Fine Print Literary Magazine

Spring 2012

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Fine Print

Fine Cover Design Digital Enhancement

Print

Vanessa L. Andrew Sarah M. Knight

Created , edited, & published by: Editor-in-Chief

Craig H. Meaney

Managing Editor

Emily M. Reigart

Assistant Editor

Katie G. Pebley

Project Manager

Jenny E. Kley

Vanessa L. Andrew

Art Director

Copy Editor

Shanna M. Kirgan

Submissions Committee

Noel N. Abastillas

Š Elizabethtown College, Spring 2012 Contributing authors and artists were selected by our editing team from a large number of submissions by students at Elizabethtown College.

Advisor

Andrew S. Herm

Christian V. Sammartino

Amy R. Schulze

Jesse Waters

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T a b l e

o f

C o n t e n t s

6 Megan Wooster

17 Andrew Herm

7 Laurel Taylor

18 Stacey Kreston

8 Marie Loiseau

19 Lauren Stine

Tire Swing Sub-urban

A man is like a winter jacket

9 Alexa Viscardi

Peace, Love & Literature

10 Lauren Stine

The Book of Love

11 Samantha Bruno Sunset

12 Christian Sammartino

Through the Undergrowth until Sunset

The Truth

The Overrated Key The Inner Dialogue is on its Soapbox Please Fasten All Seatbelts

20 Megan Wooster Chemical Warfare

21 Noel Abastillas

The Elizabethtown Parochial School

22 Alexa Viscardi Forgotten

23 Samantha Bruno The Pheonix

13 Andrew Herm

24 Megan Wooster

14 Gina Cusimano

25 Andrew Herm

Messengers

The Light Within A Walk into the Unknown

16 Kayla Roush Tinnitus

Fine Print

Rage King

26 Jeanette Koczwara Wait Don’t Panic

28 Christian Sammartino

58 Samantha Bruno

29 Taylor Luckenbill

59 Nicolle Maioriello

AstralTurf Prayer

30 Andrew Herm Fireworks

31 Karen Soto

La Ronde: I Once Played Dominoes in an Open Air Cafe in Paris

38 Taylor Luckenbill Chaos

39 Samantha Bruno Untitled

40 Sarah Spang Untitled

41 Karen Soto

A Shiver, A Sweat

44 Gina Cusimano

A Day in Her Shoes

45 Alexa Viscardi Summer Flowers

46 Laurel Taylor

Suspended Illusion

47 Katie Pebley Backspace

51 Taylor Luckenbill Balance Act

52 Cassandra Meade A Delicate Dance

Untitled

Late Nights

5 Fine Print

MEGAN WOOSTER

Tire Swing Held by the arms of a solid cherry Brambles catch onto my toes, As I blissfully glide between the trees.

A burdock grabs onto my hair, Like a baby to its mother.

Solemnly I sit, Hoping for him to hold me.

Wind suddenly rushes across the terrain, Causing the leaves to dance around me.

Rough rope, held tight by wary hands.

Salt water travels down my face And moistens my lips.

Night settles, but the woods are still illuminated.

Fire crackles, and limbs burns.

But still I sit and wait.

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“Sub-urban”

Laurel Taylor

Digital Photography

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MARIE LOISEAU

A man is like a winter jacket A man is like a winter jacket— It should protect you from the cold And hug you tight when comes a storm It can’t be too grungy Or tacky or fancy or flashy Avoid the obnoxious If it will clean out your wallet, continue your search If it itches and scratches, move on to the next When you find the right one— Snatch it up quick before that sexy blonde eyes it It’ll make you smile when you Slip into its arms And when it hugs you warmly around your shoulders Wear and tear may form over time But there’s nothing a little mending can’t fix And there remains the perfect jacket—the perfect fit Marked with the memories Of the rough and splendid seasons passed

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“Peace, Love & Literature”

9 Fine Print

Alexa Viscardi

Digital Photography

LAUREN STINE

The Book of Love We’re giddy in the bookstore, our home away from home, lifting the aging pages to our noses to inhale the hands which have held and cradled these delicate spines which bind this world together.

Our world, where I am me, laughing at your book collection with unmarred pages and beautiful covers, that is, until I came along and discovered your stash of Melville, Steinbeck, and Plath: catnip for the English major.

Now lines of life run down the spines and occasional coffee stains spot the corners (respect for your obsession for pristineness was the only barrier keeping me from penciling the pages).

But we both would never want the nights to end where my lips are to your ear, only the words on the page separating you and me, the twilight blending into rosy shades of dawn before we know it.

In this world where so much is wrong, we find our niche, where we can be us: nestled cozy and warm in the leaves of a book, love written between the lines.

Here, I forget all of the reasons why we should not be and cling to the one why we should: the Book of Love is hard to find on the shelves of all ages and time, but with you, I have it locked in my heart and read from it at night when all the world is asleep but for you and me.

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“Sunset”

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Samantha Bruno

Watercolor

CHRISTIAN SAMMARTINO

Through the Undergrowth until Sunset Will you ramble over the ramparts with me?

The daffodils are calling beside the lake, Tickling a faun with the feather of a swan.

It has been too long since I have seen you in the woods, Since we left imprints in carpets of moss and Ran through pinpricks of light from the canopy.

Walk with me over the spine of a fallen oak, Into the forest of leaning boughs where we spoke of love.

Let’s leave our laments to dry, and try the Song of the Jay who soars like a constellation.

He knows the breadth of a rainbow, The ribbon which makes your soul glow.

I want to prance through fresh puddles And skip pebbles when we reach the lake.

I want to watch the ripples wake your smile.

It is like the subtle opening of a rosebud, The opus of seasons spent in the woods, The secret which charts my heart.

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ANDREW HERM

Messengers

Flitting underneath summer haze, The starburst impact had a black hole Effect, as the sun-dried tomahawk Smacked through your head.

When the crowd gathered on the beach, They were sucked in, or you poured out, Rivers of dark biblical proportions, Teeming with stored knowledge flung forward By caged dreams wading through the nonsense.

We cascaded down your innermost

Hideaways left vacant by your lighter

Side that now rampaged loose over

Sand castle kingdoms, somewhere too mundane

For our vehement eyes, ready

To gawk at your darkest secrets

That, we discovered, carried

The sickly sheen of a buttered

Mirror conceding a blurred reflection,

Thick enough to crack our frenzy,

Wash us onto the beach sun-scorched, Chided.

I was forced to contemplate Your dolphins wandering in the sky, Sent to save our world.

13 Fine Print

“The Light Within” Gina Cusimano

Digital Photography

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“A Walk into the Unknown” Gina Cusimano Digital Photography

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KAYLA ROUSH

Tinnitus In the time it takes for you to read this letter I’ll find myself much better Than you And learn to appreciate What I had once begun to hate And know now that this world One day will end Like a friend who has left you in the night Like a one-night stand That you couldn’t stand In the time it takes for you to finish this poem I’ll be going on And on And on And on And Well you get My picture You’ll get your fixture of light and dark Within this world Like a squirrel who cannot find his way Throughout the day Without dodging a car While he’s running into a yard Full of grass Where I find you speaking sass By the time it takes you to finish this song My ears will be ringing like a gong See I have what’s called this thing This thing that begins to ring But it’s name has slipped my mind Oh yeah, it’s made me unkind This thing that I call That I cannot recall But its name is tinnitus Not unlike sinusitis

In the time it takes you to finish these words I’ll be long away On my way Into the darkness Full of mixed up words Who do me no harm When I write them on my arm And remember them like the beating of my heart These words are like a work of art Free flowing and thinking about Me And only I can see I can see what they’ve made of me Twisting and turning And always wanting, always yearning But I won’t look back I have nothing to lack I will use these words For my own simple cure For the world Who is in need of a friend like that squirrel And my tinnitus, unlike my sinusitis Will help me to See In this DARK WIDE WORLD

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ANDREW HERM

The Truth The green flame at the end Of the hallway meant a lot to us, Though we never could quite put our fingers Around it.

To each his own, For I found mine figuring out In the forest— Lying Libra.

She had fire in hand And hair, silently chanting What I would not hear yet Understood. Admittedly, She was so viciously Beautiful you would be Inclined to stand, Cold and ugly, As the words shucked you Open like a clam, Sadly conceding how Horrid the past was.

So I locked her up, Half for love, But mostly for fear To forget. That’s where She stays, the end, To be met in due time.

Down the hall, no lights.

17 Fine Print

“The Overrated Key”

Stacey Kreston Colored Pencil 18

LAUREN STINE

The Inner Dialogue is on its Soapbox­­— Please Fasten All Seatbelts When will the week end, they say, asking, praying while seated at round tables for relief, from the work, the rush of college life – ticking off the days to the weekend, to drunken stupor and land of non-memory.

The irony of youth wishing away the days while the old lay in bed, dreaming of more: more time with family, more time to learn, more time to breathe, and for that one more Ginsbergian poet to rekindle their flame.

Bitterness and reason has burned low in their hearts, The faded embers and charred masses of the heat of passion of rights, of equality and cause passed on to the next generation where it becomes shriveled down to internet arguments over the reign of JoePa, to bitching and complaints of parents, of professors, of paying colleges to make them do work, all the way down to one tiny ember, the very last coal of passion burned to this: a grocery list of ‘eyelashes’ and ‘alcohol’ cradled between two lacquered fingernails while Coltraine plays in the background and Ginsberg is on the lips.

For once in this cinderblock box of Hell, I have found that coal of passion, smoldering, just a grain of sand but still smoking, barely touched with life and just as the sax solo enters, I see her mascara-ed eyes fly open wide, and I think “My God, she feels it too!”…

Tampons.

Tampons, she adds in a scribble as if the world depended on it.

19 Fine Print

Chemical

Warfare

invisible soldiers breathing silently, like a virus, killing. photosynthesis enhances contamination, people fall from the garden path that brings the disease that kills, emitting toxins narrow, winding roads and open fields that many enter but never exit. frost retreats for men to flounder and weep over fallen women. veins expand and burst wild, rotten, mold spores grow from openings expanding rapidly.

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NOEL ABASTILLAS

The Elizabethtown Parochial School The playground— A swing-set, slide, and see-saw Lined in a row, one by one.

Across the street, A junkyard of small town American Houses align their sights Like a firing squad. Shooting at children’s future.

A massive graveyard shares the same Plot of land as the playground, Which looks lonelier than The dead look in their graves.

It’s not haunted, but Honored with a bouquet, Of a dandelion atmosphere that masks The incense of broken dreams.

Maybe the children are Mourned by the dead.

21 Fine Print

“Forgotten”

Alexa Viscardi

Digital Photography

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“Phoenix” Samantha Bruno

Acryllic

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MEGAN WOOSTER

Rage Rage against the grass against the water the fairies and nymphs but have mercy, pity on those ageless souls aura, sparkly and infused revolt was repressed at first and shaking red with fury Rage against the floating easy ways of myths timeless beings Rage against the secret world entrapped beings innocent souls

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ANDREW HERM

King

Of course You can Repeat the past In your world.

Play God. Reach back to turn the clock to your liking, revisit those still frame memories. Make them glow, every pawn piece set to Your raised standards on the board.

Lord over the glass world ‘til Your divine eyebrow raises a question aimed at the chipped paint falling from the sun-coloredon smile.

Your fragile space grown so silent as to resonate the pin drop heavy enough, breaking the glazed over pond that’s through with play time.

25 Fine Print

The cracks in the ice spreading, your pleas unheard over the din of a world plunging to the depths, prayers that couldn’t be answered by the throne You’ve usurped.

Play time over.

You wish to rage against anyone but Yourself, storm the basilica that refused sanctuary until You realize over the deafening Nothingness that there are no bricks, there is no temple, just the broken mirrors of Your mind, Your world.

You’re God.

“Wait”

Jeanette Koczwara Charcoal

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“Don’t Panic” Jeanette Koczwara

Graphite

27 Fine Print

CHRISTIAN SAMMARTINO

AstralTurf It could have been the Adderall, But I doubt it; the night ground on Far too long.

Consciousness is fickle that way— One minute it’s wrapped around your finger in a tight spool, Next second some fool in cabana shorts is Yanking each thread towards Uranus.

It was midnight intramural soccer in the mist— He slide tackled me and his stones grazed my leg.

That should have taught me to stop looking for an edge, But it just pushed me deeper into the wormhole.

There I was on the astroturf, a chemically Induced doppelganger wheezing up blood— The world moved like the aurora borealis in fast forward, Blossoming from the heads of sprinting soccer players.

Then God, or another related trickster, flipped the lights off.

There was time, an ethereal chain, the consistence of sea foam, Multicolored and endless.

It carried a silence my body never knew.

A current of complete stillness.

I was anchored.

My caricature of life continued in fast forward.

My teammates bled into pinpricks of matter Which a great vacuum sucked through a straw.

They vanished.

But I was anchored.

I held earth right where it was supposed to be that night.

Time wove around me until the sun cracked above the horizon and Spilled like a great yolk across the sky— It kissed me goodbye.

Next morning, I woke up face down in a bowl of Cream of Wheat.

Even with gritty grains up my nose, I felt total stillness.

That yolk delivered me to euphoric love.

It is a void we seldom touch, Like white noise in the flow of Thought, full of silent language.

It could have been the Adderall, But I doubt it.

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“Prayer” Taylor Luckenbill

Acrylic, Spray Paint on Cardboard

29 Fine Print

ANDREW HERM

Fireworks

­—to some of my brothers When we found the fireworks,

we could’t resist.

Not doing something stupid

wasn’t an option.

“Ok, but let’s not get caught,”

He said he couldn’t now that he’d been to prison.

I could count on him.

The rocket did everything

but lift off. Laugh-drunk, we half-ran back to your house

with some bombs to spare, so we took to the bathroom.

It was waterproof, he said it wouldn’t make noise.

Gunshot. He was wrong.

I was afraid of leaving,

in case I found you shaking your head, waiting to

bring me down to hell, but you weren’t there. I figured

you were off laughing, still enjoying the fireworks.

Or you didn’t watch, unable because you’re

really gone, but that would send me over the edge, shoot

me off into space.

I might as well have swallowed it.

The bullet-hole crater in my stomach gave way to

molten lead guilt burning red into the lockbox

memory bank I keep safe, stowed in the darkest

room, unsupervised.

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­— FICTION —

Karen Soto

La Ronde: I Once Played Dominoes in an Open Air Cafe in Paris -4The opening arpeggios of Scherzo No. 2 in B-Flat Minor burst through the honey-hued floor boards, tones receding and cresting, shifting and settling into a gentle sotto voce.

Drenched in shadows, a young man with downy locks and a weak chin sprawled near the ticking radiator, eyelashes fluttering 31 Fine Print against his whiskey-warm

skin as he was roused to wakefulness by the bold, yet simpering melodies drifting from the apartment below.

Even in drunken repose, his small white hands, his thin pursed lips, revealed intricate fragments of his nature— he was urbane and sensitive, aloof and humorless. A writer’s callus was the only imperfection on his delicate fingers, his milky skin unblemished and imperceptibly plump with baby fat, a rose petal flush high on his cheeks from his recent tête-à-tête with a decanter of

“Wind�

Taylor Luckenbill

Acrylic on Canvas

Scotland’s finest.

His thick, caterpillar brows twitched in irritation and he cursed Emile Fournier, the bastard pianist who occupied the flat just beneath his. After such a dreadful day, the last thing he needed was to be tormented by the talented expositions of another artist, even if that artist did happen to be his only friend.

In achingly slow increments, he managed to gather himself from the floor, attaining a wobbly, yet serviceable balance, intent on putting an end to the noisome sonata. As he

made his way across the room, he stopped to grab a battered notebook from his dining table, then continued on his mission.

He wrenched open the door of his oneroom apartment, fell against the doorframe, head hanging heavy. With stumbling steps, he slouched down the tenement hallway to the staircase, passing the latched and locked doors of his sleeping neighbors, all tucked up in bed, buried beneath bountiful blankets and unaware of the murmur that drifted 32 down the corridors.

Half asleep and drunkenly disoriented, he miraculously found himself standing before apartment 11, the vaulting notes of the trio section sweeping longing and beckoning fingers from somewhere within.

He didn’t bother to knock, merely grasped the knob and pushed the door wide with a weak shove, the hinges softly squealing as the portal opened by degrees.

He stood in the doorway, unnoticed and unmoving.

Framed by a large picture window, a silhouette bowed toward the piano, backlit by the peachy glow of the streetlamps, the radiant light softened behind misty fog and midnight rain.

An exquisite moment lay before him.

The arch of the spine, the roll of the shoulders, the restless trifle of the fingers across the ivory conveyed genuine emotion: boldness, love, and contempt overflowing with every note. This was the flawless embodiment of ambience and passion, subtlety and elegance.

Yet the scene left him cold. An inexhaustible grief welled within him at the realization that he felt noting. It was unbearable. At the best of times, it was irritating how effortlessly inspiration struck his musically inclined counterpart. Now, it was bitterly chafing. Each pianissimo run and octave leap was a personal slight.

The lingering liquor in his blood fueled his volatile emotions, from resentment to melancholy and back again within the span of mere minutes. With deliberate, calculated movements, he traversed the length of the floor, crossing from the gaping entrance to the piano in unsteady strides. His hand fell heavy on the black, polished wood.

“I’ve been ruined,” he 33 Fine Print announced dramatically,

hoping for a sympathetic reaction.

He was altogether ignored.

“Did you hear me, Emile?” he demanded, voice rising petulantly. “I said I’ve been ruined!” He slammed the fall board closed. The deafening crack of wood on wood brought an abrupt silence.

Emile slowly drew his hands away from the piano and turned to look at him. “That was uncalled for, Etienne. You could have crushed my fingers.” His voice was quiet, calm, restrained.

But Etienne wasn’t listening. He was nearly hysterical.

“Ruined! Ruined! Ruined!” He thrust the notebook which he’d been clutching throughout his trek into Emile’s impassive face. “It’s all been ruined! Every single page!” He opened the thick journal to reveal smeared ink and dark stains, the words written within practically illegible, the pages damp and fragile. Looking at the remnants of his life’s work, damaged and irreplaceable, he began to sob.

“Where did it all go wrong?” he wept and fell into Emile’s comforting embrace.

The clock on the wall read half past three.

-3Weepy weather kept the patrons away from the café even during the one o’clock lunch hour, the allure of steamy cups of cappuccino and café au lait not enough to draw more than three lonely customers, all quietly waiting to grasp something warm to chase the chill from their fingers.

Grateful for the company of anyone, a scrawny waitress with limp hair and a run in her stockings tightened the drawstrings on her red-checkered apron while a fresh pot of coffee percolated on the counter. She

was not pretty, nor barely plain. Flat chest, knobby elbows, and a poor complexion did little to incite arousal in the stronger sex, but her mother had always told her that a beautiful soul would take her farther than a beautiful face.

Earlier that morning, as she had gazed at her reflection in the bathroom mirror, she had thought herself rather ugly and decided that her mother had either been incredibly stupid or a filthy liar. Her beautiful soul had only taken her as far as this café and her future prospects were not any better.

Through years of experience, she had learned how to manipulate her appearance so that others couldn’t see the flaws in her body, subtle touches of lipstick and dabs of face powder, tissues to fill the hollow cups of her brassiere. Nothing too overt, just enough to appear ordinary. It was better to be forgettable than to be remembered as unlovely. Now, most people merely overlooked her.

Except for Marcel.

Today, she had worn a buttercup yellow blouse speckled with red and green roses to inspire him, a simple little trick that drew attention away from her lackluster face. But he had made no mention of it. In fact, he had barely looked at her, hardly said a word at all. Just breathlessly collapsed at the tram stop and looked at his shoes. It had never been so painful to be ignored.

“Sophie.” Her plump mother poked her head through the kitchen door.

She turned with falsely bright eyes and a soft smile. “Yes, Maman?”

“The boy in the corner could use more coffee, dear.” She disappeared back through the swinging door.

Sophie pushed up the billowy sleeves of her blouse and grabbed the coffee pit, moving around the counter. Her limbs canted

awkwardly as she went towards the corner booth, the stilted and stuttering swing of her hips testament to the discomfiture she felt in her own skin, more today than on any other.

When she reached his table, the young man, head bent low over a notebook, did not even look up.

“More coffee, monsieur?” she inquired politely, voice quiet and sweet so as not to startle him. He was scrawling avidly, paying her no mind. She wondered if he was even aware she was standing there.

“Please,” he said and took a moment to push his coffee cup towards her before returning his focus elsewhere.

She tilted the kettle. Liquid amber poured from the spout in a translucent ribbon, pooled in the ceramic embrace of the cup, stray drops splashing onto the saucer. She watched him scribble and scratch as she poured, distracted by his lily-white hands and pudgy fingers. They were oddly beautiful compared with her own bony digits. Why was he endowed with such attractive features while she had none? God was a cruel maker.

Distracted as she was, lost in contemplation of his hands, she mindlessly continued to pour, the coffee overflowing the cup, surging past the brim of the saucer and spreading across the table in a shallow puddle, seeping through the pages of the notebook, the ink bleeding, words consumed by a sepia sea.

The man’s eyes widened in horror.

Sophie gasped. “I’m so sorry, monsieur!”

She set down the pot and grabbed the rag that was tucked into her apron, frantically dabbed at the puddles of liquid on the table, on the notebook. “Please, let me clean this up!”

He stood abruptly, lifting the book carefully in his hands. “Oh, oh! It’s ruined!”

34 he cried, trying to stop the pages from

wrinkling or tearing. There was little that could be done, the damage was complete.

Without looking at her, without a word, the young man frantically grabbed for his coat and desperately went to the door, muttering the whole time.

“It’s ruined!” he wailed as he stumbled out into the rain, clutching the spoiled notebook to his chest. The bells above the door tinkled merrily, an inappropriate goodbye to such a distraught young man.

Sophie watched him go, listened to his voice fade down the sidewalk. “I’m ruined!”

The other patrons stared. Coffee dripped from the table, a steady drip-drop like the ticking of the second hand. She grabbed a rag to sop up the mess and saw that her blouse had been splashed by the spilled coffee, the pale yellow fabric marred by a dark stain. She thought she understood a bit of what the young man had felt as he had wept over his spoiled notebook. Her beautiful blouse was utterly ruined.

-2Overcast skies did not bode well for the day, nor did the deceptively gentle breeze which blew bitterly cold, sweeping loose newspaper down the alleys and pinking the cheeks of a few stray window-shoppers.

Careening through the tranquility of the drowsy, rain-drenched day, a young man came dashing up the deserted streets, closely cropped curls dewy and damp, the shoulders of his jacket soaked through. The moisture that gathered at his temples was a mixture of sweat and mist, and it ran in rivulets down the sharp curve of his jaw, dripping off the point of his chin. He looked a madman, disheveled and 35 Fine Print red-faced. It was his unfor-

tunate circumstance that he always looked like this, rumpled and crazed.

He was gifted with long, lithe limbs that carried him down the street, past shops and boutiques, swiftly sidestepping the occasional pedestrian or biker. The blood thrummed in his ears like the rhythmic pounding of a timpani, a steady one-twothree, one-two-three time perfectly matching the steady pace of his feet as he fled towards his tram stop.

His life often felt this way, a breathless sprint, a mad dash. Most of the time he could not remember the people he had met, the places he had seen, because he had already rushed on, rushed away. It was a terrible feeling, knowing that life was slipping by so fast. He feared that one day he would wake up and he would be an old man, his youth wasted hurrying from place to place.

Today was no different. Glimpsing everything through a veil of rain watered down all his memories, colors and shapes blurring like the strokes of an Impressionist painting.

Perhaps, if he took a step back, he might see it all more clearly.

He heard the church bells ringing in the distance. It was almost eleven o’clock; the bells at St. Mark’s always rang early. If he missed his tram, he would have to wait another thirty minutes for the next one and he would be late for his lessons. Time was not a luxury he had.

If only he had left home earlier. If only the line at the bakery had been shorter. Everything conspired against him, always.

Luckily, just up ahead, he saw the green planked roof of the tram stop, saw the homely girl waiting serenely. Lungs scalded by icy inhales of cold air and heart contracting painfully, he covered the last bit of distance.

Gasping and heaving, he collapsed onto the bench beneath the shelter, dropping his head

between his knees and trying to focus his swimming vision.

“Are you alright, Marcel?” It was the girl, the plain one who waited for this tram every day.

A nod and a weak smile were all he could offer as he breathed deeply, chest expanding.

He had no words, just needed a moment of peace to collect himself, gather his bearings.

The silence was blissful. No wind rushing in his ears, no footsteps pounding down the sidewalk.

Thighs sore and head aching, he sat.

The six block run had made Marcel incredibly hungry and he hazily remembered the baguette clutched in his hand. It was soppy and damp, the crust looking entirely unappetizing. He frowned. There would be no time to purchase a new baguette until after work and he was hungry now.

There was no help for it. He took a bite and thoughtfully chewed on his soggy bread, glad for this brief moment of respite. From the corner of his eye, he noticed the girl’s yellow blouse. When he had more time, he would have to tell he how much he admired it.

-1The gentle hum of La Vie En Rose drifted from the radio that stood near the register, the music crackling and skipping with bits of static as the signal faded in and out, Edith Piaf’s voice satisfyingly sorrowful and sweet.

It was a cozy little bakery tucked just off of a winding side street, almost a half-café with a few tables and chairs scattered about. The displays were beautifully filled with decadent cakes and petite pastries, crusty loaves of bread and fruit tarts, everything mouthwateringly delectable.

Bright lights and the warmth from the kitchen ovens were a welcome contrast to the dreary weather outside. The place was nearly brimming with people seeking delicious goods and shelter from the cold, shoulders bumping together as the crowd formed a loose line.

A young man wrapped in a slim-fitting great coat stood amidst the crowd, a restrained smile on his chapped lips as he waited patiently to reach the counter. His face was rather effeminate, the eyes too wide, the lashes full and dark, the bridge of the nose tapered and slightly upturned. To the casual observer, his appearance bore an attitude of haughtiness, of indifference, yet the truth was quite the opposite. His manner was pure kindness, a wholly sensible youth. While he waited, he idly drummed his fingers on his thigh, tapping at invisible keys, playing a staccato scale that only he could hear.

Under normal circumstances, not much could have drug him from the solitude of his apartment on such a miserable day. He would have much preferred to have been home practicing for his next performance, but his sense of loyalty had forced him out into the elements, seeking his deeply-troubled friend, Etienne.

He felt a certain responsibility towards Etienne, a brotherly affection that stemmed from years of having witnessed the other’s constant failures as a poet.

From personal experience, he could look back on his own shortcomings and remember well the bitter taste of disappointment. Fingers aching from playing the same scales over and over, eyes dry from memorizing music, begging for work at vaudevilles and bars. It had been the lowest part of his life, depressed and 36 sick all the time. In Etienne, he saw

a younger version of himself, although, ironically, Etienne was two years older.

The line shifted forward. There were only two people in front of him now and he slanted a glance at his watch. Twenty past ten. The day was young. Plenty of other places to look. Perhaps the picture show across town or maybe the ChampsÉlysées would prove more fruitful.

He took another step forward.

“Bonjour, Emile,” the old man behind the counter greeted him. “What would you like today? Raspberry tart? Rye loaf?”

Emile chuckled. “No, no, Maurice.

Nothing for me, thanks. I was just curious.

Was Etienne here earlier by any chance?” he inquired, sharing a thoughtful look with the baker.

The old man sighed. “Out on a bender again, is he? Poor boy. Camille might have seen him. Camille!” He wandered into the kitchen while Emile waited patiently.

The young man behind him in line kept muttering irritably, glancing at his watch.

Emile thought he had a harsh face, the line of his jaw too sharp, the pulse throbbing at his prominent temples indicating stress or impatience.

Maurice emerged from the kitchen, wiping his floury hands on his apron and shaking his head. “I am very sorry, my young friend. He has not been here today.”

Emile snapped his fingers. “Damn. You know, he was rejected by three literary magazines last week. And two newspapers.” He sighed. “If it were me, I’d be blind drunk by now. Which I’m sure he is.”

Maurice patted his hand where it lay on the counter, a comforting gesture. “There, there. The bars are not even open yet. Besides, aren’t all poets nowadays supposed to be tortured souls?”

37 Fine Print They laughed together.

“Go on. If he comes in here later, we’ll try to make him stay put until you can come round him up.”

Emile nodded. “Thanks, Maurice. Bonjour, Camille!” he called to the kitchen. The impatient young man behind him roughly brushed past to reach the counter as Emile walked to the door.

He turned up the collar of his coat and slid back into the chill of the morning, intent on continuing his search for the wayward poet. It was regrettable, all of the things he would no longer accomplish that day. He longingly thought of the Chopin scherzo that waited for him at home. Knowing his luck, he would not return to his residence until late, drunken poet in toe. He would be burning the midnight oil tonight, arpeggios and crescendos breaking with the dawn.

Fin

“Chaos” Taylor Luckenbill

Acrylic, Ink, Chalk Pastel on Cardboard

38

Samantha Bruno

Acrylic Paint and Markers

39 Fine Print

“Untitled” Sarah Spang

Ink and Colored Pencil

40

Karen Soto

A Shiver, A Sweat Lodz, Poland 1942

I hurried down Lutomierska Street,

hunching my shoulders against the bitter wind and swirling snow, periodically sneaking my hands from the safety of my coat pockets in order to blow hot breath into cradled palms. The streets were deserted on this devastatingly cold January morning, few people willing to risk being caught alone by wandering mashers or sadistic policemen. As I approached the Zgierska Street crossing, I saw the white armbands and blue stars that adorned the sleeve of the Jewish police, collaborators who were often crueler than the Gestapo.

With false humility, I doffed my cap to the officers and scurried toward the Podrzeczna Street Bridge. As I mounted the steps that led to the causeway, I caught a glimpse of a striking young woman descending on the far side, her coppery hair speckled with snow. It was shocking to see a woman wearing neither hat nor shawl, and I quickened my step in the hopes of overtaking her.

In my haste to catch her, I leapt the last two steps, shins aching and feet slipping in the slush. She was making her way towards Koscielna Street, her stride slow and confident, as inconspicuous as possible.

I shouted, hoping to catch her attention.

“Excuse me! Miss!” I dashed after her, no longer minding the slick 41 Fine Print pavers, and snagged the

sleeve of her threadbare coat before I lost my nerve to approach her.

She turned towards me and jerked her arm away. I must have been a pathetic sight, chest heaving, scrawny and underfed, clothes loose and ill-fitting, greasy black hair matted under a raggedy hat.

She raked her gaze from my damp cap to my muddy boots, her lips turning down in an oddly appealing frown. She was only a child really, certainly not more than 20.

She was a stark contrast to the filth and misery that littered the cobblestones, her amber locks and pale skin shining bright and clean in the dreary morning haze, her skirt well-worn, but certainly not dirty.

“Can I help you, sir?” Her voice was rich and husky, her words clipped and precise.

I was thrown aback. Her pronunciation was too harsh, lacking the subtle slur that marks a true Pole. German, perhaps? Or maybe Austrian? How interesting.

My thoughts were wandering, and she gently cleared her throat, arching her tawny eyebrows expectantly, waiting for a reply. My mouth went dry. I’d chased her down the block, and now that I had her, what did I have to say? Panicking, I said the first thing that came to mind.

“Uhhh… I… I was worried for your safety, miss, and I thought I might offer you escort to wherever you were going.”

It was a terribly forward thing to say to a woman I’d just met, and I felt my cheeks heat with embarrassment.

Her eyes shifted from side to side warily, her nose wrinkled in distaste. “I’m going to the Glazer’s Factory, and no, I don’t need an escort. It’s only a few blocks away. Good day.” Her words were as brisk as was her step as she walked away from me.

I synced my stride with hers, unwilling to let her brush me off. In this day

and age, one did not have the luxury of playing coy. “What business do you have at the Glazer’s at this hour?” I asked earnestly.

She never halted her pace. “I work there.” Without looking at me, she withdrew her kennkarta from her breast pocket and thrust it into my face.

“See. I’m a seamstress. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I really must be going.”

She gave me a curt nod and continued down the sidewalk, tucking her little yellow booklet back into her coat.

The glimpse of her identification card had been brief, but it had solved one mystery— she was Czechoslovakian. I trotted around in front of her.

She stopped abruptly to avoid colliding into me and sighed huffily, taking a moment to wipe away the dewy snowflakes clinging to her rapidly reddening nose. Seizing my opportunity, I said, “The factory doesn’t open until 7 o’clock. There’s at least an hour for you to join me for a stroll. Perhaps we could catch a brief performance at the Kulturhaus?” I tried to offer a charming smile, hoping my sunken cheeks and sallow skin didn’t ruin the effect.

“Please. It’s only a 15 minute walk to Krawiecka Street.” I gestured vaguely in the direction of the community center, somewhere in the northeastern part of the ghetto.

For a moment, I thought she was going to rebuff me again, continue on her way, but suddenly her demeanor shifted. She tilted her torso away from me and took a step back, her gaze flickering over my shoulder, her gentle frown shifting into a stiff smile as she leaned into me, slipping her arm through mine.

“Oh darling,” she sighed dramatically, tilting her head onto my right shoulder. “What a lovely surprise to meet you here. Walk with me to Balucki Square, yes?” She subtly tugged on my arm and pulled me into step beside her.

My confusion must have shown. She pressed her chapped lips against my ear and whispered, “Kripo.”

A feeling of dread seeped through my body. Of course. How could I have been so stupid? I’d pursued her up Koscielna Street, right in plain view of the Red House, Recovering my under the watchful eyes of the Kripo. wits, I plastered I turned my head and searched for an an expression of officer lurking in adoration onto plainclothes. my face and “Don’t look,” she murmured, turning tucked her hand my face towards her more snugly into with a firmly guiding hand on my left the crook of my cheek. “Smile and elbow. keep walking.”

Recovering my wits, I plastered an expression of adoration onto my face and tucked her hand more snugly into the crook of my elbow. She was soft and warm, her body sliding against mine with every step as we walked in silence. It was astonishing how quickly we had adapted to the danger. In the ugly world of the Litzmannstadt Ghetto, Jews had to trust each other implicitly. I concentrated on keeping our pace steady, my breathing calm as we wandered onto Lagiewnicka Street, ever mindful of the Kripo spying from the shadowed alleyways.

42 After we’d walked some distance,

past the bridge at Lutomierska and the old marketplace, I turned towards her. “So,” I muttered, voice pitched low and bending close to her ear. I tried to keep my lips from trembling. “This isn’t what I intended… but I’m pleased at the opportunity to remain in your wonderful company.” I forced a dry laugh.

Her smile was nervous, but genuine.

“It has certainly been an eventful morning, Mr. uhhh…?”

“Belinski. Kazik Belinski.”

“Well, Mr. Belinski, since we’ve come this far, you may see me to the corner of Dworska Street.” She chuckled softly, her laughter sweet and welcome in the wake of terror. “My heart’s still pounding,” she said, pressing her fingertips to her temple and massaging in little circles.

“Do you always walk this way?” I asked. “It certainly isn’t safe for a young woman to wander the ghetto alone.”

She squeezed my arm reassuringly and shook her head. “No, no. My brother usually accompanies me to work, but he was out all night at Hospital No. 1. I didn’t have the heart to wake him this morning, so I left on my own.”

By the time she had finished speaking, we had reached the corner of Lagiewnicka and Dworska, the gates of the Glazer’s Factory peeking through the drifting curtains of snow. She slid her arm from mine and stepped away. My right side was bereft and cold, no longer sheltered by her comforting warmth.

There was an awkward pause, a moment where neither of us spoke. She rocked back and forth on the balls of her feet, tugged at her grubby coat buttons before mustering some parting words.

“Well…,” she said. “It’s 43 Fine Print almost 7, and I really must

be going.” She tipped her head towards the factory, fair hair tangling in the breeze.

“It’s been a pleasure, Mr. Belinski.”

I was reluctant to let her go, but I refused to beg her to stay. “The pleasure was mine.” I tipped the brim of my cap and smiled. “Perhaps I might see you again?” I hoped I didn’t sound too eager.

Her thin, pale lips curled into a small smile. “Perhaps,” she said and began to walk away, footsteps muffled by a blanket of snow.

As the distance between us grew, I suddenly realized something. “Oh… Wait!” I called out, voice echoing along the grimy brick walls and down the empty street.

She stopped with her hand on the iron latch and turned towards me. “I didn’t get your name.”

She shook her head and laughed.

“Mira,” she shouted back. “Mira Schächter.” She waved one last time, pulled open the gate and was gone.

I lingered for a moment, kicking at the snowy cobblestones, staring at the place where she had been standing. “Mira…”

Her name rolled pleasantly off my tongue.

“Until next time, Mira,” I whispered to myself. With a parting glance, I backtracked to Balucki Square and wandered home.

“A Day in Her Shoes” Gina Cusimano

Digital Photography

44

“Summer Flowers” Alexa Viscardi

Digital Photography

45 Fine Print

“Suspended Illusion” Laurel Taylor

Digital Photography

46

Backspace Katie Pebley

Living my particular life made it almost

exceedingly impossible for me to reach my twenties and be well-adjusted. In high school, I had a ridiculous fight, the stupid kind you have as a teenager, with this kid I had a crush on and stopped talking to him. He was upset about it and told my best friend, “It’s like I’m a number on a computer screen, and she keeps hitting backspace and deleting me.”

It kind of stayed with me, mainly because I don’t think he realized how little he mattered in the scheme of things I want to delete from my life. That’s such a telling statement, isn’t it? It lets you in on the little secret that my life has been a disaster of sorts. I’m a natural disaster myself. I’ve had some good times, though, and I know that there are people out there with lives much worse than mine. I recognize that, heavily, on a regular basis. As bad as it sounds, that’s the kind of thing that gets me through the day.

It could be worse.

The story I want to tell is the unfortunate childhood of mine that made me the person I am today: the story of the moments I wish I could delete. I’ve been to more funerals than I can count. I’ve cried myself to sleep more times than I care to count. I’ve been hit, cheated, broken. I’ve been depressed, and I’ve been suicidal, and I’ve been happy. I’ve 47 Fine Print been ridiculously, over

the moon, can’t stop smiling, winning the World Series kind of happy.

It could be much worse.

But part of me, because of all I’ve unnecessarily gone through, will never stop wondering what kind of person I could’ve been. I wonder if this is really who I was meant to be or if, just maybe, my path got knocked astray somewhere along the line and I became someone entirely unintended. Part of that comes from how feeling like a child ended much earlier than I would’ve enjoyed. I haven’t felt like a child in too many years.

As a kid, my dad worked nights, so I rarely saw him except for at dinner time, and my mother worked at my elementary school, so I saw her all the time. I was chubby and my mother was the person who yelled at you at recess and lunch. I was endlessly mocked because children are the cruelest people on the planet.

Elementary school was a humiliating and debilitating experience. Because of that, I went through a heavily awkward phase from about fourth grade until junior year of high school. Ergo, junior high was exceedingly fun, as it is for most awkward people. That’s definitely an era that needs to be erased. My older sister and I hated each other frequently throughout our childhoods, sometimes passively but mostly actively, but I give her the credit for raising me. She taught me a lot, inadvertently. I held her flashcards for her.

She’s the reason I do as well as I do in school. She’s the reason I’m smart and opinionated, and she’s the reason I can get up in the morning.

That’s one thing I wish I could say to my mother when she tells me that she didn’t raise me to be the person I am: she didn’t raise me. She killed the person I

could’ve become. And I have clear memories of the kind of moments it happened in.

I was an adorable child. I have many pictures and videos to prove it. My dad got a video camera right after I was born, so there are endless hours of tape of me lying in my crib, staring up at the camera and my dad with a confused and scared expression. I had chubby cheeks and my hair was sunkissed throughout the year. I had cute bangs and always had a smile on my face. I can’t really remember it, but all the signs point to me being happy. I was happy. Most of this evidence is up to the age of four at my old house.

And then we moved.

When I was six, my mother decided to yell at me, for some insignificant reason, I’m sure. She had just cut her hair into a short, curly bob and had been losing weight. She sat me on my little twin bed in my pajamas, railing into me about responsibility and what a good daughter is, and I started crying. She told me to stop because I should’ve been paying more attention to her. I shouldn’t be trying to make her feel bad. She yelled at me to stop, which really wasn’t helpful. As many people know when you’re six years old and you’re being viciously screamed at, it’s really difficult to stop crying. I couldn’t.

Throughout my single-digit years, we traveled to see my grandmother, my mother’s mother, in a nursing home a lot.

She didn’t remember my mother, not once.

But we went, every weekend. I can still smell it when I think about being there.

Nursing homes have a very specific smell: old people, medicine mixed with jello, industrial cleaner, bedpans, easily-digestible food and soiled clothing. When you’re a kid, everyone stares at you, and you slowly develop an irrational fear of geriatrics.

We kept going until she died, even a few times after. The image of a dead woman who didn’t recognize me and constantly upset my mother in a casket is burned into my memory. And when you go to a viewing when you’re young, you develop an irrational fear of polished, nicely clothed, dead bodies.

When I was nine, my mother became an alcoholic.

When I was ten, she told me it was my responsibility to make her quit drinking.

I failed. I repeatedly failed until I gave up when I was seventeen. Alcoholics aren’t really people who listen to reason or care when their daughters cry. That’s a lesson I’ve had to learn over and over, and I’m sure I’ll learn it again.

When I was fifteen, I realized that my mother and I had a lot in common for the first time, and it wasn’t the last. My mother went through a suicidal phase when she was in high school, according to a note from a friend I found in an old yearbook. The friend thanked her for not killing herself. No one noticed when I was depressed. I chickened out repeatedly, like her, and decided to get through another week on a Saturday. On that Monday, my friend’s little brother committed suicide.

He was thirteen. I remember sitting at his funeral listening to my friend talk about his brother at the podium. That’s the only time I’ve ever cried ridiculously hard in public, and that was the day my dad really started to matter in my life again. He took me to the funeral and held me while I cried.

Later that year, one of my friends died in a car accident. Four boys, four junior firefighters, in the car, and everyone except the driver died. Seeing your 48 friend’s casket get lifted onto a fire

truck is a beautiful and horrible feeling you never get rid of. I saw it everytime I closed my eyes for weeks. I still see it every time I hear a siren. At fifteen, funerals were too familiar.

When I was seventeen, my mother had a freak out and decided that I was the scum of the earth. I didn’t know at first, but my dad spent a few nights sleeping on the floor outside my room so she couldn’t get to me when I was sleeping. I got up to go to the bathroom and saw him lying there, on the floor, with a pillow and a blanket. Somewhere in that period of time my dad became my best friend. My mother, however, continued with the usual.

She hit me. She called me a slut, a whore and every single insult she could possibly think of. For the first time, I yelled back.

I yelled hard and honestly. But because of her, I can’t yell at figures of authority without crying. The look on her face told me that the fact that I was crying angered her more than the words I was yelling, and I was six again.

And then I went to college. That opened up a whole new can of worms.

How could I leave her? I don’t call her and she complains about it, but she doesn’t call me. She gets to be offended by my lack of effort but doesn’t have to make any effort of her own, and somehow she doesn’t see the flawed reasoning. I avoid going home for more than a day in an attempt to avoid a late night session of what a horrible path I’ve chosen in life. I feel six and sixteen, and every age in between, when I go home.

The worst thing my mother has ever done, however, doesn’t have anything to do with her verbally or physically abusing me, though episodes 49 Fine Print of both stick out in my

memory. It doesn’t have anything to do with her fine tuned ability to make me feel three inches tall at the drop of a hat. It doesn’t have anything to do with her being an alcoholic. It doesn’t even have anything to do with how hard, how incomprehensibly hard she has tried to destroy my smile, my spirit, my character.

I know why she is the way she is. Her life was a disaster. She’s one of the “it could be worse” scenarios I think about when I dislike my life because I could’ve turned out like her. I could’ve had a life like hers; I had a mother like hers. Our lives are similar in a lot of ways, but I’ve survived and occasionally thrived. I may be broken but I’m also a whole person. I let myself live. She let everything bad sit in her until it destroyed her spirit. She gave up. She cries on all holidays and tells me about missing her parents, missing her brother, missing her sister-in-law, hating that her siblings never talk to her and she tells me that she has no one. She tells me that my sister, my dad and I don’t really care about her, that we don’t understand what she’s been through. She tells me that she’s alone.

The worst thing my mother has ever done to me is ignore the fact that I love her.

I wish I didn’t, as horrible as that sentiment makes me feel. My life would be so much easier if I didn’t. It would be completely different if I would’ve given up on loving her years ago. But I haven’t.

I wish I hated her.

But she’s my mother. I can’t give up on that little sliver of possibility that one day we’ll have the relationship we should’ve, that one day she’ll be my mom again. The idea of my mom is from this vague memory I have from when I was very little.

She’s this happy, curly haired, smiling woman hugging me. She watches Diagnosis Murder and Walker, Texas Ranger with me. She braids my hair and tells me that I can do anything I want with my life. She takes me shopping, buys more stuff for herself and convinces me to hide the bags in my room if my dad’s home. She tells me I’m beautiful and that she loves me, with absolutely no contempt, regret or jealousy.

She laughs with me and never at me. She’s my best friend.

I wonder if that woman still exists in her somewhere, deep down, below all the pain she carries with her. I hope she does. I will never stop hoping she does.

In an effort to tell my story, I also tell my mother’s. This is because my life is inexplicably intertwined with hers. This is because we’re similar. It’s also because she treats me exactly the way her mother treated her. She’s perpetuating this terrible mother-daughter relationship like some families perpetuate teen pregnancy. She makes me wary of ever having a daughter, sometimes of having kids at all. She’s the one in serious need of a delete button. I wish I could select all and hit backspace and let her write a new story. Let her write her own story; create the person she wanted to be when she was sixteen. Create a life that she doesn’t want to hide from.

With all of myself, I wish she could write a new life. And then I could write mine.

50

“Balance Act” Taylor Luckenbill Acrylic on Paper

51 Fine Print

A Delicate Dance Cassandra Meade

The green leaves rustled on the branches

of trees as a warm summer’s breeze wafted down the street. Flicking her turn signal on, Lucy steered her car down one of the side streets, searching for a parking space.

She found one down the street that bordered the university and fished around her purse looking for loose change to feed the meter. Climbing from the cool interior of her car, the hot haze of summer crept up her body. The breeze that tickled the leaves on the trees glided along her pale legs.

She slid the silver coins into their respective slot on the meter and made her way up the sidewalk to the main street. The old stone buildings of Princeton University flanked the pathway. Ivy spread like veins across the stones, feeding the dull gray a breath of life with its vibrant hue. Tucking a strand of ginger hair behind her ear, Lucy glanced down at her watch. She still had some time before her appointment. Veering from the sidewalk that would lead her to the busy main street of Princeton, NJ, Lucy walked through one of the arches and made her way across the campus.

Despite it being early summer, the campus was still very much alive. Groups of people moved from building to building, presumably on a guided tour. Lucy reached the bottom of the stone steps that she knew would lead her where she wanted to go. She stopped at the foot of the stairs to rummage through her bag. She

pulled out a bottle of water and brought it to her lips, gulping down the cool liquid before securing the lid and placing it back in her bag. Then she climbed the flight of stairs, stopping only once to regain her composure after a dizzy spell.

Lucy continued her walk across the sprawling lawns before coming to the wrought-iron gates lining the side of the campus that ran parallel to the main street.

She reached the stoplight and pressed her thumb to the button that would make the white walking man appear. As she waited, Lucy gazed at the windows of the shops that lined the main street. The walk signal appeared and, like a herd of sheep, Lucy and the others who had joined the queue to cross the street moved forward.

She reached into her purse once more, but this time, instead of retrieving the bottle of water, Lucy pulled out a crinkled piece of paper with an address scrawled across it in thick black ink. Shoving it back in her bag, she continued up the street, weaving in and out of people until she found the address she had been looking for. Lucy entered the building and, to her shock, saw her face staring back at her from all sides. The entrance hall was lined from floor to ceiling with mirrors, all of which were reflecting her pale-skinned frame back at her. Gluing her eyes to the floor, Lucy crossed the hall, opting for the stairs instead of the elevator.

She pushed open the door marked with the bold number five and stepped into the hallway. The walls were painted a shade of gray that just oozed gloom. The hall itself was bare, except for one bright orange wooden bench. She found the door marked with the name Dr. Sofia Wentz and cautiously took a seat on the orange bench. Moments later, the door 52

and a short woman with pronounced facial features, thick brown hair, eyes the color of brown sugar, and incredible fashion sense stepped out into the hall.

“Hello, you must be Lucy,” she smiled as she extended a finely manicured hand to the redhead. “Come on in.”

The redhead stood and walked through the door that the doctor was holding open.

Lucy’s line of sight was flooded with calming hues of blue and earthy shades of brown that decorated the office. In the corner was a small desk that was covered with neatly organized folders. Three objects occupied the rest of the room: A plush beige winged armchair, a soft, inviting brown couch, and a chair covered in teal leather studded with gold metal.

“Please, have a seat,” the doctor motioned towards the seats in the room.

“Does it matter which one?” asked Lucy.

“Whichever one you will be most comfortable in,” said the doctor. Lucy chose the winged armchair and took a seat, setting her bag on the floor near her feet. The doctor took a seat in the teal chair opposite of Lucy, placed her coffee on the end table, and pulled out a pad of paper from the drawer.

“Lucy, I’m Dr. Wentz. You can call me Sofia or Dr. Wentz, whichever one you are more comfortable with. I want to start by telling you that I think that what you are doing is incredibly brave. I’m going to take some notes during our session, is that okay?”

Sofia clicked her pen. “Alright, let’s get started. What’s on your mind?”

“I’m not crazy.” These words left Lucy’s lips in one breath of air.

53 Fine Print

§

The cheeks of strangers were pink with exposure to the crisp, fall air that nipped at their faces as they hurried down the crowded street. These unknown people provided endless entertainment as they bobbed and weaved through each other, many of which sought shelter from the wind in the doorways of shops before continuing on their journeys. Others pulled the collars of their jackets higher and buried their noses into the warm fabric. The wind turned up the dying leaves from the pathway sending them on a frantic dance around the ankles of those passing by in a hurry.

The aged wood of one of the benches that lined the street moaned in protest as a frail looking redhead took a seat.

She clenched her hands into fists and shoved them into the pockets of her brown bomber jacket. The wind played with the strands of ginger hair that were visible from underneath the girl’s hat. It picked up each strand and guided it through the steps of a complicated dance before dropping them without notice. The girl gazed out at the busy street, watching as people hurried to their next destination.

The windows of the coffee shop grew foggy with each passing hour, as more and more people came into the building seeking shelter from the cold and a warm cup of joe. From behind the counter, a boy made his way over to the tables by the window and began clearing the dishes into his gray tub. He looked out onto the bustling main street. He watched in awe as the leaves swirled and darted around the ankles of the people on the street. It was almost as if the leaves were playing a game of tag with one another.

A streak of red caught the boy’s eye as he watched the leaves. A familiar girl sat on one of the benches outside. He moved his rag across the tabletop, not really paying attention to what he was doing. His attention was focused on the girl outside. He threw the rag into the gray tub that was now filled with soiled dishes and carried it to the back of the coffee house.

“Your girlfriend is sitting outside, Jonah,” Warren, a dark haired dishwasher, called from where he stood, elbow deep in sudsy water.

“She’s not my girlfriend. How would you know anyways? You’re back here all day,” Jonah said as he leaned against the countertop across from the dishwashing station. He brought a hand up to his head and ran his fingers through his sandy blond hair.

“Well, it’s Thursday isn’t it? And it’s a little after one, right?” Warren asked removing the dish he was washing and placing it in the sink that was stacked with dishes to be rinsed.

“Yea, she’s out there.” Jonah reached behind him and pulled the strings of his apron loose. He set the black cloth on a shelf, grabbed his jacket from the hooks, and re-entered the main area of the coffee shop.

“You taking your break, sugar?” a plump old woman asked from behind the counter.

“Yea, Gayle. I’ll be back in thirty minutes,” Jonah said. He pushed open the door and made his way out onto the street.

The bench moaned again under the weight of a second person. The redhead turned to look at who had invaded her space.

“Hello,” said the boy with sandy blond hair and piercing blue eyes who had taken

the seat next to her. She recognized him.

She had seen him working in the coffee shop every week for the last four months when she came into town. “I’m Jonah. I work in that coffee shop just over there,” He pointed to the windows from which he had seen her and held out his hand.

“I’m Lucy.” She removed one of her hands from he jacket and grasped Jonah’s.

“Very nice to meet you. Would you like to grab a cup of coffee with me, Lucy? I know a great little place,” He tilted his head and Lucy noticed that when his eyes caught the sun, they twinkled like the stars.

“Sure, I’ve got time to kill.” The two stood and walked down the busy street together and into the coffee shop from which Jonah had come.

They walked up to the counter where the plump old woman stood.

“What can I can for you, Dearie?” she asked Lucy.

“A skinny peppermint latte please,” replied the redhead as she reached into her pocket to pull out her wallet. Jonah noticed this and stepped in before she was able to get it out.

“My treat,” he said with a smile. “Can I get a medium coffee, Gayle? Oh, and one of the big chocolate chip cookies.” He handed Gayle the money in exchange for their drinks.

Jonah led them to a table tucked away in a cozy corner. Like a perfect gentleman, he pulled out the chair for Lucy before taking a seat himself.

“So what brings you into Princeton?”

Jonah asked as he split the cookies down the center.

“Doctors appointments,” Lucy answered as she took a sip of her 54 latte. Her eyes drifted to the cookie

that Jonah had just placed on a napkin for her.

“Well that sounds absolutely thrilling,” he said jokingly. He slid her half of the cookie across the table. “This is the best chocolate chip cookie you will ever eat,” He watched expectantly, waiting for her to take a bite.

Lucy picked up the cookie and took a little nibble. “Mmmm. Delicious!” she smiled as she placed the cookie back down on the napkin.

The pair continued to talk until it was time for Jonah to return to work.

“It was nice to meet you, Lucy. I hope we can do this again,” he said hopefully.

“Definitely! Here, give me your phone,” she took his phone and put her number in. “Text me sometime,” she took the napkin that the untouched cookie was sitting on. “I had a really big lunch today, I’ll take this with me for later. You were right. It’s the best chocolate chip cookie I’ve ever had,” she headed to the door. “I hope to hear from you soon, Jonah.”

§ “Babe, open the door,” Jonah pleaded as he rested his head against the door to the bathroom that he and Lucy shared.

“No!” yelled Lucy from the other side of the door.

“Come on. You’re going to force me to break down the door, and I really don’t want to do that because then I’m going to have to go buy a new door.” He sighed and put a hand on the door. “Lucy, please.” His request was met with silence.

“Fine, I’m going to make lunch. Have fun with your meltdown,” Jo55 Fine Print nah sighed in frustration

as he headed to the kitchen. It was days like these that were extremely tiring.

The apartment was soon filled with the smell of Lucy’s favorite comfort food, grilled avocado, tomato, and cheese sandwich. Jonah had hoped that the smell would be enough to bring his girlfriend from her confines in the bathroom. He had just set the sandwich on the table when a defining crash rang out from their bathroom.

“Luce!?” He called out. “Lucy! What happened? Are you okay?” He quickly made his way down the hall and to the bathroom. He tried the door handle, but it was still locked. “Let me in, please.” Jonah heard the lock click from the other side of the door. He turned the handle, expecting to see blood everywhere. Instead, the floor was covered in chunks of metal and plastic; the remains of what used to be their bathroom scale. Lucy was perched on the side of the tub, her eyes fixated on the debris of the scale that had ruled her life for so long.

“This needs to end,” she whispered.

Jonah crossed the small room in a three strides and sat down next to the redhead, wrapping his arms around her.

“Do you feel better?” He asked, kissing the top of her head.

“Loads better. Do I smell your famous grilled cheese sandwiches?” she asked and Jonah nodded.

“Let’s go eat, I’ll clean this mess up later.” He gave her a pat on the shoulder and helped her up. Lucy made her way out of the bathroom to the kitchen, but Jonah stopped at his dresser, pulled open the top drawer, and rummaged around the socks and boxers before fining the small, black, velvet box he had been looking for.

He flicked it open and eyed the ring that

was perched between the folds of fabric.

When the time was right, and when Lucy was better, he would propose to her.

§ Snow fell from the sky in large clumps, covering the ground in a blanket of white, cleansing the earth. Lucy stood at the kitchen sink, her hands submerged under water, scrubbing the pots and pans from dinner that night. She absentmindedly moved the sponges in circles around a pot as she gazed out the kitchen window. Her trance was broken when she felt something wet against her ankle. A small black Labrador puppy was sniffing at her ankle, pressing it’s wet nose to her skin.

“Is she for me?” Lucy asked, scooping the puppy up in her arms Jonah, who had been leaning against the doorframe, replied, “Yea. Happy two years, Lucy.” He crossed the room and pulled his girlfriend into a kiss. They couple broke apart laughing as the puppy in Lucy’s arms started to lick their chins.

“It’s not just a present for our anniversary though, it’s a present for you being recovered for one whole year, and many more to come. “ He placed a hand on Lucy’s cheek, stroking her ivory skin. “I’m so proud of you, Luce,” he said.

“I couldn’t have done it with out you, Jonah.” She smiled. The puppy, unhappy with the lack of attention that it was being paid, squirmed in Lucy’s arms. “So, what should we name her?” Lucy asked.

“I kind of already have a name picked out. Zoe, it means life, it’s what you’ve given me and what you’ve fought so hard to get back.” He took the puppy form Lucy’s arms.

“I love it,” Lucy said as she scratched the puppy behind its ears.

§ Her favorite moment was when the leaves changed colors. There was just something so magical and mystical about it. The colors warmed her from the inside out; even though the change signaled that colder weather was surely marching her way. She especially loved walking through the fallen leaves, hearing them crunch under the weight of her body. The sound filled her with warmth, making every inch of her tingle with happiness.

A black Labrador puppy tugged at the end of the yellow leash in Lucy’s hand.

“Zoe, stop it,” Lucy warned, giving the leash a little pull. The puppy ran back to its owner, bringing with it a giant crimson leaf which was practically the same size as the dog’s head. Lucy crouched down and took the leaf from the puppy, giving it a good scratch behind the ears. “Thank you, but what am I going to do with this leaf? Huh?” She mused out loud to the dog that continued to romp through the leaves.

They reached the top of the hill they were walking up. Jonah was sitting on one of the benches gazing out over the fields that lay ahead of them.

“Jonah,” Lucy said with surprise, “Shouldn’t you be at work?”

“I took the day off,” he said, standing to meet her. “I knew you’d be here walking Zoe. I have something very important to ask you.” He took her hands in his.

“Lucy, from the very fist time I saw you, I knew you’d be the one for me. You intrigued me, you had this certain 56 mystery about you that I was just

dying to uncover. After that first day we officially met, I called my mom and told her all about you. I’ve never done that with anyone else. I knew you were something special.” He paused, taking a breath.

“I had no idea when we met, how strong you truly were. You’ve inspired me Luce; you’ve inspired me to be a better person and a stronger individual. I love you so much. In the past two years we’ve climbed one hell of a mountain. It’s been such an eye opening experience for me. It’s reinforced what I’ve known all along.” Jonah reached into his pocket and pulled out the tiny velvet box. Letting go of Lucy’s hands for only a moment, he got down on one knee before her. “Lucy Watkins, will you marry me?” he asked, smiling up at the redhead.

“Yes!” Lucy beamed as Jonah took the ring from the box and slid it onto her finger. The diamond sparkled in the bright autumn sun. He stood and wrapped his arms around her healthy frame, picked her up, and spun her in a circle as Zoe barked and ran circles around them.

57 Fine Print

Samantha Bruno Colored Pencil

58

Late Nights Nicolle Maioriello

“Melissa?” Carol asked as she opened the

door. She smiled brightly at her patient who was sitting quietly in her stark white robe.

Melissa nodded, and with her legs and arms crossed tightly, it looked as if she was sitting on a cold park bench rather than in the warm exam room. Carol introduced herself cheerfully and was met with only the smallest, almost unnoticeable upwards turn of Melissa’s mouth.

“Relax, sweetheart,” Carol said as she checked her charts again. Surely, she thought, this girl is much too young to be seeing me. The charts were correct, though. Melissa was in for her first ultrasound at only eighteen years of age. Her pale, freckled face was hidden behind a mass of bleached blond curls. She was incredibly thin compared to the usual patients Carol got but still had a good figure. She reminded Carol of a typical high school cheerleader, somebody who she used to be. The years had taken their toll on her though, and she would give just about anything to go back to her days of girls nights out and teenage puppy love.

“Why don’t we just talk for a little before we get started,” Carol suggested, trying to calm the young girl’s nerves and bring her own mind back to the present. If Melissa is in my office, Carol thought, she obviously has enough to worry about without hearing about my own love troubles. “So, Melissa,” she said, “tell me about your last appointment.”

“Well,” Melissa answered in a barely audible whisper, “I went to Planned Parenthood about two weeks ago, and they told me that I was pregnant. I mean, I 59 Fine Print had guessed I was, I took a

couple tests on my own, but I just wanted to be sure. And because of my age, and how small I am, they recommended that I make an appointment here for an early ultrasound. I’m not sure exactly what that means though.”

“Well, you were very smart to do so; we want to make sure that your baby receives nothing less than the best care for these next few months. An early ultrasound just means that we’re going to take a look at the baby now, instead of waiting until you’re halfway through your second trimester. So how far along did they tell you your pregnancy was?”

“Well, my boyfriend and I spend Tuesday nights together. So I can’t be sure as to exactly when, well you know, things actually happened. But they seemed to think that I’m about seven or eight weeks.”

“That would sound about right to me seeing that you’re still so tiny! I was the same way,” Carol laughed. “You know, with both of my kids I didn’t begin to show ‘til I was almost eighteen weeks along. You’ll come to realize just how much of a miracle that is once your little one really starts to grow. Now, is your boyfriend here with you today?” she asked with a slightly concerned tone. She thought back to what Melissa had told her and didn’t like the sound of a once a week hookup becoming parents to a baby.

“No, he’s working,” Melissa replied avoiding eye contact. “He works all the time.”

“Well, why don’t we get started here,” Carol said, gently leaning Melissa back on the bed, “and you can tell me all about him.”

Melissa’s face lit up. “Oh, he is so beyond wonderful. Even though I don’t get to see him much with his crazy work schedule, he spoils me rotten every time we are together. He is so kind and gentle. He opens the door for me and pulls out my chair. My favorite thing is getting his little text messages during the day saying that he’s thinking of me. The first time we

were together he had candles burning and rose petals scattered across the room. I swear, it was like a scene from one of those fairytale happilyever-after movies.”

“Okay, I need you to pu…”

“I’m actually due to get roses tomorrow,” Melissa kept rambling, “I get a rose each month for every month we have been together. Tomorrow marks seven months!”

“Put your knees up,” Carol finished. “I’m glad to hear he’s so good to you. Okay, now this is gonna be chilly. My husband used to do those monthly roses when we were dating. I loved it. Now it’s only flowers for Valentine’s Day and anniversaries. I miss those days of being charmed and wooed. Enjoy it.”

“Believe me, I am! He…” Melissa stopped short as a fuzzy image popped up on the screen. “Oh. My. God.” “Congratulations, Mommy-to-be!” Carol gushed. This was her favorite part of the job.

As jealous of Melissa’s love life as she was right now, she never got tired of waiting for the expressions of the parents when they get their first glimpse of their baby and getting excited with them. “See that right there? That’s your little one!”

“I can’t do this,” Melissa murmured.

“I’m sure you’ll be a wonderful mom,” Carol answered, confused. Hadn’t Melissa just been gushing about how wonderful things were?

Her thoughts wandered back to the idea of a once a week boyfriend. Maybe things weren’t as good as Melissa made them seem. “Plus, you have that amazing boyfriend of yours to help you,” she added, trying to prod for more details about the situation.

“Yeah, once a week.”

“Well I’m sure he’ll be able to take more time off when the baby comes; most places are pretty understanding. Especially since I’m sure he hasn’t been working too long at your young ages. You’ll need him to help while you take

some ten minute naps between feedings and diaper changes!”

“You don’t understand,” Melissa said, tearing up. “He’s not my age. He has a job, and he’s had it for a while. It’s a really high up one too.

I’ll be raising this baby practically alone. I don’t think I can handle it.”

Carol almost teared up herself before she forced herself to pull it together in front of her patients. Once again, she felt as if she was looking at a younger version of herself. Just over a year ago, she had gone through the same stressful situation when her husband had received a promotion only days before she found out she was pregnant with their second child. That last pregnancy had been her most stressful, with her husband working late every night, especially with her first child only being three at the time. When she went into labor with their second child only four months ago, he had almost missed it. Nobody was there for her during those times, so she did what she needed to.

“I will be there with you every step of the way, Melissa. From all of your appointments to helping to deliver this little jelly bean on the screen. I’m here.”

§ Two weeks later Carol kept her promise and met Melissa for a quick lunch in the hospital cafeteria before Melissa’s next appointment. Carol could tell that Melissa still wasn’t happy, so she began to talk about her own kids to show her just how wonderful children could be. As she talked about the past years when her oldest was still an infant, she began to realize just how much she missed her husband.

He was home so much when their 60 daughter was little. They had gone

on family vacations, out to dinner every Friday night, and just loved to spend time together as a family before their little girl’s bedtime. She smiled to herself when she thought about what happened after those bedtimes.

“You know what,” said Carol, “we both deserve to have happy marriages and families. Next time we see our men, we are going to tell them just that. We are going to tell them that they need to be home with us more often.”

§ Another three weeks later, before Melissa’s three month appointment, the women met again. Carol was beaming as she walked through the door, and began talking as soon as she slid into her seat. Her radiating smile and bright scrubs stood out in the quiet cement cafeteria. “He listened!” she squealed excitedly, receiving annoyed looks from other patients and families trying to eat. Her husband had been coming home earlier every night and was spending much more time with both her and their children. As she was talking about family game night, she noticed Melissa’s face twisting and contorting. “My gosh, what’s wrong dear? You look like you could start bawling at any minute!”

“I’m happy for you, I really am,” Melissa said with silent tears, “but when I tried, my words had the opposite effect. He said that he had other commitments that were more important and needed him more.”

She took a deep breath. “The only ‘commitment’ I know of is his job. How could a job be more important than me? What if…”

Melissa paused, “what if 61 Fine Print he’s cheating on me?”

“I’m sure that’s not why,” Carol said, trying to calm her down. She was causing quite the scene in the middle of the busy cafeteria. Melissa’s fears reminded her of just how young and irrational she was, still focused on such high school drama as cheating boyfriends. She chuckled to herself at the idea of it. “What exactly did you say to him?”

“I said that I wished he would spend more time with me. That I missed him and that with our relationship quickly growing, I needed to see him more than just the one night a week he’s allotted to me. I told him that I wanted to build a more emotional relationship than just the physical nights we’ve been having. He looked at me and simply said ‘I can’t.’ He then talked about his commitments again.

Hell, I’m having his baby! What more of a commitment can he possibly have?” She threw her head down onto the table, and though it seemed somewhat overdramatic to Carol, she just attributed it to the pregnancy hormones.

“Did he mention anything about the baby in his reasoning? Does he still want to be involved with him or her?”

“Oh of course not,” came the rushed answer. “Why would he say that? He doesn’t even know there is a baby.”

“Melissa! What do you mean – you haven’t told him he’s fathering a child?

That’s not exactly something you should hide.”

“I was just waiting for the right time!

You’re supposed to be on my side, remember? And now what am I supposed to do?

He’s gone!

“Honey, I’ve been supporting you since day one. Don’t turn on me now. We’re gonna get through this. And we’re gonna do that by finding this guy and informing

him that his life is about to change…dramatically.”

§

The next day, Melissa texted her boyfriend and asked him to meet her just for a quick dinner the following Tuesday night, as she had something she needed to give him. She and Carol had come up with this idea at lunch; they planned to give him the ultrasound that night. Melissa had asked Carol to also be with her, in the background, just in case things went unexpectedly. She didn’t think he’d get angry, but she couldn’t be sure. Carol didn’t mind; if she needed to, she’d just say that she happened to be eating in the same restaurant at the same time as Melissa, completely coincidental. She wanted to get a look at this guy for herself; she didn’t exactly trust Melissa’s exaggerated dramatic replays of the conversations she’d had with him.

When Tuesday night finally arrived, Melissa was a nervous wreck, pacing the restaurant lobby and clenching her fists until her knuckles turned white. They matched her face, which was so pale it had Carol worried she may actually faint of nervousness, which wouldn’t be good for the baby at all. She looked gorgeous in her black dress, and Carol couldn’t imagine how any man could not fall in love with this girl. As the women were seated at opposite sides of the room, Carol had to give Melissa a shove towards her table, tucking the ultrasound into her trembling hand.

“Well, let’s get this over with. What do you need to give me? I never actually brought anything to your place that I could have left.” Carol froze as she heard the harsh male voice coming from across

the room, straining to hear what came next.

Melissa flinched, but then invited him to sit down. “I should have told you weeks ago,” Melissa said, “when I first saw my doctor.”

“You filthy… do I need to get tested?” he screamed.

Melissa’s “no” was barely above a whisper as she handed him the photo.

“But I do need you to help me through this. We’re going to be parents.”

“I can’t.”

“You can’t raise your own child? You better have a damn good reason.”

§

“I already have two children! There is no way I am having any more! Lord knows I’m already getting enough grief for not spending more time with my other ones,” he screamed, getting up and beginning to pace next to the table.

“Children?” Melissa shrunk back into the couch. “You didn’t think to tell me before that you have children?”

“Why would I tell you that?” he questioned, sitting back down. “It would’ve ruined our Tuesday nights! I can’t get any with my wife now as she holds out on the sex when she’s nursing.” His face froze as he realized he let another crucial detail just slip.

“Wife! You’re married! To who?”

Melissa tried to scream while her sobs drowned out her voice.

“Me,” said Carol, walking up to the table. “He’s married to me.”

62

Noel Abastillas Samantha Bruno Gina Cusimano Andrew Herm Jeanette Koczwara Stacey Kreston Marie Loiseau Taylor Luckenbill Nicolle Maioriello Cassandra Meade Katie Pebley Kayla Roush Christian Sammartino Karen Soto Sarah Spang Lauren Stine Laurel Taylor Alexa Viscardi Megan Wooster

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