer. Most likely somewhere drinking coffee.
36 |SPRING EDITION 2019
SPRING EDITION 2019 | 37
POSSESSION BY SERA HEFT
I hang onto reality By a fraying silk thread I look in the mirror and do not recognize The face that stares back Her nose is too big, and those eyes aren’t mine This body is the shell I inhabit Like a hermit crab I have not been kind to her— Punished her skin for the sins I committed I’ve asked men to choke her To see if I can breathe I’ve cut her skin to the bone and Birthed black bruises that lasted too long Trying to lay claim to this body But her shell does not belong to me It belongs to a girl who died a long time ago I hear her ghost sometimes Screaming, trying to regain control But I know the world isn’t safe for her So even though a thread is all I can cling to I keep holding on for her dear life
Sera Heft is a senior graduating in May with a BA in music performance and a minor in psychology. After graduation, she will be moving to Pittsburgh with her boyfriend, and she hopes to open her own flute studio someday. In what little free time she has, she enjoys watching horror movies, planning her next twenty tattoos, and listening to music just a little bit too loud.
38 | SPRING EDITION 2019
IRIS
BY KIRA BORUM Inspired by Iris, Messenger of the Gods, by Auguste Rodin
I have finally reached the master yogi status. for all of you who have said “namaste in bed” you could never perform this pose like a tree, I stood in the gardens of my neighbors and in public parks to master balance people laughed and pointed at me, but I couldn’t care less. his studio was quite raunchy, flickering lights wet gooey cement floors, but if this is where the magic happens, I can be content Rodin promised me fame, and I knew that this pose would make me a name to remember. because I clearly possess too much talent. so I got into position, and if I squeeze my eyes shut I can’t feel the tendons in your leg stretching apart. once he cut off my left arm, I was quite alarmed. sweat bullets streamed down my burning face from the pain. I mumbled “fame, fame, fame” under my breath to keep myself afloat. my toes tingle from the growing pressure to stay balanced. Rodin swung his butcher knife from its holder and sliced off my head as if it was a Sunday ham. he did not give me much time to react but who truly needs a head anyway? without a head, I don’t have to worry about acne I always knew Rodin was one step ahead of the game.
SPRING EDITION 2019 | 39 I thought I was here to be a muse for a sculpture but instead, he poured the scalding hot clay on to me. “You are the only muse who has not died or run away yet,” Rodin said. “Wow,” I thought in amazement. that is how you make a girl truly feel special.
I focused on my breathing, as my body hardened. if there is anything, I would redo about this experience I would have done a few more ab exercises to reach my full Goddess potential remember slackers, fame means sacrifice even if that means losing your head.
Kira Borum is a junior studying Psychology with a Creative Writing Certificate. She aspires to pursue her master’s and Ph.D. in Sports Psychology. As a child, she was an avid reader, carrying 3-4 books in her backpack at a time. As an outlet to relieve stress, Kira began to write poetry and her own short stories. Even though the story may have been based on troubling events, the rhythmic pattern of the words gave her a therapeutic release and therefore made the story easy to tell.
40 | SPRING EDITION 2019
KEEPING UP APPEARANCES BY MARK ELGERSMA
Harold Orwin was well respected in the anarcho-punk community. And understandably so. He wore black denim jackets with anti-government patches, beaten boots with worn cotton laces, and a DIY flannel bumflap. Each of these pieces of clothing, on their own, would have given Harold some merit in the antiestablishmentarianist world, but together, they marked him as exceptional. He was accepted enthusiastically. Now, Harold didn’t truly believe in anarchism, of course. That would be crazy. Yes, he believed that the current political climate was toxic, but Harold didn’t honestly think that the government should be disbanded all together. It would just lead to chaos. People killing one another and such. Harold shuddered to think what would happen if people had no rules. The truth was, Harold just liked how the music sounded. At least, that’s how it had started. Harold had, several years ago, stumbled upon a thrashing and crashing album about rebellion and righteous anger, and he had felt whole. He had connected with it. Not the message itself, but the sound. So he began listening to more and more punks spouting about the evils of bureaucracy, until he built up the courage to go to one of their concerts. It was for a small group that called themselves “The Ungodlies.” Once Harold arrived, he saw the audience filled with black-clad warriors shrouded in leather and safety pins, all with messages painted on their jackets and sneers on their faces. These, Harold learned, were punks. They immediately became his aesthetic heroes. More than anything, he wanted to look like and be welcomed by them. As such, Harold made it a mission to join their numbers. He began putting fake, magnetic piercings in his lips and crispy, cheap gel in his hair. Harold started his metamorphosis. Much to Harold’s surprise, it worked. In no time at all, others wearing similar garb were minaciously nodding at him, and giving him sinister smiles. He would always nod back and do his best to bare his teeth in a similar way.
SPRING EDITION 2019 | 41 Harold would later learn that these odd head bobs and grins were to silently assure one another that the eventual revolution was just around the corner, as it had been since the 1980s. Either way, Harold was just glad that his response had been appropriate. And so Harold had quickly found respect, simply by dressing like these punks and shouting. He had been accepted into the inner circle of genuine, real, true punks. And Harold loved it. He loved it when people thought he liked more than just how the music sounded. He loved moshing. He loved calling kids in jeans “posers” and people on their way to work “suits.” He loved going to rallies and being praised for the creatively aggressive messages he wrote on signs. But alas, he still could not bring himself to believe what they believed. He tried to convince himself many a time, but it never worked. He still, in private, craved law and order. However, if Harold was going to continue to be a recognized and admired audience member at the weekly punk gigs in the crusty basements, backyards, and bars of the neighboring city, he had to keep up his charade. He had to continue to hold a middle finger at politicians and capitalist pigs. Harold had to keep up appearances. So he continued to hold up his fist and shout profanities over injustices and government control, avoiding anything of substance. All the while, Harold planned in his head. What would he do after high school? Move away, certainly. Perhaps he would get a corporate law degree. That always seemed like a lucrative field. More likely, Harold would go into business. Either way, the future was bright.
Mark Elgersma is a senior studying Broadcasting and Cinematic Arts. He’s a filmmaker, writer, procrastinator, and worrywart. Next year, Mark will be attending CMU once again to pursue his MA in English Language and Literature with a focus in Creative Writing. In his free time, Mark enjoys aimlessly scouring the internet and playing Euchre.
42 | SPRING EDITION 2019
TAKING FLIGHT BY GRACE LONG
Aspiring professional photographer. Most likely somewhere drinking coffee.
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WINTER HAZE BY MAKAELA GRINZINGER
Makaela Grinzinger is a senior who will be graduating in May 2019 with her bachelor’s degree in Integrated Leadership Studies and minor in the Academic Study of Religion. She has been an active member and leader of Chi Alpha Christian Fellowship for the last three and a half years where she has found great community and encouragement. She is also actively involved in Thrive Church and has joyfully served in many of their ministries in her time at CMU. She is grateful for the chance to have her work published and hopes that it can inspire other students to chase after what they are most passionate about.
CENTRAL REVIEW SPRING 2019