Exposure 2018 by EasternCTStateUniversity

Eastern Exposure 2018

Eastern Exposure Eastern Exposure, Eastern Connecticut State University’s student literary magazine, is published annually by the Creative Writing Club of Eastern Connecticut State University, English Department, 225 Webb Hall, 83 Windham Street, Willimantic, CT 06226. website: http://www1.easternct.edu/writersguild/ email: easternwriters@my.easternct.edu Phone: 860-456-4570 Fax: 860-456-4580 Faculty Advisor Dr. Daniel Donaghy, Professor of English 2017-18 Creative Writing Club Executive Board President: Brooke Cochrane Vice President: Allison Brown Secretary: Haley Knox Treasurer: Justin Berak 2017-2018 Editorial Board Poetry Editors: Haley Knox, Justin Berak Fiction Editors: Brooke Cochrane, Allison Brown Readers: Samantha Carman, Hannah Hokanson, Ruth Gowitzke, Heather Smith, Josh LeBlanc, Lauren Mondak, Jennifer Zuniga, Julia Bonadies, Joyce Figueroa, Talia Botelho Copy Editors: Brooke Cochrane, Haley Knox, Justin Berak, Allison Brown Cover Art Deirdre Volk Eastern Exposure showcases the literary work of Eastern Connecticut State University’s student writers. In doing so, it promotes the university’s mission to be “the state’s public liberal arts university” and “to be a model community of learners of different ages from diverse cultural, racial, and social backgrounds.” SUBMISSIONS: Eastern Exposure accepts submissions of student creative writing from the beginning of the fall term until 4 p.m. on the Tuesday before Thanksgiving. All Eastern students are invited to submit their work (up to five pieces, up to ten pages total) via our Submittable account: https://easternwriters.submittable. com/submit. Eastern Exposure is distributed free to members of the Eastern Connecticut State University community. Current issues are available in the campus bookstore, the Student Center, Smith Library, and the English Department Office. Back issues may be available through the Eastern Writers Guild Faculty Advisor and the English Department. All print rights for individual works revert to contributors upon publication. However, the editors of Eastern Exposure reserve the right to feature work printed in journal on its website. Special thanks to Miranda Lau (English Department) for her support. © 2018 Eastern Connecticut State University. All rights reserved.

“Your story is important. You are important.” ––Maria Mazziotti Gillan

CONTENTS Editors Note 6 Hason Peart Raincloud

Joshua LeBlanc

Painkiller

Briana DuBois

You Can’t Rush the Ritual

Courtney Botteron

I Come From

Briana DuBois

Disease Doomed Us

Beth Crocker

2:47 a.m.

Natalia Torcaso

Pat

Ryan King Cultivate

Julia Bonadies

8.9.17

Jacob St. Jean

United Steel

Beth Crocker

I Didn’t Know

Joshua LeBlanc

An Angry Sonnet to my Brother

Jessica Miclon

An Introduction to Addiction

Joshua LeBlanc

At a Small Cemetery Next to the Marriott Hotel

Haley Knox

Wash It Off For Good

Julia Bonadies

Hollis’s Room

Ryan King Terroir

Beth Crocker February Afternoons Regret

25 26

Joshua LeBlanc ADHDrugs

Julia Bonadies

Eastern Exposure

Adelaide St.

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CONTENTS Artwork by Deirdre Volk London Jones Tyler Clough Anna Hope Whalon Sage Min Samantha Price

Ophelia, Lady of the Fog

Ellery Hall

Steps to Replacing the Sun

Matthew Bessette Toothbrush Turmoil A Soup Squabble

33 36

Brooke Cochrane Beau

Samantha Price

Gas Station

Ben Firsick Holes through the Sun Lauren Mondak The Heart of the Night Imani Futrell

Ben Firsick

The Old Man

Clay Soldiers

Contributors Notes

Spring 2018

Editors Note Dear Reader, The Creative Writing Club is proud to share the 2018 edition of Eastern Exposure. This year, we have a diverse collection of poems, stories, and artwork to share with you. We, the editors, carefully sifted through submissions to find the best pieces of writing and original artwork that represent the diverse study body here at Eastern and the creativity that stems from studentsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; experiences. Our goal is for everyone reading this to be able to relate to something. We are excited to share what we have found and to give you the opportunity to explore the talent that is present here at Eastern. We believe that we have selected the best pieces and are proud to provide them the exposure they deserve. We hope that you enjoy this issueâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s poems, stories, and artwork. Thank you to those who shared their personal experiences and stories. We encourage everyone to submit to our next issue and to become a member of the Creative Writing Club if you want to be a part of the selection process. This would not be possible without those who were brave enough to share their writing, club members who helped with the selection process, and our faculty advisor, Dr. Daniel Donaghy, for his continuous help and guidance this past academic year. Sincerely, The Creative Writing Club E-Board Brooke Cochrane, President Allison Brown, Vice President Haley Knox, Secretary Justin Berak, Treasurer

Eastern Exposure

Hason Peart

§ 7

Raincloud Boom, Clap, Boom! I love the feeling of making it rain, dangling in the air like a chandelier. I am one of life’s main sources for survival, but not everyone likes how loud I get. Boom, Clap, Boom! I may not be as loud as my family but I still know how to cause a scene. And without me the flowers won’t bloom in the spring and the grass in your yard won’t stay green. Boom, Clap, Boom! Forgive me if I’m a little bit loud sometimes, I still have my bad days. Forgive me if I make your dogs bark or your babies cry, but this is the only way I know how to express my anger. Boom, Clap, Boom! I have travelled the world hundreds of times and have seen things you probably still question. And I wish I could tell you all the stories, but I’m too far up in the sky, almost 7,000 stories high. Boom, Clap, Boom! But no matter how loud I get or how slippery I make the roads, I’m just a cloud that brings life to the lifeless. Who can get mad at that?

Spring 2018

Joshua LeBlanc Painkiller You drip into me like morphine, The tips of our lips gripping and slipping, Pulsing, breathing, beating, The irregular rhythm of a heavy heart Swaddled in surgical anesthesia. I overprescribe you to myself, Double dipping my daily dose. Whatever it takes, You make me feel more than just numb. When you trace my scars you erase the memory But not the mark. I hitch you to my left arm and Like an IV your sky blue eyes inject me With sweet medicine. Your tiny hands sift Through my hair and I swear I can feel the pain lingering from my last lover leaving My limbs. They curl around you because Painkillers form dependency and I think I need you. Another dose, another hit, I can’t quit. Please stay, I want to say, But you can’t refill my prescription. When you leave, all my scars rip open. I bleed alone in bed, my left arm curled around Your indent in my mattress. I’m shaking, sobbing, shivering. This must be withdrawal. Your plane arcs over the Atlantic and It becomes clear that The wounds are still here. I concealed them, but I didn’t heal them. Why do I do this to myself? Healing heartbreak with heartache? If I take another dose it will make Everything worse. But I’m hooked on liquid love and I long for its lingering lapses in in lucidity. Am I livid from losing you or only Addicted to the sensation? Another scar, a small sickle slice From your morphine drip Manifests on my bicep and I realize that This was a mistake. It’s time to get off my medication.

Eastern Exposure

Briana DuBois

§ 9

You Can’t Rush the Ritual You used to slow down just to keep up with me, Avoiding every sidewalk crack, Knowing my skin would crawl if I stepped on one. You took a liking to my thumb thumping And sudden shutters. They engrossed you. You used to admire the way I’d look at myself in the mirror, Paralyzed you’d stare with me As I needed to spend a full seventeen minutes Before I could move. What was once intriguing you now think impulsive, Captivating, now compulsive. The way you would wait for me to check if the door was locked Twenty-three times before crawling into bed, Even after you’ve assured me you did it yourself. What was once attractive has become annoying. Romantic, now redundant. My routines and tics have no concept of time, As I take forty-five minutes to wash my hair Before you interrupt or disrupt the cycle that is my life. I must fix your shoes every time you walk Through the goddamn door because You cannot seem to understand after three years that they need need need To be aligned perfectly with the grout in the kitchen tile. Our fights are erratic as we don’t fight about money or sex But how important it is That you hang up your coat, hang up your coat, hang up your fucking coat. Now you leave the door unlocked. You know you could never do it right. You step on cracks, not caring to leave me a block behind. I watch you, the love of my life, crumble, Struggling to show me how I can just flick The light switch once, maybe twice, And not forty-six times, But all I can do is count the number of tears Running down your cheeks.

Spring 2018

Courtney Botteron I Come From I come from the middle-class section of Vernon, CT, with its uniform homes and gardens of tomatoes, zucchini, peppers, and cucumbers, separated by Rockville, where at Dart Hill, boys screaming and yelling chased my brother’s friend group with baseball bats. One pulled out a knife, then went running and never came back. I come from high school girls pulling each other’s hair out in the hallways. I come from the crossing guard on the corner of Bette Circle who, on days my parents worked, fed me lunch and let me pet his cat. I come from neighbors Sophia and Gabriella, who were once family and are now only my friends on Facebook. I come from rambling cars on a usually quiet street, and the silence from my mom’s bedroom. I come from laughter drifting out of the TV stereo and my siblings’ mouths. I come from a place where we knew the neighbor that lived five houses up overdosed and was put in rehab, but nobody ever said anything–– not to their faces, but to everyone else. Word spread when the mom got cancer and her other son started dating one of my sister’s underage friends. My mom brought over meals and her company to a family who needed it. I come from a cold house, from a place where we sat alone and ate dinner, and at eight P.M. we watched Pretty Little Liars with whoever was home. The living room was where my siblings and I received any big news. When my mom told us our grandfather died, we all sat on the couch and drank strawberry milkshakes. After my mom told us we were moving to Granby and my sister Olivia freaked out, we all sat discussing its utter bullshit.

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I come from a place that made me strong–– although, at the time, I didn’t understand what my dad meant when he said “When you’re older, you’ll be better off because things haven’t been handed to you your whole life.”

Spring 2018

Briana DuBois Disease Doomed Us I used to think you were damaged From the women you dared to love before me. Your heart was suffering long before I even Had the chance to make my mark on it. Bruised and battered as if it’s seen its Day in war one too many times, Shattered and shredded as if the Women before me chewed it up And spit it right back out like chewing gum. You wear your skin like a drunken apology, Self-destructing, as you think It’s your only form of control, But it’s the only form you know. Becoming so close with your illness That you’re afraid to Leave it behind as if you’d be Betraying the part of you That taught you how to survive, Only after teaching you first how to die. Your days flicker like broken light switches, Your love for me wavering like an ocean’s undertow, Somedays receding, and others as destructive as a tsunami. You stare at me and see a future you Were never prepared to live for. When physicians give you a life sentence of only Twenty-three years, you begin to resent The 9 to 5 your mother worked to make up for your hospital stays, The heavy arms your brother has from teaching you to walk again, The swelling in your father’s knuckles from praying so hard That you cannot imagine why anyone Would waste their time for only twenty-three years. I’m your worst nightmare as you fear my womb can Birth children as fragile as you. My heart without you is like a bird without wings. Your heart would have never been able to fly, Whether I came along or not. I will love you no matter which light switch flips that day. This love, our love, has become as diseased as your heart.

Eastern Exposure

Beth Crocker

§ 13

2:47 a.m. my body wakes me, hungry. but not for food, no, I haven’t been that kind of hungry for years, and I want more than anything to tear open this flesh and reveal veins. veins that scream for the caress of the drug that lifts me off this earth, the drug that softens the harsh edges of reality into watercolor swirls. the hunger makes itself known once again, spilling chills along each limb. the covers of this mattress now suffocate me as beads of sweat drip from my brow and into my eyes. I feel my body trying to split itself in two and grip my skull, trying to hold it together. I’m sure I’m coming apart. once again the thought of kissing razors haunts me, and I chase it away with the swallow of a pill.

Spring 2018

Natalia Torcaso Pat My flimsy white and seafoam box, filled with only two bent cigarettes left, takes me back to a dirt mountain in Middlebury overlooking I-95 with you. Snaggle tooth peeking out of your smirk, your long pinky dragging my bottom lip downwards, Newport from behind your left ear— you slip the cigarette between my teeth. The smoke collects in my head, and it burns, but you tell me “don’t worry,” and that you wish you were dead. Your lanky arm drapes over my shoulder, I kiss your middle knuckle, then take a drag. Back by myself, I light a Newport. And like the burning in my head, I’m starting to think you had too much smoke inside yourself to realize your life was worth living.

Eastern Exposure

Ryan King

Â§ 15

Cultivate Like birds chirping on the verge of winter, so much is fleeting. And when somethingâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s worth keeping, you must nourish it. Grow gardens with your passion. Lay down in flowerbeds until your roots become entwined with those in your life doing more than simply passing by.

Spring 2018

Julia Bonadies 8.9.17 In memory of Robert J. Comollo So when they ask me what my grandfather was like I will tell them He was very stubborn, and more often than not pretty grumpy. But that he showed more appreciation for living things than anyone I have ever known. That he took me blueberry picking for the first time, and held me in his arms when we I saw my first field of Christmas trees. That he planted me on his shoulders so I could feel as tall as the sunflowers we grew together. That I lost count of the number of mice he relocated with peanut-butter, or the number of bird-feeding contraptions he created and strung from the back of the brown-stained porch in Hebron. I will tell them that he probably loved more dogs than he did humans, but that we all knew he was secretly proud of his brood of girl grandchildren. And that his garden produced the best cherry tomatoesâ&#x20AC;&#x201C;â&#x20AC;&#x201C; I always ate more than I picked, and the best cucumbers Grammie always sliced & salted for summer supper. I will tell them that he loved dark chocolate, And that he kept Pepperidge Farm chocolate-chunk cookies in the freezer and chocolate graham crackers in the cabinet. That he could fall asleep anytime, anywhere and snored louder than anybody. That he was always giving me something to write with, And that in so much of what lives and grows, I will always see him.

Eastern Exposure

Jacob St. Jean

Â§ 17

United Steel My father was a steel erector. Sawing stark silver beams, strong like the arms that held me after a long day of frustrating framework, His hands callused and unrested. Coming home to unite us all like iron and steel girders. Columns. That lay the structure of a perfect family. Before the chemo began to break him down, the fabrication of his insides cutting loose. One disastrous disease doused with what the doctors say will work. The same hands that held me, that bored beams built to withstand any storm are now weak. Ravished. by the poison that consumes his body. My father is still a steel erector. Welding pieces of himself into me, swiftly splicing away my anxiety. He ensures me, this is still Godâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s plan.

Spring 2018

Beth Crocker I Didn’t Know that I could say no. that I could push him away when he crushed his heavy mouth against mine. I didn’t know that I could pull my arm away when he wrapped it in his vice grip. I didn’t know that I didn’t have to forgive him countless times and convince myself that I was okay with doing so. I didn’t know that it was wrong, his aggressive need to touch me. I didn’t know that I didn’t have to do the things he wanted me to do. I didn’t know that I could walk away, even if it meant I was alone. I didn’t know.

Eastern Exposure

Joshua LeBlanc

§ 19

An Angry Sonnet to my Brother Like apples falling down from the tree Or fruit dropping close to the vine, You and I coincide so similarly, Your thoughts never too far from mine. Brother, we could speak volumes in just a short look, Spin stories from only a word. We’re on the same page; you read me like a book, So I shouldn’t have to make myself heard. We look very different, you and me, Except for the way that we walk. Which I have been doing a lot of lately, So brother, we need to talk. If you take the car one more Friday after class, I swear to god, I will beat your ass.

Spring 2018

Jessica Miclon An Introduction to Addiction She showed me six even lines, Pinkish-red painted where her skin parted, Lips waiting for a lover’s gentle kiss. We giggled through nerves, or maybe delight. She wore her wounds like medals of pain Before we understood that there is no romance Married to suffering. The cuts moved down her body, Across the tops of her thighs––less neat now–– Years later still visible, but, like our friendship, Faded. Softball shirts, smiles, straightened hair, I’ll never know how deep her habit had cut her. It is hard to know now, Years after the irritating rusted red of our lockers, After skinny jeans and heavy eyeliner, After name brand hoodies and music we pretended to love, If she ever came to understand the disease She infected my mind with that day, Always itching deep under my own marred skin. Concealed scars compose an apology Moving from my hips to wrists, Peering over the edge of my parted lips. I wonder now if she’s ever felt shame undressing. Kisses to scars and a man’s strong grip Wrestling the razor out of reach No longer holds the appeal it once did. I wonder now if she understands: The hope is not for someone to take away my pain, But for the need to feel it to end.

Eastern Exposure

Â§ 21

Joshua LeBlanc At a Small Cemetery Next to the Marriott Hotel Wind falls through the gravestones, flapping sharply against the plastic roof of the tent under which we all stand. It adds a desperate rhythm to the ceremony of last rites like a heart beating out its final moments. He died in heart surgery, under anesthesia. A stifled sob seeps from the monolithic forms of his relatives. They stand with rounded backs, heavy like stones against winterâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s dull, cold breath. The preacher drones on about how death is a beautiful thing: He is lucky that he felt no pain. He is in better hands. After the funeral, I step away from the hush of the crowd. I quietly cry into my coat sleeve. He died under anesthesia. If death is a beautiful sensation, why would one be lucky to miss it? How could we be so silent, after a life that ended so numb?

For Richard Peckrul (December 6th 1936-April 5th 2016) I never got to know you, but I owe you so much.

Spring 2018

Haley Knox Wash It Off For Good The sun rises in your rearview mirror. You drive away in your navy 1999 Ford Explorer that creaks like an attic door when you turn the cold, leather steering wheel to the right. At 6 a.m., you end up at the same lifeless, tan building that has no windows and a gate you buzz into. Day after day for the past fifteen years, you’ve been a machine operator, trapped inside until 2:55 pm. I would eagerly listen for the roar of the Explorer after school on Wednesdays and Thursdays and hop into the passenger seat to see you “resting your eyes” while you waited for Kenny, Eric and me. You’d smell of burning metal in your light denim jeans, plain black T-shirt and grey New Balance sneakers with the untied laces tucked in. You, too, reluctantly admitted the reek and would shower when we got to your house. You tried so hard to stay awake to hear about our days, when really, I wanted to hear about yours. But it was always the same “Ah, you know, work.” I could see the wilt of your hazel eyes as you said it. You work too hard, Dad. Through the years of getting into your car, I noticed the creases between your dark eyebrows becoming more defined, your short beard mostly white. But you’d always smell of burning metal and I wish you’d wash it off for good.

Eastern Exposure

Julia Bonadies

§ 23

Hollis’s Room My gray Converse, warped, falling apart, trudge through Cape Cod sand in the last days of September, the tarnished toes permanently speckled with periwinkle paint that match the freshly coated walls of Ms. Hollis’s hilltop homestead in the mountains of West Virginia, a home that teeters on the poverty line, crumbles on a foundation constructed from the charity of others— Every summer we put it back in place with paint and prayers. And in humid July, in wide-pant overalls, I knelt on her hardwood floor and cut blue lines along her windows and door, scaled ladders to reach the rafters, with thick-thistle brushes doused in beautiful blue paint. Coat after coat anointed her room in renewal, baptized her heart with the color of Heaven. Like fresh living water, she dreams in a sea of everlasting love I know will last longer than the paint on my shoes.

Spring 2018

Ryan King Terroir A glutton for punishment, I poured myself into wine glasses, drop by drop for you. Until I sat empty in the kitchen and you left, drunk, alone, distant. But I am more than a vacant vessel. I will visit vineyards, and through the fruits of my labor, I will rebuild myself. Berry by berry, from soil and dirt, I will be replenished, and forget what it is to feel empty.

Eastern Exposure

Beth Crocker

§ 25

February Afternoons i see you hunched over the desk that was once your grandmother’s, scribbling furiously in your worn leather journal. you––with your faded Levis. you––with the ring you bought from a Halloween store on your pinky. it’s raining out and we can hear it through the cardboard roof. we can smell it from the window that’s been stuck open for months now. i see you push the glasses you’ve worn since high school back up your nose and brush your hair from your eyes. you––a beautiful mess, you––with passion radiating from your body. you––the most genuine, gentle man i have ever known. from my position on the bed–– buried under the quilt your mother made–– i think of how you will soon join me and pull me against your chest. i think of how you will kiss my forehead and how you will tilt my chin toward yours, and i think of how our lips will melt together. and i smile.

Spring 2018

Beth Crocker Regret I regret wanting love so badly. I placed my trust in the hands of a boy who did not deserve it. I regret letting him kiss me hungrily and I regret telling him my secrets. I regret forgetting my own self-worth as I drove an hour just to let him touch me. I regret ever getting to know him–– or who I thought he was–– and I certainly regret ever giving him the pleasure of knowing me.

Eastern Exposure

Joshua LeBlanc

§ 27

ADHDrugs I want another hit For the tight weight that Pulls me taut, a snag on a line I want to unwind. I want to drift like smoke Away from the dancing flames Of my distractions, burning Dry fuel flickering frantically, LEDs In a dark room. I want to reduce to embers. I want my mind to smolder like A setting sun. I want to focus like a Beam through a magnifying glass. I want to burn with direction and clarity. I want to exhale and see clearly My own thoughts before they expel Themselves from my lungs. I want to speak like I know where I am going, Not just where I started. I want my brain to function flawlessly, Thoughts flowing like gentle fluids, Not choppy swells of billowing smoke. I stop as I pack more greens, And it occurs to me that between Ritalin and Strattera: thirteen years, And now my latest “medication” that I don’t know how to be sober. Am I coping with my disability or discovering My addictions? I want this to be worth it, I want results that won’t blow Out my window on a breath. I take another hit, cough. I want to justify this to myself: A means to an end. Instead, I put out my joint and Pick up my pen. I want something different.

Spring 2018

Julia Bonadies Adelaide St. laying hide-and-seek along the blue siding of the house, holding our breath in blue hydrangea, purple lilacs, and cream colored petals. The potent poetry of their fragrance sickening sinuses— dad chopped their heads off with hedge-clippers. So we hid in the rhododendron bush out front that bloomed so big we fit our whole pre-pubescent bodies inside its branches. The grassy kneecap on the side of the house we made our sledding hill. Friday playdates packed with ten kids on toboggans full of frosted faces velcroed up to the chin in bright purple and neon green. A bony body bumped off halfway down by too many arms, and elbows. Our shrieks muffled by encroaching sunset pre-braced teeth glinting in the dusk like mini moons. Blood sun ripened red like the Holly berries out back where we built lean-twos out of broken branches, made soup out of pine needles and maple leaves in sand buckets. Where my mother hung piñatas on the playscape, its candied guts bursting from its belly on dry grass. Where I stepped on a bee’s stinger on that same sister’s summer birthday. Swung from the pale yellow rings— Screamed at the dark eyed dead possum underneath our mini doorstep. Watching from the back windows as my father extracted it by the tail. Body swinging from his gloved hand to be buried beneath the floor of the forest. The side sun porch where the cat napped, and my baby brother’s chubby legs glowed pink against the maroon carpet. The living room hardwood floors christened by Christmas tree needles,

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sunny shadows and static electricity sliding sock sweat. The tiny tiled bathroom where I puked purple popsicles. Where I sat on the toilet with soap in my mouth for swearing, Held the suds on my tongue to wash the sin straight out of me. A place I grew up that grew into me.

Spring 2018

Deirdre Volk

London Jones

Tyler Clough

Anna Hope Whalon

Sage Min

Samantha Price Ophelia, Lady of the Fog I stand on the last edge of my thoughts, torn by the Burning actions of those who hold my worth in their hands. To be or not to be. That is the question raging like a river around my swollen mind. To be the perfect silhouette, empty and malleable, or The shadow of my former soul. I am clay to their dirty fingers, willing to jump into the sea And cleanse my skin of the lingering demons. When I emerge, all will settle like dust, dirty and still. To be or not, To be all the expectations of them or of me. Goodnight My sweet prince of light, Foe of my father. My Devotion screams in agony from the crime youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve willingly committed. To be free of the shackles of their morals. To swim up into the dark or drown in the light. That is the question of life.

Eastern Exposure

Ellery Hall

Â§ 31

Steps to Replacing the Sun one realize that your sun, the thing that kept all your planets orbiting and brought life into being upon your very small world, is gone. it is not coming back and no manner of rhyme or reason or begging and bartering and crying in frustration will ever return it into the black abyss that now pulls your solar system into disarray. two notice the collapsing of your lungs as you raise a hand and stare at the ever-darkening sky above your head as the sun eclipses and extinguishes in a second with no warning. no time to find another source of light. notice that there is no gravity and you are beginning to float above the greenest grass you had ever seen, as if you were a mere spirit amongst the millions of stars that now are quickly becoming all that your eyes can see. three breathe in the stardust that collects in your mouth while you float farther and farther from the place you called home and the light turns into nothing but darkness, with thousands, no millions, billions, of other peopleâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s suns keeping them in orbit and from being submerged into the darkness that has terrified you since childhood. four close your eyes. five collect your thoughts and screams and fears inside your mind. they are of no use in this endless maze of darkness, and they only prove to make the loss of your sun worse. you must, for better or worse, open your eyes again and look out among the night sky that once lulled you into a restful sleep when

Spring 2018

your sun was there to wake you in the morning. now it is time to heal. you have spent too long in space, you have spent too much time floating among stars that you can never grasp, you have spent too many nights, days, weeks, years, begging and crying and hiding from the truth that lurks at your back. your sun is gone, but it is not forgotten, and the mere image is enough to remind you that you can replace it, though it may not be the same as it once was. six grasp at the last remnants of gravity that cling to you, sink into your lungs and breathe new life into your body and drag yourself back to the ground, where you will sit and wait, breathing and thinking for all the world as you stare at the space where your sun once was. there is a fire within you now, a healing fire that spreads to all your apexes and burns your skin in ways that you cannot put out. seven you will replace your sun, whether it takes months, or days, or hours, or years, you will replace your sun. you will replace it with kind words, you will replace it with another body, you will replace it with strong will and the fire that remains from the memory of your sun. you will replace your sun with people, you will replace your sun with happiness, you will replace your sun with all the things you thought were never enough to bring your planets back into orbit. one day, you will replace your sun, and when you feel the tingle of light upon your skin and look into the sky that once was dark, there will be your new sun, brighter than the one before, and shining on a new part of your life where all the suns can never outshine it.

Eastern Exposure

Matthew Bessette

§ 33

Toothbrush Turmoil [A MAN walks into a bathroom and grabs a toothbrush from its holder. He is about to apply toothpaste when he looks down and sees a second brush on the counter, identical to the first. Confused, he takes it in his other hand and trades glances between them, trying to differentiate. Soon, he gives up and calls over his shoulder through the bathroom door.] MAN: Hey, Jess? WOMAN [from another room]: Yeah? MAN: Can you come here for a sec? WOMAN: Why? MAN: Just come here. [After a moment, a WOMAN enters the bathroom and stands facing the MAN. Throughout the following dialogue, it becomes gradually clearer that the characters’ relationship is less romantically driven and more platonic—perhaps that of a brother and sister or between friends.] WOMAN: What? [The MAN puts the brushes down on the counter next to each other.] MAN: Which toothbrush is yours? WOMAN: The one with the green stripe— [Looks down and realizes] Oh. [Beat] You have the same one as me? MAN: Looks like it. WOMAN: Huh. Well, which one’s which? MAN: Not sure; that’s why I’m asking you. WOMAN: Oh. Well, I put mine in the holder last night when I got here . . . Where’d you put yours? MAN: The holder.

Spring 2018

WOMAN: You sure? MAN: Pretty sure. WOMAN: Weird. MAN: Yeah. But they weren’t both in there. This one was on the counter when I walked in. WOMAN: Well, there you have it. I put mine in the holder. MAN: Well, so did I. They should both be in there. WOMAN: Well, they’re not. So, one of us is wrong. MAN [a little more emphatically]: I put mine in the holder. That’s why when I walked in here, I grabbed it from there without even thinking. [He puts the brush that was in the holder back and repeats the process he did at the beginning to indicate his point.] WOMAN: Then how’d that one end up here? MAN: Beats me. [Beat] But I was pretty sure I put mine there. [Pointing] WOMAN: Well, maybe you just thought you put it there. MAN: I could say the same thing to you! WOMAN [slightly shocked that such a trivial argument is getting the better of them]: Okay, okay. Let’s think. This has a simple explanation. [She takes the brush from him and drops it back into the holder.] We both unpacked yesterday . . . We both used our toothbrush last night . . . MAN: Well, I didn’t. WOMAN: Ew. MAN: Shut up. WOMAN: Well, I did. And I remember putting it back in the holder. So then, since

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you didn’t brush last night, your story isn’t as reliable. MAN: Are you serious? WOMAN: What? Since you didn’t use it, you probably were in the middle of unpacking and just dropped it on the counter and moved on. [The MAN has no response to that. He realizes it’s a likely possibility. After a moment] Is that what happened? MAN: Maybe . . . WOMAN: Then yes. So . . . this one’s mine. [Grabs the brush from the holder but hesitates] . . . Right? MAN: Don’t ask me. You’re the “reliable” one . . . WOMAN [to make a point of her confidence]: Right. It’s mine. [She grabs it and, without hesitation, puts some toothpaste on it and hands the tube to the MAN. He takes it, shrugs, and squeezes out some of his own. They both start brushing. After a moment, their strokes slow and their faces gradually turn into grimaces. They exchange glances, remove the toothbrushes from their mouths, and lean forward, hacking and spitting the entire contents of their mouths out into the sink.] [END OF SCENE]

Spring 2018

Matthew Bessette A Soup Squabble [A MAN is seated at a break room table eating his lunch—which consists of a sandwich, a bag of chips, and a can of soda. A WOMAN enters with a lunchbox and deposits it on the table. She undoes the zipper and withdraws a metal spoon, a bowl, and a can of soup.] MAN [noticing]: You brought soup? WOMAN: Yep. MAN [raising his brow]: You brought a bowl and a can of soup for lunch? WOMAN: Yeah, is there a problem? MAN: No, it’s just funny. Most people bring, like, a sandwich. WOMAN: I guess so. [She takes the bowl and can over to the microwave, sets the bowl down, and starts shaking the can of soup back and forth rapidly.] MAN [chewing]: You’re shaking it? WOMAN [getting peeved]: Yep. MAN [swallowing]: Why are you shaking it? WOMAN: Helps get the noodles out of the can when you pour it. [She pulls the tab up and peels off the lid of the can. She tosses the lid into the trash and dumps the contents of the can into her bowl.] See? MAN: Ah. [He returns to his meal. The WOMAN throws out the can, grabs her spoon, and gently stirs the bowl’s contents. He looks up again.] You know you don’t have to stir the soup before you nuke it, right? WOMAN [glowering with her back to him]: I know. MAN: Then why do you do it?

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WOMAN: I don’t know, mix it up, spread the water around a bit. MAN: Gotcha. [He looks back down and continues eating. The WOMAN puts the bowl in the microwave, sets the timer for 2:45, and hits “Start.” The MAN looks up once more—much to the WOMAN’s dismay.] 2:45? That’s such a random number. [He laughs. She sighs.] WOMAN [putting her hands on her hips and facing him]: Yep. MAN: Why not just a full three? WOMAN: The can says “2½ to 3 minutes,” so I took the average. MAN [shaking his head and chuckling]: You’re so weird. WOMAN: I’m not the one who’s strangely concerning himself with someone else’s microwaving technique. MAN: I’m not concerned. Just observant. WOMAN: I didn’t say “concerned,” I said “concerning.” There’s a difference. MAN: Whatever you say . . . WOMAN: That’s what I thought. [Nothing is said for a while. The microwave beeps and the WOMAN, believing the MAN to be finally done with his constant yapping, sits down at the table with her lunch. She takes a few spoonfuls, grateful that he has given up. After a moment, however, he notices her soup and furrows his brow.] MAN: You’re eating chicken noodle? I much prefer tomato. WOMAN: Oh, for fuck’s sake! [END OF SCENE]

Spring 2018

Brooke Cochrane Beau There is only one seat open on this ratty bus. My eyes scan the rows once more before sitting in the cramped seat. I clutch my bag to my chest and nonchalantly look over at the person next to me. His rugged and dry beard looks as if it’s going to fall off of his face and onto his dirt-filled lap. I try not to gag as I look around hoping I missed a seat. Nope. I slouch back in the seat and close my eyes. I bought a 12:00pm ticket to Seattle, the furthest city from Tallahassee that this bus can take me to. My body shakes as the bus goes over bumps and sinks into potholes. The man’s beard grazes my arm and I flinch. Can’t he control his facial hair? Can he at least move over a bit? I peer over and notice his body is pressed against the window. Looking up at his face, I see his eyes glaring down at me. I sit back in my seat and keep looking forward. He’s probably thinking of ways to kill me. I’ll take her judging eyes and rip them out of her face if she doesn’t stop staring at me. I don’t like this anymore than she does. The bus rattles as it stops and I silently pray he gets off. Just my luck, he stays. But other people scatter to get off before others. My eyes dart to an open row of seats and I quickly move over to it. I lean against the lumpy headrest and stare over at the man. He just looks out the window not even acknowledging that I left. Just as I’m getting comfortable, a woman sits next to me, with her pink purse bigger than my face. Her high-pitched voice fills my ears and I try to imagine how painful it would be to jump out of this window. She’s complaining to someone on the phone as she reaches her hand into her bag and pulls out her wallet. I can see the green spilling out already. I reach into my bag and pull out my headphones, sticking them in my ears before I plug them into my phone. I turn my music onto the highest volume, but I can still hear her. I can’t make out words, but I can hear her nagging voice. No, I can’t go to that fancy restaurant at six, I have to get my nails and hair done first. How’s eight? I can only imagine that’s what she could be talking about so loudly. I would rather be next to Smelly Beard than this squawking bitch. We slowly roll to a stop and I contemplate getting off here. I would have to walk the rest of the way. Is it worth the suffering? I look at the woman’s smug face as her eyes scan me up and down. Yes, it is. I stand up, shove my headphones back into my bag and try to move past her, but she isn’t budging. I look down at her and she scoffs at me as if I’m inconveniencing her. “You know, you could make this a lot easier if you would move your bag. Please.” She rolls her eyes and lifts her bag onto her lap. I step by her and smile devilishly. Bitch. I walk to the front of the bus, but stop when the doors close. My body jolts forward and I grip onto the pole to stop myself from falling. Great. Next to me is an open row of seats and I don’t hesitate to sit down. I silently pray that no one else sits with me on my long journey. I groan and whisk my head around as I feel someone sit next to me. I turn to shoo them away, but stop quickly when I look into his entrancing blue eyes. I close my mouth and stare at him. “Hi.” he says. “Uh, hi. Hello.” I look around and notice other empty seats. Seats that he didn’t take. I open my mouth to tell him, but close it quickly. “I’m Beau.”

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“Sawyer.” “As in Tom?” I laugh. “I honestly think it’s because my parents desperately wanted a boy, but then they had me. So, they just gave me a boy’s name.” “Sawyer is a unisex name.” “Yeah, whatever.” He chuckles softly and shakes his head. I turn and rest my head on the window again. It’s warmer now. I try not to notice him as I watch the trees zip by in a blur. I can still slightly hear the woman babbling away on the phone. Doesn’t she get sick of talking? I wonder if Beau can hear her. What does he think of her? I peer over at him and see him looking up at the roof. His square-shape jaw clenches as he grinds his teeth. What could possibly be going through his head? Why did I decide to sit next to someone who’s name is Sawyer? That’s fucking weird. I close my eyes and push those thoughts away. Those are the same thoughts that put me on this bus. “She’s loud, isn’t she?” Beau says. I stare at him confused. He jabs his thumb towards the back of the bus, “The lady with the purse I could hide a body in. She’s been talking about her hair since I got on.” “She was talking about her nails before.” “How intriguing.” I half-smile and go back to leaning against the window. I close my eyes; maybe I should sleep. It’s going to be a long ride. I shuffle in my seat until I’m as comfortable as I can be. “Where are you headed?” I roll my eyes and look over at him, “Why?” “Just wondering since were going to be bus buddies for the long-haul.” “How do you know I’m not getting off at the next stop?” “You were about to fall asleep.” “Thanks for that, by the way.” I lean my head against the window again and close my eyes. I feel him staring at me, but I try not to focus on that. Should I count sheep or some shit? “You never answered my question.” “Where are you going?” He stares at me and smirks. “My mom taught me to never talk to strangers.” Sitting next to Smelly Beard is starting to sound better and better. His eyes no longer intrigue me. In fact, they annoy me. Stupid fucking blue eyes. The bus rolls to a stop, the last one in Florida before we head to Louisiana. A majority of the crowd gets up and leaves. I snatch my bag, scurry past Beau and into an empty seat, as far away as I can be from him. I turn my music on once again, turning up the volume I close my eyes. Should I even bother trying to sleep? I’m just going to get interrupted again. I squint in Beau’s direction and see him looking at the roof again. What is so interesting about it? It’s lined with dirt and rust. Let him stare at it. At least it keeps his attention away from me. I close my eyes and let sleep take over.

Spring 2018

*** “Hey Sawyer.” I jump from my peaceful sleep and look at my surroundings. The sky is pink with a hint of orange. The bus seems to be quiet. Where am I? What time is it? My eyes trail over to Beau and my face falls flat. “God, what?” “Nothing. I just got bored sitting over there all by myself.” “You know, you…never mind.” “What were you listening to?” “Baby Got Back.” “I love that song.” I stare up at him. “I’m fucking joking. No one listens to that voluntarily.” He smiles. “You swear a lot.” “You’re annoying.” “I’m just trying to make conversation.” “Can you make it by yourself? Please, leave me alone.” Beau stands trying to stay balanced and searches for another open seat. I didn’t realize that Smelly Beard and Squawking Bitch left. Nosy Loner: that’s what I’ll call Beau. He slouches with his bag by his feet. My eyes shift to his shoes; there’s a hole near his pinky toe. He’s wearing red socks. I laugh silently and shake my head. Doesn’t he know how to dress himself? I look at the rest of his appearance: ripped up jeans with multiple stains, a shirt that’s just a bit too loose, and unkempt hair. How did I not notice that before? I bite my lip and look down at my own shoes that have holes in them. Do I go over there or do I stay in my seat? After all, I’m finally by myself. He reminds me of myself. Maybe he got on this bus for the same reason I did. Maybe he wants to get away too. I shouldn’t have yelled at him. He was just trying to get to know me. There isn’t much to know. But that doesn’t mean I can’t get to know him. “Ah, fuck,” I whisper to myself. I grab my stuff and walk over to Beau and sit with him. He looks at me and gives me a half-smile. “Blink-182.” “What?” “That’s who I was really listening to.” “Basic.” I shove his shoulder lightly and we share a laugh. He smiles down at me and I hand him the other earbud. He takes it and sticks it in and then starts to nod his head to the beat. After what feels like hours, I start to nod off into sleep and when I wake, my head is lying firmly on Beau’s shoulder. He’s staring out the window staring at the pink sky. He looks down at me and smiles. I smile back. “The next stop is in New Orleans and I think I’m going to get off there,” he says. My heart sinks a bit. “Oh, okay.” “Do you want to come with me?” The bus slowly comes to a stop at a near empty bus stop and Beau stands up, stretching his hand towards me. And I take it. Maybe we can be loners together.

Eastern Exposure

Samantha Price

§ 41

Gas Station Almost no one visited the gas station at two in the morning, except for Alex. His rusty car rolled up to the lonely building outside of town, groaning in agony. Pulling up to the near empty store, Alex saw the old cashier look up at the sound of the failing engine struggling to survive. The “N” on the neon “OPEN” sign flickered between being on and off, almost like it couldn’t decide whether to be alive or dead. Alex understood. Turning off his car, he walked into the store. The old cashier gave him a smile and wave in greeting, which Alex half-heartedly returned. He made a beeline for the coffee, yawning while he poured. Usually, he was asleep at two in the morning, but this wasn’t a usual night. After another yawn and a rub of his eyes, Alex grabbed a six pack of beer; the cheap stuff, and a Kit-Kat bar and placed his items on the counter. The cashier looked Alex up and down, probably deciding if this tired teenager was going to rob the place or not. Alex couldn’t blame him. His greasy hair and black hoodie probably didn’t help, not to mention the dark circles under his eyes. It felt like he hadn’t slept in three years. “How’re you?” the old man said once he decided Alex didn’t present a threat. The man’s face was mostly clean shaven, except for a few stubborn stray hairs that hung on around his chin. The bald spot on his head reflected the bright florescent lights of the store and a spot of something, maybe coffee, stained the front left of his shirt. The nametag right above the stain read “Gary”. “Just these,” Alex mumbled, gesturing towards the beer, candy, and coffee. Gary looked from the beer to Alex, raising an eyebrow. “Are you even old enough to buy beer, kid?” the old man’s voice was rough and gravely, like he’s smoked just one too many cigars. “Yeah,” Alex pulled out his fake ID and placed it on the counter. Swallowing, he wiped his sweaty palms on the inside pockets of his hoodie and looked out towards his car. Gary put on the pair of glasses hanging on a chain around his neck and peered at the fake. His eyes ran over it for a few seconds before eyeing Alex suspiciously. “You’re Max Woodrow’s boy?” he asked. “Yes sir,” Alex nodded. “When’s your birthday,” it was more of a statement than a question. “May 22nd,” “Year?” Crap. What year was the fake Alex born in? “It says it on the card,” he said. “I know that. Now just tell me what year you were born in, son,” “Look, can’t I just have the beer? I’m sure you don’t wanna be having this argument at this time of day,” “That is a good point,” Gary leaned closer to Alex, “why are you trying to buy beer at 2 a.m.?” He tried to think of a good excuse. His girlfriend broke up with him. He was having a party and they ran out. His dad wanted some but was too lazy to buy it himself. But each time, reality crept back in. There was no way Alex was going to tell this cashier

Spring 2018

all his problems, like the fact that his father was divorcing his mom only hours after they found out her cancer is terminal. Gary wouldn’t care about that. “Look, just give it to me, alright?” Alex yelled, his throat closing up. Hot tears formed in his eyes. He tried to hold everything back, but it all came crashing down in a few short sobs. Alex could feel the water fall down his cheeks and the snot bubbling from his nose. After a few seconds, he pulled most of himself back together. Wiping his nose with his sleeve, Alex met the eyes of Gary. “Take it,” he said, “I won’t tell anyone,” “You sure?” Alex said. Gary nodded. “I’ll let you do it just this once, but don’t go around telling everyone I’m giving out booze to minors. And just be careful, kid,” Quickly Alex paid, grabbed his things, and left. He sat in his car for a moment, wondering if Gary was telling the truth or if he was gonna call the cops. Or worse, his dad. About half an hour later, Alex was by himself in an empty field, sitting on the hood of his car and watching the lone highway. He took the last sip out of his third beer and crumpled up the can, tossing it somewhere behind him, thinking about the flickering “N” on the sign and the awkwardness of the place between living and dead.

Eastern Exposure

Ben Firsick

§ 43

Holes through the Sun Green Flamingo I had met him when I was nineteen. He was already twenty-two by then and had a few legs up on me. We were young, raw, and mean. I remember that much. I was standing outside the Green Flamingo, probably high, rolling and smoking cigarettes one after another with this dip-wick named Johnny I’d met some nights before. Johnny saw him first, pounding down the parkway in black leather head to toe, combat boots, shades and a headful of blonde-white hair. He looked like if James Dean and Marilyn Monroe had fucked. Johnny, being the toothpick he was, practically ogles over himself while saying, “Heyya commando, how’s the war, eh?” And he stops and stares at Johnny like crazy, like his eyes were on fire, but he was happy inside. My God, I tell you I’ve never seen it before or after, he could’ve burned holes through the sun with that stare. I knew it was up before it was and I took three steps back watching this black angel grab Johnny by the throat and push him against the Flamingo’s wall. He hit Johnny then ten or twenty times. By the time he was through, Johnny had collapsed to the pavement like a bundle of sticks. Next thing I know he’s lookin’ at me with those eyes. I can tell right away we’ll be good friends. I say, “Want a smoke?” and he says, “Yeah.” We went inside, drinking and gambling the night through till morning came up. I noticed leaving that Johnny had left only a smudge where he was still on the wall. Frogs He said the first time he killed something was when he was ten. Frogs in the marsh down by the trees near his house. He told me how ugly they’d looked, so bloated and brown and unlikable. He didn’t even think twice, I imagine. I’d like to think he thought he was doin’ ‘em a favor. He told me that when he shot them with his wrist rocket, they didn’t even move, just croaked. Literally. Fur Coats He told me how once when he was a child, three men came to his door and his Pa had been missin’ I think for three or four days. His sweet ole Mama answer and say, “How you do, gentleman?” and they say, “Fine day, Ma’am.” They tell her that his daddy ran into problems down at the Green Flamingo and that he was bein’ held intermittently. Now she says, “Intermittently?” and they say, “Yes Ma’am” but really, she knows the whole; while her husband run into debt on some race or fight or coin toss or other. Pleasantries aside, she invited them in for a cup of tea. That’s what he said he remembers the most, the three polite gentleman dressed in suits and ties sippin’ tea out of his Mama’s china. He said this, though, and he said it sour. By the time the last empty cup had been placed on its saucer she had left and re-entered the room three times, each time bringin’ in an armload of fur coats. Minx, fox, raccoon, rabbit, sable…one was even skunk, he said. These three fellas took the coats and left. Walking out the door they told his Mama to have a nice day, smiling pleasantly. They told her to take care of her son. Thought One night lyin’ on those flea bag bunks he told me of the time he thought he was in love. It was a low-end call girl named Shelley, hair blonder than his, crooked smile

Spring 2018

with a pocketful of teeth. She listened to him, I guess, only person other’n me to try. He was 16. I remember him sitting up. I could hear the bed springs shift in the dark above me when he told me how he started pullin’ her hair out. Single strands. One by one. On accident, he said. He called her up midmorning one day and she came by. They were at it and the money was on the bureau when he told me he couldn’t stop lookin’ at her hair, couldn’t see anything other than her bleach-blond hair. She told him to quit it, but he didn’t listen much. She panicked, thrashing, screaming. He hit her, fist closed and hard. He told me he had laughed at her and when he said it something like pain clogged his dark voice. He had laughed and she had cried. Shelley didn’t come around after that. I guess I can’t blame her for dippin’. I guess not even she could bear those eyes one hour longer. Rolling Papers We never should’ve been there in the first place. I’d forgotten my rollin’ papers that night. Turns out that’d be what damned us both to hell. Just some little Ma-and-Pop kind of store you see on every corner, shelves stuffed with all kinds of miscellany; toilet cleaner, Twinkies, beer, antacid, smokes, spare rope, tarps and more. We walked in pretty lit and I stumbled over the door lip. The guy behind the counter inhaled sharp. Maybe he could smell the trouble on us. Maybe he could just smell the liquor. We went to the back freezer and grabbed two forty ounces. I carried them to the front and asked for papers. I must’ve slurred some because the guy behind the counter said he wouldn’t serve us. He said we were intoxicated. I told him we weren’t, insisting that we’d be out of his head in only a second or two. It didn’t work. I’ve thought since then what else I could’ve done, what I could’ve said to make that man give us what we needed. My friend, standin’ next to me, said “Do it, fucker.” The man said, “No.” The black angel pulled out the gun I knew he had, a hand-me-down S&W, shining silver in the florescent lights. “Do it.” He said, wavin’ the thing in front of the guys face. I looked away after seein’ the man’s eyes, I knew what was comin’. The storeowner wasn’t brave, wasn’t defiant, wasn’t resisting. He just froze up, for maybe a second too long. A couple of days later they picked us up. It was stupid, of course, too easy for them to find us since our faces were on the stores candy camera. There wasn’t much of an interrogation either. Neither of us had lied. We found that out later, together, in our cell. Paradigm (Penny-Dimes) Prison was hard, but he seemed at home there. Me, I wasn’t much for it. I’m a country boy at heart and dank walls don’t do much for the soul. Him, though, man. Sometimes I’d look at him and I’d just know he was seeing somethin’ else. Where I saw two bars, he saw three. Where I saw walls, he saw windows. I see predators, he sees prey. Different. That much he was. Even in the courtyard, when all you could see was swarms of faded blue jumpsuits, you could pick him out like a penny in a bag of dimes, standing there like a tree trunk, flat stare and immovable. He was something else. I only became his cellmate because of some mishap, you see. The first inmate to cell with my friend introduced himself quite aggressively. He lasted only a short while and nobody else

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wanted to bunk in the same room afterwards. I didn’t mind, though, besides, this was my friend, my partner and protector. If you knew him he was pretty alright, just didn’t say much or smile. When I got out, though, they had a rookie all lined up to cell with him. I saw the rook as I was escorted out. He looked greener than a leaf off a tree. Red I guess now, the thought that comes to mind is, why, in the first place, did it all start? Lots of time to think in ten years…but time is relative. Many hours spent thinkin’, but not many hours of living. Do I blame him? I don’t know. All I know is that I was there and I stood by my friend. Stood there, as he shot the guy, three times. Nobody screamed. No one cried out. No one was there to see what we’d seen, for that moment at least. Stiff armed and barrel smoke risin’ in curls, he said, “Grab some cartons.” I went behind the counter, steppin’ over the guy and the blood. I thought I was gonna vomit on him. I thought I was gonna vomit on this poor guy’s last moment living. “What you want!?” I half screamed, frenzied, peering down the shelf. “Reds.” He said calmly, coolly, casually. I hated him in that moment. I remember hating him with all my fiber, right there behind the counter, squatting over the man he killed. I guess when we met he seemed cool. I guess he seemed superior, the alpha male, but more too. It wasn’t just his angry face or sarcastic smile. It wasn’t the black leather and combat boots, or the white-blond hair and shades. His eyes. They were always there, burning in his head, burning into people and the world. What I saw in those eyes wasn’t love or happiness or a friendship that fostered warm memories. I saw someone who could protect me, someone who could get the job done, someone who made people feel fear. He was a worst-enemy kind of a guy, so havin’ him on my side was best case scenario. Maybe that’s just some lousy excuse. Maybe it’s nothing. Many times have I thought, what if? What if I had missed him, in the crowded parkway. What if he had never entered my life? Would it really be better? Would I have fared worse? Maybe. Ugly Brains I heard he died a couple days back, I guess that’s why I’m thinking of him now. Shank in the gut. I guess even black angels get old and slow. If I were a betting man, which I’m not, I’d a say he’d outlast us all. The sad truth is just it; the whole thing’s messy, the whole wide world and all the ugly brains. Uglier than him comin’ home to his Mama bloodied and bruised by his drunk daddy. Uglier than the man I saw him kill. Uglier than the red blood, uglier than the red cartons, uglier than fur coats and the money on the bureau. Uglier than those frogs. Uglier than Shelley’s smile. I’ll never understand it all, but that’s ok. I never needed to understand to get it. One day, maybe soon, I’ll go and visit him, outside the Green Flamingo, standing there in black leather and combat boots rolling cigarettes with one hand. Maybe soon I’ll see those eyes, burning through me once more.

Spring 2018

Lauren Mondak The Heart of the Night Scars can be seen and scars can be buried beneath emotions and feelings, under layers of regrowth, but they’re still there in some way. They always remain a part of us whether we want to believe it or not. It doesn’t mean that they always hold a high priority in our life, but there’s an influence that is imprinted on us; like how our family and friends have an influence over how we live. Everyone carries their own emotional baggage from the experiences that they have, and as much as I try to forget mine, I know that there’s always a part of me that will remember it. It was a warm summer evening; the sun had begun to set behind the hills. The air was starting to hold a chill, and I wrapped myself further into my sweatshirt as another breeze swept by. He was almost a half an hour late and although I should have waited in my car, I couldn’t help but try to calm myself with the cold that I was settling into. I had wandered for a bit hoping for anything to explain why he was so late, but after receiving nothing, I ended up finding myself on a set of bleachers at a soccer field. There was a part of me that began hoping that he either wouldn’t find me, or would just disappear off the face of the earth and make things easier but when I saw headlights in the distance, I knew my hopes were dashed. Not being able to look at his face, I kept my head staring into the light reflecting off the bleachers and continually traced back and forth along the creased lines in the metal. It wasn’t until I stopped hearing the crunching of the grass under his shoes that I even dared to look up at his shadow. There was a long point of silence before he spoke up realizing that I wasn’t going to be able to start the conversation. “So…. why did you ask me to come here?” he started. I wanted desperately to spill my guts to everything I was feeling, but I had the blatant fear of him thinking I was crazy or simply him just not responding to anything at all. I didn’t really know which was worse, but neither seemed like a good option. In fact, it was probably the moment itself, but I couldn’t bring my mind to think of anything positive. I guess it was too long before responding because he cleared his throat to zone me back in to reality. Shaking my head to try to clear my racing thoughts, I responded as vaguely as I could. “I just wanted to talk.” With a sigh, he responded. “I figured out that much, but what’s going on?” It was annoying on how much he could read me like a book, but I still tried to cover my tracks. “What do you mean?” “Ok, cut the crap. I know that there’s clearly something wrong, and you wanted me to come here to talk, so talk.” His patience was clearly starting to wear thin. Knowing that I had backed myself into a corner and considering the fact that I was the one who invited him there in the first place, my common sense was slowly beginning to kick in. I hesitated slightly but as the first words came, the rest came easier,

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and before I knew it, words were coming out of my mouth before I even fully had the ability to comprehend what they meant. “So, I…. well I…. I need to tell you something, and I want to get it all out there before you say anything.” I paused for a minute as he nodded his head to signal he was listening. “I’ve had so much that I’ve been wanting to say, but I never knew how to bring it up with you, especially with everything going on. I mean you have everything figured out; you’re going away to school, you’re happy, and I’m just here. I feel like ever since you’ve found this new path of yours, I’m not included, and that I never will be, and then, it makes me question whether or not we’re friends, and I don’t want to think about that answer because it just hurts and…” I didn’t fully understand if I actually got any type of point across to him because my head worked its way down again the more I spoke. It wasn’t until I felt a hand on my back that I even recognized that he hadn’t run away from me and what I thought to be my psychotic breakdown. It made my head quickly snap up to stare at him in disbelief. “I had no idea,” was all he said. “Well yeah, of course you didn’t because I didn’t want you to,” I snapped at him. I would have tried to retract it, but at that moment, I was passed the point of caring. There was really no going back unless I had the DeLorean from Back to the Future, and my chances of that appearing to save me were looking pretty slim. “Ok, you don’t have to snap at me because you can be blamed here, too. You never thought to bring this up to me sooner, and how was I supposed to know what was going on if you won’t tell me?” “Because you weren’t exactly around for me to tell, now were you?” I shouted back at him as his face dropped from anger into confusion. “What are you talking about?” His genuine face of confusion was causing me to react the opposite of what I was expecting. Instead of sadness, I was simply more infuriated. “Oh, I don’t know maybe it’s the ignoring me, the replacing me with your new friends, the leaving me in the dust…just to name a few.” Towards the end of my slight rant, I took a moment to catch my breath, and it was only then that I truly began to understand what I had said over the course of the last few minutes. My mood shifted almost instantly as I got up from my spot and started to pace the field up and down while muttering to myself in frustration. The silence of the person behind me was not helping my persistent unhinged behavior, and the waiting game of a response seemed to have a similar result. Time seemed to pass by slowly as I started my way back towards the bleachers for about the third time still never looking up. I knew that something had to happen for me to resolve my slow steps to madness, and there were only one of two options that

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I had to do. I was deciding on which one was the better as I approached him, although I didn’t even have time to finish my thoughts before I saw him running up to me. He stopped a couple feet from me and paused. “Ok, now this time, you aren’t allowed to talk until I get all this out here.” I didn’t have time to nod before he spoke up again. “I think that you ignoring me because I was ignoring you is absolutely stupid, and if anything, I feel like you’ve been doing that long before I did that to you. Yeah, we’ve always been friends, but I don’t’ know if we’ve ever really connected. I mean what is there, really? I’m not trying to hurt you, but clearly, us being friends isn’t helping you either here, so maybe….” He hesitated. Before he could respond I cut in, I couldn’t help myself. “Please don’t say it. I get it.” My voice was barely a whisper, so it was a miracle he even heard me. “Hey,” he lifted my head up with his hand. “You’ve been an amazing friend to me, and I can’t thank you for everything you’ve done, but I think we both know it’s time for us to move on. I mean I am.” Staring him straight in the eyes, I didn’t know how any words came out of my mouth without me stuttering. “I think it’s time you go then,” my voice didn’t even register to my own ears. “Ok, if that’s what you want.” ‘No, it’s not what I want,’ I wanted to scream at him, but I knew that it would only make things more difficult for me. I was in that state of mind in which you know that what you’re hearing is the truth, and although you don’t want to accept it, you know that you may have to for the sake of your sanity. Not trusting myself to speak without releasing the tears surfacing in my eyes, I simply nodded my head. “Ok.” I could picture him shaking his head because I wouldn’t dare to look up. “I don’t know how you put up with me this long anyway.” I could imagine his partial grin after trying to crack a joke like he used to make me laugh. There’s a part of me that hoped he had tears in his eyes too as he carried himself away, but I was never truly sure. All I remember after that was bringing up my head to look at the looming darkness in front of me and the stars above my head giving me some slight form of light. I knew he was long gone but I still felt the need to say it aloud, to make it real, “Because I love you, you idiot.” Easy to say that that day remained imprinted in my memory for many reasons, but the main one being the heartbreak that I felt. The scar that he left on my heart is one that will always be there. As they say, first loves never truly die. However, as I have come to discover, every person you meet carries some emotional scar, mainly of a love like mine, but there’s someone there that can heal it. Don’t see it as a fault, but a beauty because from every wound there is a scar, and every scar tells a story. A story that says, I survived.

Eastern Exposure

Imani Futrell

§ 49

The Old Man Al Fenkins grew up in the town of Ahoskie, North Carolina. While his mother worked on the field at home, his father worked at their family ran shop. His mother, expecting a child at the time, lost her child within three weeks of her pregnancy. Devastated by the news, Al wept within his mother’s arms. Hoping her comfort would help him. He then returned from school that day he saw a dog stuck in a ditch yelping for his life. He looked at the dog in his brown eyes, dark chocolate skin, shining off the suns glow. Al turned around and left only to grab his friend Delilah to help him. *** In the fall, Al moved out of his parent’s house with his girlfriend Delilah. Once they were married, they bought a huge property with a massive house. Everything was great until Delilah divorced him within a month. Old man Al was known for his aggressiveness towards others. He was both kind and deceitful. He was the type of person you would never know anything about but, felt like he was a great guy behind closed doors. *** The old man was driving one day and saw a woman sitting on the side of the road. She looked upset and like she had not eaten within days. He left only to return with a blanket, a piece of bread, and a seat in his car. Within the next three years, the woman and Al decided to get married. Due to the loss of his little brother, in his younger years they decided to remain without kids. Before meeting this woman Al, was also with another at the time named Carol. After getting to know him. She decided to leave him. Before she left, she obtained three bruises running down her spine and a black eye. *** The old hound walks past the barn everyday past noon. He walks, pacing around the field with his fur well-groomed and ears listening to the gentle sounds of the windy day. Before he makes his daily rounds, he ascends up the stairs and barks at the gun that sits by the old man’s shoes. While fixing his straw hat, gestures to his dog to come towards him and laze upon him. The old man looks toward the open road, glaring at the dirt in front of him. The old man suddenly looks towards the barn and grunts. Hearing the sorrow screams from inside. He gets up and cautiously walks over to the barn with his gun. He approaches the large red doors. The old man never acknowledged the barn before; within the red doors there are brown splits covered in moss and that same dirt that he always gazed at on his large-scale porch. He takes the lock into his hands and puts in the three-number combination and heard the snap of the metal bars. He throws it into a rusty maroon old bucket. The sound travels through his ears as he opens the door. He takes one step in and looks to the left. He sees a figure and stares. From the broken window above, the light shines down revealing a mysterious figure.

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Out of the shadows, it reveals a woman. Her dark hair reminding him of the mixed colors of an autumn day. Her clothes had been torn apart is if a wild animal took hold of her clothes. Nothing on her feet but the bare soles and the filthy barn floor. She stares back at him with a look that could murder him right then and there. He looks her up and down. She walks over to him and looks him in the eye, then to his gun, then ending at her feet. He looked towards the woman and pushed her out the way. He fixed his brown straw hat and kept moving through the barn. *** The old man within the next few weeks went to the hospital, due to a longtime cold. Leaving the old hound and the woman to his belongings. Days pass, and the old man Al was escorted home from the hospital. He grabbed his suitcase and his hat and open the door. To his surprise he saw the barn in flames. He ran over to the barn, dropping his suitcase on the ground then goes toward the stream grabbing a bucket of water. From behind the barn appears the woman. She stares at him as he stared at her when they first met. She spreads her arms revealing the gun that he always had in his hand. She aims the brown rusty gun. Old man Al whimpers to the sound of the bullet ricocheting off the barn. He opens his eyes to see his body still intact, but the woman is gone. There the old man stood, with the wood burning on his farm.

Eastern Exposure

Ben Firsick

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Clay Soldiers I remember once in another life when I was a boy with a red hat sitting in my mother’s pottery studio, mashing worm-grey clay between my fingers, letting it ooze out in finger-sized folds. I sat in the back corner, my face a mask of calm and curiosity, while customers infiltrated “the shop”, my family’s pseudonym for the store. These customers eyed the array of porcelain white pre-baked pottery lining our shelves with skepticism and gluttony. I could see it in their eyes as they stood before us, my mother and I. These customers wanted all of our pottery and none of it. They thought our pottery was interesting tchotchkes that would complement flowers on a mantle but would never actually exchange earned dollars for something that could shatter. I remember snapping around from my purple chair to watch these women walk into our store, My Own Art. They came on Monday and Wednesday afternoons wearing white and pastel colored clothing. They spoke of diets originating from southern California (So-Cal to them). They spoke of men who did not share their last name. They laughed louder than each other and often complimented each other in the worst of ways. My mother, their peer, altruistically worked alongside them, mopping, wiping, washing, arranging, painting, sculpting, guiding, correcting, placating after them. I disliked them all immediately; their boisterously communal attitudes, sending paint my mother would later clean up splattering across table tops, disregarding it, cackling, doubled over in laughter, gasping for air. They came in all sizes, all demeanors; short haired lizards vain with gold resting in wreaths along their skin, bulbous butted hippos who smiled coyly, whispering silk like “honey” and “dear” in one direction yet venom to the opposite. They were animals, hyenas and only I could see. My mother worked beside them, enervated, averting her gaze, holding her breath, wiping her forehead sweat on the back of her pants. I didn’t know why it all seemed so fake, so phony. She stood there and told them what to do, they paid her, she worked hard, they laughed. Why then, when they looked at me did they always look away? Why then, when they looked at my mother did they always look away? Until recently I had to ask myself how the world at one time could seem so big and at another seem able to fit inside of a box. I used to ask myself why the word hypocrisy was ever thought of. Children generally are unable to understand or contextualize how the dual nature of living often precludes the standard of what appears as right and wrong. In given contexts, what may seem as right is wrong and conversely. Children are unaware that there can be beauty in pain and that there is always pain in beauty. Ignorance is bliss, the saying goes, yet ignorance without the fear of pretending is to be a child. Adults understand two-sided living but choose to ignore the implications that lead to their own sense of conscious morality within every day, mundane moments.

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Right and wrong merely becomes action and inaction rather than a process of emotions. Watching customers treat my mother with disregard and subtle disdain made me understand that there are two sides to life. Two sides to people. Two sides to a world that offers equal shares of respect and disrespect. Are beauty and pain and love and anger easier to be compartmentalized through callus nature? Is life more approachable when all the moments are dismissed into everyday indifference? Could these people, these customers, not notice the morning dew glisten in soft sunlight as they opened their car doors heading to work? Could they not see the tired hands cashing them out? Or the stress fractures in the faces around them? Could they not smell the air and thank the fact that their heart still beats again one day longer? Writing now almost a decade after My Own Art, I ask myself, can I? Could my mother? When children came into the shop in groups of birthday-party-fifteens I didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t dislike them, they were my peers and they saw me as that. There were no false thoughts of contempt behind their eyes, only curiosity. It was new to them, the pottery, the paints and colors. They could hardly wait to feel the elastic texture of clay, hold a paintbrush, use glaze, mix colors in dizzying swirls. I would watch them through the window as they bubbled in the parking lot, finally corralled in by a parent or two who looked as if they had been assaulted by a hive of bees. They were inebriated with wonder as if something new had entered their worlds that could last forever. I envied them and their wonder as I watched them trace shelves lined with parch-white sculptures. To them it seemed a sea of possibilities, a horse that could be a unicorn or a penguin that could be purple. To me they were just figurines or cups or bowls I had taken out of boxes the morning before and placed in parallel lines. The figurines stood there during the times when it was just my mother and I, they stood there when the shop was inundated with bodies, they stood there when the lights were off and outside it was dark. They were clay soldiers to the little boy in the red hat. They watched over us as we sweat through good times and bad, boredom and panic, embarrassment and praise. I think of these clay soldiers now, as a twentysomething youth attempting to be a writer. I think of my mother and her form of art. I see her by the pottery wheel sitting in a stool we had painted together, stooped over like a statue in thought, hands flecked with paint and the crust of dried clay, smut flung in haphazard spackles along her shirt-smock, hair standing in auburn corkscrews. Sunlight would turn her hair into copper wire sprung with electricity as amber eyes soldered unwavering concentration into hands that shaped and formed, guided and caressed the clay mound before her until it was something else, some creation of beauty that could not be understood but only admired. She taught me how by guiding my hands, constantly reminding me to reapply moisture, stenciling in patterns and images with her fingers over my own. I didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t have the gift she did yet, I always knew that this was

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her art, this was her respite from the world, from the people, from the angry voices and the rude glares. Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve come to realize that people are made of clay. They are malleable and innocent as children who canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t see beauty and pain in symbiotic form. They see only light and dark, good and bad, ugliness and truth. As people age they harden, becoming less porous, less willing to bend and shape themselves into pieces of art. They believe errantly their form is always what they have been and always what they will be. Moisture can always be reapplied, settings can always be seen differently, and life can be taken without chicory in the mouth and words spoken without silk or venom. People allow themselves to become clay soldiers, lining shelves that are observed but forgotten, hardening themselves until they can smile no more. Even after My Own Art, I still felt the clay soldiers watching me from afar, taunting me, jibing me to fall in line and salute from the parch-white shelves. I think of my mother in these moments, behind her pottery wheel, focused on her work, on her love, on her art. She knew then what I know now; life is only lived through the mediation of love, life is only lived through work, through care and consideration. Without love, without art or fulfillment from creation, clay soldiers are destined to harden in straight file lines along shelves that gather dust.

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Contributors Notes Matthew Bessette, of Lebanon, CT, is a junior English and theatre double major with plans to teach at the high school level. His scriptwriting credits include a fulllength comedy, three one-act children’s plays, a ten-minute neo-noir tragedy, two short comedies, and a satirical short film—all of which have been produced. Julia Bonadies is an English major from Vernon, CT. She loves coffee, her grumpy cat, ultimate Frisbee, and 80’s cult classics. Courtney Botteron is a senior English major from Vernon. She says that the most interesting thing about her is that she is a quadruplet and one of seven children. Tyler Clough is a junior-year transfer student and freelance graphic designer. Brooke Cochrane, a communication major at Eastern, is she 2017-2018 president of Eastern’s Creative Writing Club. She has been writing for almost ten years and wishes to pursue it after college. Beth Crocker is a creative writing major from Ellington, CT. She has a passion for music, both listening to it and playing it, and attends many concerts in her spare time. She enjoys writing poetry, fiction, and blog posts, and looks forward to publishing her own novel(s) and a career in music journalism one day. Briana DuBois is from Canterbury, CT. A recent Eastern grad with a degree in sociology, she says she’s still completely unsure what exactly it is she wants in life. In fact, the only thing she is sure about is that she wants to write. Ben Firsick lives in South Windsor, CT, and likes to write. Imani Futrell is currently a sophomore at Eastern. Ellery Hall is a junior new media studies major at Eastern. London Jones is a visual arts major whose piece in this issue was created in the third week of 2016. Ryan King is an English major from Canterbury, CT. After declaring a writing minor, he began to use poetry in order to get a better understanding of his feelings regarding situations and relationships in his life. Haley Knox is a mathematics major from Bristol, CT. She is a member of the Eastern cross country and track and field teams.

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Joshua LeBlanc is an Eastern senior majoring in English, creative writing from Wallingford, CT. He is also an avid martial artist and is the current world champion in Creative Open Breaking. Jessica Miclon, who grew up in Enfield, CT, is an English major with a creative writing concentration, sociology minor, and women’s studies minor. She hopes to one day be a professor of creative writing and live with many small animal friends. Sage Min (Shuonan Peng) is a member of the class of 2021 majoring in visual arts. Lauren Mondak is a business major from Thomaston, CT. She has danced for sixteen years and hopes to open her own bakery in the future. Hason Peart, from Hartford, currently studies political science at Eastern, has two dogs named Sweat and Cornflake, and had a dog named Clifford, who wasn’t red. Samantha Price is a junior creative writing and digital art and design double major with a minor in photography. From Cheshire, CT, she has a part of Eastern Chamber Singers for three years and owns a cat named after a Star Wars character. Jacob St. Jean is an English major graduating this December. He is from Andover, CT. When he’s not writing, he enjoys playing guitar. Natalia Torcaso is a double major in English and secondary education with a minor in Spanish. Anna Hope Whalon is a visual arts major with a concentration in illustration. Her dream is to animate for Disney. She believes that everyone deserves to use art as a way to express themselves and feel. Deirdre Volk is a junior from Windsor, CT, majoring in pre-early childhood education and sociology.

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Dear Readers, Thank you for taking the time to read the 2018 Eastern Exposure. We hope that you have enjoyed its contents. This literary journal is the product of the Creative Writing Club, but also of every writer who submits poems, short stories, creative nonfiction, plays, and scripts. If you would like to submit to the magazine for the 2019 issue, we will be accepting submissions at the beginning of the Fall 2018 semester. With each new year, more and more submissions come in. We hope to see even more submissions next year. Guidelines for submissions are as follows: •

Students may submit up to 5 pieces (10 pages) in any combination of genres, such as poetry, fiction, creative nonfiction, drama, and scriptwriting.

•

Work must be submitted through our Submittable account: easternwriters. submittable.com/submit.

In addition to publishing Eastern Exposure, the Creative Writing Club hosts visiting authors, creative writing workshops, open mic coffeehouses, and other cultural events throughout the year. We are what we are because of our members. If you are an Eastern student who has the love of reading and writing that we share, please feel free to join us! Club meetings for the Fall 2018 and Spring 2019 semesters will be posted at the start of each term on our website: website: http://www1.easternct.edu/writersguild/ If you have any questions about club membership, our magazine, or our activities and club events, or if would like to be added to our email list, feel free to contact the Creative Writing Club at easternwriters@my.easternct.edu. Thank you once again for reading the 2018 Eastern Exposure! —The Creative Writing Club

Eastern Exposure