CORRIDORS v.7 2021
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Staff
Editors-in-Chief Fiction & Poetry Editor: Staff:
John Gillespie Andrew Sly Samantha Dickson Katie Giron Chelsea Little Ryan Flood Scott Clifford Sophia Spedden
Nonfiction Editor: Staff:
Cassie Mihalczo Brittany Romanoff Natasha Saar Samantha Dickson
Catherine Tsilionis Angela Miceli
Nicholas Bosi Grace Perry Flavia Pinatte Natasha Saar Stephanie Diacogiannis Emma Grayson Jacob Catinella Jocelyn Early-Hubelbank
Erin Wilson Erica Soya Caitlyn Jennings
Design Editor: Staff:
Art Editor: Staff:
Catherine Tsilionis Lauren Fallon Grace Noonan Grace Gagliardi
Juliet Watstein Catherine McDonnell
Lizzie Delfeld Catherine Tsilionis Lauren Fallon Caitlyn Jennings
Grace Noonan Marshall Lian
Publicity Faculty Advisors
Katherine Barry Lucas Southworth Helen Hofling Tiffany Curtis
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Corridors Literary Art Magazine Loyola University Maryland. Volume 7/2021 Corridors does not claim publishing rights of any kind for the materials within its pages: all rights remain those of the author or artist. We invite the Loyola student body to submit original poetry, fiction, nonfiction, artwork, and photography to next year’s issue. Please direct all electronic submissions to corridors@loyola.edu. Published by: Mount Royal Printing Co. 6310 Blair Hill Lane Baltimore, MD 21209 Cover: "Reflections" by Eric Grazio Inserts: "Water" by Kristine Deiss Quote Pages "Hope" by CJ Sommers
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Editor’s Note
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Within the pages of this edition of Corridors, we hear the voices of inspired individuals who faced a challenging year that brought light to both the pain and triumphs of humanity. We showcase pieces that give voice to the Black Lives Matter movement, speaking to the systemic injustices that continue to impact people of color within our nation. They challenge the faults of a country that must be addressed and acknowledged in the hopes of bringing forth long withstanding change for generations to come. Other pieces reflect on the ongoing global pandemic that placed the world on pause. Within that pause, our lives before were remembered and longed for, the present seemed frozen in time as we collectively held our breath, and we hoped to finally exhale when the future would begin to resemble our desired pre-pandemic world. These pieces reflect that while we may never return to “life before,” this new reality continues to bring forth creative voices inspired by the ever-changing world around them. Poet Maya Angelou wrote, “There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.” Each one of our passionate, imaginative contributors shared their stories within these pages, and for that, we offer our sincerest gratitude and appreciation. You, the contributor, remind us that through art, we can give voice to every story that eternally lives on within each person.
Angela Miceli and Catherine Tsilionis Editors-in-Chief
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T A B L E O F
Fiction A Dreamless Night Erin Wilson..................................32 B-52s Delainey Sheehan................................................39 Nutty Charlotte McAleer...............................................45 There is No Moral to this Story Kirby Povilaitis....50 What is Better Left Unsaid? Brenna Crowder........52
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Poetry a fate worse than dying CJ Sommers........................78 carbon-based Ava Jensen..............................................80 five. Grace Murry.............................................................82 Head of a Woman Alice Agee.......................................83 I Can't Breathe Amber Davis........................................85 In My Dreams We Bet on Horses Angie Kanavy.....87 Instructions for a New Life Kirby Povilaitis............89 Prep Work Ryan Baldino................................................91 Remnants Katherine Stockton-Juarez......................93 The Space Between Us (Is Empty) Kirby Povilaitis............................................................................95 Tipsy Glasses Juliet Watstein......................................97 Dorian Gray Alice Agee.................................................98 The Back Porch Sullivan McGee.................................99 Waiting on Wine Abena Ansah...................................101
T A B L E O F C O N T E N T S
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T A B L E O F C O N T E N T S
Poetry Victorian Collage Courtney Kenny..........................102 Medusa Katherine Stockton-Juarez........................103 things i hope to forget soon Kirby Povilaitis.........104 Messy Room Elizabeth Jean-Louis...........................106 Dendrochronology Rachael Miller...........................107 Found Poem - Coronavirus Emails: March 10th to March 15th, 2020 Brittany Romanoff......................108 Kiss of Consumerism Rachael Miller.......................110 Presence Mary Velazquez............................................111 Queer Bones, After Maggie Smith Brittany Romanoff..........................................................................113 Single Mother Kelly Williamson.................................115 The Science of Forgetting Rachael Miller...............116
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Nonfiction Control Skylar Cho.......................................................136 My María Fabiola Torres-Rodríguez........................139 Primal Lift Jake Catinella............................................144 Zoom University with a Hint of Depression Rebecca Grunski............................................................149 Suffocating Reliability Madison Ross.....................152 Worth Remembering Julianna Mattei......................157 The Town by the Shore Rebecca Grunski..............163 Strangers on a Plane Erin Hurley.............................165
T A B L E O F C O N T E N T S
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T A B L E
Art & Photography Entrance Kristine Deiss.................................................15 Perky the Pelican Mary Powers..................................16 Petunia the Pelican Mary Powers...............................17 Empowerment Kristine Deiss......................................18
O F
Age Kristine Deiss............................................................19 2021 Reminder Alexa Vincento...................................20 Blue Gardens Kristine Deiss.........................................21
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Prague 2018 Braeden Kopp..........................................22 History Kristine Deiss....................................................23 Pink Flare Mikaela Fallon..............................................24 Blue Burst Mikaela Fallon.............................................25 Orange Rush Mikaela Fallon........................................26 Planetary Romance Courtney Kenny........................27 Lovers in Spain, 35mm Alexandria Vigliotti............28 Judgement Kristine Deiss..............................................61
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Art & Photography Port Douglas, Far North Queensland, Australia Slyvia Lei.........................................................62 Pacific City, Oregon Slyvia Lei....................................63 Power to the People Eciaus Booth.............................64 Power to the People Eciaus Booth.............................65 Power to the People Eciaus Booth.............................66 Retro Ethan O'Reilly........................................................67 Self Alexa Vincento.........................................................68 Clumsy Ben Ostrowski..................................................69 Alone CJ Sommers...........................................................70 Beach Vibes Alexa Vincento..........................................71 Law & Order Eric Grazio...............................................72 Marine Biology Building Ethan O'Reilly...................73 Sleepy Cat Ethan O'Reilly..............................................74 Untitled Cassie Riordan................................................117
T A B L E O F C O N T E N T S
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T A B L E
Art & Photography Italian Soldier Alexandria Vigliotti............................118 Sunday Alexandria Vigliotti.........................................119 Rest In Pieces Ben Ostrowski....................................120 In a Field Alexa Vincento.............................................121
O F
Legends Never Die Sadie Applegate........................122 City Sky Alexa Vincento...............................................123 Glenmore Allie Lijewski................................................124
C O N T E N T S
Late Summer Whitney Kopp.....................................125 Red Ethan O'Reilly.........................................................126 Uncertainty Phoebe Clark...........................................127 A Moment with Jenkins Emma Straus....................128 Broken No. 5 Alexandria Vigliotti..............................129 Written in Joy Allie Lijewski.......................................130 Lay With Me Allie Lijewski..........................................131 Don't Touch Your Mask Alexa Vincento.................132
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Art & Photography Untitled Cassie Riordan...............................................169 Blue Hour Flower Allie Lijewski.................................170 Spiral Alexandria Vigliotti............................................171
T A B L E
Victorian Collage Courtney Kenny...........................172 Golden Hour Flower Allie Lijewski............................173 seeing yourself Braeden Kopp...................................174
O F
Every Silver Lining Katie McDonnell.......................175 Stuck CJ Sommers.........................................................176 a taste of winter Leon Brooks....................................177 two little girls Leon Brooks........................................178 Funny Cide Mary Powers............................................179 Breaking Free Phoebe Clark......................................180 Gouache Blue Claw Crab Mary Powers...................181 Marlene Dietrich Sadie Applegate...........................182
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Let us remember: one book, one pen, one child, and one teacher can change the world. Malala Yousafzai
Entrance Kristine Deiss
Perky the Pelican Mary Powers
Petunia the Pelican Mary Powers
Empowerment Kristine Deiss
Age Kristine Deiss
2021 Reminder Alexa Vincento
Blue Gardens Kristine Deiss
Prague 2018 Braeden Kopp
History Kristine Deiss
Pink Flare Mikaela Fallon
Blue Burst Mikaela Fallon
Orange Rush Mikaela Fallon
Title Artist
Planetary Romance Courtney Kenny
Title Artist Lovers in Spain, 35mm Alexandria Vigliotti
They thought I was a Surrealist, but I wasn’t. I never painted dreams. I painted my own reality. Frida Kahlo
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A Dreamless Night Erin Wilson Years ago, on a particularly bitter December night, a woman made her way inside a softly lit restaurant, just as she did most Saturday nights. Glancing around the room for a moment, she sighed, meandering towards the bar and perching herself on the edge of a stool. After shedding an emerald coat, she pulled off her gloves and dropped them onto the bar with a slap. She murmured something to the bartender, and a moment later, a martini was in front of her. Before drinking, she plucked the toothpick from the glass and lifted it to her mouth, biting off an olive. Absentmindedly, the woman dragged a red nail around the rim, then lifted the glass to her lips and drank while glancing around, eyes narrowed. She hadn’t picked this restaurant, but it wasn’t much different than any others where she often found herself. Sitting under a cloud of their own smoke was a smattering of other diners and drinkers among the burgundy booths, which were lamely decorated with garlands and lights for the coming holiday. In the center of the room stood baby grand piano where an elderly man was plopped precariously, plunking out one of a famous crooner’s new holiday hits. A festive waiter had adorned his black and white uniform with a red tie and a small necklace of jingle bells. The woman turned back to her drink, unenthused. In fact, the woman was unenthused by most things. She had grown up with money, the kind that is synonymous with notoriety and certain last names, one of which she possessed, and as a result had spent the better part of her life not considering any of it. She had attended the finest schools, lived in penthouses, met stars and politicians, traveled the world, and all of it left very little impression. It wasn’t that she necessarily took it for granted, but more that it had all seemed rather monotonous. Things were decent enough while they lasted, but nothing was so grand that she craved a life built around it. A half-drink later, the door swung open again, the gusts
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33 of wind and snow ushering another patron inside. Half-disguised in his trench coat and tilted hat, the man strode through the bar, marching on course to the stool beside her. “I’m terribly sorry I’m late,” he said. “The damn snow turns drivers into fools.” “Hmm,” she said flatly. He limply raised two fingers to get the bartender’s attention, and the two sat in silence until he ordered. After he ordered, he tugged off his wet jacket, hung his hat on the back of the chair, then slid onto the stool. He was tall and broad, with dark hair that had been slicked back, though whether it had been done purposely for the occasion or incidentally in the slush was indeterminable. His suit was gray, new, and tailored, and the fedora matched perfectly, accented with a darker band. The jacket, now draped over the chair, revealed the signature Burberry plaid lining inside. He was not only rich, but also handsome, both in the traditional sense and in the way that men are aware of, which meant he was likely insufferable. Her eyes raked over his ensemble, then flicked away, unimpressed. She was a woman who had known many a man in a nice suit, and she was equally tired of the men as she was of their predictability. “I’m glad we could finally do this. Jimmy has told me all about you. He’s been trying to set us up for ages.” “Has he?” she said flatly. “He’s a good man, Jimmy. A real pal. You’re lucky to have a brother like him.” She hummed her assent half-heartedly. Little did he know that her family had been setting her up on a string of dates for the last two years and that Jimmy seemed much more preoccupied with getting his sister married than being a decent brother. Her parents and brother had a seemingly inexhaustible list of men of “appropriate social standing” whom they insisted she meet. As much as she hated the dates, she had little choice in the matter; as long as she kept going out with these men, she was sure to stay in good enough standing with her parents not to be cut off from their funds. But their patience was wearing thin, and she knew they expected her to be married soon.
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34 By all accounts, she was a woman who should have been married by now. Her beauty and wealth made her a magnet for men, and while there had been plenty of options and offers, she found something wrong with each one. Even she wasn’t sure what she was looking for – she was only sure that she hadn’t found it. The man interrupted her thoughts by trying to start up another conversation. “I don’t know if you remember, but we met this summer. Out on the Cape.” “Not really,” she sighed. “But I’ll take your word for it. Days on the Cape tend to run together.” His jaw clicked; he didn’t like being forgotten. “He told me you grew up here too. Always nice to meet another native. So many transplants in the City now.” “I suppose there are.” “And, well, it’s nice to go out with a girl from a good family. Lots of girls just want a man for the money, but girls like you don’t need that. That way if you think they like you, they probably do. Not just your money.” The woman didn’t respond, and the silence returned. Both drank, staring straight ahead. A burst of laughter from a group at one of the booths punctuated their discomfort. The man was used to running a room, and he was driving the conversation forward like the director of the board he undoubtedly was. “So,” he swallowed, “what do you do?” “Do?” “With your time. Do you work?” “I don’t.” “That must be nice.” “Quite boring, actually.” She was hardly looking at him now, eyes instead drifting around the room. The glow of the lights along the wall was dim, and while it was trying to create a cozy, festive feeling, it toed the line of dank and depressing. The pianist had lost steam, his songs dragging behind the tempo in an unnerving almost-dirge. “A girl like you doesn’t have to work if you don’t want to.” “I suppose I don’t see much point. I’ve never found anything good enough to do.”
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35 By now the man was visibly agitated at her lack of engagement. “Well, what would you want to do? If you could do anything, what would it be?” “Oh, I don’t know.” “You don’t want to be an actress? I thought every girl wanted to be an actress.” “No. I like movies all right, but I don’t want to be in them.” “Thank god. I’m tired of meeting girls who want to be an actress.” “Happy to oblige.” She raised her glass in mock salute with a thin, sardonic smile. “But you must want something. Your biggest dream!” She sighed, and an almost imperceivable flash of emotion flickered across her face. “I don’t think I have one. Is that sad?” It was as if she had decided she had nothing to lose by telling this perfect stranger the truth. For the first time all night, she not only seemed engaged, but also to register his presence beside her. Her genuine response surprised him, and he blinked at her for a moment before realizing she was looking at him as if she expected an answer. “I don’t know. I suppose then you can’t be disappointed.” “No, I suppose not.” She paused, then shook her head. “I don’t know why I just told you such a thing. How ridiculous.” She took another gulp, draining the remainder of her drink. The glass had barely touched the bar before there was another in front of her. With a nod of thanks to the bartender, the woman pulled a pack of Lucky Strikes from her coat pocket and placed one between her lips. Once lit, she inhaled, waiting for it to soothe her the way she expected. With a ragged exhale, she turned back to the man, pursing her lips. His answer clearly hadn’t pleased her enough. “Well then, what do you do? You’re so worried about my dream. What’s yours?” Her newfound interest in the conversation clearly startled him. “Well, I, well,” he said, sputtering. “I work in advertising, over on Madison. But at heart, I’m a writer.”
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36 The woman’s eyebrows flicked up as if to say, there it is. She scoffed, then laughed wryly. “Of course you are.” He was defensive, insulted. “What’s wrong with that?” “It’s just…” she sighed. “I’m just so tired of writers. They’re all trying so hard to be original that it makes them all sound the same.” “Well, at least I’ve got a goal.” The man leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. The woman’s face fell. “Yes, I suppose that’s true.” “No,” he leaned back towards her. “No, I didn’t mean that.” “No, you’re right. I think that’s the worst part of all. It’s not as if I’ve done anything exciting, or even tried something and failed. And you said I couldn’t be disappointed - well, I am. I’m disappointed I haven’t got anything that makes my life feel important. What’s that line, ‘I’m tired of myself and anyone who wants to make a splash’? Well, I wouldn’t be tired; I’d be thrilled. I’m jealous of anyone with ambition. I envy them terribly.” Her outburst took them both aback, and they returned to the silence, though for some reason, it was less uncomfortable as before. The woman looked as if she was waiting in a confessional: unburdened by past sins, not yet untethered from their implications. “Well,” the man said. “I suppose not everyone needs a big goal. I think a small dream might be nice as well.” “A small dream?” She was skeptical. “What do you like to do?” “I’ve just told you, I don’t know-” “No, I don’t mean it like that. Forget writing and acting and all that. What do you like to do?” The man was staring intensely at her, and, uncomfortable, the woman glanced around for a moment. “I suppose I quite like to paint, but I’m not very good. Not good enough to be anything special.” “No matter. What else?” “Walking through the Park is nice, especially with my dog.” “Good, good. One more.” “I quite like going to the dance halls in Midtown.”
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37 “Well there you go.” He slapped his palm on the bar. “Three dreams right there. All easy to achieve, over and over.” “But those don’t count.” The man shrugged. “Why not? It’s your life.” Neither spoke. Then, for the first time that night, the woman slowly broke out into a smile. “Yes. Yes, I suppose that’s true. That’s a nice thought.” “I think so too.” Somewhere along the way, the pianist had found a second wind, and his newfound enthusiasm energized a few patrons to begin heartily singing along. The Christmas tree in the corner had been lit, and the dimmed lights had been raised enough to cast a soft glow across the room. In the new light, the man and woman at the bar were an objectively attractive couple, and both began to notice the other. Her cheeks were rosy, painted pink by the lights and the drinks and the company. As he raked his hand through his hair, a strand flopped across his forehead. At some point in the last few minutes, they had turned to face one another. Now they were almost entwined, knees touching and heads leaned in, neither wanting to miss a word the other uttered. She glanced up at him, shyly now. “I never thought of it that way. Thank you.” The man was quiet, then tried unsuccessfully to suppress a smile. “I think we just had our first fight.” “At least we’ve gotten it out of the way.” The two laughed. “I’m sorry, if I came off too harsh.” “It’s alright. I don’t mind.” She paused, tapping her cigarette ashes into the tray. “And I believe I owe you an apology. I suppose you’re not like all those other writers.” “You mean it?” “I do,” she said, wide eyed and genuine. “You told me something new and true. That’s the hardest thing for a person to do, in my opinion.” “Well thank you,” he nodded. The man smiled, as if pleased with her compliment, and despite herself, she smiled back. When the woman left alone later that night, she reentered the storm with a cheeriness she hadn’t felt before. She wasn’t going to marry this man, at least not based on one night. But he
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38 had surprised her. And that was something that had been entirely too rare to her up until then. So, perhaps, that was all her dream needed to be: to be surprised.
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B-52s Delainey Sheehan Jameson Ludlowe peers up from his bowl of pretzels and glares at his co-pilot and one of the senior stewardesses. The stewardess is swiveling on her barstool. His co-pilot rubs his temples as he listens to the person on the other end of his phone. “Got some more bad news for us, Captain,” the co-pilot says. “Now what?” Jameson and the rest of his crew had been utterly screwed over by a windstorm when trying to descend into San Francisco. At 1:00 PM, they hit the ground and expected to get back in the air by 5:00 PM. Now it’s half-past five and because of technical difficulties, their layover has been pushed fourteen more hours. So much for rushing out of the airport earlier. Maintenance workers don’t realize the consequences of their dreadful procrastination. Jameson thinks to himself about how ridiculous it is that this is the third time this month there has been an issue with the gas tank on the A-330. “We’re heading back to the hotel, hopefully going to get a nap in. You want to walk back with us?” His co-pilot asks. “No, thanks. I’m staying for a few more.” “Don’t get your ass busted like Carey did. He was just trying to enjoy a glass of pinot on his 26-hour layover,” his co-pilot jokes. “Go easy big guy.” the stewardess adds. They throw their jackets on and go out the door. Jameson scoffs at his friends and waves over the bartender. “Another gimlet, please.” The bartender refills his glass and slides it back towards him. Poor thing, he thinks as he watches the bartender retreat to the other side of the bar. She has to deal with drunk assholes all night. I’ll never let my daughter work at a place like this. Jameson does a double-take when he notices a young woman entering the bar. He scans her body head to toe, dang, how old is this chick? Is she even legal? Bouncy, blonde hair rests above her shoulders, a glimmering lilac dress clings to her porcelain skin, spaghetti straps that couldn’t hold a feather’s weight trace along her shoulders. The
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40 dress was cut so short that if she were to bend over, she’d either scar a young child or make an old man’s day. A V-neck a few inches too low, exposes her defined collarbone and glistening cleavage. Did she put glitter on her… breasts? Jameson narrows his focus to see a few sparkles bouncing from her chest, and realizes, too late, that he has been staring at this woman’s chest for uncomfortably long. Before he could glance away, her eyes met his as he looked up from observing her dainty necklace: quaint silver chain, accompanied by somewhat of a tarnished script ‘J.’ Jessica? No, I bet it’s Joanna. Maybe Jennifer? Nope, definitely Josephine. An older, shriveled man follows behind her. His hand resting on the exposed part of her lower back. The man, old enough that if you held a microphone to his legs, the sounds of an old metal factory would screech, echo, and creak through the speaker. The hand which rests on her back trembled constantly. His slacks were too large and her shirt was too tight. He definitely has no wife to help with his style. It’s like I’m seeing my father and my daughter walk into the bar together. Head low, but eyes high, Jameson continues to observe them. They sit as the waiter serves them both some fancy-looking shooters, the girl helps herself immediately, well I’ll be damned. He checks his phone 11:11 PM. I wish Cheryl was here. He sighs. *** Trying not to squeal at the burning sensation flowing down her throat, Jemma shivers and shakes out her limbs. “Woo!” She spouts, drawing too much attention towards her and her date. Shit. The man gazes at her and snickers, “Bunny, you okay there? That was just a kamikaze, wait till I have you trying B-52s and Melon Balls. You'll get used to it.” He winks. Her stomach turns at the thought of going out with this man again. “Thank you for dinner, Le Cheval Blanc was like no restaurant I’ve ever seen.” “We must continue our celebration back at my apartment,” her date suggests. “I’m quite tired actually, going to have to call it a night after we’re done here.” “A feeble excuse, honey. I don’t take no as an answer.” She sees
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41 a fire ignite in his eyes. “Very funny, Mr. Parsons. You know the terms of our agreement.” Jemma replies politely to the man who had just spent more on their dinner than she has made in weeks. The damn wine was $250 for Christ’s sake. Jemma has never had a client like Mr. Parsons before. He pays her by buying her dinner, but unlike her other clients, he always wants an extra show. “Let’s finish up here.” Parsons snarls. *** The bartender places the water Jameson ordered on the bar. Jameson snaps out of a trance, to the bartender waving her hands in his face. “Hello… Hey asshole, trying to converse here.” Jeez. He takes a large gulp of his water. “My buddies were smart to head back. I have to be at SFO at the crack-of-ass tomorrow.” “Then how come you haven’t headed out?” the bartender says as she tops off his water. “Not sure…” The bartender was summoned before Jameson could complete his sentence. He glares down at the same email he has had open on his phone for the last 45 minutes. The subject reading: ‘Thank you to all the parents who came to support the Eastern middle school talent show today.’ Chest aching, he shuts it off, but keeps it perched up in his hands. His attention darts back across the bar. They’re still there, the man however seems closer than he was before; the girl not as relaxed and cheery. She sits with one arm wrapped around her rib cage and the other grasping her fancy pink drink close against her chest. Jameson doesn’t know why, but he tells himself he is not leaving until he knows she is okay. The rattling of someone’s car keys in the vicinity puts a soft smile on Jameson’s face. He thinks of his 11-year-old daughter and her unfathomable fascination with keys as a toddler. She’d run around rattling them until her little arms would grow numb. When she cried, he’d give her the keys. When she fell, he’d give her the keys. If I told her that story right now, the little know-it-all would deny any such things ever happened. But they did, Jameson laughs to himself.
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42 The old man and young woman are talking again, but something seemed off. She’s tense and he’s skeevy, like a fox ready to pounce on its prey. The man begins to nudge her at her side, poking her ribs and jabbing at her neck. She stands and shoves him away. He grabs her wrist, pulls her back towards him, and whispers something in her ear. Whatever he said made her stay. She sits back down and looks forward. Their eyes meet. *** Jemma takes a large sip of her drink, finishing it off. She stares down at this man whose eyes are beaming with curiosity. She feels freezing cold as shaky hands brush through her locks. A tremor spreads throughout her body. She tries to get the man to help her, forming the words ‘help me’ with her mouth. “That gentleman has had eyes for you all night my dear,” Mr. Parsons says under his breath. “I’ll handle it, don’t worry.” He gives an affirmative nod and places his hand on her thigh, only a few inches away from getting a slap. She goes stiff, her eyebrows furrow and she mouths a cry for help. She calls to a clean-shaven man with deep sunken eyes and chocolate brown hair that looks recently trimmed. No beer belly in sight, probably a dad-bod, she thinks. He’s got a few glasses surrounding him, but no company. Jemma thinks that if she were to have a father, that this is exactly what he’d look like. He’s perfect. With strong intent, she shoves back off of her barstool, loosening her leg from the old man’s grip. “Goodbye, Mr. Parsons.” She pushes her stool in and she struts over to the other side. She emphasizes her curvaceous shape with deep sways of her hips on each stride. Lightly biting her lip, she fluffs her hair and shimmies her chest. “Hi there.” She approaches the man. “Jameson,” his hand extends towards her. They shake, and she takes the seat closest to him. “Jemma.” She rests her hand on his and he flinches. Jemma lets out a giggle. “Thank you, for, you know.” “ I didn’t do much. I just gave the old boar one nasty look and I think he got the hint.” Jameson attempts to retreat his hand to his lap
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43 when Jemma grabs a hold of it. He let out some nervous laughter. “I hope you didn’t get the wrong impression. I have a wife, and a beautiful daughter, probably not much younger than you.” *** The memory of Cheryl walking out the door four years ago comes into Jameson’s mind. It was the day before Thanksgiving and Jameson’s brother stopped by to drop off his turkey fryer. Oblivious to Cheryl’s presence, the brothers spoke about the night of Jameson’s bachelor party and the insane stripper they hired. Before he could shut him up, his brother mentions what Jameson had done with the said stripper. The turkey fryer got no use that year. Jameson was left alone for months, with no daughter, and little hope. Cheryl came back to him and forgave him, but his regret is still in a constant boil. “I bet they’re wonderful.” Jemma’s eyes beam into his. “I’m older than you would think.” Jameson shakes his head looking her up and down. Not a blemish marks her pure, young skin. “I sure hope so. Now, what are you doing out with a man like that?” “A free meal and some company.” Jemma answers. “What are you doing here by yourself?” “ Just needed some time to myself.” Jemma rests her elbows on the bar and her head in her hands, peering at him with a child-like gleam. “I’m on a layover. Flying back to New York in the morning.” “Oh! Captain Jameson. Well no, Captain…?” “Ludlowe-” “Captain Ludlowe reporting for duty,” she jokes. A silence falls, yet nothing feels awkward. “It’s been a shit day. I shouldn’t even be here, I should be sitting in the fucking auditorium right now.” “Auditorium?” “Yeah, my daughter had her first talent show. I made my schedule around it this month so I could actually be there, but then I got fucked by maintenance.” “That’s rough.” Jemma pouts. “Oh and the best part, Cheryl’s gonna have my ass, and it’s not
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44 even my damn fault this time.” “Hey, that’s better than my daddy ever did. Your girl is lucky that you’re even in her life.” Her hand rests again on his and her index finger draws swirls along his wrist. Jameson feels warm, not from the alcohol in his veins, but from this penetrating feeling he can’t describe. He likes it and he hates it. She pulls her stool so close to his, that her legs must spread open to make more space. Jameson retreats his hand which has traveled further along Jemma’s lean arms and rubs the back of his neck. “No, no. I’m sorry, I can’t do this.” He stands up abruptly and requests the waitress to close his tab. The waitress plops down his card and receipt. He scribbles a messy line as his signature and snatches his card. “It was nice to meet you. I’m glad I could help.” “Wait!” She stands, an innocent look plastered on her face. “Could I at least get a hug before you go?” “Um… Alright then.” He opens his arms and she wraps her arms around him. Feeling her hot breath against his neck, she whispers a sympathetic “I’m so sorry.” She holds on tight for a few seconds before he begins to feel uncomfortable again. “Okay,” he pushes her off of him, “goodbye now.” Walking past the glimmering young woman, Jameson exits the bar. What on earth just happened? Why is she sorry? Standing on the sidewalk, Jameson realizes his drunken self has no idea how to get back to his hotel. I think it’s this way. He begins to walk down the sidewalk and reaches in his pocket. Patting his sides frantically, he begins to panic. “Shit, shit. Where’s my god-damn wallet? My phone!” As he pulls his hands out of the last pocket he had to check, he freezes. I’m so screwed. Running back around the corner, he spots the glimmering lilac dress entering the passenger side of a black SUV. Jameson calls for her, but she closes the door. In the reflection of the car door mirror, the old man’s wrinkled face smirks at Jameson. The engine revs and they’re gone in plain sight. That bitch.
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Nutty Charlotte McAleer For the last two days, Gus has been secretly taking handfuls of trail mix to his bedroom. He kneels down next to his racecar bed and picks out the raisins and M&Ms. He eats the chocolate and leaves the raisins on the beige carpet. With only the peanuts, walnuts, and almonds left in his hand, Gus lifts the edge of his sheets and pulls the shoebox out from under his bed. When he sees the lid is open, his heart stops beating, and his tiny body fills with panic. “Nutty…” he calls out. His eyes dart around the room. He looks under his quilt and pulls back the curtains. “Nutty, where are you?” He opens his toy box and pulls out every truck, block, and ball in the hope of seeing a furry sliver skittering inside. He dashes to his parents’ room and looks in their closet, hoping the squirrel hasn’t made a home in his mom’s work scrubs or his dad’s loafers. He looks between the folds of the heavy winter curtains that could be a hiding place for a squirrel as small and scrawny as Nutty. Two days earlier at the beginning of his winter break, he found Nutty trapped in the fence separating his neighbor’s yard from the surrounding woods. He was just laying in the snow, weak but still alive. Gus wrapped his hand around the squirrel’s slippery belly, put him in his hat, and snuck him into the house. He used the box for his school shoes to make Nutty a little house—the hat would be his rug/bed, he folded notebook paper for a toilet. Gus had wanted to keep Nutty a secret, just until he seemed strong enough to go back to his own family. Now, Gus frantically searches the basement for the rogue squirrel. He doesn’t see him on his mom’s treadmill, his dad’s desktop, the hot water heater, or on the DVD bookcase. Not in the dryer. Not on the beanbag chair. Thankfully no luck in the fireplace. He stumbles back up the stairs. He goes to the kitchen and opens the fridge; Nutty might have gone looking for food. The Tupperwares with his mom’s egg salad and his dad’s chili are undisturbed. Gus takes out a carton of strawberry milk before closing
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46 the door. He turns the corner and sees his dad’s car pull into the driveway through the big living room window. He scans the room before his dad walks in. “Hey, buddy! How’s your day been?” His dad calls, hanging his puffer coat and scarf on the hooks by the door. “Okay,” Gus replies, trying to make no indication of panic in his voice. His dad kicks off his wet shoes before walking on the carpet in his striped socks. “Still enjoying winter break? Not bored yet?” “Nope. Not Bored.” “Good, where’s your mom?” “Not here. At work.” “You were here by yourself? All-day?” “Uh-huh.” His dad pinches the bridge of his nose. “I was supposed to watch you today, wasn’t I? If your Mom asks, I was here, alright Gussy?” He needs to find Nutty right now and put him back under his bed. “Okay Dad,” he says. His dad pats Gus on the shoulder, “It’ll be easier for both of us.” He looks down and sees the queasy look on Gus’s face, the face he makes when he’s anxious. His dad guides him into the kitchen. He puts Gus’s milk on the counter. “Grab a stool, kid,” His dad says while grabbing a beer from the fridge. Gus checks under the stool for Nutty before climbing on. “You didn’t spend the day in front of the TV, did you?” “No.” “No one came by while you were here on your own?” “No one.” Gus wants to run back to his room. Maybe Nutty came back to the box. Maybe he’s crawled into the hat and has been there the whole time. His dad leans his elbows on the counter and says in a gentle voice. “I’m sorry you were left alone; you’re a big boy and I’m proud of you.” Gus sips from his strawberry milk while his eyes follow the wood grain of the counter. “Thanks Dad.” “Are you okay, Gus?” “Yeah,” Gus darts down the hall to his room before his dad can
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47 say another word. He looks at the box again, just as empty as before. His room is still a mess: his bed unmade, his toys all over the floor. He looks in his toy box again, still no Nutty. He hears his mom come into the house and his dad say, “Hi honey, in the kitchen.” He listens to them talk for a minute; he’s been paying more attention to his parents’ private conversations since he found out they talk about him. His dad tells her to check on Gus: “I don’t know what’s going on with him, he’s a little jumpy.” Gus starts to panic. The last time he was in trouble was three weeks ago on Black Friday when he got lost in the mall: He sat with the security guard for two hours before his parents found him. On the car ride home, his mom turned up the radio before whispering to his dad, “This is why we can’t have another baby. We can’t keep track of the one we have.” Now Gus knows if he causes problems, he’s never going to get a little brother or little sister. His mother pokes her head in the door “Gussy?” She looks around and sees him standing next to the bed with his hands behind his back. “Oh my god… It looks like a tornado came through here.” With his eyes closed and his head down he responds, “Mommy... I did something bad,” bursting into sobs. She gets on her knees and pulls him into her chest, “We can clean this up honey, it’s not that bad,” her cardigan sleeve muffles his bawling. He snivels between every third word as he confesses, “I met a squirrel… the other day… and I was keeping him under my bed.” His mom grabs him by the shoulders, she looks at him with her eyes wide and her teeth hot, “You brought a squirrel into the house?!” Gus screams out in childish shame, “I lost him, and he’s gone!” Now choking on his own inhales, he wails “I’m sorry, Mommy.” With one hand on the doorframe, his mom swings into the hall. “Ted!” “What’s wrong?” shouts Gus’s father. “Gus brought a squirrel in the house. He doesn’t know where it is.” “What? You’ve got to be kidding?” His mom comes back to Gus’s room, finding him in the same spot, tears and snot on his face. “He’s gone,” he cries. “It’s okay. Sit down on the bed. Don’t move.” She runs to the living room and starts pulling the cushions off
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48 the couch; she lifts out the sofa-bed to see if the squirrel is hiding in the metal frame. Gus stands timidly in the wide entryway; his chest weak, his face puffy. “Are you mad at me?” He asks. His mom turns to him: “Gussy, please go to your room and close the door.” He runs to the bathroom instead, shuts the door behind him, and curls up in the bathtub. He hears his mom from down the hall: “Ted, how did you not see this? He’s freaking out.” His dad tells her, “He wasn’t like that before, I swear.” “But how did you not know? Gus is a wreck.” “He’ll cope, okay Patty? Let’s just deal with the squirrel.” Curled into the fetal position, Gus cries hard and deep from the bottom of his ribs. There are no more tears left, just miserable heaving. He unlocks his legs and turns his body over with his arms crossing his chest, like he could be buried in his guilt. Then, in a moment of renewed hysteria, he sees Nutty scampering along the shower rod. “MOM!” His parents run into the bathroom and see the squirrel jump from the shower rod to the windowsill. His dad grabs a heavy bath towel from the hook on the door. Using it as a net, he lunges toward the widow. “Don’t hurt him!” Gus shouts when his dad crushes the blinds as he traps Nutty. His dad carries the wriggling sack out of the room to the backyard. “Nooho…” Gus cries. His mom sits him on the side of the tub, “It’s okay baby, it’s okay. The squirrel is fine, everyone is fine.” Gus throws his arms around his mom’s waist, his face pressed between his shoulder and her chest. “How about,” she suggests, “we get a nice cheese pizza for dinner, huh? Would that help you feel better?” “Maybe,” he replies softly. The family sits around the dinner table, each with a slice of pizza in front of them. Gus drinks a sprite (another treat) while his dad has beer and his mom drinks lime seltzer. “You understand why Nutty couldn’t stay with us, right Gus?” his mom asks. “Yeah,” he says forlornly before lifting his slice for another bite. “He needed to be with his own family. His mommy and daddy,”
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49 she continued. “Imagine if someone had taken you away from us and kept you under their bed,” his dad added, causing Gus to tear up again. “Ted, that’s not a nice thought,” his mom tells him while putting her hand on Gus’s back. “Eat your pizza, sweetie.” After getting into his pajamas, his mom asks if he wants to watch the bathwater whirlpool. He likes when the water and soap spin around the drain but tonight he tells his mom he doesn’t feel like it and just wants to go to sleep. Gus gets under the covers and lays his cheek on his wrist. His mom reaches over him to rub his back. “So, in a few days, you and I are going to go to Dr. Field’s office. We’re going to make sure you didn’t catch any diseases. Wild animals can be dangerous that way.” “Nutty wasn’t sick,” Gus tells her. “Didn’t you say he was dying when you found him?” “He was tired. He was still alive.” His mom sighs, “Well, he was healthy enough to run around our house. Still, I want the doctor to double-check.” “Is he going to give me a shot?” “Maybe… and if he does, I need you to be brave.” “Okay. I’m really sorry.” His mom nods as she turns on his star-shaped nightlight. She picks his clothes up from the floor on her way to the door. “Who loves you?” his mom asks like she does every night. “You do,” he always answers. She leaves the door ajar after saying their goodnights. As Gus dozes off, he hears the conversation between his parents while they watch TV. His mom asks his dad, “You really didn’t see anything today?” “Not a thing. I’m surprised as you are,” he answers. “For two whole days, three whole days maybe.”
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There is No Moral to this Story Kirby Povilaitis Ketchup on a spoon is disgusting. It is the perfect mix of acidic burn and metallic disgust—a blend of every worst nightmare imaginable. It is a mind concoction that deserved to die the same moment it was conceived, an invention so ghastly that even dogs turn their heads at the sight. He sits at the counter, looking at it without blinking twice. The ketchup, a dollop of red resting in formation on the spoon, medicine nestled between its bends without his knowledge. This is the avenue by which the life-sustaining drugs make their way into his mouth, a 23-year-old boy yet turned man, who never will turn man in the conventional sense. He spends his days, before sitting at this counter, moving monotonously among meatpacking stickers, placing one on each package for hours and hours at a time. This is his place in the world—this is the job he was born to do. The factory was never the goal; when she was pregnant with him, his mother dreamed of him lettering in soccer, majoring in biology, breaking hearts, and curing cancer. But he did none of those things. Instead, he never spoke his first word. He got his job at Smucker’s Meats at 21, after countless jobs turned him down for his lack of verbal communication. Sometimes, instead of firing him, they would cut his hours down to one hour per week, and wait for him to leave. Smucker’s was different. Smucker’s wanted his monotony— wanted him to do nothing but pick up a label, peel it off, and place it on the ham container. It can be imagined that life is dull for one who needs assistance putting on pants or stares at an iPad playing Blue’s Clues all day long. But this is the life that he has been destined to have, a boy who was not given the choice of whether or not he would have authority over his own life. Autism has rendered him alone in the world to a degree,
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51 despite the loved ones who long to know him. They want to enter his mind, traveling through the folds of his brain to explore what those 23 years have held, have seen. But his eyes stare blankly, and the brain waves on his MRI are the only indication that any movement happens behind them. So they feed him ketchup on a spoon. They pretend, because he does not act in an adverse manner, that this is what he wants. He wants the bitter taste of tomato paste on metal. He does not need to know about the drugs he inhales. He will still go back to the meat factory tomorrow, no matter how he feels about the ketchup.
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What is Better Left Unsaid? Brenna Crowder She rubbed the thick ticket between her thumb and index finger, staring at her chipped black nail polish. The paper was waxy, so when she rubbed it her finger skidded over the stub instead of running smoothly. Nothing ever ran smoothly. She pressed her hot cheek against the chilled bus window, allowing it to cool her body and calm her nerves. She whimpered and bit her lip before her mouth shook, bringing more tears to her eyes. She took in a deep breath, of what felt like needles, and held it for a little just to feel the pressure against her chest. She squeezed her eyelids shut and scrunched her face, so the fat man sitting next to her didn't give her a dirty look for crying out loud again. She rolled her head back and stared at the dark bus ceiling, which resembled the carpet of a bowling alley filled with those red and blue scribbles. She gave herself a hug, because no one else would, squeezing tighter, pretending like they were someone else’s arms. She always wanted a real hug. Not one of those side ones, or fake ones just posed for pictures. She didn’t want a pity hug because her classmate caught her crying in the bathroom stall again or because she overshared trying to answer a teacher’s question. She didn’t want one of those hugs from a family member who didn’t even remember her name at a holiday, either. She wanted a real hug. A real, warm hug from someone who actually loved her. However, nobody like that existed. Not in this town at least. The only good thing in this town was her all-grey cat Sam who was almost a million years old, but always provided her with little cat head hugs whenever she needed it most. Her full name was Miya Lani Phipps but she mostly just went by Lani. Miya was her mom’s name. When she was young and choosing the nickname, she didn’t despise her mom yet but she knew that she didn't want to be anything like her. She didn’t look anything like her,
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53 so that was a start. Lani had short, thin, black hair with bangs that framed her face. Her mom had an abundance of curly blonde locks that fell just above her hips. Lani had an olive complexion and her mother was as pale as Snow White. Lani was about 5’6, which towered over her mom’s 5’1 frame. She was a little chubbier than her mom, however, she wouldn’t consider herself chubby compared to anyone else. Her eyes were a muddy brown and her mom’s were as blue as the sky, sometimes you could catch them changing colors slightly. Her mom was beautiful, or at least that’s what everyone said. However, she didn’t see her mom’s beauty as something to admire. Her mom’s beauty was something she was cautious of, like a poisonous apple. The Evil Queen disguised as Snow White. Miya and Lani merely coexisted amongst each other. The relationship was never strong, and their interactions were minimal and cautious. Everyday Miya would yell about something irrelevant or minor, blaming Lani for whatever inconveniences her on a given day. However, Miya’s outbursts never came from a dissatisfaction with Lani but rather a dissatisfaction with herself. Lani and Miya couldn’t connect with each other to save their lives. It seemed no matter what they were talking about, most conversations ended in an argument. Miya projected her own pain onto Lani, and Lani felt every emotion that came with that. The two clashed so hard that they could only communicate through chaos and raging emotion. Leaving each of them drained at the end of every dialogue. Lani saw her mom as unsuccessful and stupid, as someone who fucked up her life by having a kid. Or at least that’s how it felt. Lani always felt unwanted, and unwarranted. She was so disconnected from her mother that even saying the word Mom left a bitter taste in her mouth. Just like her mom never felt like a mother, her house never felt like a home. It felt like she was living on foreign grounds, or in a shitty hotel where you’re your own maid. There was no connection between her and her mother, merely mundane interactions. They didn’t really know how to talk to each other. There wasn’t much they had in common and her mom wasn’t necessarily an open-minded person. Most of their conversations ended in screaming matches or uncomfortable silence. Their relationship was at a point where they both avoided interactions to spare themselves the stress. Last week, before she found herself sitting next to a fat
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54 stranger on a musty bus, she was sitting in her mom’s home office looking for an envelope to keep her box tops in. She sifted through her mom’s office organizer in the back corner of the room, though there wasn’t much organization to it. She scanned the stacks of tax reports, loose papers, and work documents. Her fingers shuffled through papers looking for a simple white envelope, but she began to lose concentration as the non-envelopes piled up next to her. As she started to give up, plotting an envelope-run to CVS, one caught her eye tucked all the way in the back of the drawer. She tugged at the envelope and, with a little extra pull, managed to wiggle it out from the crack where the bottom of the drawer met the back, ripping off a part of the corner. She realized it was already full. It was sealed shut and its white was faded yellow with age. On the back was an address to New York and a name she didn’t recognize but felt familiar with. She wouldn’t regularly invade her mom’s stuff like this, but the name inked across the back of the envelope sparked something inside her. A ball of curious energy formed in her stomach, made its way up to her chest, and sizzled down her fingertips. With little conscious control she tore the envelope open with her nail and plucked out a thin piece of paper covered in blue inked letters in her mom’s handwriting. Her eyes scanned down the page and widened at each line. Confused at first, she reread the words over and over again, and with an overwhelming wave of emotion, she understood. *** Miya woke up later than usual but felt no shame sleeping in, this was her only day off from work for the next three weeks so she might as well enjoy the peace while she can. Her mind was exhausted from her mundane workdays of being a receptionist, a job she knew she would hate, but was the best one she could get in her town with only a high school diploma. In her soft pink rob and moccasin slippers, she made her way out of bed and down the stairs. On her way to the kitchen she noticed that the doors to her home office were swung open and there were papers covering the floor. That girl. What the hell was she looking for? Did she make it to school on time? She thought about Lani as she began collecting the papers up off the carpet and piling them up on the corner of her desk.
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55 As she swept the floor clean of scattered envelopes, she noticed a piece of paper lying on the floor by her feet. Picking it up she began to read the trifold faded letter. Her grip tightened as she read the first line, and a swell of tears pooled in her eyes. Her mouth dried and stomach turned as she scanned each word. The same emotions that she felt while transcribing the letter quickly filled her chest. Gripping the paper between her fingertips, she fell to her knees and cried in her hands. As her mind fog cleared, she traced the floor for the envelope that held the letter and saw it nowhere. Remembering the reason why she was collecting envelopes off the floor, she thought of Lani, and knew that she had not made it to school. Miya never thought of herself as a good mom, though she wanted to be more than anything, but she just didn’t know how. Maybe it was the fact that she thought she was too young or that a part of her still dreamed of a different life. Maybe it was the fact that she really never had the choice either way. The harder Miya tried to get closer to Lani, Lani only pushed her further away. She was like her father in that way. Both of them having inadequate father figures, Miya and Lani struggled with that feeling of being unwanted. Each of their own childhood traumas reflected onto one another, and created tensions between their relationship. Their lack of self-love and resentment of what could be made it virtually impossible to have a normal relationship. *** Lani’s dad was Miya’s high school sweetheart; they were either soulmates or each other's first love. She was a cheerleader and was dating the quarterback of the high school football team at the time that she met him. She obviously wasn’t looking for anyone new but he came into her life anyway, whether she wanted it or not. His name was Nate Phelps and hers was Miya Phipps, so whenever they had a class together, they were usually assigned to sit next to each other. She never usually noticed him though or even cared to remember his name; he was kind of a loner. He regularly wore ripped black skinny jeans, an oversized T-shirt, and an old pair of Converse. His hair was long and usually tucked under a beanie or free flowing. He liked to
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56 smoke weed under the bleachers at school before the first period and would usually mix tobacco in with his joint to hide the smell. Miya never thought that he was father material. One day, Nate stopped showing up to class. Miya didn’t initially notice that he was missing, but rather the absence of his weed and cigarette smell. Two days went by, then a full week. He had always been there but played a background character in her life. He was someone that she didn’t care to know much about, and she never really asked. She always had so much going on in her life that she was usually distracted. Her life at home, and even her relationship, were so unstable there wasn’t much there for her to rely on. However, as she began to notice Nate’s absence, she also noticed how she had always relied on him to be there. Although, she knew nothing about him, he was always around, and that was comforting. He felt like a mindless daily routine. One that you don’t even know you do until something prevents you from doing it. He felt natural. Seeing his face everyday was like always visiting the same painting, and his missing face was as if the background clouds had suddenly disappeared. Not noticing their beauty while they’re there, but feeling unsettled by the empty space left behind. Nate didn’t show up to school for the rest of that semester and she later learned it was because he was hospitalized after a suicide attempt. He returned in January for the second half of the school year and Miya didn’t know how to act around him anymore. She was still in the dark about why he left school in the first place but just assumed it was for some badass reason like being caught selling dope to freshmen or something. It wasn’t until they were dating and she loved him that she learned about his attempt and met all of his other skeletons. She was good at flirting so she made a point to touch his forearm every so often and bat her eyelashes in his direction. He didn’t notice. It wasn’t until she pierced her nose like his that he really started talking to her. The two bonded over their broken home lives and screwed up parents. Miya’s father was an alcoholic and sometimes when he got too drunk at the local bar, he would come home and wreak havoc throughout the house. He would yell and throw things across the room; he broke the TV so many times they decided to just get rid of it. Sometimes, he would even hit Miya’s mom in front of her and
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57 Miya stood there, scared and hopeless. What are you supposed to do when your drunk dad hits your mom?. Wanting to escape this, she spent her High School days dreaming about the day she could apply to a nice college far away from her small town in Montana. With her good grades but lack of money she knew that getting a scholarship to school was her only shot at getting out. Her home life made her want to run away as far as she could. Away from her reality, away from the possibility of a similar future if she stayed. She loved her mom more than anything, and she even loved her dad at times, too. However, she didn’t want to be anything like them. After meeting Nate, though, Miya was thankful to at least have her parents. He dropped him off on the stairs of a foster home when he was just three weeks old. He grew up in foster care jumping from family to family. He never knew anything about his parents except that the birthmark on the back of his neck looked exactly like the one his father had. Nate was always the outcast and was never really able to connect with people. He didn’t make the effort either because he knew that as soon as he got too close, he would just end up just pushing them away. He trusted no one, so he talked to no one. Miya was different though. She made him feel alive, cared for, and understood. They were both addicted to finding ways to avoid their own realities and in the process, they fell in love with the thrill of each other's chaotic search for something more. They were so connected in their detachment from the world that nothing else felt real to them except when they were together. Nate and Miya were in love, once. However, neither of them knew how to love. They were both raised with a tainted idea of it, one that involved criticism, abandonment and arguments. So, that’s how they loved each other, the only way they knew how. They rewrote the idea of love and what it meant to love and be loved. It was the kind that completes you and hurts you at the same time. Makes you feel so good, yet so confused. They thrived off of that chaotic romance, the breaking up, and the beautiful making up. They would scream and yell one minute and be wrapped in each other's lips and arms the next. It was the type of love that hurts so good, makes you feel crazy, but the good type of crazy. They say that there is a fine line between pleasure and pain, and they did more than just blur that line. They morphed it. Every, “I love you,” felt painful for an unexplainable reason, not
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58 because it seemed fake but because it felt too real. Before the summer that Miya found out she was pregnant, she had received an academic scholarship to Ole Miss and was already making rooming arrangements with another blue-eyed blondie. Every girl at that school had flawlessly tan skin, voluminous blonde hair, pearly white smiles, and a face from a magazine. Miya knew that her soft smile, red berry lips, and natural bouncy blonde coils would fit right in amongst the pretty girls. Her and Nate had recently broken up. The last time she spoke to him they were screaming at each other in the back of his blue van. He had told her that he was planning to move to New York and that if he stayed in this town, he would actually end up dead this time. The two of them saw graduation as their escape from their hellish homes and although they loved each other, they were blinded by the opportunity to get out. They were both so eager to live a life that wasn’t their own and getting lost in their fantasies of escaping, they lost sight of each other. Leaving town was both a shared yet individual dream, and instead of understanding their need for different paths, they resented each other for not choosing the same one. She was so ecstatic to get out of her house, out of her town, away from everything and everyone. She wanted to go somewhere that she felt like she belonged and make friends who she could call family. Ole Miss was her plan of escape: it was her way out. However, her plans would change later that summer, knowing that there was no place at Ole Miss for pregnant pretty girls. She wrote to Nate the night that she found out that she was pregnant. He didn’t leave her a phone number, because he didn’t have one, but he gave her his address. She poured her heart on that page, being more vulnerable than she ever was throughout the entirety of their relationship. She wrote about how much she loved him and how he was the only thing that ever felt like home. She loved everything about him, from his long black hair, his crooked smile, and the birthmark on his neck. She wanted an escape and he was her escape and that nothing felt right without him. However, the more emotion she allowed herself to feel, the more she told herself that it wasn’t real. He left you. He doesn’t want to be with you. Her tears smudged the ink on the page and she felt pathetic for loving someone who left her, forgetting that she had left him too. She swallowed her pride and decided that he wouldn’t want to be a father anyway. She doesn’t
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59 remember why she didn’t just tear it up that night, but she filled it out with his address and all, throwing it into one of her drawers, hoping that it would still somehow get to him. *** The bus dropped Lani off just outside of Times Square, which was only a 20-minute walk to her destination. She stood gazing up at the tall New York City apartment building, an old envelope in her hand. She looked at the address to confirm it matched the address on the building as well. She made her way inside and didn’t know if she was holding back vomit or tears. Her voice shook as she said his name to the desk assistant and felt a tingling in her stomach as she made her way to the elevator doors. The elevator played jazz on her way up to the fifth floor of the building and her heart raced to keep the tempo of the song. The elevator binged and she took a right, looking for apartment 386B. Before knocking, she steadied her breath and gulped down any fear. A man with long black hair, olive skin, and confused muddy brown eyes opened the door. Lani didn’t know what to say, or how to say it. So, she handed him the thin blue inked letter. He scanned the page as his eyes filled with emotion. He looked at Lani, and scrunched his face, not knowing what to make of the words that he held in his hands. He opened his mouth to speak, but didn’t know what to say, or how to say it. So, Lani turned around and lifted the hair which covered the back of her neck, revealing her prominent and inherited beauty mark. He stammered, “Miya?” “Miya is my mom and you’re my dad,” she said, offering a soft smile.
fiction
Literature is a luxury; fiction is a necessity. G. K. Chesterton
Judgement Kristine Deiss
Port Douglas, Far North Queensland, Australia Slyvia Lei
Pacific City, Oregon Slyvia Lei
Power to the People Eciaus Booth
Power to the People Eciaus Booth
Power to the People Eciaus Booth
Retro Ethan O'Reilly
Self Title Artist Vincento Alexa
Clumsy Ben Ostrowski
Alone CJ Sommers
Beach Vibes Alexa Vincento
Law & Order Eric Grazio
Marine Biology Building Ethan O'Reilly
Sleepy Cat Ethan O'Reilly
Art washes from the soul the dust of everyday life. Pablo Picasso
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a fate worse than dying CJ Sommers i understand icarus the need to feel alive to feel anything at all. the only time i can is when i’m flying too close to the sun when i feel my wings begin to melt sometimes i think melting is the only thing left that i can feel you drive too fast to go over hills feel the blood rush into your head. you’re floating you’re carefree again but every hill has a bottom a valley a crushing realization that you’re still here in this in-between the weight of the world is back on your shoulders. you crave to recreate that feeling you go so fast you feel your tires begin to lose their grip that slipping and sliding, ever so slight, brings you back to earth. makes you feel alive again
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79 when you’re still on the road and another car rushes past you shaking the ground tilting your car that intake of breath that melting of your wings only when my wings are melting do they feel solid only when i’m dying do i feel
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carbon-based Ava Jensen I see all these poems about people who are made of shadows and clouds and rain, people made of stoplights and neon and cinder blocks, people of sunlight and color and flowers, people who are built out of steel and fire and venom. Where are the people like me? I am made of something that was once alive, something that used to breathe and flourish and grasp desperately for the sun, but now lies dormant under layers of rock, under the weight of millions of years. I am made of things long dead, things that once lived simply under the sun, when days and years were shorter and better-lived, when chaos ruled all rather than chaos just barely restrained by a ruse of order, when flowers grew the world over and polaris was not the north star but some other indistinguishable speck in the night sky was, when great humble beasts created by something far older and more ferocious than the gods we worship now pulled and plucked at creation with their galactic fingers. I am made of ancient life, now black with age and wisdom and grime, life shaped like old bones and tree trunks, life that once charged into the sunrise looking for a new home, a family, adventure, even if they were too simple to know what they sought. I am made of life that burns. Life that crowds the sky with reeking smoke and clings to bodies, life that growls and churns in the underbellies of furnaces, life that has died and cannot ever live again in appearance and shadow. Life that has become death.
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81 Some of my life lives in museums, propped up by metal structures in approximations of how I looked long ago—great rearing beasts with huge bodies and claws and teeth. I rejoice at seeing the old parts of me. Some of my life still lies beneath millions of years of rock and silence, waiting forevermore to be dug up and exalted or simply soldier on in eternity. I will be satisfied with either. Some of my life burns and harms and dissolves into ash. I mourn my loss of self, but moreso, I mourn the decay that it causes to the life that surrounds my death. Can you guess what I am? Can you see me in the corner of your eye, my remnants climbing from smokestacks? Stop staring at me. I’m in pain. I’m causing pain. Have some respect.
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five. Grace Murry I can’t get your scent off my clothes. Load after load, I still sense you there. I am trying to move on while you’re blissfully unaware, but this is the path that I chose. I can’t scrape your name from my tongue. Brushing my teeth, the taste of you lingers and I still remember how you felt on my fingers, while I was breathing you into my lungs. I can’t erase your smile from my vision. No matter how far I strayed, it was always nearby. Now when I see you, I turn a blind eye. Bless and curse my mem’ry for its consistent precision. I can’t shake the sound of your laughter. Together, with the sunlight of the afternoon, we reveled and spent hours, seemingly immune to the heartbreak we did not realize would come soon after. I can’t clean your touch off my skin. Branded into me from every kiss and caress, from every time we undressed. There will always be the memories of what once had been.
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Head of a Woman Alice Agee Through the fogged windows of the car, inside the mindless, curvy, asphalt stretch, the highway stretching on, winding, fast, smooth, hard, split, middle-ground under early-evening, late-winter Maryland skies. Serene. Behind the wheel alone, February 12. about 5 o’clock. I am alone, listening to pop radio's top one hundred. I know how to be alone, when the rest of the world can’t figure me out and I can’t articulate that I am everything and fog. Driving alone on the bridge, I throw my cares off the side to the deep water; capped white and flush, rolling, thrashing in the wind, blue-green, brown. I’m close, I think. I am close to who I am. I am there as I fall off the bridge to solid ground, switching lanes to my exit, in leggings and a T-shirt, not dressed for any occasion. I am afraid to be here and leave nothing of me behind, yet I am so alive, alive and unfinished. There is a portrait called Head of a Woman by Leonardo Da Vinci, she is blurred,
poetry
84 a whisper of her whole, faded into paper. She seemed always so wispy to me, a phantom, a ghost as though she was never whole to begin with.
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I Can't Breathe Amber Davis I can’t breathe. I wake up every morning scared for my life. Scared that once I walk out my door, I step into a war zone. Every little step I take is not a choice. It’s not a choice to risk my life in a country that supports the unjustifiable killing of people who look like me. I can’t breathe. That’s the second time it’s been said, It didn’t matter to them that time either. The blacker the berry the sweeter the juice. To me, it means the more of my blackness I embrace, the more of my queenliness shines through. To a white cop, it means the darker the body the sweeter the kill. I can’t breathe. I can’t walk. I can’t talk. I can’t live without the fear of not coming home. It doesn’t matter that I’ve never committed a crime. It doesn’t matter that my life is dedicated to the Lord. It doesn’t matter that I’m innocent because no matter who I am or what I say, my skin color has already declared me guilty. I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe because kneeling on someone’s neck is more acceptable than kneeling during the national anthem. I can’t breathe because there are people in power who accept and encourage the injustice that goes against everything we supposedly believe in. I can’t breathe because I fear that when I do, they will come and do everything in their power to make me stop.
poetry
86 I can’t breathe. R-E-S-P-E-C-T find out what it means to me. To you, it means having everyone do what you tell them to. To me, it means finally getting the basic human rights and equality that you take for granted. After generations and generations of being treated as lesser than. After constantly fighting for the right to live. We still can’t breathe.
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87
In My Dreams We Bet on Horses For Sequoia
Angie Kanavy We’re like ponies with bad odds—an unpromising Fifty to one. The underdogs. The racehorse with a far-fetched name, You’ll lose, but you play anyway. The blank fires with a bang, And we’re out of the gate— Dance with Fate takes the lead From the start, met with excited cheers, But the race is far from over; There’s still two more corners to go. In the stands, ladies wear big, showy bonnets; People scream for the little pony that could. We round the first corner, the sound Of thundering hooves in our ears And a steady ache in our lungs. Time runs obsolete—seconds turn to Minutes turn to hours turn to Days turn to years— We don’t yield. We take on the straight away with long, lean strides, Spurred on with the sharp snap Of a whip—vivacious cheers continue As our hooves hit the ground Violently, kicking up dirt.
poetry
88 “It can’t be!” the announcers shout As we round the next turn— We run harder; we do our best To tune out the noise around us. We don’t falter. Our strides are still strong, But horses bound by us On the final straightaway. Let’s play the odds: Maybe we aren’t the favorite— But we’re in the freakin’ derby! Written in the record books, forever. How lucky we are to have even met— California Chrome may get the roses, But I get you.
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Instructions for a New Life
Kirby Povilaitis
Dye your hair. Make it blue, or pink, or the burgundy of your ex-boyfriend’s Honda Civic— the one that he drove when the sky was heavy and your dress was ruined. Lightning struck, and you spun in the rain so hard that your head was dizzy. Get the tattoo. Take the words your mother wrote on the day you left: “You will make it.” Try to listen to the car alarms outside the parlor instead of the thunder in your head as the needle shoots fire and color up your arm.
poetry
90 Take the call, years later, when your hair is no longer burgundy and you wear suits instead of dirt-stained dresses. Accept the job that comes with a salary you will not spend on tattoos. Look at yourself, and say, “I did it. I became new.”
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Prep Work Ryan Baldino You gotta do the prep work, baby boy You simply gotta do the prep work, my little b-a-b-y b-o-y It’s all about the prep work, tiny baby boy We cut our dinner into quarters for ya, little tiny baby boy You better run up to Plymouth, fine little miniscule baby boy You better soak that piercing, itty bitty big old baby boy What a fine little house you got there, westside insurance baby boy Up on the hillside, with forty bottles of wine, tight bangs sailor suit baby boy Now throw back that sweet rosy wine, acid reflux baby boy Ain’t it crazy you eat all that crema lime zest and never get heartburn, limey baby boy? That water out there’s real cold and it’ll take your breath, ice cold baby boy You gotta do the prep work or it’ll take your breath, high meniscus baby boy That man throwing furniture up on the Titanic, whiskered sea lion baby boy That’s how he stayed so warm, my sixteen lifeboat baby boy We’ll carry you to that ole moonshine dock, whinging cranky baby boy
poetry
92 The physics of water will aid us in carrying you, corpulent baby boy You better do the prep work and drink up, forty-six dollar an hour baby boy If you won’t do your prep work and swim on out, go back to your coding, grumpy baby boy
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Remnants Katherine Stockton-Juarez The wind runs its fingers through the branches of the swaying giant, our ancient Sycamore tree. I hear the chaotic, soothing chorus of a thousand unseen crickets. The silent glow of the moon and windows of other insomniacs are the only lights by which we all see. The desolate stars don’t shine anymore above our steaming electric earth. The manic ones loudly rev their engine in their resilient quest for trouble. I breathe in, I breathe out. And the wind breathes in and it breathes out. Gently. In the distance, a house dog barks, reminiscing on a lost generation that once spoke to the moon. I drift from my existence of chronomania in favor of a world as old and wise as time. Sometimes I stare so long at this tree that I fall down into worship of it. I feel its sorrow, this timeworn tree.
poetry
94 It rises far above my home and all the other houses on the block, all-seeing. But all its friends are dead. A forest that once breathed here is long gone, the only relic left is this forlorn rugged tree. I whisper to the Sycamore on these sleepless nights. I say it’s beautiful. I ask for its forgiveness. I wonder if a tree and a human could ever be friends.
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The Space Between Us (Is Empty) Kirby Povilaitis I lost you and I don’t know when it happened. It might have been two years ago, when you asked me to dinner and I said I was busy, but really, I couldn’t think of anything to talk about. Maybe it was the park, when you wanted to split the BLT, but I was a vegetarian. I guess it could have been prom, when your dark green gown had a strange resemblance to my teal dress, and suddenly there was a velvet tear woven between us. I don’t want to say it was the day you told me it—
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96 the it so big that I wasn’t allowed to say the name out loud, let alone write it down. I said, “It will be okay.” and maybe that wasn’t enough. Two years have come and gone, our ships passing as strangers now. You have a nose piercing. My hair is pink. Nothing is wrong with either choice, but it is strange to see you like this. You ask me to dinner. I have nothing to say.
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Tipsy Glasses Juliet Watstein My glass is half full Yet you always seem to make it overflow As the contents pour over So does my freedom
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Dorian Gray In thin sweeps of a brush, Basil made Dorian immortal; youth all-encompassing and rotten. Sweet Sibyl followed Juliet, drinking deep and now off to sleep as the painting of Dorian withers and cracks. To influence someone else is to give up one’s own soul.
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Alice Agee
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The Back Porch Sullivan McGee We take a break from painting the back porch to eat dinner and stare out at the shadows as they take over the woods. It’s dusk in the summer, the sky pink and orange, the last tints of blue about to turn deep indigo at the horizon. Lightning bugs (though you call them fireflies) rise from the secret space where they hide during the day. Some nights I imagine following the pinpoints of light to see where they go, but then I’d miss the hum of the TV and the too-bright light that you somehow manage to sleep through in the dark house. The open paint cans labeled “Candy Apple” and “Rust” sit in the grass. The smell of the oil paint stink makes it hard to eat. The grass splotched red and orange to mark our work. Weeds we’ve yet to pull cling to the edges of the base of the porch to grow wild in the heat with honey buds and butter petals. I don’t want to forget this—sitting on this half-painted back porch with you, through a heat that felt like it would never end. The days filled with the scent of chlorine and the jarring chill of air conditioning, crushed mosquitos, and stars in lavender skies. What I like are the drives to nowhere and bubbly songs we wouldn't listen to any other time of year. Doesn't it seem like Demeter will bless the Earth with eternal summer? And suddenly I don’t want to think of any other time but commit to what we have here. Right now.
poetry
100 You pull out a cigarette and I watch the fuzzy smoke blow out, then up, the dark closing in, the day wrung out, my legs and arms pleasantly tired. I stick my soda can to my forehead, then press it to the back of my neck. I try to imagine the cold of last winter, but winter feels distant and surreal, like the last remaining snapshots of a dream in the morning.
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Waiting on Wine Inspired by "Raisin in the Sun" by Lorraine Hansberry
Abena Ansah What happens to a dream that has been deferred? Does it know what potential it has, or the opportunities that it will behold? Does it, like innocence, balance on the glowing youths’ nose or does it fall into a sunken place where all hope goes? It could be chosen like all, randomly from a vine given the chance to become a raisin in the sun. If not it finds itself waiting, and waiting, it flourishes in time, not forgotten, and soon chosen for wine. Now think, was this God’s plan all along? Not a dream deferred, but one worth waiting for. Like a dream, the best grapes are harvested last.
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Victorian Collage In reference to the artwork, "Victorian Collage" on Page 170
Courtney Kenny The Queen will love you and hold you to her chest, entwined in a silky web, fine floating above the rest. A loner is her enemy. A silent fool and a joke with an agenda all her own. She is unattainable like smoke. Her pet is small and lives to please. Fine instructions put her at ease. But I am not an actress, no part I shall have to play. Backstage I observe the scene, with very little to say. The Shadows dark and lonely, not a fine place for The Queen. Lost without her reflection. No control on the unseen.
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Medusa Katherine Stockton-Juarez Snakes infest Her body, monstrous obsidian black scales sliding beneath Her flesh, stretching the pale skin across her scalp. Her heels echo like thunder, commanding the night, She is the heir, the descendent, to all the witches we could not burn. Watch as Her hips begin to sway, ominous is Her spell, like the creak of branches before a roaring storm. And as She licks her lips, as She smiles, know that it is as equally lethal as Her bite of retribution. The sweltering burn of fire in her eyes is worth an eternity of sweet cold frozen solitude.
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things i hope to forget soon
Kirby Povilaitis
the feeling of the stitches in your thumb moving over my own (thumb, that is) the movie we invented about a rabbi who turned into a dinosaur the moment i saw you (the awakening of the butterflies) the way you felt safe the engineering professor you had that looked like santa claus the shitty parking i did outside of your apartment (and how you could hear me talking to myself in my lost haze) the science experiments you listened to and never understood the jenga game that forced (me/the blocks) to fall
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105 the thought that maybe, just maybe, this time would be different the text goodbye
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Messy Room Elizabeth Jean-Louis I cried into the filth of my clothes. My heart feels heavy but satisfied. My tears fall but never touch the ground. My room is a mess. I’ve never had my own room before. I’ve never been able to lay in a room that’s completely mine. I sob at the simple act of embracing the space I’ve craved for 20 years. I dreamt of a desk, maybe a TV with a nightstand, or a closet I could call my own. I dreamt of my own space, quietness, and forehead kisses from my parents. I dreamt of a room I could decorate, a safe space where I could cry and bury my head in a pillow, but more than anything I used to dream of not being number nine. Being number nine isn’t as easy as it seems. But it's what makes me, me. If I could go back in time and make myself have my own room then, I wouldn’t. Redefine number nine.
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Dendrochronology Rachael Miller Tree stumps tell their stories in annual rings like people blow out candle wicks on birthdays. Every year, the tree writes itself a circle An ode to how much it has grown. If only human flesh were as tree stumps, our skin hardened with each year passing, until we could not feel the leaves fall off anymore. In your eyes, I am just that. You water my roots with crocodile tears, and cut me down to keep your winters warm, peeling off bark like old wallpaper. So now silent I sit, a solitary soul stranded, wondering if people saw tree stumps as corpses, could you walk through the forest dry-eyed, sit on a rotting log, and see the irony in wooden caskets?
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Found Poem Coronavirus Emails: March 10th to March 15th, 2020
Brittany Romanoff
Alas, what we suspected might happen has indeed come to pass. ZOOM! Coronavirus update from the president Loyola’s coronavirus webpage Effective tomorrow, Wednesday, March 11, we are taking the significant step of suspending face-to-face instruction on Loyola University Maryland’s campuses. Hi everybody, You have all seen the message from the president. All classes are cancelled until next Wednesday, March 18th and then we have online classes until April 1st. Hasta pronto, Ramon Residence Halls Closing: Friday, March 13th No screaming, banging, yelling. Quiet down in the halls now. Tutoring Moving Online Appointment cancellation SASS Our Gaymers Night 2.0 Meeting will be cancelled Stay strong and stay queer.
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109 For the next week, please read Book 6 of Paradise Lost. We are going to be terribly behind after having to miss three classes. I’m hoping we can discuss Books 5 and 6 (which both involve the war in heaven) as a single narrative. We’ll see. Either way, I’m going to have to make some adjustments to the syllabus. I hope you are all doing okay. Please take all of your books home with you. Today’s exam is postponed for now. No. Nothing is due at this time. Dear Class: I miss your ebullient visages already! In the meantime, take good care. If you feel wistful for classes over the next week, perhaps indulge in the vocal stylings of Gordon Lightfoot as he ruminates on love lost. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v5tr_L31StI I appreciate your patience as we continue to move through an evolving situation that is unprecedented not just for Loyola, but also for our nation and world. I will email you when I learn more about this issue and I hope you know, that wherever you go, Loyola is also your home. Show-up time at Boulder Shuttle Stop is no later than ten minutes prior to departure. Sending each of you my best wishes, safest travels, and positive vibes. Have a safe trip home and try not to get sick. Cheers mate! Get Outlook for iOS
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Kiss of Consumerism Rachael Miller Dreams collapse as joints rust and regret. Longingly the factory smokes its last cigarette. Life reduced to the ticking of a clock. The mind e r o d e s while emotions rot. With skin as thick as cinder blocks we’ve become the machines we manufactured. Iron bones exposed through holes in his sweater As eyes flash “no vacancy” in neon letters. Jaws cracked open with teeth of steel and lips of clay. The living dead may be here to stay. Gravestones render what eyes cannot see, you plug in your family before falling asleep And somehow we’ve become these machines we manufactured.
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Presence Mary Velazquez In the aftermath of our unions I feel your presence linger The notes of your voice sweep the air and the space that I occupy becomes the space you own And when I occupy that space you in turn occupy me Until the stray shreds of you get stuck in my teeth and I can feel you hiding beneath my fingernails I breathe you in and breathe you out but I know your dust still coats my lungs I’ve been coughing you up for months now The frequency of your voice and your specific brand of inflection sate my needs for a bit but the bits beneath my nails cannot make me laugh
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112 the pieces caught in my teeth can never soothe me And I know deep down that there is nothing I can do The dust in my lungs can never become you But I can longingly gaze at the inside of my eyes conjuring fantasies I dream to pursue and I will keep trying and I will keep trying I will keep I will Find the pieces of you somewhere In the space between my teeth and fingernails I will sweep your dust collect your left behind pieces until you’re here beside me like I always wanted you to be For while I know that fragments do not constitute a whole when I feel you in my hands is when I know my own soul
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Queer Bones, After Maggie Smith Brittany Romanoff All it takes is being in the wrong place at the wrong time. All it takes is being in the wrong body at the wrong time. A man walks into a bar and all it takes is being out in the open at the wrong time. There never is a right time to be out in the open, is there? Never a right time to come out when all it takes is being out in the open at the wrong time. Nothing feels right, or safe, or strong enough to last Maybe our love, I thought, but time is fleeting brittle bones breaking, stomach twisting, heart rotting alongside yours. We are two skeletons hiding in the closet until it feels safe to come back to life. We are two rusting rainbow pins buried six feet under. Someone’s mom reads forty-nine names aloud and then we have a moment of silence. The mother knew how short and, apparently, at least fifty-percent terrible this world is but gave life anyway. She brought a baby into this world anyway, not knowing gender, only sex,
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114 not knowing sexuality, only heartbeat. She lights my candle in silence for every happy child, a child broken, beaten, and bruised. I stare at my shaky hands in silence for every loved queer child. A queer child hated, feared, harassed, kicked out of their home, sent away to rewire their desire. Our candles burn down in silence. Another shooting. Another young pulse taken from this world and I wonder how anyone could dare to think our world, this at least half terrible world, is as good as queer bones get. The first Pride was a riot and Pulse was a massacre but this place could be beautiful, right? Our love is love worth dying for, right?
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Single Mother Kelly Williamson There’s the scent of the spring air, the aroma from those white hyacinths, always booming in late March in the garden across the street. She shivers, her eyes dark and heavy, muscles ache. The virus finds a way as she lays there. Her daughter is on the floor, reading a picture book, the same one she’s read for the last twelve days.
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The Science of Forgetting Rachael Miller According to Benjamin Wharf’s linguistic theory, the language of the Hopi tribe is devoid of any concept of time and therefore, they cannot think of the past. But yesterday I think I must have sprouted wings for nothing else could explain why the world could look so small. They say the closest you can get to feeling like you're in space is when you're laying down because that is the only time, you're not fighting gravity. And they say every time you think of a memory your brain distorts it more and more, like a work of art that changes every time you look at itI hope I created yesterday. Because maybe when everybody else sees the sun rise it makes them forget just how cold the moon really was or maybe the moon was never cold at all. and that was just me. laying down.
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Untitled Cassie Riordan
Italian Soldier Alexandria Vigliotti
Sunday Alexandria Vigliotti
Rest In Pieces Ben Ostrowski
Title Artist
In a Field Alexa Vincento
Legends Never Die Sadie Applegate
City Sky Alexa Vincento
Glenmore Allie Lijewski
Late Summer Whitney Kopp
Red Ethan O'Reilly
Title Artist Uncertainty Phoebe Clark
Title Artist
A Moment with Jenkins Emma Straus
Broken No. 5 Alexandria Vigliotti
Title Artist
Written in Joy Allie Lijewski
Title Artist
Title Artist
Lay With Me Allie Lijewski
Don't Touch Your Mask Alexa Vincento
You don’t take a photograph, you make it. Ansel Adams
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Control Skylar Cho Rachel and I were on break during nighttime band rehearsals. To get away from the noise of the incessant saxophones, we decided to retreat into the instrument closet, where Rachel proceeded to nag me with her usual nonsense: “If you’re not a coward, why won’t you kiss me?” I retorted with my usual reply: “I’m NOT a coward, but I’m not gonna kiss you.” We had been there a million times. But when she turned to leave with her usual “fine,” I wanted her game to end. So, I did it. I kissed her—to stop her nagging. But, the second it was over, I realized something. I wanted to do it again. Growing up, my mom always asked me if I liked girls. My younger self did not know if I liked anyone, but I did know that if I did like girls, that type of attraction was uncalled for. When I was little, my family and I took a trip to the Grove in Los Angeles. It was a typical day, until a gay couple passed us—holding hands. My mom turned to me in disgust, “What they’re doing is unnatural, they are going to burn in hell and God will never forgive them.” Although, at the time, I didn’t know much about same-sex attraction, I felt that a part of me had ripped into shreds. My whole life, my mother taught me that God wanted me to love my neighbor, but at that moment, there was no love in her voice. From that moment at the Grove, she ingrained in me that only heterosexuality is normal. Even though I knew something was different about me since my younger years, I chose to ignore my true feelings because of my family’s beliefs. But once Rachel kissed me on that fateful night, I couldn’t hide from myself anymore. I had to come out of the closet— well, at least the instrument closet. Telling anyone else about what happened with Rachel would be a longer, more trying process. I was overwhelmed by the shame of my secret. My grades began to slip. It was hard for me to be around anyone. I always felt like I was lying, whether I was sharing a meal or sitting in a crowded pew at church. Everything I had tried to become
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137 before that kiss felt like fiction. By the middle of my sophomore year, I felt like there was no point in trying at school or in anything else if I was always going to feel weighed down by my parents’ inevitable disappointment. Coming out to myself felt like driving on black ice. I can make this reference because I finally know what it feels like to experience snow and drive in it. Nevertheless, you are driving along without a care in the world and then a second later your car skids and loses control. You turn your car every which way and try hard to stay calm, yet, you are freaking out; you’ve lost control and say a little prayer in hopes that nothing goes bad. I have always attempted to live the life and become the person my parents wanted to be. They said “Be a lawyer,” I said “Okay,” “Learn the piano,” I said “Okay,” “Join the teaching staff at church,” I said “Okay.” I was aimlessly driving through life, thinking that my self identity was rooted in my parent’s desires and that that was normal. That is why the moment I realized I was queer, I panicked and felt as though I had lost all control. Little did I know that this was the moment I had the most control: clarity on my feelings, clarity on my thoughts, and slight clarity on my true self identity. From this moment on, I pursued a life that was built for my happiness and well-being: no one else’s. The journey of self-love and self-acceptance continues to be a trying process, yet I find it to be so rewarding. I might have lost myself completely had it not been for my friends. They were always so honest with me—I couldn’t keep lying to them. So no matter how scared I was of what they might think, I told them about Rachel and revealed my sexuality. To my surprise, they were very accepting. For a lot of people, coming out can be a very traumatic experience because while the general population will be accepting, there’s a small percentage of people that are not. That is why even writing this and being vulnerable scares me because I am coming out to people I do not know, and I will have no control of the outcome. But, this persistent fear: the fear of people’s response or the fear of being judged is stemmed from being forced to hide myself and also conditioning my thoughts to think queerness was a ‘sin.’ Over the years, I have learned to cope with the inevitable stress and anxiety over my future and eventually having to come out to my parents. While the fear is still present in the back of my
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138 head, I don’t let it affect me. Now that I am in college and I am away from my parents and away from a constraining environment, I finally have room to grow without worrying about what my parents think. My obsession with trying to please my parents almost cost me my happiness and my mental stability, but once I learned to love myself and find people who also love and support the person I have become, my grades and the quality of my life improved drastically. There are a few takeaways. True family can be those who stretch beyond DNA, and they won’t judge you based on ancient or archaic rules; true family loves you as you are. I have also learned that I am so much stronger than I thought and that I don’t need to conform to society to be my authentic self. With the support of my friends and my chosen family, the pain and the harsh realities of my parents’ expectations have withered as my strength and sense of self have continued to blossom and evolve. College years are the golden years, and I made a promise to myself to live as authentically as I can, live with pride, and live loving whoever I want. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.
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My María Fabiola Torres-Rodríguez “How’s your family?” my half-bald white professor asked me while trying to be discrete so no one would eavesdrop. Good, I said, not knowing why the hell he asked me about my family. It was the second day of classes for me as a first year; there was no way he knew me. I thought he was confused. He continued, “it must be a hard time for you right now, let me know if there’s any way I can help.” Holy shit. Literally, holy. I just found out during my 8 AM Theology class that María struck my home, Puerto Rico. María is my grandmother's name, but also the name of the strongest hurricane to attack the Commonwealth of Puerto Rico in over 80 years. Every time I hear María, I smell coffee roasting, I see motherly love, I see a teacher, I see Tata; I know most Americans hear María and see the Virgin Mary or a stereotypical Hispanic woman holding a broom in the kitchen. Not all Hispanic women are called María, by the way. I used to like that name, but from now on it doesn’t represent anything but the epitome of homelessness, patriotism, collapsed bridges, devastation, FEMA gringos coming into the island and many other things that aren’t related to my grandmother. My awkward and tender theology professor kept on going in a soft pity full voice, “well you take care, but let me know if you need anything and when you’ll hear back from your family, I’ll send prayers.” I replied, “I will”, without my frontal cortex processing anything that my neurons just experienced. How could a nurturing name cause so much demoralization? Hurricane María affected every one of Puerto Rico’s 3.4 million residents, even me. 175 mph winds, strong raindrops falling like gunshots to the ground, rotating systems of clouds and thunderstorms—that formed a tropical cyclone. María went through phases, like any woman would. She was born and raised in the Caribbean. On Sept. 18, it doubled in strength in just 24 hours. It maintained a rapid growth, going from Category 3 storm to Category 5 after making its way through the Leeward Islands without asking anyone for permission. Thereafter,
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140 it smashed without brakes into the island of Dominica. The French island of Martinique was lucky enough to escape from María’s furious screams. She then directly hit Puerto Rico as a Category 4 grown woman with 155 mph winds, making it the third-strongest storm to make landfall in the U.S. Her emission of rainbow colors in an elegant swirl reflected deceiving beauty on the TV screen. For my fellow Puerto Ricans, it reflected 94 billion dollars of flooded, fallen, destroyed, non-present hope. From uprooting trees form the ground, drowning weather stations and communication towers, to ripping wooden and tin roofs off homes. María took a stroll through the hurricane and took everything she wanted back. All I could see were heavy rains and flash floods brought on by the storm on my TV. It all was inaudible to me. Streets were rivers, floodwaters were waist-high, bridges were separation traps. Your call has been forwarded to an automatic voice message seven eight seven five nine eight one zero five three is not available please try again later, beep. I was shrouded in darkness, thinking of all the people who were suffering while those in power decided whether it was time to provide help. Guilty, so powerless, so frustrated, I felt the blood in my veins boiling and my cheeks as a whistling teapot. Her winds peeled back the roofs of their homes, tore walls, smashed, and blew in doors; family members held hands as they ran from houses that were falling around them. One young woman sat on her front porch the morning after the deluge, watching her neighbors bury two family members in their backyard who did not survive the night. Food riots, gas lines, waterborne illnesses, the lack of drinking water, and living hungry was a reality. I was sitting in my dorm room anxious to get home. Hurricanes are poltergeists—spirits as comical as they are destructive. Hurricane María had knocked out every window and glorious memory. Yet, it made hearts expand, brotherhoods prosper, and our flag fly. The first time I went back to the motherland was during my first winter break of college, and that alone was enough for me. I
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141 lunged into my mother's Honda Pilot begging her like a five-yearold to take me to the heart of the island, Old San Juan. The car lights illuminated the way more than the scarce streetlights did. I turned my neck in all directions only to find something familiar—yet so unfamiliar —that made my upset stomach growl. Where was my favorite park filled with exotic animal statues? Where was that one store that had fairy lights outside and sold the best passionfruit ice cream? The lack of physical materials blinded my vision from the solidarity and lively humans caring for the same land. A house of five had become a house of eight. No one was to be left alone. My grandmother María did not cook for two, but for twelve. Neighbors always offered batteries or bottles of water in exchange for a meal. We all shared the same land, exactly 110x35 miles. It is all we had and all we will have. If we live in a tropical latitude, María will return with another name, but the personification of a natural disaster does not mean it can destroy our humanity and identity. The streets still smelled like coffee, teachers were still devoted to supporting students, the island still spilled love in solidarity with one another. The storm had passed. Local communities held hands in prayer. Local farmers tried to get their land back to a producing one to share with others. Professors and teachers cooked meals for their students. Parks that were deserted in the last years, now were full of snobby kids running around throwing objects at each other, learning what unity produced. Neighbors climbed on each other’s roof to fix each other’s power plants. Recently, I came across a compelling study that showed the way groups of people express and expect solidarity for cohesion. They coordinate and drop collective sources of support and other practical resources to deal with adversity. Mayra Rodríguez is a perfect example. Three months post hurricane, teachers were in awe of students that were showing up to school even though there were very limited resources. Mayra Rodríguez, a second-grade teacher, decided to plan a little gesture to lift the community. She left a note on the entrance door and said, “All guardians please stay for an announcement.” There was no reliable virtual communication, so it seemed normal to them. Grandparents, siblings, neighbors, guardians, and parents
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142 I’m happy to announce that this is a hurricane party! Pair up with your little rascal and enjoy the snacks I have put out. Be mindful of everyone. There is only one rule: to pick a treat you must write a letter of appreciation to the hurricane, not of what it took from you, but what it gave you. Happy partying. When the sun came back down, the streets were full of light. And when dawn came, all that came to the ear was the soft wind kissing the leaves and the sound of the coquí. It’s a native frog species that cries at night, coquí coquí. There was no power, no chargeable phones, no TV, no warm water, no long showers, no disconnection. I used to climb onto my roof with my dad sometimes. We were able to see the panorama of a full-lit night; not by the stars, but by all the electricity that our mountain neighbors used. For me, it was reasonable, the mountains are very dark. But with the electricity gone, my dad wanted to show me how the night sky looked. And so, we climbed one more time. I tilted my head up. It is the most beautiful art, alive with energy and a song for the eyes. Stars filled the sky like a pale corn into freshly turned ground. It was the promise of light in the darkness. They shone as sugar over black marble glistening in the sun. Even better, the stars promised a return every night, if no one turned on their lights. I was expecting a dime and the community gave me 92 billion. María took away everything she wanted, but gave us back our interconnected humanity. My people had lived through a catastrophe that forever changed our society’s values and perceptions of the government’s aid. This is defined as community psychosocial resilience—the ability of human communities to withstand external shocks or perturbations to their infrastructure such as environmental variability or social economic or political upheaval and to recover from such. Before the hurricane, Griselle Vila was a prestigious private chef in San Juan. Nine months later, most of her time was spent in one of the many kitchens operated by World Central Kitchen. Vila joined the movement of delivering meals to hard-hit areas. “It became an addiction,” she said. “Whenever I’m getting tired and losing strength to do this, I go out on deliveries. It keeps you going. There’s no way to stop once you see what’s going on.” Vila’s experience delivering meals is exemplary of what the psycholinguist community calls psychosocial resilience.
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143 Social identity models suggest that there is a move from focusing on ‘me’ to focusing on a ‘we’ and therefore a shared social identity when people suffer extreme events together. The shared experience in particularly troubling emergencies provides the means by which people rapidly form and share social identities with strangers. Shared adversity enables groups of people to offer each other social support as a result of their similar experiences. Illustrating that adaptive behaviors do develop without social relationships that have been established before events occur. This can be described as collective resilience. The destruction of María is a paradox of human behavior. Human cohesion was found during emergencies to collectively build social relationships that never existed and strengthened ones who existed. Every Puerto Rican that is part of the 3.4 million stood beside each other, behind each other, in front of each other. The society created a movement that was filled in a jar of future aspirations, dreams, possibilities, progression, and stability. We can show the world that expanded hearts don’t mean that veins are going to burst open a gush of warm dark blood. Expanded hearts mean unity in patriotism for a beloved land we share as a home. María is ours to live, grow, and talk about. From the ruins of the storm rose a grassroots movement that, in July 2019, unseated a governor. A movement mad at the unresponsiveness of the government. A community tired of the lies that perpetuated their suffering. A nation that learned to lift themselves up without receiving enough support for officials who they voted for. A paradise built out of disaster.
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Primal Lift Jake Catinella “We commonly do not remember that it is, after all, always the first person that is speaking. I should not talk so much about myself if there were anybody else whom I knew as well.” – Henry David Thoreau, Walden Lifting: My right-hand clenches two waters, then a protein bar, and stuffs them into a workout bag. Quick rhythmic footsteps convey a sense of urgency and excitement as I descend into the “man cave”— my favorite space in the house. The firmness of my wrist straps is encouraging, and the adhesive noise of readjusting the Velcro motivates me. I open the glass sliding door, and I am released into the natural world. “It was the natural yearning of that portion of our most primitive ancestor which still survived in us” (Thoreau, 1). As my front foot makes contact with the outdoor stonework, the shed keys jingle in my bag. The sun and physical exertion may be my saving grace in the absence of friends and change. I proceed to the shed to retrieve the weights. I raise the cold, iron 1980s Dan Lurie weights over my head and begin pumping out chest raises. I feel the warm blood moving through my veins. Motion brings life to each part of my body. With each push and pull, inhale and exhale, I gain more and more energy. The number of reps, the angles of contraction, the intensity of performance, and the time I allot myself between exercises is all under my control. I queue up songs that allow any mental goal I set myself to be translated into reality. Within five minutes of lifting, drops of sweat flow from my head, down my temples, and across my body. The mixture of curls with the iron weights and dips on the large, upside down empty plant pots make both of my forearms blow up. With my index and middle finger, I press on either forearm, inspecting the rock hard, skintight development. The recognition of growth as the direct
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145 product of my own will gives me hope. I take a break in between my set to focus on my breathing. Inquiring Earlier: The human mind is dangerous when it enslaves its host into a state of inaction. Without warning my mind blends memories of pre-COVID with present reality. As I sit in my room, I look to pictures, songs, writing, and text messages to inform my memory of who I am, who I was, and who I will be. It is mid-June, and I’ve been home since March 13th. If change is at the core of human spirit, then I have been less than human for the past few months. Inaction is not the absence of action. It is the inflection point where my deliberate choices do not hold personal meaning or clarity. With my fall study abroad plans and research cancelled, my summer dental workshop cancelled, and several COVID-19 outbreaks where I usually work, a Johnson and Johnson warehouse that handles medical products and basic shipping tasks, all there is to do is whatever my mind tells me. Sometimes, I begin studying for the DAT, the dental exam that I can’t even book at the moment. Other days, I write and read. I’ve watched the entirety of “The Last Dance” series on Netflix twice in addition to “The Outer Banks” and every “Our Planet” documentary. All of the cases in the book The Medical Detectives by Berton Roueché have recently been digested, read from the pool area lounge chairs. I would rather stick my head in a book than to constantly be reminded of where the world is at. My sixteen-year-old golden retriever is dying, and I care for him every day. In evaluating these actions alone, my decisions are not without merit. When I am inside, I have no outlet. Rather, in a heightened desperation to escape the current reality, my restless mind tries to unpack the meaning of human conscience. Perhaps in an attempt to better understand myself and the world. Conscience is a nonreligious ethical system; one’s ethical framework will largely be determined by how one views human nature. We sometimes hear several conflicting voices insider our heads, and we are sometimes unsure which of those is the true voice of conscience. Conscience answers two important questions: “What do I do?” and “What sort of person should I become?”
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146 The first step to pursuing meaningful action is to ask purposeful questions. My actions need to have personal meaning, but anxiety and depression have clouded my head space. Promises and exciting opportunities have been untimely stripped away. Feeling: With my breathing and heart rate slightly closer to equilibrium, I kneel down to add an additional weight on each side of the bar. The scorching hot rings remind me that it is ninety degrees outside. My eyes dart back and forth, and I wander as I catch my breath again. Wedged between the shed, the pool gate, and the pool machinery— obscured by massive cedar and arborvitaes—is a makeshift bench I created with my brother. A giant granite slab, stabilized by concrete cinder blocks, provides ample space to perform chest presses. As I begin to bench the iron bar with metal ring weights a problem arises. The length of the bar is too short. When I tweak my form to try to resolve the issue, I realize that the bar is too small and too light to handle the weight distribution of the rings accordingly. My wrists are too close together, placing unnecessary stress on them. As a result, I am having to put too much effort into merely balancing the weight. I implement negatives, refining the tempo to maintain the intensity of my workout, by slowly lowering the bar and then exploding upwards as I push to extend both arms. When I hit full extension, I exhibit even more control by maintaining muscle contractions for a few seconds before commencing my next repetition. My body moves and life becomes simple. There is only myself and the weights. No interruptions occur except for the need to occasionally catch my breath. No recognition of other tasks that will need to be completed later run through my mind. In the attempt to maximize the effects of added weight and repetitions, through progressive overloading, such distracting thoughts have no place. I simply think, lift, and feel. My Dad’s weights are a good start, but they will not be enough to facilitate the gains I desire. I must upgrade my lifting equipment.
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147 Testing: Later that night, I go to Amazon to search for weightlifting bars and dumbbells. There are some good weights, and I also check out Rogue because my brother’s Navy friend Bill swears by them. Thinking I have found what I want, I excitedly add a bar and weights to my cart. When I proceed to check out, my heart stops. The weights will not ship until late August. Too late. I plan on driving down to Maryland to move into an apartment in late August. I need something I can use now. Frustrated, I embark on a frenzy of clicking possible interests and being disappointed at their late shipping dates because of COVID 19. Just like before, feelings of anxiety and depression start to find their way back, because I fear that I am not in control, and a sense of helplessness begins to sweep over me. I shift my focus to YouTube. After some dedicated searches and time well-spent, I discover an excellent tutorial of how to make concrete dumbbells. The mason in the video demonstrates a strong knowledge of the strengths and weaknesses of various materials, so I begin making a list of my own materials to pick up at Home Depot in order to make my first sets of dumbbells: two sixty pound bags of high strength concrete, steel galvanized nails, a 10 ft. PVC pipe, and plastic paint buckets. All the other essentials I already had at home to complete this project: a drill with add-ons to mix the concrete and produce holes in the PVC, where nails would be inserted on either side of each dumbbell; a hand-held mini flamethrower and hammer to ensure tight fit of the nails which will be engulfed by the concrete, providing additional stability and strength to the product; something sharp, but safe, like a box cutter, to cut the plastic containers and allow the curing concrete to continue to dry and solidify; a tape measure, to make the length of the PVC and nails consistent along with centering the PVC in concrete; a scale to accurately weigh the concrete dumbbells. Little did I know that I would find myself working outside on this project a few times a week from mid-June to late-August, when all of my efforts finalized, and each finished product could be used. The production of my own concrete weights provided me with a greater appreciation for lifting, gave me an additional outlet in a
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148 stressful time, and provided an avenue to take a break from work and collaborate with my Dad. In total, I created two sets of fifteen-pound dumbbells, two sets of thirty-pound dumbbells, one set of sixtypound dumbbells, and one set of sixty-five-pound dumbbells. All the final products have been spray painted and weight values stenciled on each. In my absence from our homemade weight production, my Dad created a set of eighty-pound dumbbells that I got to challenge myself with over Thanksgiving. The formation of conscience becomes a matter of acquiring the right skills for making right judgements; the ability to consider all sides of an issue and the strength to maintain good will. Logic alone is not enough to organize myself. I need to always first satisfy essential needs—primal necessities. I lift, inquire, feel, and test myself.
Work Cited: Thoreau, Henry David. Walden, and On The Duty Of Civil Disobedience. www.gutenberg.org/files/205/205-h/205-h.htm. Accessed 14 November 2020.
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Zoom University with a Hint of Depression Preparation Time: 20 years
Rebecca Grunski
Cook Time: The equivalent to an eternity Total Time: However long it takes for people to be responsible, stay socially distant and wear their mask Ingredients: - A global pandemic that will put your life, as well as the entire world on hold - A deeply rooted history of struggling with your mental health - Strong internet access - A substantial knowledge of websites such as Moodle and Microsoft 365 - Any amount of motivation that you can find (although this is optional, it is highly recommended) Steps: 1. Preheat by having a great first semester as a freshman at Loyola. Get assigned an awesome roommate and become friendly with the other girls on your floor in Butler hall. Join the Loyola Dance Company and continue your passion for dance in college. Discover the magic of the Boulder 2.0 Greek yogurt bar and eat it for any meal that you can. Start learning how to cope with your mental health struggles by visiting the Counseling Center and taking the proper medication dosage. Things begin to make sense and you begin to forget about the traumas of high school. 2. In a bowl combine a global pandemic with your college
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150 experience. Once mixed together, you will find a mess that is not at all what you expected, one that is difficult to comprehend. 3. Return home, to your childhood bedroom, to your neighborhood where you have very limited friends, where the air smells vaguely like a burning fireplace and your Keurig now serves as the Starbucks in the Student Center. 4. Begin whisking together the classes that you signed up for in the spring, with every intention of returning to campus for the fall semester. Wake up bright and early to the painful sound of your alarm ringing. Make sure that you only hit snooze one time, as it is easy to turn yourself over and sleep away the day. 5. Open your blinds and let whatever amount of sunlight there is in. A gloomy space leads to a gloomy day. Your 5-foot walk to class will not take you very long, but soon enough you will realize that the trek from your bed to your desk is one requiring a great deal of energy. 6. Eat something and fuel your body. Now is your chance to make that extravagant smoothie bowl that is pinned all over your Pinterest. Try not to binge eat everything in sight, as you know that it will only make you feel both physically and mentally lousy later. 7. Stirring together a semester that consists of staring at your laptop screen will be of great difficulty but try your absolute best to attend class. Although your hometown is now your campus and your bedroom is the suite that you were supposed to share with your four best friends, you are still receiving an education. Plus, it will give you a taste of the human interaction that you so desperately crave. 8. To add a little bit of flavor, do one thing every day that brings you joy. Watch an episode of your favorite show, read a book for pleasure, bake a delicious loaf of banana bread. It is easy to sleep away the pain of each day, so try and force yourself to enjoy your time being awake.
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151 9. Create a list for yourself. Finding the motivation to sit and do that 40-page reading on the art of lobbying Congress is not easy, but if you are planning on maintaining that 3.0 GPA that you need to study in Belgium, you need to do it. 10. Make it a priority to take your damn medicines. You are only a 10-step walk from the medicine cabinet so if you are going to push yourself to do anything, do this. 11. Take care of yourself the best of your ability. No one expected 2020 to be this way, but here you are. Take some of the extra time that you have accumulated and focus on yourself. Do a facemask, listen to music, binge watch the entire Harry Potter movie series in a week. Some days may feel like the world is falling apart, and in many ways, it is, but you are doing the best that you can. 12. Serve this all with a scoop of your favorite ice cream and try and enjoy it the best that you can!
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Suffocating Reliability Madison Ross
My hair had a way of twisting and twirling about haphazardly during my elementary years. Unfortunately, my inability and blatant refusal to brush anything but the top layer of hair proved unmanageable. In my defense, my hair was long, thick, and curly towards the bottom—a perfect storm for the dreadlocks that slowly brewed beneath the surface. I was good at faking my mane management. Brushing the top layer seemed to give off the message that everything was under control. My mother was unconvinced and— every few days—would catch a glimpse of the hidden tangles I had been willfully neglecting. The sight would throw her into a frenzy of detangling spray in an effort to achieve that smooth glide of the comb from root to dead end. My mother keeps to a strict routine with her own hair—trimming, styling, and coloring it every three months. Tired of my antics and lack of control, she insisted that an appointment with a pair of scissors was far overdue because my current situation “simply wasn’t working.” I begrudgingly obliged—I supposed it was time for a haircut. A bob, no less, with a part that rudely ran right down the center of my scalp. *** My best friend growing up—with whom I once got stuck in an elevator for quite some time—also found herself sporting a nice bob. It was a convenient coincidence so as to not make me look ridiculous in childhood photos. She was, I must say, perhaps more hip than I was at the time and had bangs. *** I’m not sure if it's common procedure—or even following protocol—but my ponytail was snipped from my head right there in the waiting room. This is not to say that I’m doubting what’s-her-
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153 name who may or may not still work at Supercuts in Paoli (I’m sure she’s quite qualified), but something about the whole ordeal made me feel silly. She didn’t charm me with a nice scalp massage at the sink or give me the privilege of looking in the mirror when it happened. I was void of my hair before I even made it to the swivel chair. Even worse, she gave me the decapitated mane in a bag to take home with me (I don’t recall what became of my ponytail—perhaps it was donated or simply brought home as a trophy of sorts). I felt like I was leaving my grandmother’s house—goody bag in tow. *** The bond between my best friend and I was deeply rooted in being the youngest and never having a babysitter. We were often stowed away like luggage in the back row of our minivans and brought to every older siblings’ practice, lesson, game, or meet as our mothers’ plus-one. Our favorite place to go against our will was a local university that hosted an annual swim meet for “older kids.” The elevator there was much bigger than any other I had been in—it was a freight elevator, I later learned. Although, the larger size of the elevator didn’t seem to make much of a difference when the doors failed to open and our fight-or-flight response kicked in. I, as it seemed, was much more inclined to choose flight. I learned what it felt like to press the forbidden “emergency” buttons and call for help in a desperate attempt to gain control. My cheeks slowly melted the icy, shock-induced feeling and left me with a smothering warmth that spread to my ears. I’m sure it was only a matter of minutes before security came and used their special key to release the doors, but I felt aged and emotionally exhausted. I walked out of that elevator much like how I had walked out of Supercuts years before—traumatized and with newly acquired, unwanted baggage. *** My father once told me that he only indulges in sweet tea on Sundays. He keeps the gallon in the forgotten basement refrigerator between unused charcuterie and last week’s spaghetti. The days between each use undoubtedly cause leftover drips to dry, sealing the
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154 lid with stickiness and creating a tomb of sugar. He tells me it’s because “sweet tea’s not good for you,” and I believe him. He’s been making a conscious effort to “stay healthy” now more than ever as time gradually makes its presence known. Saving sweet tea for Sundays has bled into other moments of his life too. I see it in every extra walk with the dog, in every serving of vegetables with lunch. It’s a common theme among adults to set these rules and boundaries for themselves in an attempt to stop the ever-growing grey hairs and ease the wrinkles seeping deeper into their skin. It’s a fruitless endeavor trying to slow the unslowable, control the uncontrollable. *** I don’t remember worrying about whether or not I brushed out the tangles in my hair when I was little. Each knot showed character— it was proof of an active, chaotic, tousled life. Knot, which branches off of Old English cnotta, means “an intertwining or complication of the parts” (“knot”). When we are void of control, complication seeps in. But perhaps a little complication of the parts is okay—be it hair or otherwise. *** When you press that little round button, illuminating a small spot on the wall, you trigger an orchestrated reaction of cables. Taking into consideration which button you’ve pressed, they work to either lift or lower a nomadic space. If all goes well, this space will be revealed to you when the metal doors slide open. You step into the elevator and—again—press a little round button to indicate how far up or down you’re willing to go. The space moves accordingly. As a passenger, you play a small—almost nonexistent—role in the whole production. *** The word “reliable” sits atop an ambitious definition that reads, “able to be trusted; in which reliance or confidence may be placed;
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155 trustworthy, safe, sure” (“reliable”). This word seems to surround you, holding tight and vowing to protect. We often seek out reliability—we fall in love with it when found in a potential partner, we hire it when presented in a résumé, we pay for it after a test drive around the block. *** Finding myself trapped in metal transit as a child has created more complications in my life than I’d like to admit. The most notable include: 1. Reminding my father each time we’d pulled into the parking lot of a hotel to please ask for a room on the first floor. Or, honestly, anything below the fourth floor because luggage had a habit of getting heavy on the stairs. I don’t think he ever listened. 2. Visiting the University of Pittsburgh and navigating my mother’s self-guided tour that involved the 36th floor of the Cathedral of Learning. It was a beautiful building, yet the stairs were much less glamorous. I made my father join me for the first fifteen floors until my lack of oxygen outweighed my crippling fear of encased ascension. 3. Getting an internship on the thirteenth floor and not knowing where to find the stairs. Fearful that I would expose my unwanted quirk, I quickly learned how to look like a functioning adult on the outside. On the inside, I calculated exactly when to come and go so as to ensure that I would have someone with me if the elevator were to malfunction. *** Saving sweet tea for Sundays was my father’s way of tackling life’s greatest complication. We are given complete jurisdiction over how to be and what to do, but we are stripped of our power when it comes to the question of “for how long?” The truth is, we are all growing older with each day that passes and no act of self-restraint can derail this process. Moments will turn into minutes which—in turn—will gradually blur into undefined, intertwining periods of our lives. Strands of memories, tangling together to form unwanted knots of life.
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156 Complications—both small and large—find themselves taking shape in the glass of water at the head of the table, in the fear of automatic ascension, and in the knots awaiting their inevitable doom. With these complications, comes a sense of reliability. I can rely on these moments. Strands of hair will slowly intertwine and mingle amongst each other when left unattended. However frightening, elevator cables will pull and release as they please. Age barrels forward no matter how one chooses to fill their glass. We are programmed to seek reliability, security, control. But this reliability brings no comfort. This reliability is the culmination of happenings beyond our grasp. It’s a word whose meaning wraps its arms around you, and yet, its incessantness leaves you feeling uneasy. Its swaddle is suffocating. *** My father once taught me the best way to ensure a knot’s longevity when tying shoes. I take the two loose ends and cross them over each other, pulling tight. Preparing a loop with one end, I wrap the other lace twice around my thumb and index finger before pulling it through to create a second loop. Twice—that’s the secret. Without fail, it creates a knot that will last. A complication of parts that will sit snuggly and endure.
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Worth Remembering Julianna Mattei My grandfather stands over the kitchen table, bright red apple in hand. He takes a bite and looks down at me sitting on the floor. I reach up, too small to touch anywhere but his knees. He looks down smiling and takes another bite. People are there talking, creating background noise. I am sure they are my relatives. All I can see is my grandfather. And his apple. And my hands, reaching for him. This is my earliest memory. It is my only memory of my grandfather. I know this is my first memory because my grandfather died just after my second birthday. The winter season crossed into the holiday season. He left quickly. Christmas was different that year, but there were so many babies, and toddlers, and pregnant aunts that the tragedy of death was relieved slightly. My mother told me that in the months following his death I would cry for him. I wonder if I wailed this way at Christmas. I wonder how my grandma remembered it. I wonder if she remembered my first memory, of him with that red apple. It is a strange feeling to force myself to think of my first memory. Or any memory. It is odd to force a memory at all, for what reason does there need to be a force that causes the memory? Usually, my memories are sparked by something else, causing the remembrance to occur. I most likely got the memory wrong, forced or not, because my brain, like all human brains, is wired to fill in the gaps. To think, “It must have gone like this,” from context clues. In every person, the brain fills in what is familiar to match the thought. Say you were recalling the route you used to take to elementary school, and there was a lake you passed on the way. You might think the lake was large and grand, a fountain shooting out of the middle. In actuality, the lake was more of a pond, and there was no big fountain. You took what you usually think that lakes look like, especially how you would assume in your youth, and adapted it to the situation. The brain is so smart in adapting this way. It is just not exact in its function. Is it still a memory if it is not correct?
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158 The song, “Girl from North Country” by Bob Dylan and Johnny Cash is old folk, a bit like a deep blues song. “See for me, that her hair’s hanging down. That’s the way I remember her best,” Johnny Cash bellows, speaking of a girl he once loved. The song is slow and simple. It sounds as though there are two guitarists at once playing for the song. Both are acoustic. Cash and Dylan’s voices carry the melody, since the guitar chords are so simple, the same tune played over and over. “Girl from North Country” is a song of simplicity; who does not have moments of similar nostalgia, of memory? “For she once was a true love of mine,” Dylan says of the woman we do not know, a woman we cannot hear or see. In writing the lyrics, I wonder if Dylan and Cash ever looked at each other and asked, “Is this the way we remember best?” Are they not forcing themselves to remember, in the act of writing a song about memory? Are they getting the memory right, is the woman really as they say she was? I wonder who “she” is, both singing of different women surely, each of them thinking of their beloved. I cannot help to think that these women listen to this song. I wonder how these women remember the affairs. I want more from this song, to learn the details, but Dylan and Cash did not provide the details, they only give what their memories serve. To them, that is enough. There is no need to force a remembrance. The slowness of the song makes it possible to focus on the repetitive lyrics. It is clear that the men still care for the women they sing of: “Please see for me if she's wearing a coat so warm, to keep her from the howling winds,” says Dylan, but I am still not sure what the singers’ relationships truly looked like. Together, Dylan and Cash sing the line, “A true love of mine,” six times for the song’s outro. A true love, not the true love. This implies she has been gone from these men. The two guitarists play the same separate tunes on repeat, playing over one another, filling the space with the same chords; this further shows how their memories fail them. Repetition fills the gaps because there is no need to fill a space when you have said what you need. Or perhaps the repeated image in your mind is not true, the brain filling in the gaps subconsciously. I am confronted by the song’s effect on my individual person: there were times before me that my loved ones hold dearly, and there will be times after I am gone that my loved ones will hold just as dear.
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159 There will so many memories in spaces I will never occupy. I hope that at least someone in the world will remember me when they are making new memories. That could be a new memory for me, even if I am not there. Let me be clear, reader: these thoughts are cliché. I am well aware. Anyone could have said the previous paragraph. It could be in any Hallmark movie, corny teenage show, the chorus of a terrible pop song. And that is just it: sticky bubblegum pop, stuck in your hair, stuck to your shoe, spat at the sidewalk. My concerns are frivolous, or maybe they are simply just misarticulated. I struggle with the urge to fill in the gaps of my memories, to create a full picture. Dylan and Cash’s mellow folk tune subverted the cliché by not saying too much, by keeping it simple. Sometimes the best way to get out of a cliché is to be clear without over explaining. My thoughts on memory, or remembrance, can boiled down into this: 1. The brain fascinates me in its function of memory and remembrance. How every cell of the body changes and dies and gets replaced, but our brains stay intact with all the cells it once had, so that is why you remember what song you danced to in your sixth-grade recital, the last words your Nonna said to you, what your father looked like on Christmas day. Why are these the cells that stay? Why does the mind function like this? In the brain, there is a part called the hippocampus where memories are made and stored. The amygdala is the hippocampus’ neighboring structure, in charge of emotions. Fear and memory are strongly tied together because of this. Strong emotions are the ones that we remember best, and usually those are linked to fear or trauma or extreme happiness. The more intense the emotion, the more likely we are to remember it. Naturally, when we remember events that have happened, they change slightly each time.1 Is my favorite memory still the same memory if it changes each time it is recalled? If I remember my favorite meal in one way and one way only, will it hold up in actuality, in reality?
1 Kensinger, Elizabeth A. “Remembering the Details: Effects of Emotion.”
Emotion review: journal of the International Society for Research on Emotion vol. 1,2 (2009): 99-113. doi:10.1177/1754073908100432 Accessed 11 Feb. 2021.
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160 2. I worry my memories are ever changing from their true form. I fear that the gaps in my memories will become craters and will fill with mistruths. I worry that those concerns are cliché, spending too much time on thoughts that do not matter. Can a cliché be an intense moment, or is a cliché just a normal moment, perhaps overly normal? If it is intense, is it a cliché? If it is a cliché, but it gets more intense, more from memory, does it stay a cliché? If the memory becomes more intense, is the truth of the event still intact? If every time we remember something, and each time it is a different intensity, is the event still truthful? Was my first memory accurate, of my grandfather eating his apple? Were we in the kitchen? Was I on the floor? Was the apple red? Was he even eating an apple? Were we even there?
A cliché becomes a cliché because it keeps persisting and reoccurring, losing its uniqueness and individuality. It is lackluster. The actual definition of a cliché as told by the Oxford English Dictionary is act of printmaking, producing copy after copy of an image. The definition adopted its meaning of a stereotype from the overproduction of the same image through this process. Is this not the same process adopted by bad pop music, to overproduce the same general message over and over and over? I do not want to be bad pop; I want to classic folk. But I suppose a classic takes time, and risks becoming a cliché. Perhaps that is how something becomes a classic, by doing something and believing it will stick without redundance. Does the same categorization of music apply to human beings? My father was in the car with me while “Girl from North Country” played. Dylan and Cash joined in a melody: “Remember me, the one who lives there, for she once was, a true love of mine.” My father stared at the console screen of my car where song name and album were displayed. He asked why he heard Johnny Cash when the song was by Bob Dylan. “Johnny Cash is on this song, too,” I told him. He looked perplexed. “Weird,” he shrugged, “I thought that this was just a Bob Dylan song.” I looked it up, and the original version is just Bob Dylan. Dylan was creating a slightly different version of the original with Johnny Cash. In the duet, Dylan was physically manifesting what memories do in our mind: change ever so slightly while keeping some of what is original. I guess neither version is true or false, the songs
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161 are both correct because they embody the feelings of the men during the time they wrote the revised tune. Does the moment stay a cliche if it changes slightly? In the original lyrics, a solo Dylan sorrowfully sings: I’m a-wonderin’ if she remembers me at all Many times I’ve often prayed In the darkness of my night In the brightness of my day I think about my Nonna’s dementia, how “many times I’ve often prayed” my person would not disappear from her memory. How she looked at me when the nurse asked who this girl was, and she smiled and said, “This is my niece.” I’m a-wonderin’ if she remembers me at all. She squinted at me when I entered her hospice room, yet she squeezed my hand as she always would in the past. Half of my faced was covered by a mask, which she also wondered about. She had forgotten that there was a pandemic, or maybe the information never even held residence in her mind. Can you forget a memory that you never retained in the first place? Is it still the truth? I always wondered what the last thing she thought about was. Her last words to us were “I love you,” but that could not have been the last thing she thought about. So many of her memories fleeted months and years ago. The last thing she remembered must have become a cliché, an overworked memory, but this is not a pitiful or sad thing. To be frank, even if it were a cliché, who truly gives a damn? I wonder if the song would have had a similar effect without Johnny Cash. Cash’s daughter, Rosanne, covered the popular song, telling the crowd that she was going to perform a version that was closer to Dylan’s original. Closer to the original, but not the original; in a way, this was Rosanne’s original. In an interview, recalled the song’s success, confessing her father had no idea how large of an impact the song would have. “Dad said later, ‘I didn’t realize how important that was. All I did was sit there and strum some G-chords.’”2 She spoke in earnest about how her father was blatantly unaware that writing a song about memory would become a memory. Cash was unaware the nostalgia his daughter would experience from
2 Ken Burns, director. Country Music. PBS. 2019
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162 his song. And Dylan, does he know the song’s impact? Or has he been desensitized to it? His website tells me he has played the tune 569 times since 1963, and it does not specify the difference between the original solo and the duet with Cash.3 Words repeated over and over and over until it is just muscle memory. No lit-up amygdala of strong emotion. It might as well be a reflex. Or to Dylan, perhaps a cliché. There seems to be no concrete or philosophical reason to why we remember things how we do, other than strong emotional ties to an event. I do not know why my earliest memory was of my grandfather. Perhaps that is how I know it is true, original, all mine; there is no driving force that makes it come into my mind. It may change slightly with each recall, but it still is. The feeling of the memory provides the same warm radiance, as if it were to happen in the present moment of the recall. In the brightness of my day. There are gaps, whose shade provides no comfort, no direction in how the memory truly occurred. In the darkness of my night. Instead of filling that space, I could sit in the discomfort with what I do have: my grandfather, his apple, and my hands, reaching for more. Work Cited “Girl from the North Country.” The Official Bob Dylan Site, Sony Music Entertainment, www.bobdylan.com/songs/girl-north-country. Accessed 18 Feb. 2021. Ken Burns, director. Country Music. PBS. 2019 Kensinger, Elizabeth A. “Remembering the Details: Effects of Emotion.” Emotion review: journal of the International Society for Research on Emotion vol. 1,2 (2009): 99-113. doi:10.1177/1754073908100432 Accessed 11 Feb. 2021.
3 “Girl from the North Country.” The Official Bob Dylan Site, Sony Music Entertainment, www.bobdylan.com/songs/girl-north-country. Accessed 18 Feb. 2021.
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The Town by the Shore
Rebecca Grunski
A view from overhead is one that I have only ever experienced as I stare out the window of an airplane, looking down on the world below me as I fly through the air like a bird. At this height, I look down to see my childhood home, small and quaint, with the detached garage that sits in the back-right corner of the yard. Both the home and garage are painted a light grey color, resembling slightly dirty snow, with cranberry colored shutters. I see a bright blue oval, a pool, that had previously been in the shape of circle until the walls caved in during a severe thunderstorm. To the left, I see a swing set, with its lemon-yellow slide reminding me of my childhood, hours spent hanging on the monkey bars, pretending the ground beneath me was lava. I remember the trauma that this playground bought my family, as my sister fell off of it, her arm breaking, bone coming through skin. The black pavement of the driveway that became a scalding oven in the summer heat, and the memory of my body hitting this pavement, fracturing my arm at the age of seven. My sister and I were, and still are, accident prone. I spot the remnants of a garden that I planted next to the deck with some miscellaneous flowers that I picked from the neighbor’s front yard. I also see our real garden, where my father planted vegetables yearly and my mom picked basil to add to her homemade tomato sauce. As I fly higher towards the clouds, my lens expands, and I observe the river that is situated a block from the house, where my dad and I would spend our summer evenings catching crabs. The same river that would turn frigid in the winter months when we would watch the boat parade around Christmas time. I think of the golden retriever that lived in the house next to the river, who would always greet us when we visited and liked to jump off the dock into the water. I doubt that the dog is still alive, as he was old at the time. My heart breaks a bit of think of him passing away, similar to the way that my childhood passed by as I began to add more candles to my birthday cakes.
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164 I recognize the playground and the beach of the Great South Bay, where I would spend hours as a child attending summer camp, and where I now take the children that I babysit, just to experience the joy of the red twirly slide again. Across the street is the restaurant where I had the party for my first communion, where I wore a stark white sparkly dress that made me feel like a Disney princess. Ten years later, I had my senior prom at this same venue, where my two friends and I danced to a poor mix of techno music and drank plenty of Shirley temples. I look towards the north and see Main Street that is lined with restaurants and small local shops. I spot the Patchogue Theatre, where I performed every year from the age of three. until I graduated high school, where I made some of the best memories with the people that I love the most. I cannot see the stage from the sky, but I can remember the feeling that I got when I performed, and my heart aches as I reminisce on the days I spent at the theatre wearing sparkly dance costumes, and I can almost smell the scent of tight holding hairspray. Over time, as the new owners of my childhood home began to let the plants overgrow and painted the shutters a gloomy shade of brown, this town that I had called home began to change. The park down by the shore was rebuilt, and the dock on the river floated away during Hurricane Sandy. I no longer perform at the Patchogue theatre, and now return to help with the younger children when my dance studio has their annual recital. Now I sit at a coffee shop on Main street, sipping my hot chocolate, where I wear a mask and watch the world around me. This year is much different than last year, which differed from the years before. What remains the same is the breeze, the one that gently blows my hair in my face, and the one that continues to glide me through the sky.
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Strangers on a Plane
Erin Hurley
I look at you, and yes, you see me, but you do not see me. You see a cylinder in the sky—152 feet long and, at the wings, 145 feet wide. I loom above you; yet, however large I feel, the plane is nothing more than a speck in your sky, a large passerby that you could cover with your thumb. On the off chance that you do see the window, you will not see me in it. The basic rules of eyesight make this very clear. I suppose it is fair to say that I do not see you, either; I see only an outline of you, I see a figurine going through the motions: driving, riding a bike, walking along the street. I remember sitting on the floor of my best friend’s basement and setting up Guess Who. “The classic mystery face game.” I never owned the game, so it was extra fun whenever I got to play it. It’s more a game of strategy than one might think, and those have always been my favorite. Twenty-four faces on small, bendable cards stare at me while I contemplate my first question; twenty-five if you count the mystery person (although I always thought that “mystery person” was a stupid term). It used to feel like hundreds of faces, hundreds of people to choose from. To narrow down my choices of potential mystery people, I needed a way to separate a winning character from a losing one. My overly competitive nature combined with my need for organization to create a set of rules I followed in order to win: 1. Don’t pick the same person too often. A pattern only allowed my opponent to predict who my mystery person would be—that’s a surefire way to lose. 2. Always pick someone who could easily be mistaken for someone else. The brown-haired boys and blonde-haired girls. Characters that my opponent wouldn’t be sure about for at least three rounds of questions, which provided me with ample time to narrow down my guessing pool. Keeping rule #1 in mind, I alternated which character I chose between the few groups of similar characters,
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166 who looked the same save for the most minute differences; one of them wore earrings and another had brown eyes. Which led to my next rule: 3. Never pick someone who knows how to accessorize. Glasses and hats were easy ways to narrow down the guessing pool; even facial hair was a risky move. If my opponent were to ask, “Are they wearing glasses?” and I were to say “Yes, they are wearing glasses,” over half of the characters would be eliminated, and my opponent would be at a serious advantage. Of course, these rules were reversed when I was asking questions. You should always know the characters your opponent usually chooses and ask questions that allow for mass eliminations. But when choosing a character, the way to win is to pick someone who blends in. One of the unnoticables. Despite seeing you among the unnoticables so far below me, it is equally easy to look for you the unnoticables around me. You stare, like me, through the window at the towns below, towns we know we will never see from the ground. Rows of perfectly parallel roads intersect with those that bend; the curves of the cul-desacs and too-blue pools clash with the straight fences that surround them. I see you wherever I look, down or up. It overwhelms me, how everywhere you are. I know that you are not just here, next to me; you are past the barrier where the woman in the uniform tells me I can’t go, even if I don’t think it’s fair that I don’t get warm peanuts or a towel. I distract myself from my annoyance by playing a mental game of Guess Who, although it is much less fun without a challenger. There are a hundred or so potential “mystery people,” all with the same origin and the same destination, yet we are fated to never see each other again. That is what makes the game work so well. I look for the people who could easily be mistaken for someone else. There are fifteen brunette women, all in their late teens or early twenties, all wearing sweatpants. (I do not count myself in this analysis, however, if I did, it would be sixteen). Maybe I see you everywhere because I am looking for you—the Baader-Meinhof phenomenon would lead anyone to this conclusion.
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167 More commonly known as the frequency bias, it explains that an individual encounters far too much information in one day, more than any one person can process, and therefore automatically forgets anything deemed unnecessary; I know that I have likely filtered you out many times before. It isn’t until I deemed you important that I stopped. It’s nothing personal; I don’t mean to say that you aren’t necessary, only that I haven’t wanted to notice before now. But now that I do want to notice, I see you when I look out the window and I see you when I look at the people around me. Science makes it clear that because you’re fresh in my mind, I’m going to take note when I do see you. Perhaps it is because of this freshness that I surprise myself by looking for you in the people who would make me lose. The people with glasses or in hats. They’re too easy to eliminate—but I always found them more interesting when I played. They felt more real. More well-rounded. I don’t know if these people stand out any more than the others; perhaps it was just a strategy I made up because I’m competitive. I look at the boy across the aisle and try to memorize his Phillies baseball cap, I try to memorize the exact shape and hue of the girl’s blue glasses two rows ahead of me. I never take the time to memorize the shape of the arch on one of the blonde women’s noses or the exact cut of at least one of the brown-haired men, even though I probably should. Their lack of identifying features is what left me undefeated at Guess Who, but now it is the reason they will get lost in a sea of faces, never to be seen again. Maybe I will see you once (or twice) more, without knowing; perhaps you will return to me in a train station upon landing, in a supermarket, in a café. Maybe I will never see you again. Every person around me is more than a face printed on a card or a permanent smile: I see their features change as they react to whatever movie is playing on the seat in front of them, I see the way their face contorts seconds before pushing the complimentary dinner away. I see them so close that it feels as if I know them better than you, even though I don’t. Every mystery person is doomed to once again be lost within new ones, never to surpass the role of a tile to be flipped down when I ask the right question. I am five, standing on my driveway, looking up at another passing metal tube. I think I see you, in the window. I am still
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168 egocentric, as all children are; my brain is too underdeveloped to comprehend any person thinking or behaving unlike me. I remember looking out of that same window when I went to Disney World, and I assume that you, too, are headed there. I wave both of my arms to catch your attention. “Have fun in Disney World!” I yell, as loud as my lungs allow me. I wonder how many people are looking down at me; I wonder if they even see me move. I am confident that you noticed me, though. And then the tube, with you in it, is gone forever. Before I have the chance to miss you, a paper airplane whizzes by my face and I return my attention to the world around me. My sister holds out a blank sheet of paper as she runs to pick up the folded one. “Do you want to make one?” she asks me. “I can help fold it so it goes extra far.” Paper airplanes were never a hobby of mine, mostly because mine nosedived as soon as I let go. I always preferred to decorate the coloring faces of smiling people in the windows, imaging who they are and where they are headed. She sees me hesitate and changes her mind. “We can also play Legos, if you want. We don’t have to make paper airplanes.” Complacent with the knowledge that to you, I am a Lego, a mystery person, or a face colored on a paper airplane, I do not follow her inside. I sit and wait for you to come back and see me and wonder who I am.
Works Cited: Pietrangelo, Ann. Understanding the Baader-Meinhof Phenomenon. 17 Dec. 2019, www.healthline.com/health/baader-meinhofphenomenon. Web. “Airplane Size Chart: Aircraft Wingspan Size Chart for Hangar Design.” Airplane Size Chart | Aircraft Wingspan Size Chart for Hangar Design, schweisshydraulicdoors.com/airplane-size-chart. php#Boeing29.
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Untitled Cassie Riordan
Blue Hour Flower Title Allie Lijewski Artist
Spiral Alexandria Vigliotti
Title Artist
Victorian Collage Courtney Kenny
Golden Hour Flower Allie Lijewski
seeing yourself Braeden Kopp
Every Silver Lining Katie McDonnell
Title Artist
Title Artist
Stuck CJ Sommers
a taste of winter Leon Brooks
Title Artist
Title Artist
two little girls Leon Brooks
Funny Cide Mary Powers
Breaking Free Phoebe Clark
Gouache Blue Claw Crab Mary Powers
Title Artist
Marlene Dietrich Sadie Applegate
Contributors
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Jake Catinella, 2022, from Norton, MA Biology Major, Writing Minor Thank you to all the Loyola Professors. Rebecca Grunski, 2023, from Long Island NY Global Studies Major, Writing and Peace & Justice Studies Double Minor Erin Wilson, 2022, from Haddon Heights, NJ Marketing and Writing Double Major Thanks to Tom Marciano, for always being my first reader. Kirby Povilaitis, 2022, from Camp Hill, PA Biology and Writing Interdisciplinary Major Ava Jensen, 2023, from Long Branch, NJ English Major Thank you to all those who have inspired me. Madison Ross, 2022, from Paoli, PA Writing and Spanish Double Major To my teachers—those who taught me, those who teach me, and those who have yet to do so, be it knowingly or otherwise. Julianna Mattei, 2022, from Malvern, PA Speech Language Hearing-Science Major, Writing Minor Thank you, only sometimes, to Maggie Kudzy. Fabiola Torres, 2021, from Bayamón PR Biology Major, Writing Minor With sincere gratitude to volunteers & first responders Katherine Stockton-Juárez, 2021, from Carlisle, PA Global Studies Major, Writing Minor CJ Sommers, 2021, from Nazareth, PA Biopsychology Major
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Contributors
Ryan Baldino, 2022, from Garnet Valley, PA Global Studies and Spanish Double Major A special thanks to Sid and the whole LaFontaine family from Hebron, NH. Juliet Watstein, 2024, from Wantagh, NY Communications (Advertising and Public Relations) Major Abena Ansah, 2024, from Philadelphia, PA Biopsychology Major A big thank you to Dr. Tiffany Curtis for inspiring me to write more often. Charlotte McAleer, Class 2022, Baltimore, MD Philosophy and Writing Interdisciplinary Major Courtney Kenny, 2021, from Baltimore, MD Communications (Digital Media) and Studio Art Interdisciplinary Major Thank you to all my wonderful studio professors including Mary Beth Akre, Billy Friebele and Chris Lonegan! Skylar Cho, 2024, from Los Angeles, CA Speech and Language Hearing Sciences Major Thanks to the brave individuals who fought for my rights, so I can proudly be here today. Alice Agee, 2021, from Centreville, MD Communications and Writing Interdisciplinary Major Amber Davis, 2022, Silver Spring, MD English and Communications Interdisciplinary Major Grace Murry, 2023, from Syracuse, NY English Major Mary Velazquez, 2023, from Lutherville, MD Writing and Theatre Double Major I have much to thank, especially my cats, Paco and Diego.
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Contributors
185
Delainey Sheehan, 2022, from Greenwich, CT Communications (Advertising and Public Relations) Major Thanks to Prof. Lucas Southworth! Angie Kanavy, 2022, from Clifford Township, PA Political Science Major, Writing Minor Sullivan McGee, 2024, from Williamsport, MD Biology and Writing Interdisciplinary Major Thanks to Mrs. Anderson, Ms. Fishow, and Professor Fish. Elizabeth Jean-Louis, 2023, Boston, MA Aspiring Author Thank you to the family and friends who love me dearly. Mary Powers, 2021, from Stuart, FL Marketing and Informational Systems Major, Studio Art Minor Thank you to my parents, for pushing me to pursue my art and to my Oppy for inspiring me all my life. Alexa Vincento, 2023, from Hopewell Junction, NY Biology Major, Photography Minor Follow @lexivincento_photography on Instagram :) Kelly Williamson, 2022, from Limerick, PA Speech-Language Pathology Graduate Student Thanks to my family and friends who encourage and inspire me. Brittany Romanoff, 2021, from Long Island, NY English and Writing Interdisciplinary Major, Spanish Minor Thank you to all family, friends, and professors who have been guiding lights throughout my time at Loyola. Mikaela Fallon, 2023, from Sharon, MA Communications Major Sylvia Lei, 2023, from Portland, OR Biology Major
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186
Contributors
Erin Hurley, 2023, from Cherry Hill, NJ Writing Major, Communications (Journalism) and Environmental & Sustainability Studies Double Minor Thanks to OCB, for asking me about aliens. Brenna Crowder, 2022, from Doylestown, PA Psychology Major, Writing Minor Allie Lijewski, 2022, from Baltimore, MD Communications Major, Writing Minor Thank you to the universe for giving me the time to see my home in a new light. Rachael Miller, 2021, from Charlotte, NC Communications and Sociology Double Major Thanks to Angela Miceli for supporting me. Katie McDonnell, 2022, from Doylestown, PA Communications (Digital Media) Major, Writing Minor Whitney Kopp, 2021, from Arnold, MD Mechanical & Materials Engineering Major Thanks for letting me steal your camera. Alexandria Vigliotti, 2021, from Long Island, NY English Major, Photography Minor Eric Grazio, 2023, from Macungie, PA Information Systems Major Thank you to my friends who made this trip possible. Leon Brooks, 2023, from Baltimore, MD Photography Major Ben Ostrowski, 2024, from Baltimore, MD Communications (Digital Media) Major Thank you Mr. Ziegler for helping me recognize my passion and to my family for supporting said passion.
Corridors 2021
Contributors
187
Sadie Applegate, 2023, from Wilmington, DE Communications (Digital Media) Major, Studio Art Minor Special thanks to Prof. Billy Friebele for pushing me to maximize my potential. Kristine Deiss, 2024, from Columbia, MD Psychology Major Phoebe Clark, 2022, from Gaithersburg, MD Psychology Major, Studio Arts Minor Thanks to Christopher Lonegan, for always encouraging and guiding me through my creative endeavors. Eciaus Booth, 2023, from Stratford, CT Digital Communication Major, Photography Minor Be creative and speak up. Ethan O'Reilly '23, from Reisterstown, MD Biochemistry Major, Photography Minor Thanks to my friends, family, and photography teachers. Braedan Kopp, 2024, from Quincy, MA Communications Major, English Minor Emma Straus, 2024, from Sicklerville, NJ Communications (Journalism) Major Thank you to anyone who continues to turn the pages. You keep the artistry alive. Cassie Riordan, 2022, from Bellmore, NY Marketing Major, Studio Arts Minor Thank you to Chris Lonegan for amazing portraiture advice.
Corridors 2021
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